A man is striding towards us, tall and slim and full of swagger. He’s wearing Enezian clothing—a shiny-buttoned cloak and a blouse with frills—but his appearance is distinctly Serican, black hair and near-black eyes of a different shape than any of ours. Few Sericans traded with Nithyria when we controlled Pyka, not because of poor relations but because we had little use for their primary export, silk. Selara, on the other hand, imports silk by the ton for its clothing. The silk merchants in the market near the palace are constantly busy.
“What are the chances?” says Ronan. He shakes his head at Taran, and then mutters to me, “This could get ugly. Be ready.”
“Taran Orinsen,” says the man. One corner of his mouth quirks up in a sly smile. “And Ro—I mean, Soren.” He flashes a sarcastic smile at Ronan, who rests his hand on his pommel. “And who are your lovely lady friends? God’s blessing upon you, sister. I’m Xu Fushi.” He greets Octavia with a bowing Enezian hand gesture, and she reciprocates with glee.
“Have you come from Enez?” she asks.
“Just now. There’s a crate full of plantains and more than one crate of rum back there.” He gestures to the largest boat in the docks, one of the two we haven’t spoken with yet. “Taran, do you still enjoy your plantains fried in oil?”
“I wouldn’t know,” says Taran stiffly. “I haven’t had them in years.”
“A pity,” says Fushi, his eyes lingering on Taran’s lips. “And my, who is this? She looks almost like…no, Soren, you didn’t.” Ronan steps in front of me, putting himself between me and the stranger, squaring his stance. “You’ve stolen away with a Verran? And to think, we heard the city had fallen, and you’d lost your head. Well, I suppose that last part is true at least. You must have lost your head to have come here with a Verran.”
“Keep your voice down,” hisses Ronan. “We have no business with you. We’re just passing through.”
“Is that any way to speak to a former legionnaire? All those years painting the sands with Nithyrian blood on your behalf, and you send me away and then have the nerve to insult me inmycity.”
“Your city?” says Taran, taking the obvious bait. Judging by the way the muscle in his jaw is twitching, his history with this man is complicated, to say the least.
“Yes, my city. I had to make new friendssomewhere.”
“You do not rule here. This city belongs to Karis Brennzeter,” says Ronan, his eyes on the castle.
“True, but nothing comes or goes from these docks without my say so.Nothing. Not a God-King in exile, not his simpering general, not an Enezian beauty, not a pair of griffins—” Octavia and I share a terrified look. He knows about the griffins, which means he must have found the rest of our party where they were hidden in the woods while we spent the morning talking. “And certainly not a Nithyrianwhoreand her brother.”
Ronan and Taran draw their swords. Fushi doesn’t react.
“It’s hardly a fair fight when it’s the two of you against the entire town.” During our conversation, many of the nearby Orsa have drawn closer almost imperceptibly. Several of them draw steel.
“There are four of us,” I say, drawing my rapier. “And you’ll find we’re more than capable.”
“Xu Fushi!” A woman’s voice fills the air, magically amplified. It’s coming from the castle. “I ordered you to escort them to the castle, not to murder our guests in cold blood.”
“Ah, well. You can’t blame me for trying, after what you put me through.” Fushi walks past our swords, pushing Taran’s to the side with a gloved hand. “Right this way,” he says with an exaggerated bow.
Several Orsa follow behind Fushi and behind us, keeping us from making our escape. We have no choice but to follow them up to the castle.
Gods, I hope the others are alright. The fact that they know about the griffins is alarming.
“Who is that?” Octavia whispers to Ronan as we walk. Taran is further ahead, but the three of us have managed to stay closer together.
“A former commander of mine from the war. He was an alchemist before the fighting started.”
“An alchemist? Him?” I ask, my voice incredulous. He certainly doesn’t act like any of the alchemists I’ve met.
“And a talented one, from what I’ve heard. He was kicked from the Guild when I discharged him from my service.”
“For what?” asks Octavia. “What did he do?”
“Insubordination. Ignoring my orders. I suspected he was selling secrets, but I couldn’t prove it, or he would be dead.”
“And Taran?” I ask, sensing the answer in Ronan’s emotions.
“That’s the man who broke Taran’s heart.”
Gods, Tarandoeshave a thing for dangerous men.
We follow our escort up the path from the village into the castle walls. It’s beyond bizarre seeing strangers in the places where I spent my childhood. The courtyard where I learned to shoot. The great hall where Seth warmed my dinners if they went cold. The chapel where I prayed to Vayla every night for my family to return. All of them are filled with tattooed strangers who look at me as though I’m the scum of the earth.
