“Exactly.” He plucks the piece of parchment and blows, studying it from a sideways angle before setting it back on the table. “He won’t notice me stealing one of his ships to scout the surrounding islands.”
I laugh, then pause, momentarily paralyzed by my own stupidity.
“You slimy son of a bitch.” Pelting my washcloth in his direction, I shove to a stand, my wild, golden locks heavy around my shoulders like a layer of armor. “You used me.”
He leans back in his chair, planting his chin on his fist and looking at me with a cutthroat intensity. “Ocruth forces are slowly sifting into the city, ready to sail the promised ships. I’m on the back foot until I locate them.”
I gobble the information like a spiked sweet, wondering why he’d willingly hand me such a valuable secret. Cainon would have a field day with that piece of knowledge. Would see it as evidence that Rhordyn’s trying to infiltrate his territory and steal it for himself.
Precisely why he cannot find out.
I snatch another swift look at the map behind him, branding it to the backs of my eyes. “Well, you still threw me under the carriage,” I say, rooting through the blue sheets in search of my hat and hairpin.
“You’re the one who fell into my arms. Literally.”
My stare whips at him, then to my bag lumped in the corner on the ground at his back. “Tip for next time,” I snip, charging forth and snatching it up, rooting around for my hat. Pegged with disappointment when I realize it’s not there—pocketing my pin. “Let me fall, then leave me on the fucking pavement. I don’t need your help.” I spin on my heel, then stalk toward the exit, shoving the lock aside.
Swinging the door wide, I barrel along the sparsely lit hall, then down a tight flight of creaky wooden stairs. It’s only once I near the bottom that the bustle of gruff chatter hits me. Then the rich smell of hearty, well-seasoned stew and baked bread—as though my senses needed time to recalibrate after drowning in the wash of Rhordyn’s dense, primal scent.
I peek around the corner to see a host of men gathered around tall tables dotted throughout the space, digging bread into deep bowls and sipping ale from frothy mugs. There’s a bar that lines one side of the room, a stern-looking barrel of a man standing behind it, polishing a glass.
My heart falls as I look to the exit—all the way on the other side of the room.
Crap.
I charge back up the stairs, storm into Rhordyn’s room, and close the door behind me—spine planted against the cold, wooden planes.
“Back so soon?” he drawls.
“I can’t be seen exiting here. Especially not looking like this. Or”—I pull my collar to my nose and draw a whiff, but my scent is lost beneath the thick, heady layers ofhim—”smellinglike this.”
“Then climb out the window, Milaje.”
My gaze flicks to him bent over his drawing, his hand moving in short, artistic sweeps. “You’re kidding.”
He rocks back in his chair, peeling the curtain and glancing out the window.
He grunts. “Looks fine to me. I’ve seen you scale worse—in worse conditions.”
I charge over, snatching the curtain and pulling it wide, poking my head out the half-open window and dousing myself in fierce, shafting rays of afternoon sun. Sweat prickles my brow from the wash of humidity, made worse when I peer down and realize the walkway three stories below appears to be a popular thoroughfare.
A man walking his dog, women with baskets packed with fresh produce milling around, children zig-zagging through the crowd, laughing. A cluster of guards charge past, faces pinched and spears caught in their white-knuckled fists as they scour the face of every person they cross paths with.
“Shit,” I mutter, ducking inside so fast I almost vomit. I flick the curtain closed, put my back to the window, and strum my fingers against the sill, watching Rhordyn work—every line, every shaded smudge drawn with such conviction, I doubt he ever makes a mistake.
I look at the map. Back to Rhordyn. “So … what are you doing?”
Can I interest you in making a miniature version for me to take back to the palace for when I break through the wall?
“Calah used to store his fleet at one of the islands. I’ve only ever traveled there using the underground tunnel system I was telling you about,” he says, not looking up. “I have no idea how to get there otherwise.”
“Who’s Calah?”
“Cainon’s father.” He draws another stroke, blowing off the excess.
“Why don’t you just send a sprite?”
“I’ve sent two,” he mumbles. “Neither of them have returned. Seems cruel to send a third.” Another long line, then, “I just need to discern a direction so I’m not forced to waste precious days sailing waters I’m unfamiliar with.”
