Page 61 of Secrets of Graves and Gold

A personal touch may be exactly what’s needed here. Hanie questioned whether we’d be able to make a difference, but it doesn’t need to be a matter of bowling the conspirators over all at once.

We can try to undermine them with a few small, swift jabs that might seem minor but will make an impact as the effects ripple through their organization. They’ve only had a couple of weeks to set down roots.

We have to do everything we can to cut those fledgling roots out from under them. All of us working together, no matter how far we are from our usual endeavors.

Gathering myself, I stroll over to the brothel through the thin late-afternoon light. I hold my chin high and my posture straight like the conspirators I watched enter the building yesterday.

The hinges give a faint squeak as I open the door. Warm air washes over me from the hall, thick with the scents of vanilla, jasmine, and roses.

A narrow, cushioned bench sits just inside the hall. A curtain sections the front area off from the rest of the house. Sultry music and a burst of feminine laughter carry from beyond it.

Only moments after I’ve stepped inside, the slim man appears at the doorway of the one room on this side of the curtain, which I assume is his office. He looks me over with a calculating smile. “What can I do for you, sir? It’s early—there are plenty of options.”

I keep my answering smile reserved enough to hide the gem teeth in the back of my mouth that would give away my own status as a courtesan. “Actually, I’m here to do something for you.”

As I speak, I nudge my gift toward him. A tingle spreads through my gums where I sacrificed the eight teeth to Ardone, and a rush of images and sensations floods my head.

Ah. Conveniently, what I can do that would make this man happiest is exactly what I came hoping to do.

His brow has started to furrow. I go on before he can question me. “You have something here that belongs to the Order of the Wild. We need to relocate them. I’ll be taking them off your hands. You will, of course, receive the rest of your due compensation.”

Relief flashes across the man’s face before he can hide it. He bobs his head with the eagerness he’s trying to suppress and motions for me to follow him. “I’m glad I could be of service to those who celebrate the All-Giver.”

But he’s even more glad not to have the responsibility hanging over him anymore. From the twinge of revulsion I caught in the gift-brought stream of impressions, I suspect he’s caught at least a glimpse of what his unexpected lodgers look like under their shrouds.

I don’t think he wants to know what the Order of the Wild plans to do with these mutilated people.

The brothel owner leads me down a flight of stairs at the back of the building, where the perfume smell gives way to dust and a trace of mildew. He unlocks the door to the right of the stairs and motions me toward the room beyond without stepping into it himself. His stance has already tensed.

Oh, he’s definitely unnerved by what he’s seen of the scourge sorcerers’ sacrificial accomplices.

Keeping my expression mild, I cross the threshold into the dim space.

The room has no windows and barely any furniture. Four cots stand along the walls, a small table between them with plates still scattered with scraps of food.

Without arms to hold their food or eyes to see it, do the sacrificial accomplices simply lower their mouths to the plates and eat like animals? Have my supposed colleagues ordered the brothel owner to assist with their meals?

The shrouded figures look eerie even beneath the dove-gray cloth that conceals most of their mutilations. It’s obvious to the eye that the fabric falls too smoothly across their heads, too narrowly along their bodies, where they’ve given up so much for whatever gifts they received that the scourge sorcerers are now exploiting.

I’ve been taught to see the beauty in every scar life can leave behind… but there’s nothing beautiful about sacrifices made through manipulation. The scourge sorcerers cajoled these people into carving themselves up when they were mere children of twelve, with promises of divine glory.

That knowledge tells me how I need to cajole them myself without any need for my own gift.

The four of them turn their heads toward me where they’re perched on their cots. They won’t be able to see me, but even without the outer shells of their ears, they’ll still be able to hear.

“It’s time for you to contribute to our cause,” I say, speaking steadily despite the twisting of my gut. “You can serve our purpose in an incredible way tonight.”

“Of course!” one of the shrouded figures says in a slurred voice, lurching to his feet.

The woman beside him bows her head. “We welcome the chance.”

They all stand except the one figure whose shroud falls unevenly across his knees. He’s missing the lower part of one leg, only the stub of a crude wooden prosthetic protruding from beneath.

I touch his arm so he knows I’m there and help him leverage himself upright. He sways but catches his balance.

“Our wagon will have drawn up right out front,” I tell the brothel owner. “Thank you for your own contribution.”

He trails behind us as we form a wobbly procession up the stairs and back down the hall. Without arms, the sacrificial accomplices sway even walking straight ahead.

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