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She turns to face me. Before she can say a word, I fold my arms over my chest and announce, “Radir Micramek requests a dozen of your finest dumplings.”
The baker blinks at me, her lips parting in surprise. Her gaze darts over my clothing. “You—youwork for Master Radir?”
I narrow my eyes. “He prefers that his assistants avoid drawing unnecessary attention. But he feels it’s time your establishment was evaluated. Will you comply, or must I inform him that you’ve refused him?”
The time I’ve spent listening in on conversations here in the inner wards has been well worthwhile. Radir is little known outside of culinary circles, but I happened to learn a couple of years ago that he’s one of the royal advisors on cuisine. Specifically, he keeps an eye on all the eateries in the central ward.
A good word from him could have the royal household partaking of your wares. A bad word, and you’ll be shut down.
Simply dropping the name is nearly enough to sell the story when I nail the snotty attitude too. For good measure, I tilt my arm slightly so the gold bracelet shows past the edge of my sleeve.
The baker’s eyes catch on it, and she licks her lips nervously.
She isn’t totally sure I’m telling the truth, but most people who know of Radir wouldn’t be the type to pull a con on her. Pissing off my supposed employer will hurt a lot more than losing a few dumplings.
Less than a minute later, I’m striding out of the bakery with my edible loot in hand. I cross the street, tucking away the shawl and bracelet and scanning the crowd.
The two kids the baker chased off are crouched at the mouth of an alley, their heads bent close together as they murmur to each other. I pop one of the dumplings into my mouth—fuck, thatisgood—and come to a stop by a statue of a long-dead queen, just a couple of paces away from them.
“Such a pity I’ve got more than I can eat myself,” I say in the direction of the alley, without actually looking at them.
I tuck a few more dumplings into my pockets and set the bag with the rest at the base of the statue, right in the kids’ line of sight. Then I walk away, melding into the mass of passersby.
At the edge of my vision, I see the girl snatching up the bag. Something in my gut untwists.
One small thing in this world has been set a little more right.
The peal of the palace bell rings out, signaling the ninth hour. Echoes reverberate from other official buildings farther out through the city.
With an excited murmur, people start to veer toward the execution site. I gulp down two more dumplings as I follow them.
With each step closer to the Temple of the Crown, the hum of magic thickens in the air. Most people can’t feel it, but it wriggles through the cracks in my soul and sets all my nerves jangling.
Lucky me.
What appetite I still had dies. I gird myself before I turn the corner onto the wide thoroughfare that leads up Florian’s steep central hill to the largest temple in the country of Silana.
A decent crowd has already gathered in the courtyard out front. The Temple of the Crown looms over them all. The building of the gods that’s sponsored by the royal family couldn’t be anything but imposingly grand.
Its marble towers stretch up toward the darkened sky. There are three slightly shorter ones at the three corners, each with three golden spires representing the godlen of sky, sea, and earth, and one in the center I have to crane my neck to take in. The single spire of the All-Giver looks as if it could pierce the clouds.
Behind it, a little higher up the hill, two other massive buildings jut their towers toward the sky: the palace and the royal college. They glower in darkened silhouettes beyond the sheen of the temple’s pale walls.
As I hurry up the sharp incline, several soldiers of the Crown’s Watch come into view. They strut around the wooden platform that holds the gallows, set up off to the side of the temple’s broad front doorway.
It’ll have been assembled the moment the clerics knew the execution was scheduled, to serve as an announcement of what’s to come. And now it’s almost time.
My pulse hitches. I dart the rest of the way to the courtyard and slip between the milling spectators to the vantage point I’ve used before.
Most of the crowd stands taller than me, but that’s not a problem. There’s a shallow alcove between two of the stately buildings facing the temple. It’s so dark I may as well disappear once I step into it, with a ledge at waist height that’s just big enough to hold my feet.
I brace my hands against the walls on either side to hold myself upright and peer out over the heads of the other watchers.
A drumbeat starts to roll out from some spot I can’t see, reverberating through me alongside the temple’s magic. The raucous voices of the crowd dwindle into an ominous hush.
The soldiers station themselves around the platform with its dangling noose. The rap of boots against the cobblestone indicates more approaching.
Ten march forward, a single slumped figure swaying along between them. A sack covers his head and chains bind his arms to his chest, but we all know who he is. What he is.
