Page 20 of A Court of Masks and Roses
Wil jerks his hand free and stares me in the eye, his chest puffing up like a rooster’s. “Scared, Kal?”
“Of course I’m scared. You know what your father will do to me if you get hurt?”
“I won’t get hurt.” Wil shakes his head. “I thought you were different, Kal. I thought you were like Novan. But maybe I was wrong. You can go back to the palace, all right? If someone finds out you were here, I’ll say I ordered you.”
“Wil.”
“Forget it. Go home.” Turning on his heels, the prince walks out the mouth of the alley. Groaning, I follow a few steps behind as he skirts the building and ducks into a pub.
“Weapons, lad?” the man at the door asks Wil, motioning to the rack of tagged swords behind him. “You get them back when you leave.” Wil raises his arms in emphasis of his sword-free waistline. I unstrap my blade and hand it over, my throwing knives safely hidden under my shirtsleeves. “All right, go on in,” the door guard tells us both.
I nod my thanks and stick my hands in my pockets as I step forward. The familiar rumble of merriment rolls over me like a blanket. Kal’s spent a good deal of time in pubs—though, being in the countryside surrounding the estate, most were a step below this one.
Unlike the alley behind it, the Wandering Dog is as upscale as pubs come. The floor is swept clean, the serving girls are courteous, and the pair of strong-arms—one at the door and another standing watch near the back of the room—try to seem inconspicuous instead of flexing muscles in preemptive warning. The evening is in full humor, with many blue andscarlet uniforms in sight. I even see a trio of green-clad Everett guards sitting at the bar.
Wil freezes. I follow the prince’s gaze to the south end of the room where, just visible in the shifting mass of patrons, Luca and Trace share a side table with mugs of ale. It seems the possibility of finding his own off-duty guardsmen at a pub that caters to off-duty guardsmen failed to enter His Highness’s mind. My first instinct—to use this fortune as an excuse to go the hells home—dies after a moment of thought. If the prince fails to get his fill tonight, we’ll just be doing this again tomorrow.
Luca rises, ignoring Trace’s emphatic headshake, and starts toward the dagger-throwing targets that are attracting a small crowd in the pub’s corner.
Gripping Wil’s elbow, I steer him to a table at the opposite end of the room from Trace. “The hood covers your face, so stop fidgeting. What did you want here?”
He shrugs. “I don’t know yet.”
Brilliant. I signal the serving girl to fetch us drinks and drape my arm over the back of my chair as I survey the place. Conversations rise and fall in a familiar harmony, the topics as common to me as the rhythm of the words. It is instinct to listen to the chatter of the patrons closest, to read the lips of those farther off.
“...so perfect. But so still. Not one breath,” sobs a man trying to drink away the Drought.
“See how the brunette winked?” says another, who will go home tonight with a lighter purse.
“Would you buy a flower to support the Children, young masters?” Two young women stop at our table and hold out a basket of wilting carnations. I’m about to shake my head, but Wil is already reaching for his coin purse. Fine. Letting the Children of the Goddess have their way with Wil’s charity, Icontinue reading the room—and the dagger-throwing game by the pub’s west wall.
Luca is still there and losing terribly, but my attention skips past him to a mustached man with a mole at the corner of his mouth and a rose’s scarlet uniform on his shoulders. Standing behind Luca’s opponent, the man directs the round with the efficiency of one used to the task. A regular.
Except... I think I’ve seen him before. My gut tightens, though I’m uncertain what exactly is triggering the recognition or where the holy guardsman and I have crossed paths.
“Wait, wait, wait!” Wil leans closer to the two young women, who’ve now pulled chairs up to our table. “The Drought is a punishment from the Goddess?”
I want to roll my eyes. The rhetoric is well known; Wil is feigning ignorance for the sake of female attention.
Not that the girls seem to mind. The prettier of the two leans closer to Wil, nodding enthusiastically. “She punishes Dansil for consorting with the Dark God’s disciples. Once we cleanse our lands and minds of their evil, the Drought shall be lifted.” Her eyes open wide, shining with excitement. “We live at the very edge of a great battle, and it is up to us sitting here to ensure that the light prevails. What did you say your name was?”
I cock my head in curiosity, dividing my attention between Wil’s answer and the mustached man’s steady presiding over the dagger throwing.
“Liam,” says Wil. “It’s Liam. And who are these Dark God disciples?”
“The whisperers, of course,” says the girl. “They helped Everett invade Sylthia and butcher our people. The Drought is because of them. What do you think, my lord?” That last is addressed to me.
Pulling my eyes away from the rose, I flicker my gaze intothe girls’ baskets. A nest of glow charms—the most basic of living stones, with only a spark of magic—flicker inside. More trinket than charm. “I think the Children of the Goddess are hypocrites for simultaneously proclaiming the Drought to be the Goddess’s punishment for tolerating whisperersandselling the crystals that whisperers tune.”
Wil kicks my shin beneath the table.
The second girl smiles. “These crystals are made by whisperers who’ve given themselves to the Goddess’s will, my lord. They use their craft to support her mission and balance the darkness within them. Shall you buy one and carry a piece of the Goddess with you? It will guide your way.” Her eyes dance to Wil. “I might help you choose one if you’d like. So you always remember what happened in Sylthia... and our meeting.”
Sylthia.I swallow, looking back at the holy guardsman, my memories churning and ordering themselves into the improbable. Yes. A mustache and a mole and that face... except my mark from the inn near Lord Gapral’s estate was a violent Viva Sylthia terror monger, while this man wears the uniform of a rose and works to keep the heated game civil and fair.
I tap Wil’s hand, interrupting his conversation. “I’d like to take a trick at the throwing knives. Are you all right here,Liam?” Wil nods absently, plainly more interested in the girls’ bodices than their words. Judging the prince to be in danger of no more than a broken heart and a lightened purse, I stride the several paces to the west wall.
“Bad turn of luck, man,” Luca’s opponent is telling him as I approach, and Luca empties his purse.
