Page 5 of The Uncrowned Prince

The man in the black coat realized the truth only a moment before the stranger reached beneath her cloak and slid something across the bar towards Pemmick.

“I am searching for a man.” Her voice was quiet and pitched low but confident, and her head did not turn even when the silence around them grew tense and threatening. For a moment, every mug paused on its way either up or down, and the barkeep eyed the newcomer without much enthusiasm.

“Are ye now? And isn’t that what every woman finds herself saying, sooner or later in life?”

The man in the black coat smiled into his mug. It seemed everyone was making mistakes today.

“Have you seen him? The portrait is old, but no more than twelve years.” The woman’s voice held the faintest hint of an accent. Not much, it was true, but the man in the black coat had been listening for too long to mistake it.

The barkeep grunted and cast a cursory glance at the palm sized portrait lying on the pitted, sticky surface of the bar. “A man can change a lot in twelve years. Can lose a lot, too. His hair, his figure… even a hand or an eye, if he goes poking them into the wrong places.”

They didn’t do subtle hints, these Irians.

“Perhaps I might be of service?” the man in the black coat offered, turning to face the newcomer while wearing his most sincere and trustworthy smile. It was a little crooked, self-deprecating, and meant to charm. And it rarely failed. After all, he’d been practicing it since before he first learned to shave.

The hood turned towards him, and beneath its shadows, the man caught a glimpse of a slender chin and full-lipped mouth.

“I have an excellent memory for faces,” he added, a claim that actually happened to be true.

Leather clad fingers emerged from the cloak once more and slid the portrait his way.

The man looked down at a face that struck him at first as… sublimely forgettable. If only he’d been blessed with such a face. Alas, he’d been cursed with the sort of visage that made women sigh, men sneer, and artists swoon. It was difficult to be taken seriously with a face like that.

But the man in the portrait… He would not be taken seriously either. His hair was brown, his skin pale, and his expression bland. Though his shoulders seemed narrow and hunched, something about his lips suggested petulance, and his chin jutted as if it had something to prove. His clothing was of an unfamiliar style—expensive, but draped and sweeping rather than fitted or tailored—and around his neck was some sort of medallion or amulet.

He was not a handsome man, nor did he appear powerful, but the eyes provided his sole point of distinction. They were a light, golden brown, and stared out of the canvas with frustration bordering on resentment.

“Alas, no,” the man in the black coat said regretfully. “I don’t believe I have ever seen this face before. But I would be more than happy to buy you a drink for the privilege of seeing yours.”

For the merest instant, those lips beneath the hood parted as if startled, but quickly thinned and turned down in what looked like contempt.

Perfect. In his experience, contempt was not one of the more memorable emotions.

The man grinned, shrugged, and turned back to his drink, hoping that the unknown woman would be wise enough to take her inquiries elsewhere.

Alas, he was doomed to disappointment. That gloved hand swept out, palmed the portrait, and then held it up for everyone in the tavern to see.

“I am willing to offer substantial payment to anyone who can aid me,” she said, and the man in the black coat winced as he pretended to focus on his half-full cup of ale.

A bounty hunter? If so, she was an inexperienced one.

“Oy, I saw ‘im,” a man called out from across the room. “I think ‘e were under this ‘ere table. Come over ‘ere then, love, and I’m sure you’ll find what you’re looking for.”

His friends laughed loudly and thumped their mugs on the table in approval of the coarse jest.

“Nay, you’ll not find him there.” Another man interrupted their levity. “He’s back at my place. Come on then, sweetness. I’ll take you home with me, and you’ll never go looking for another man again.”

The man in the black coat ventured another swallow of his ale and grimaced with distaste. With such representatives as these, it was a wonder that any man could convince a woman of his sincerity.

If luck was on his side, the newcomer would realize the futility of her inquiries and leave before she was offered any further insults or indignities. Then he could follow her at a safe distance until he determined whether she might be a suitable source of information.

But once again, disappointment seemed to be his lot on that particular evening.

The cloaked woman crossed the room to look down at the first man who’d spoken.

“Show me,” she said.

And he was either inebriated enough or foolish enough to giggle.

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