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Sigil heaved a breath, leaning on her elbows. She ran a hand through her black hair, the ends falling straight and thick over one brown eye.
“The young men don’t trust a woman to fight. And a few of the old men remember the wars with my country a bit too well.” She shrugged. “Not to mention they’re all drunk already. We’ll be lucky if the night ends without a brawl.”
Sorasa dropped her voice. “I’d bet on you.”
“Even I know better than to punch one of these soldiers and risk losing our only ally,” she replied, forcing down a gulp. Her eyes darted around the table. The prince’s soldiers eyed her in return, their harried glances ranging from fascination to disgust. “But we’re meant to ride with these men, fight alongside them.How can I do that if they don’t believe in my ax or your dagger? InCorayne?”
At that, Oscovko told the punch line of some crude joke, and his men roared out their laughter. They clanked their ales together to cheer, toasting their prince. He raised his tankard with them and clinked it against Sigil’s with a meaningful nod. She smiled tightly in reply.
“At least the prince is doing what he can to smooth things over,” Sorasa said as he returned to his tales, each one more boastful than the last.
Sigil pulled at her ale. Her eyes narrowed. “He’s trying.”
The men around them were Oscovko’s favorites. Only a few nobles, to Sorasa’s eye, but soldiers all, their worth proven on the battlefield and in the war camps. They were hard men, grizzled and red-faced with drink, with scarred hands and darting eyes. She was reminded of the wolves on Oscovko’s clothes and his castle. Hardy, wild, but united in their cause. And loyal to their leader.
“The Treckish respect strength. Victory,” the assassin said, leaning closer to Sigil. “Let the young ones see your strength. Let the old ones see you as an ally.”
She quirked an eyebrow. “How?”
“Maybe youshouldfight half the room,” Sorasa said. She felt a true grin rise to her face, delighted at the thought. “After a fashion.”
Sigil’s face tightened in confusion and she tipped her head to one side, waiting for an explanation.
Instead Sorasa leaned forward and braced her elbow on the table, her hand raised and palm open. Grinning, she wiggled her fingers in invitation.
The bounty hunter blinked, then smiled, her thin lips pulled wide across her face, until her white teeth gleamed in the candlelight. She mirrored Sorasa, extending her own hand with something near to a giggle.
She took Sorasa’s hand in her own, her elbow solid against the wooden tabletop. Sorasa could already feel Sigil’s bone-breaking grip, tight on her fingers, threatening to snap them in two.
“The iron bones of the Countless...,” Sigil began, all but licking her lips.
“Will never be broken,” Sorasa finished, her knuckles crashing against the table as Sigil pinned her hand.
A roar went up from the Treckish men, with Oscovko loudest of all. There was nothing the Treckish loved more than an opportunity to show their mettle.
Charlie and Corayne took the bets, roving around the great hall, Charlie with a scrap of parchment in hand and a quill between his teeth. They calculated the odds quickly, the pair of them collecting coin and wagers from the soldiers and the Treckish court. Oscovko was most favored, naturally, and he took his place at the table with an easy, relaxed grin. He didn’t even bother to put down his drink, having switched to gorzka for the strength matches. The prince put away his first opponent with ease, wrestling a soldier’s arm flat to a chorus of applause.
So it went down the long table, to Sorasa’s delight. Soldiers crowded the benches, sitting opposite their fellow countrymen, eager to show off their strength or too drunk to know theyshouldn’t. Even Andry found himself shoved into the competition, though he protested heartily. Corayne only laughed and put him on her list.
Sigil fell in with them, her sleeve rolled up over her forearm, showing bronze skin corded with sculpted muscle. Sorasa smothered a grin. This was Sigil’s arena, and an easy chance to win over the men around them.
“Join us, Amhara!” Prince Oscovko hooted, trying to make room on the bench for her.
Her grin disappeared and she backed away, arms folded over her dress. “I know my own measure,” she said. “My value is not at the match table.”
The prince pulled an exaggerated frown but didn’t argue, turning back to his next victim. When he won again, he gestured for another glass, barking to a nearby servant.
“He’ll be blind by the end of the night,” Dom said, standing back from the fray. “This is no way for a prince to behave.”
Rolling her eyes, Sorasa looked him over. The immortal seemed out of place now, one of the only warriors in the hall hanging back. He stood away from the crowd, and a few eager-eyed ladies still floated nearby. The redheaded woman was there too, sipping slowly at a small glass.
“Scared to compete?” Sorasa sneered, if only to rile him up. She knew better than any that Dom could best any mortal upon the Ward.
Except maybe Taristan,she thought darkly.
“I will not rise to your bait, Sorasa,” he answered in an evenvoice, his eyes on the long table. He followed Corayne as she flitted through the crowd with Charlie, adjusting the bets as the matches went on.
She shrugged. “Just as well. You’d ruin my plan, as you do most things.”
