Page 10 of Assassin's Mercy

Then the older woman shifted in her seat, and her coat fell back to reveal that her right arm was missing. But Verve hardly noticed the absent limb once she caught sight of the intricately embroidered scarf resting on her shoulders. The scarf was of Sufani make.

The room seemed to spin beneath Verve. Her vision tunneled to the distinctive patterns of leaves and moths; bits of the natural world that all pious Sufani carried with them. Once, long ago, the nomadic Sufani had covered their faces when not among their families, but that tradition—like so many other things—had died when Legion had begun hunting down those they deemed heretics. Sufani weren’t a race, but a group of folks who walked the path of the oldest god, the One god — and the mighty Atal despised them for it.

Verve’s hand stole to the scarf she’d wrapped around her braids, which bore similar embroidery. But of course, this woman was not her mother. Her mother was dead, like so many of their people. With any luck, Danya would find what was left of Verve’s family, and then the hole in her heart would finally be filled.

But another Sufani. Here. What would a devout follower of the One god—the god of all life—think of the ruthless killer she had become? Verve’s cheeks burned and she stared into the golden depths of her honeyed liquor, and tried to make herself disappear. If she was gone, perhaps the memories of smoke, screams, and fire wouldn’t find her any more. If she was gone, perhaps her actions would be forgotten in time.

But the One god knew her dark heart, no matter what. She could run to the other side of the world, fly to the stars above, and the One would still know the evil she’d done.

You do good things, too, she reminded herself, but the thought rang hollow.

The older woman glanced Verve’s way, and her eyes widened. Verve grimaced and focused on her drink, praying the other Sufani wouldn’t approach. But her luck, as usual, was worse than terrible.

“The One is life,” said a lilting voice from beside her.

Verve’s heart tightened at the familiar benediction, spoken in the language of Sufa, a spark and cadence she’d not heard in—

Don’t dwell on the past, she could hear Danya saying. Focus on the here and now. Keep your mind on your mission.

Verve tipped the last of her third—or was it fourth?—round down her throat, then glanced at the older woman. “Sorry, ser, I don’t speak that.”

She only slurred the words a little. The older woman glanced at Verve’s scarf, then offered a warm smile. “My apologies, vidahem. I mistook you for someone else, I suppose.”

Vidahem. A Sufa term of endearment. When was the last time anyone had called her that? Verve’s eyes burned. She shoved the glass across the bar, toward Alem, who was watching the exchange. “Another,” she called.

Alem’s brow lifted. “You sure about that?”

Verve ground her teeth. “You deaf?”

Alem scowled and the older woman studied her, brows knitted.

Way to play nice. Verve bit her tongue and tried to add in a honeyed voice, “I mean, please?” But the words came out a lot more watery than she’d meant them to, and more tears burned at her eyes, struggling to free themselves. Verve fought them back, fought to keep her face from revealing her heart. “Please,” she said again. “Alem. Just one more.”

Before he could reply, the tavern door swung open. A gust of cool, damp air slid into the room, kicking the lamplight into frantic flickers. Alem froze, his eyes wide. Verve twisted around to get a look at the newcomer. The woman that had entered wasn’t as tall as Verve, but her body was lean, hard. Black hair hung in a shaggy mop around her face, making her high cheekbones that much more defined. She wore no armor, carried no weapons, and she radiated danger.

Only a mage would travel unarmed. And judging from the feral look in this woman’s brilliant green eyes, she was a shape-changer with a mind to cause trouble.

Verve tucked her hands below the bar and began unwinding her wire bracelet.

The newcomer scanned the room, then stalked to the bar, brushing past Verve to Alem, who remained utterly still.

“I’m looking for a mage.” The newcomer’s voice was a growl. A few of the other patrons scurried out of the door.

Alem shrugged. “You should keep looking.”

“Damaris,” the newcomer added. “Marea Damaris.”

Verve’s ears pricked. Was this shifter hoping to join forces with this Damaris moon-blood?

Beside Verve, the older woman cleared her throat. “Damaris isn’t here, right now.”

The shape-changer ignored her and addressed Alem again. “Marea Damaris was last seen in this village. Tell me where they went, and I’ll leave.”

“Look, I just serve drinks.” Alem’s voice quavered, but he held his ground. “I don’t keep track of every customer. Damaris passes through here sometimes. Usually when we least expect it. But we have no way to contact them.”

“Horseshit,” the shape-changer snarled. She placed both hands on the bar and dug in her nails like claws as she stared down Alem. “Tell me.”

Alem took a step back, hands raised. “I won’t fight you. If you want to kill me for nothing, that’s on your soul, but there’s no one here by the name of Damaris.”

---