Page 117 of A Steeping of Blood
Her greed had no end. She had colonized Ceylan and Jeevant Gar. She had colonized parts of Qirilan and other countries too. Arawiya was one of the largest kingdoms near Ettenia, and its sheer size was likely why the Ram had never touched it.
With Calibore, she could.
This time, Arthie couldn’t school her features quickly enough.
“Indeed,” the Ram said with a level of smugness Arthie wanted to wipe clean. “You can thank the high captain here for that. Though, to his credit, he did try to keep his mouth shut.”
How strange it was to know that a single artifact could open the door to such an atrocity.
Arthie might not have been able to stop the Ettenians from sweeping into Ceylan or Jeevant Gar or any of the other kingdoms and countries, but she could stop this. She had nothing but the silver dose in her pocket and the key she’d swiped, but she would find a way.
Laith spat a bloody mess at the Ram’s feet.
The Ramhmmed in response, and one of the men twisted Laith’s ear until he croaked.
Arthie toyed with the key in her fingers. How easy it would be to unlock her cuffs and free herself. To wrestle Calibore from the Ram’s hands and shoot her in the throat, watching the life bleed out of her.
“Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve a tribute to prepare for,” the Ram said. “Strap him to the chair and lock the door; I don’t need another escapee.”
“Are you just going to leave me here too?” Arthie asked.
“We discussed this already, didn’t we? Am I going to leave the brains of the Casimir crew here, rendering the rest of that sorry gang useless?” the Ram asked. “Yes.”
The men threw Laith unceremoniously onto the chair, wrenching his arms and locking them behind him. Then they knocked him unconscious for good measure.
“What about her?” one of the men asked.
The Ram regarded her, turning Calibore over in her hands. Dangling it in front of Arthie. When she’d chosen to give herself up, she hadn’t chosen to give up her pistol too.
“Sit down and watch her.” She glanced at the second man. “Bring him a stake too, just in case.”
42FLICK
A Horned Guard minister was a rank above high captain, one rarely seen on the streets of White Roaring, for their work primarily consisted of sitting behind a desk. Flick didn’t think she would find one at a tavern such as this. She’d neverbeento a tavern before, only read about them in books and seen them at a distance.
Flick stayed as close to Jin as she could without stepping on his feet. Her shoes squelched in the mud. She felt eyes on her more than once, figures silhouetted against the darkening sky running across the narrow streets.
“Are you sure we’ll find a minister here?” she asked.
Flick fought her guilt. She’d promised Jin, but that didn’t stop her from feeling useless. Arthie wanted them to meet with the Councilsimplyso that Flick could forge one of their masks, but if Flick couldn’t hold a teacup, much less attempt to replicate a mask, how could she? Was Jin silver-tongued enough to convince the Council to unmask the Ram themselves?
He was busy scanning their surroundings like a Horned Guard himself. Funnily enough, Flick didn’t see any guards patrolling this portion of the city. Nor were people here hiding away or protesting vampires.
“Certain. He goes by the name of Ward,” Matteo said, pulling open the door. It squealed like the pigs rolling in the mud just across the alley.
The hushed evening exploded into a bustling den of depravity.Flick glanced at Jin, wondering if their surroundings had transported him back to Spindrift, but instead of nostalgia, she found his upper lip curled at the cruddy space. She supposed it was wrong of her to equate such a mess to Spindrift.
The tavern was crammed full of people, some dancing to brassy tunes, others clinking heavy pints, drink sloshing over the worn floors. The air reeked of sweat and bodily fluids.
“How are we supposed to find anyone in this wreck?” Jin shouted above the din.
“Stay close,” Matteo shouted back.
Flick didn’t need to be told twice. She stayed on Jin’s heels, keeping her head low, ignoring toothy grins and women looking over her clothes as though she had no sense of style, dressing like a boy while they dressed like they’d never seen a river.
Goodness, Flick, that was rude.
But it was true. Jin turned back and reached for her hand, and Flick felt her cheeks warm. They had kissed and touched and shared heated glances, but there was something unspeakably remarkable about being sought out and remembered even in the midst of mayhem.
