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I take in the view with unbridled fascination. The street is lined with establishment signs for a myriad of taverns and inns, and judging by the scantily clad women perched on the balconies tempting the crowd with their exposed skin, brothels. Everywhere I look are revelers, some stumbling out of doors from too much drink, others gathered in small groups, their giggles and shouts hinting at an enjoyable night. Mixed with the ocean air are faint wafts of spilled ale and stale urine. Three men stand in a corner with their backs to us, relieving themselves on the side of a building.
A busker sits on a wooden crate ahead, strumming an energizing melody on his banjo for a crowd, the tune and his lively voice blending with the street buzz to create a friendly atmosphere.
When Zander spoke of thieves and unsavory folk, I assumed dark alleyways and cutthroats waiting in the shadows. This looks more like the evening festivities after a city parade.
We stop where several horses are tethered to posts ahead. Zander hops off and guides Tripsy into a vacant spot.
“Is it always like this?” I ask.
“When a large ship arrives at port, yes. And the SilverMage is a large ship. But also, the market fair has brought many to the city.” Zander pats my thigh in a wordless gesture for me to dismount. He’s doing that far more often as of late—familiar touches, little grazes. The days of being repulsed by the sight of me appear to be over.
I find the stirrup with my foot and ease myself down. Getting off a horse is easier than climbing on, and yet Zander seizes my hips to guide me down. My feet hit the cobblestone and his hands linger a moment longer, tightening their grip, his body nudging me suggestively from behind. Maybe that’s just my mind making those suggestions.
Or the bastard enjoys coaxing those reactions from me.
He releases me only to entwine his fingers with mine.
“I thought we were incognito down here. Is there a need to keep up this act?” I lift our conjoined hands.
“I told you I would keep you close.”
“You’re afraid I’m going to run.”
“I’m not afraid, but I would not put it past you. Besides, is this so insufferable?” Humor dances in his eyes.
He knows it’s not. “Are you testing me?”
“I’m always testing you, Romeria.” Quietly, he adds, “And you are always testing me.”
Atticus drops coins into a boy’s hand to mind the horses, and then we set off along the street, Zander hiding deep within his cowl, his hand a viselike grip around mine, but not unpleasantly so. It’s difficult to steal glances from beneath my cover, so I rely mostly on my ears, catching accents like Elisaf’s, though thicker. They must be Seacadorian ship hands and sailors, enjoying Cirilea’s nightlife before they disembark for the next leg of their journey.
That these Seacadorians mingle freely, that they’re not afraid of the Islorian immortals is fascinating to me.
A man and woman spill out of a door, the man’s arm slung over the woman’s shoulders for support, their laughter hysterical as they stumble across the street and disappear into an inn.
“Where exactly are we going?” I ask.
“To the best source of information in Cirilea.” Zander nods to where Atticus holds open a door. The sign above his head reads The Goat’s Knoll.
“This is where Elisaf was attacked.” I didn’t mean to say it out loud.
Surprise flashes in Zander’s eyes before he smooths it off. “You retain a startling amount of information.” His hand slides over the small of my back. “And that happened outside, in the back alley.”
“Not comforting.”
“No one in here will touch you.”
No one but Zander.
Darkness swallows us whole as we step inside. I take quick stock of our surroundings. The Goat’s Knoll is not a place a king and queen would frequent. It’s a rustic tavern that smells of body odor, tallow, and ale, lit with just enough lanterns so mortals don’t stumble over tables. Two men sit on a tiny stage by the bar, one playing an accordion while the other claps and sings, the bawdy lyrics stirring laughter from those listening.
A woman in a ruffled burgundy silk dress approaches Atticus. “You’re late,” she scolds in a sultry voice, reaching up to toy with strands of her strawberry-blond hair that rests against her collarbone. The simple act draws my eyes to her plummeting neckline.
Atticus collects her hand and presses a kiss against it. “I apologize, Bexley. We were delayed.”
“Hmm.” Her violet eyes drift to Zander and flash wide. “Interesting company you keep tonight, Atti.” She dips her head ever so subtly, a sign that she recognizes the king but is respecting the discretion he obviously seeks. “Are you sure you would not be more comfortable in my private office upstairs?” Her chest rises with a deep inhale as her eyes rake over me, settling on my neck.
A chill skitters down my spine. She’s an immortal, and her thoughts are clear.
