“I see those swords, girl. Drop them where you stand.”
The princess brought both boots back to solid ground. The voice came again, male and even. “I am alone and unarmed and so shall you be. Or you won’t enter at all.”
The princess directed her words, clear and just as stern as the man’s, at one of the two front windows situated on either side of a massive wooden door, both shaded and dark from the overhang. “How do you expect me to enter weapon-free when your sign clearly states my life is on the line?”
“Enter that way or don’t. I expect your wits to be the sharpest thing in the room.”
Egia and Maite each came out of her makeshift scabbard with a quick metallic swish. She set them gently on the wood slats of the portico, marveling again at the materials this man possessed in such a place. In all her father’s stories of the Torrent, nothing like this had ever been mentioned. It was nearly as big a surprise as the black wolf.
Feeling naked without her weapons, Amarande entered, blinking, her eyes adjusting from the fierce sun to extreme shade. The building’s windows were nothing but pinpoints of light within, thanks to the portico overhang. As the door slammed shut behind her, a dozen lit candles within flickered from their positions atop built-in ledges and pedestal tables.
As the flames recovered and grew, she saw she was standing in some sort of grand entry, the rest of the structure peeling off in a series of closed doors. This room, though, was a presentation of wealth, each candle strategically placed next to a fine vase, shade plant, plush chaise. At the very center, at a slight angle from the door, was a broad marble-topped desk, and a man sitting behind it with his elbows trained along the top, hands gently clasped together. This man was the same age her father had been, but soft with comfort.
“Welcome to the Warlord’s Inn. You have come alone, yes?”
The Warlord’s Inn?That went against everything the princess knew about the ruler’s decrees. Movement was key; housing people who could use close proximity and routine to conspire? Definitely not. But in the past day, it had become as clear as the diamonds hiding in her skirts that there was so much about this place—and the Warlord—she didn’t know.
Amarande didn’t react. She simply replied, “Yes.”
“And you have no other weapons upon you?”
The princess’s knife sat heavy in her boot. “As demanded, none but my wit.”
“We shall see about that,” the man said. “These are not my edicts; they are the Warlord’s. No one is to be stationary unless they are alone. One in and one out, and a tax upon each head. At the inn you can purchase shelter, food, supplies, and information. Now, I ask you, what do you require?”
The princess didn’t hesitate.
“Food, supplies, information.”
He laughed, long and hard, everything echoing off the empty hollows of a place filled with nothing but this man and other people’s belongings. “That’s a heavy load for a girl who looks as if she’s just come from a celebration.”
The princess’s muscles stiffened under her ruined skirts—again with cracks about her gown. If the Warlord was a woman why did she elevate men such as these who didn’t have the capacity to comment on anything other than her appearance? Surely the Warlord could find better. Or women—Koldo could stop this man’s heart with the right expression.
Amarande’s eyes narrowed—both she and this man were visibly unarmed, but they were not equal in training. “Do not let my appearance deceive you.”
The man reset, tenting his fingers. The more she watched him, the more he reminded her of an aged Renard—lily white and bland, the lines of his body fading along with his coloring. “The majority of my guests can only pay for one of the four.”
Of course.That lump crawled back into her throat. Tears pressed against her eyes. It would cost all her diamonds just to get what she needed to continue this journey past the morning.
The man continued. “Of your requests, which is the most important?”
The princess answered immediately, swallowing that lump away. “The information.”
“And what is your payment?”
“Nothing until I know you have what I need.”
The man smiled, thin. “You’re the chicken or the egg kind, I see.” He untented his fingers, his posture hardening. “But let us remember the particulars of the sign beyond my door. The second portion of that sign isn’t simply for a rhyme. By standing here, you are gambling your life. If this transaction doesn’t go your way, it’s off to the compost garden with you.”
The princess coughed out a laugh at the utter lack of drama in the name. “The compost garden? Am I to do manual labor or become worm food?”
The man was not impressed with her reaction.
“Not quite either. If you run afoul of me, you will be unceremoniously dumped into the very special white sand at the center of my compound. It’s fed by a geyser that runs as hot as the Warlord’s fire pits. The second you slip through that earth, you’ll be poached right in those beautiful clothes. An hour later, the earth will spit you into my garden and you’ll become stock for stew, tallow for candles, marrow for horses. I’ll use every single piece of you until there’s nothing left.”
It was so over the top that Amarande didn’t believe it. But she’d already laughed at the man’s name for the place, and she needed to get whatever information she could before she broke a vase over his head or retrieved her swords.
“Noted, sir—”
