Page 9 of The Empty Throne

Once the bath was ready, he locked and barredthe door and window, placed knives around the room so he was readyno matter what might happen, and only then finally sat down toremove his boots. Like the gloves, they were made of dragonleather, the insides lined with gryphon fur that had been dyedblack.

Next went his sheaths, strapped to histhighs, his belt, and across his shoulder blades. More still wereat his wrists and in his boots and tunic, a long winter-weightpiece that fell to just past his knees, dyed dark blue and trimmedin dark gray fur along the bottom, the cuffs, and the collar.Beneath that was a gray undertunic for additional warmth, enoughthat he wouldn't need a cumbersome cloak quite yet.

After all that was out of the way, his pantsand underclothes went quickly. His hair, the blue-black that hadalways run in his family, was cut too short for anyone to be ableto grab it, but not entirely gone, as he didn't want to look like arecently released prisoner.

Completely bare, he traced the lines of histattoo where they crossed at his chest: two one-eyed snakes, thefirst dark blue with a red eye, the second black with a white eye.Takar and Tamar, the gods of death and dreaming, their remainingeyes forever watching over the night sky. Takar twined up from hisleft leg, Tamar from his right, wrapping around his chest untiltheir heads came to rest on his shoulders.

The only items he didn't remove were hisjewelry, because if something went egregiously wrong while he wasat his weakest, and he had to abandon his belongings, most of thejewelry could be sold. The rest, like his signet, had otherpurposes.

Sliding into the tub, he set one of hisknives beside it, out of sight of any unexpected visitors. Threedays to Faldisio, twice that if the weather turned against them orthey ran into significant trouble. Another day or so to the fishingvillage, Venta or something. From there, mere hours.

Bittersea scrubbed clean and heaved out ofthe water, wrapping himself in a robe that had been left beforegoing to examine the food that had arrived. Roasted chicken inbittersweet sauce, rice balls made with bonito, seaweed, and sesameseeds, and steamed vegetables and a dish of pickles, tart andcrunchy, to balance everything else.

Highly unlikely to be poisoned, but he ateslowly and carefully at first, until he was well past the dangerfor the most common poisons. Anything more exotic would havealtered the flavor of the food.

Which reminded him of another little sidequest: he didn't yet know what poison had killed the royal family.He most definitely wanted to know.Neededto know. Poisonwas unsatisfying as a way to kill, but it had its uses all thesame, and the one that had killed the royal family was simplyfascinating. Whatever it was had destroyed their internalorgans, turned their bodies into mush, drowning them in their ownblood.Delightful. Obviously tragic and whatnot, but hewanted to know that poison.

When he was finished eating, he dressed andsettled in bed with a book whose owner didn't yet know it wasmissing. Once hedidnotice, he was going to be far frompleased, which was most of the reason Bittersea had taken it atall.

As exhaustion finally started to win out,even over the delightful contents of his stolen book, he tucked itaway in his satchel, snuffed the lamp by his bed, and pulled up theblankets.

He was almost asleep when the window rattled.Wind? No, too purposeful. Someone was testing it. Naturally theyshowed upafterhe got all warm and comfortable. Would theyjust go away, back to skulking like they were supposed to?

There was always somebody seeking stupidly tobe the hero, and killing the greatest killer in Cremisio was a finediamond for the jewelry case.

Stifling a sigh, Bittersea retrieved one ofhis knives and slid out of bed, creeping soundlessly to the window,and pulling the bar right as someone pressed against it a thirdtime—sending the fool tumbling into the room.

Thishadto be someone new, ordesperate, or both.

Bittersea lunged, snatching the stupidbastard up, shoving him up against the open window, and sliding aknife into his gut, twisting it slightly for good measure. As thecolor drained from his face, and horrified realization filled hiseyes, Bittersea yanked the knife out and covered the man's facewith one hand, dumping magic into him and muffling his scream atthe same time.

As the man slumped against him, bodytrembling, choked sobs filling the space around them, Bitterseayanked him up by the hair and spoke against his ear. "Next time Iwon't be so nice. Keep your distance like you've been told. Now runalong and report to Quinta like a good little lackey." He shovedthe dumbass out the window, watching as he landed roughly on thestones below and slowly stood up, clutching his stomach and limpingaway from the inn with a backward glance that caught the moonlightand bared his fear.

Bittersea pulled the window shut, barred itagain, and cleaned his knife before going back to bed.

This time, he managed to sleep, and didn'twake again until the chiming of the First Prayer bells. Climbingout of bed, he packed up his things, scattered knives included, anddressed in the same clothes he'd worn previously, which stilllooked and smelled clean, especially after airing out overnight.The only change he made was to add a fur-trimmed and lined wraparound his head, offering warmth and a measure of discreetness,though Quinta's people were usually good enough not to be misled bysuch a basic, nigh childish ruse.

Snow was falling as he stepped out onto thestreet, not really surprising, given yesterday's clouds and cold.Still, he'd hoped to beat the foul weather, or at least get fartherbefore it hit. Secrets had waited this long, though, they couldhopefully wait a few extra days more. They would have to.

He skimmed the streets as he walked, but nolittle spies made themselves known. At so early an hour, when onlylamplighters, shopkeeps, and food vendors were about, it would befoolish to be visible at all. Still, the dumbass had tried tomurder him in his room last night by breaking through a barredwindow.

A single light was lit in the glove maker'sshop, and the bell didn't ring as he entered. The man from the daybefore appeared from the back anyway, and smiled in greeting,though he still had that rumpled, distant look of those who werenot good at mornings.

"Fair morning," the man greeted.

"The same to you," Bittersea replied.

"Your gloves are finished, as promised.Repaired, cleaned, and reoiled against the weather." His eyesflicked to the window. "My knees tell me this year is going to beparticularly bad."

Everyone's joints said that every year, butBittersea had only seen it be true once, when he was fifteen or so."Let's hope your knees are lying," was all he said in reply though,as the man set the gloves on the counter.

Bittersea picked them up, examined themthoroughly, admiring the obvious effort that had gone into makingthem as close to new as it was possible to get. "They're perfect.Thank you. Your day be blessed." He laid an additional coin on thecounter, nodded at the man's replies, and departed, pulling thegloves on as he went.

In the market pavilion, he quickly found hisride amidst all the carts and caravans headed out that day. They'dcram the road for a few miles outside the city, then thin out asthey took various branching roads. Bandits and other trouble likelywouldn't start plaguing them until tomorrow, but it never paid toget careless.

The man in charge grunted as he sawBittersea. "On time. Good. You want to ride caribou or sword?"

"Sword." He'd be far more useful on the cart,next to the driver, rather than working from 'caribou' at theback.

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