Page 53 of House of the Raven
“Are you really this cruel?”
He stares back from so high up his horse he might get a nosebleed. I hope he does and stains his ridiculous white and gold doublet.
Once the awful sentries have established who we are, they make us get out of the carriage. Without asking, they bring down our luggage and throw it on the ground to inspect it. Emerito’s mouth falls open, but hesays nothing. One of the men leers at me, wearing a twisted smile under a ridiculously long mustache. He smells of overripe cheese with a dash of spoiled fish.
I take a step closer to Jago. He places an arm around my back. The man grunts, then takes a step toward my cousin and shoves him.
“No one touches El Jefe’s woman.”
Jago staggers back and hits the side of the carriage.
“What is wrong with you?” I demand. “He’s my cousin.”
“More reason for him to keep away,” the ogre growls.
I open my mouth to say something, but Bastien appears as if he has peeled away from the shadows.
“You will not mistreat anyone in my party,” he says in an unequivocal tone.
The man turns slowly to face Bastien. There is a glint in his eye that suggests this is exactly what he wants: conflict. He must thrive on it, the way vultures thrive on carrion. He’s a head taller than Bastien and twice as thick, but something tells me that’s not an advantage.
“You don’t give orders around here,” the man spits.
“Perhaps, but I’m sure your boss would love to hear how you ogled his future wife the moment she got out of the carriage.”
“That’s a lie,” he bellows as he steps forward to grab Bastien by the throat.
Instead, what happens is something completely different. In a flash, Bastien steps aside, hooks the man’s foot with his own, and sends him sprawling to the ground like a fallen tree.
Our guards as well as Don Justo’s laugh heartily.
“I’ve been saying you’re getting clumsy in your old age, Bartolo,” one of his fellow guards says between loud cackles.
Bartolo clambers to his feet, his eyes as incensed as those of an angry bull. Opposite him, Bastien stands calm, ice running through his veins.He has confronted worse challenges than this. I have no doubt in my mind.
Bastien and Bartolo face each other. The latter evaluates Bastien for a split second, judging the best way to attack. He takes several short steps to reduce the distance between them, then lunges forward, a massive fist directed at Bastien’s jaw. Once more, my guard moves impossibly fast. He has ample time to trip Bartolo once more. This time, the big man doesn’t fall but staggers, arms windmilling in an effort to keep his balance and what little is left of his dignity.
Huffing with rage and exertion, Bartolo clenches his fists. His upper lip pulls back, trembling. Straightening, he takes a deep breath. The effort to let this go is clearly monumental. However, judging by the vindictive look in his eyes, he will hold a grudge. If I were Bastien, I would watch my back every second of the day while in Alsur—not that I would be opposed to Guardia Corpse getting the beating of his life. As a kidnapper, he deserves everything Bartolo can give him. Not likely, I know, but I can hope.
After all the male posturing, we’re allowed past the gate. Jago and I walk in rather than get back in the carriage like Emerito. Bastien follows close behind us, as well as one of Don Justo’s guards assigned to the task by Bartolo.
“You’re fast on your feet,” the new guard tells Bastien.
As usual, Bastien offers no answer, unless a grunt qualifies.
“Bartolo’s bark is worse than his bite,” the man continues undeterred. “My name is Felipe, by the way. Welcome to Villa de la Paz.” There is a slight note of sarcasm in his voice that makes me glance in his direction.Pazmeans peace in Castellan, and he doesn’t think the name fits. He offers me a thin smile and bow. “Welcome, Princess Valeria.”
I exchange a worried glance with Jago, then glare at Bastien. From his slight frown, I can tell he picked up on Felipe’s tone. I already don’t have the best opinion of Don Justo, and if not even his men can provide agood endorsement, maybe it’s worse than I suspect. Or maybe I’m just reading too much into an innocent comment. Maybe this place is heaven on earth. Funny how that doesn’t make me want to stay, not even a little.
“This way.” Felipe guides us toward the front door of a sprawling one-story building. The walls are squat and perfectly white. The terracotta roof tiles are a vivid red and staggered in perfect rows. The doors and windows arch with grace and are adorned with wrought iron shaped into vines. Real vines around the metalwork enhance its beauty.
A woman dressed all in white waits by the door. Her hands are interlaced in front of her. Her hairstyle is severe, pulled tightly into a high bun, but her eyes are warm, even if slightly guarded.
She bows deeply. “Welcome to Villa de la Paz, Princess Valeria.”
“Thank you.”
“My name is Ynes Ayala. I am theama de llaves.” It’s an old term for housekeeper that translates tothemistress of keys.
