Page 27 of Mistress of Bones
“What shall we do now?” the Witch asked with unashamed eagerness once they were outside the marquess’s large home.
“Nothing,” De Anví said curtly. “We have no leads on the three strangers, and we learned nothing we didn’t already suspect from De Gracia.”
“We’ll have to wait and see if you get corralled again,” Esparza said, though De Anví had no doubt he’d nose into both his confrontation and the elder De Gracia’s murder. “Until then, I have my City Guard duties to conduct.”
With a tip of his hat, Esparza went on his way. The Witch abandoned De Anví’s side as well, thank the gods, likely in pursuit of more information about De Gracia’s artist friend.
As De Anví returned to his own house, the familiar blanket of bleak tiredness embraced him. The excitement was gone. All the things he must do—must keep doing—now that this escapade was done pressed on his shoulders.
If only he had someone to share in the pointlessness of it all.
But all he had were dreams.
XAZUL
Horses again. Azul hadn’t spent so many hours on one since she’d been forced to learn how to ride as a child, and she rued that her inexperience was slowing them down when all she wanted to do was fly.
Oren and Anané were the two guards lent by the grace of Lina del Valle. They introduced themselves first thing in the morning, after Azul and Nereida donned their new clean garb and broke their fast.
Azul liked them. They wore traveling gear themselves—riding pants, high boots, short cloaks, brown hats—and rapiers hanging low against their hips. Their smiles were wide and their words warm, so unlike Valanje’s guards, who had remained impassible and silent during her forced stay.
Oren kept up a chatter about the people they passed, the owners of the buildings, the contents of the fields, and the farms in the distance. Azul welcomed the distraction and threw herself wholeheartedly into it. The sky was clear, the air crisp. Monteverde receded into the distance, and with it went all her tension, all her nightly worries.
The countryside opened ahead of them, fields as far as the eye could see peppered with old trees. Azul’s chest eased at their familiarity. For all her wishes to travel beyond Agunción, she now saw this was the land she belonged to—her domain. Sancia belonged to the Blessed Heart and the Lady Dream, not Death and his emissaries.
Shortly before midday, they came by an inn and decided to stop for lunch.
Azul had disagreed—the faster they got to Cienpuentes, the better. Unfortunately, her companions had not listened.
It was too early for the evening countryside crowd, and they had the small hall for themselves. The lack of other guests felt eerie, and Azul was reminded of the devastating silence that had followed the demise of the small bird.
Her companions didn’t seem to notice the unnerving lack of noise or care.
They sat around the table, eating in companionable silence. Even Nereida appeared to be enjoying the bread and cold cuts of meat, until the door slammed open and four figures crowded in.
Oren and Anané tensed at once, letting their food fall to their plates.
The newcomers were all wearing the same hues of black. An insignia was embroidered on their tabards, marking them as someone’s personal guard. Their gazes surveyed the room, settling on Azul’s group. Their leader stepped forward. Azul did not like the look of any of them.
“You are the group from Monteverde?” the man asked.
Azul choked on her food. Coincidence, nothing else. The road was well used, the existence of an inn proof of it. How could their group not be from Monteverde?
Anané stood slowly. “Who wishes to know?”
“It is no concern of yours. We’ll be accompanying the sireses from here on.”
Oren burst to his feet. “Is that so?”
The man smiled. It wasn’t a nice smile. It wasn’t a nice face: craggy and somewhat scarred and with a nose that had been broken at least twice.
All at once Nereida was on her feet, and six hands touched their rapiers’ hilts. All but Azul, who had none, and the leader of the guards, who had his men lining up behind him instead.
“Who do you belong to?” demanded Anané.
Azul’s hand crept toward the heaviest mug on the table. They might’ve taken her dagger in Valanje, but she was not defenseless.
“For the sireses to know,” the man answered.
