Blood Heir. Amélie Zhao Wen
fury to panic. He began to choke, his eyes rolling into the back of his head.
She was aware of May tugging at her cloak. She heard the gasps of the crowd as she finally let go of the nobleman’s blood and his body hit the ground like a sack of potatoes. Horrible wheezing sounds came from his mouth.
“Ana,” May shrieked. “We need to go, before—”
Someone screamed. As the Vyntr’makt erupted into panic, Ana realized that she had gone too far.
“May,” she gasped, and the child’s hand was in hers, and they were stumbling away from the collapsed nobleman and the pastry vendor.
Yet the crowd had grown oddly still, and the skin on Ana’s back pricked. It took her a moment to realize that a hush had fallen over the entire square. All the vendors and townspeople were gazing at a spot behind Ana with expressions of awe and anxiety.
Slowly, Ana turned. And looked into a squad of Cyrilian Imperial Patrols.
The interior of the ramshackle pub was dark, lit only by the flickering flames of candle stubs on the tables. A broken wooden sign announced in crude writing: The Gray Bear’s Keep. Ramson paused at the door only to pass a hand over the dagger he’d stolen, before stepping onto the creaky wooden floorboards. He had come to collect a debt.
It took a few moments for his eyes to adjust to the dimness, and he saw that several tables were seated, their guests bent over their drinks and speaking in hushed tones. There was an air of menace to the flames licking at the brass mantel and the clink of cups between murmured exchanges.
Several people turned to look at Ramson as he passed them by, and he found himself assessing the new outfit he had procured—for free, albeit unknown to the seller—from a nearby stall. An ordinary tunic, black vest, gray breeches, riding boots, and a nice Cyrilian fur cloak to top it all off. He looked like the perfect patron for these types of places: sleek, groomed, and utterly unmemorable.
Ramson scanned the bar. Only a practiced eye would notice the board of Affinites-for-hire posters on the far wall, the narrow staircase by the counter with a crooked Reservations Only sign, and the bottle of green-tinted Deys’voshk disguised amid the rows of liquor on the back shelf. This was no ordinary pub. It was an Affinite trafficking post.
Ramson stalked up to the counter and slipped onto a bar stool, ducking his head behind an expensive-looking samovar. The barman ambled over. He was of bearish height and build, with a great gray beard—one that had grown in size from the secrets he kept over his tenure at the most notorious inn in Cyrilia. Though he wore a coarse apron smudged with grease and splashed with various shades of liquors, there was no missing the flash of his gold ring as he polished a glass. “Esteemed greetings to you, noble mesyr, and might I express my delight upon your patronage of my humble pub! Igor, at your service.”
“Salutations to you, my good gentleman, and might I say that the pleasure is … all mine.” Ramson lifted his head.
Igor almost dropped the glass he was cleaning. “Damn hell, man,” he muttered, slipping into a lowborn Cyrilian slur.
“Damn hells,” Ramson corrected him, and gave a twirl of his fingers. “Brandy. And don’t bother with the cheap shit.”
Igor stooped slightly, peering at Ramson’s face. “So it really is you. I was wondering when you’d be back.”
“You were wondering if I’d be back.”
Igor chuckled, a low, rumbling sound. “I won’t deny it. The news has spread across this entire blasted empire. You’ve made a mess, Quicktongue.” He turned, reaching into one of the shelves at the back of the bar. There was a sharp clink and the sound of liquid sloshing.
Ramson watched the barman’s beefy back as he worked to prepare a drink. “I’m cleaning it up, Igor. My betrayers’ll pay.” He slid out his dagger. “But first things first. I’m here to collect a debt.”
Igor turned, clutching a tumbler and a bottle of Bregonian brandy. Concern seeped into his murky eyes. “Look now, Quicktongue. Business’s been bad, what with the Mikhailov emperor sick and the economy tankin’.” He passed a hand over his bald forehead and nodded at the board in the back. Papers were pinned chaotically atop each other, some bearing crude drawings. “Sales’ve been slow.”
Ramson was interested enough to spare a glance at the board. Affinites-for-Hire, the posters declared, when really, they whispered to those in the know that these were foreign Affinites whose contracts were up for sale. “I don’t want your money. I want information.”
“Ah.” Igor’s shoulders sagged with relief, and he set Ramson’s drink before him. “You know my facts’re worth more than my goldleaves.” He paused, and his eyes slid to the dark staircase behind the counter. “Perhaps this calls for a private discussion in the Reservation Room.”
Ramson stood, grabbing his glass.
Igor hesitated. “I’ll be right up. I need to close out a few tabs, grab a drink for meself, then I’ll be all yours. Won’t be a minute.”
“Take your time. I’ll show myself up.”
The Reservation Room was up a narrow flight of steps built into the cold stone walls of the pub. Ramson climbed them and opened a set of wooden doors to a candlelit room, well furnished with red velvet settees and an expensive oakwood table. He didn’t miss the bottles of Deys’voshk lining the shelves at the back of the room, glinting in the flickering candlelight.
He shoved the thoughts from his mind and raised his drink, inhaling sharply before taking a swig. Igor hadn’t cheated him. This was real Bregonian brandy: pungently bitter and subtly sweet, with a hint of roses and the zest of citrus that blossomed on the palate and lingered as an aftertaste.
Footsteps thudded up the stairs, and Igor sauntered in with a mug in each hand. He took care to shut the door behind him.
Ramson waited for the familiar click of a lock. No conversation in the Reservation Room was conducted with an unlocked door.
When it didn’t come, a thread of caution tightened inside him.
With a great sigh, Igor placed the second round of drinks on the table and plopped down on one of the settees. Firelight danced on his face. “I see the wardens haven’t beaten the spirit out of you. You look healthy as a young buck, just a shade paler. What’s it been, four moons?”
“Three moons and twenty-one days. I’ve been counting.” Ramson slouched back against the plump velvet cushion of his settee like a cat basking in the sun, watching Igor through heavy-lidded eyes. “They don’t serve stuff like this in prison.”
“Aye.” Igor raised his glass. “These’d cost a good few goldleaves.”
“Word on the street is that you owe me more than a few goldleaves.” Ramson leaned forward, his brandy forgotten, and instead savored the look of utter panic that flashed across Igor’s face. “I know you turned me in. Oh, don’t look so pitiful, man. Have some damned balls and own up to it.”
It was a wager on Ramson’s part, but it was his best guess thus far. He’d been holing up for the night at Igor’s pub when a squad of Whitecloaks stormed in and arrested him on a count of treason against the Crown. He’d spent his moons in prison combing through every gnarled thread of his network until he’d pinned down a theory: Igor had turned him in, but he’d been doing the dirty work for someone else. Someone close to Kerlan who’d had information about his mission.
Igor’s gaze flitted nervously to the door; he wiped a sheen of sweat from his face, smearing more grease on his forehead. “Ramson, my friend, you must know—”
“Don’t ‘Ramson, my friend’ me.” Ramson slammed his fist on the table, finally letting himself taste a sliver of that anger that