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It was only when they had reached his booth that Jerrod looked up. If he was surprised, there was no way to tell it: Jerrod’s eyebrows quirked, though his expression was otherwise hidden by his tarnished quarter-mask. It was as if someone had laid the palm of their hand, in a silver glove, over the left side of his face, covering his eye and the upper part of his cheek. Was it hiding burns or scars? Identifying marks of some kind? Just an affectation, meant to alarm?
“I didn’t think I’d be seeing you again,” he said with remarkable composure. His gaze slid from Kel to Merren. “Merren Asper,” he added, his voice taking on an entirely different tone. “Do sit down.”
Merren and Kel slid into the booth across from Jerrod. The table between them was gnarled wood, sanded to smoothness, stained here and there with the marks of old burns and spills.
Jerrod, smirking, sipped his tea. The mask made it difficult to tell what he was thinking, but he seemed to be looking over the rim of the cup at Merren. There was something curious in his eyes—almost admiring.
Kel said, “Were you not expecting to see me again because you assumed I’d died in that alley?”
“I learned soon enough that you hadn’t,” said Jerrod. “Word gets around. I’m glad to see you looking better, Anjuman. It wasn’t anything against you personally.”
“So, now you do know who I am,” said Kel.
Jerrod inclined his head. “You’re the Prince’s cousin, who had the misfortune to look a bit like him and borrow his cloak on your night out in Castellane.” He glanced at Merren. “In fact, we followed you from Asper’s flat to the Key. We wondered what the Prince of Castellane was doing visiting a dank building in the Student Quarter.”
“It isn’t dank,” Merren said indignantly.
“But now I’m wondering what the Prince’s cousin was doing visiting a dank flat in the Student Quarter. You do know your friend here”—he gestured at Merren—“has been spotted going in and out of the Black Mansion? That he seems to run errands for the Ragpicker King?”
“I can see how that might trouble you,” Kel said, rolling his eyes. “Proximity to crime, I mean.”
“I am not a cousin of House Aurelian,” Jerrod pointed out. “Whereas you are, yet you seem to favor the more…seedy sides of Castellane.”
“Some of us are drawn to sin,” Kel said darkly, and notedMerren shooting him a glare. “And some of us are stupid enough to try to kill the Crown Prince of Castellane in an alley.”
Jerrod shook his head so violently he dislodged his hood. It fell back, uncovering a head of tousled, brown hair. “We weren’t trying tokillanyone. It was only a matter of money owed. And the money is still owed, by the way.”
“I thought we could discuss the matter,” Kel said, as a waiter carrying a tray approached their table. “Look, I’ve bought you dinner. A show of good faith.”
Jerrod’s eyebrows went up just as a server arrived at their table carrying a steaming tray. Two copper bowls were set down in front of them, followed by small ladles, ornately enameled with flowers and dragons. Soup was served from a vast pitcher of noodles and broth, and garnished with the traditional shavings of ginger, garlic and scallion, topped off with a rice cake and a dash of spiced oil.
Kel picked up his ladle and dug in. There was an art, in his opinion, to consuming noodle soup: One needed to get the right blend of broth, meat, and garnish into each mouthful. He glanced at Jerrod, who had not yet taken a bite. Finally Jerrod shrugged, as if to say,Well, we’re eating out of the same pitcher, what’s the harm?He picked up his ladle.
“I’d like to meet with Beck,” Kel said. “Discuss this with him.”
Jerrod swallowed his soup, then chuckled. “I don’t have to ask, because Beck would never agree. He doesn’t meet. Not with anyone.” He cast a sideways glance at Merren. “Well. Maybe he’d meet with you, if you were interested in crossing sides. Working for Beck. He likes attractive people.”
Merren raised an eyebrow.
“Beck’s being awfully reckless,” Kel said. “Trying to start a war with the Palace. What does he have to back up his threats besides a pack of criminals from the Maze?”
“He’s got more than that,” Jerrod said, and frowned, passing a hand across his face. He was starting to sweat. Kel could feel it, too, the first prickles of heat along his own skin.
“Well, what he has had better be an army and a navy, because that’s what Conor has,” said Kel.
Jerrod tapped the fingers of his free hand on the table. He had large, square hands, with bitten fingernails. “Prosper Beck has a good reason for doing what he does, and a better knowledge of his own position than you do.”
“I want to talk to Beck,” said Kel, setting his ladle down. There was a faint buzzing in his ears. “In person.”
“And I said you can’t.” Jerrod set down his ladle. He looked exasperated, and…in pain? Merren looked at him with a sudden puzzlement, followed by a shocked realization. “Besides. Why should I do you any favors?”
“Because I poisoned you,” said Kel. “The soup. Is poisoned.”
The ladle fell from Jerrod’s hand. “Youwhat? But we shared the soup—”
“I know,” Kel said. “I poisoned myself, too.”
Both Merren and Jerrod looked equally stunned. “Youwhat?” Jerrod demanded.
