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Rhy only chuckled. “How was I to know she would be so rough with me?”
“I’m going to kill you.”
“You can’t,” said Rhy simply, spreading his arms. “You made sure of it.”
And for an instant, as the words hung in the cloud of his winter breath, the prince seemed genuinely upset. But then the smile was back. “Come on,” he said, slinging an arm around Kell’s shoulders. “I’d had enough of Splendor anyway. Let’s find somewhere more agreeable to drink.”
A light snow began to fall around them, and Rhy sighed. “I don’t suppose you thought to grab my hat?”
III
“Saints,” cursed Rhy, “do all the Londons get this cold?”
“As cold,” said Kell as he followed the prince away from the bright beating heart of the city, and down a series of narrower roads. “And colder still.”
As they walked, Kell imagined this London ghosted against the others. Here, they would be coming upon Westminster. There, the stone courtyard where a statue of the Danes once stood.
Rhy’s steps came to a halt ahead, and Kell looked up to see the prince holding open a tavern door. A wooden sign overhead read IS AVEN STRAS.
The Blessed Waters.
Kell swore under his breath. He knew enough about this place to know that they shouldn’t be here. Rhy shouldn’t be here. It wasn’t as bad as the Three of Knives in the heart of the shal, where the black brands of limiters shone on almost every wrist, or the Jack and All, which had caused so much trouble on their last outing, but the Waters had its own rowdy reputation.
“Tac,” chided Kell in Arnesian, because this wasn’t the kind of place to speak High Royal.
“What?” asked Rhy innocently, snatching the cap off Kell’s head. “It isn’t Rachenast. And I have business here.”
“What kind of business?” demanded Kell as Rhy settled the hat over his curls, but the prince only winked and went in, and Kell had no choice but to freeze or follow.
Inside, the place smelled of sea and ale. Where Splendor had been open, with bold colors and bright light, the Waters was made of dark corners and low-burning hearths, tables and booths sprawled like bodies across the room. The air was thick with smoke and loud with raucous laughter and drunken threats.
At least this place is honest with itself, thought Kell. No pretense. No illusion. It reminded him of the Stone’s Throw, and the Setting Sun, and the Scorched Bone. Fixed points in the world, places where Kell had done business back when his business was less savory. When he’d traded in trinkets from faraway places, the kind only he could reach.
Rhy tugged the brim of the cap down over his light eyes as he approached the bar. He signaled to a shadow behind the barkeep, and slid a slip of paper and a single silver lish across the wood. “For the Essen Tasch,” said the prince under his breath.
“Competitor?” asked the shadow with a voice like stones.
“Kamerov Loste.”
“To win?”
Rhy shook his head. “No. Only to the nines.” The shadow gave him a wary look, but he took the bet with a flick of his fingers and retreated into the corner of the bar.
Kell shook his head in disbelief. “You came here to place a bet. On the tournament you’re running.”
There was a glint in Rhy’s eye. “Indeed.”
“That’s hardly legal,” said Kell.
“Which is why we’re here.”
“And remind me why we couldn’t have started the night here?”
“Because,” said Rhy, flagging down the barkeep, “you were in an ornery mood when I dragged you from that palace—which is nothing unusual, but still—and you were determined to despise the first destination of the night on principle. I merely came prepared.”
The barkeep came over, but he kept his gaze on the glass he was polishing. If he registered Kell’s red hair, his black eye, he didn’t show it.
“Two Black Sallies,” said Rhy in Arnesian, and he was wise enough to pay in petty lin instead of lish or the gold rish carried by nobles. The barkeep nodded and served up two glasses of something thick and dark.
Kell lifted the glass—it was too dense to see through—and then took a cautious drink. He nearly gagged, and a handful of men down the bar chuckled. It was rough stock, syrupy but strong, and it clung to Kell’s throat as it filled his head.
“That is vile,” he choked out. “What’s in it?”
“Trust me, Brother, you don’t want to know.” Rhy turned back toward the barkeep. “We’ll take two winter ales as well.”
“Who drinks this?” Kell coughed.
“People who want to get drunk,” said Rhy, taking a long, pained sip.
Kell felt his own head swim as he shoved his glass away. “Slow down,” he said, but the prince seemed determined to finish the draft, and he slammed the empty glass down with a shudder. The men at the end of the bar banged their own cups in approval, and Rhy gave an unsteady bow.
“Impressive,” muttered Kell, at the same time that someone behind them spat, “If you ask me, the prince is a spoiled shit.”
Kell and Rhy both tensed. The man was slumped at a table with two others, their backs to the bar.
“Watch yer tone,” warned the second. “That’s royalty yer smearing.” But before Kell could feel any relief, they all burst into laughter.
Rhy gripped the counter, knuckles white, and Kell squeezed his brother’s shoulder hard enough to feel the pain echo in his own. The last thing he needed was the crown prince involved in a brawl at the Blessed Waters. “What was it you said,” he hissed in the Rhy’s ear, “about the ones who wanted to watch us burn?”
