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He grabbed the drink and sucked another gulp, then smacked the glass down on the table. He was in a fair way of finding himself drunk as fast as he was drinking it. Tarley wasn’t sure if that was a good thing for her or a more dangerous one.
“She had to die. Her and that idiot prince.”
“What do you mean?” Tarley breathed, her eyes drifting down to the ground as if the final pieces to this puzzle might be found there. The assassinations. She lifted her face and looked at him. “You?” And she knew it as clearly as she knew she was bleeding. This wasn’t an encampment of random thieves or a clan of hunters. There was structure here. Piecing together what she’d heard and observed, she was positive she was in the middle of Fiedel—the group Queen Keyanna believed was behind her assassination attempt, and the most likely to have made the attempt on Lachlan as well.
Indignant anger rose inside her.
“Who’s at the inn?” he demanded. “We know you have information about the groups that arrived.”
“I don’t know anything,” she said.
He moved quickly across the space, yanking her head back once more. “I’m not an idiot, wench,” he said and raised his hand.
Tarley flinched, but the blow never hit because someone entered behind her, catching his attention.
“Romis.”
“I said no fucking interruptions,” Four Tankards growled. “I’m interrogating the prisoner.”
“I know, but–”
“It better be something very important.”
“A messenger’s arrived.”
“The courier?” Four Tankards—Romis—asked, and stepped back, releasing Tarley’s hair and shoving her back so she lost her balance once more.
“He says he has something for you.”
“Bring him in. The Patriarch must have sent word.” When they were alone again—or Tarley assumed it was so—Romis measured her. “Don’t get comfortable.”
Barely a breath later, the flap shifted and there were footsteps, until a man appeared at her side.
Tarley stared at the stranger. He was handsome: dark-skinned, dark-eyed, his hair shorn close to his head, a beard framing his face. A frown sharpened his features and made him seem as if he’d been hewn from dark granite. He was tall and muscular, the sinew of his arms a study in peaks and valleys. Intimidating.
Tarley looked down at the dirty floor inside the tent where she’d been dragged, relieved that he’d arrived, but wary to know what it could mean. Suppressing a shudder, she hated to imagine what might have happened if he hadn’t interrupted. She had to get away.
“Well?” Romis asked of the newcomer. “The message?”
“It’s time,” the man said and glanced at Tarley. When his eyes met hers for a fleeting moment, she felt as if he was talking to her. In the next instant, she realized she recognized him. He’d been at the inn, a part of the Jast contingent. Lachlan had touched him—clapped a hand on his shoulder. The relief this man had worn on his face the moment he’d seen Lachlan alive was what she remembered; a look as concrete as the plain leather breastplate sans sigil covering his wide chest. She looked at it closer, feeling the warm rush of familiarity.
Her vision.
Her eyes flew up to the man’s face.
Was he a traitor? Had he sold out Lachlan and Jast? The one who’d provided the means to assassinate Lachlan and frame Jast for the queen’s death? The thought burned through her. But her vision hadn’t made her feel fear or anger. She’d felt relief. Safe. Tarley wasn’t sure what to trust.
“We’re to move on them? When?” Romis asked and crossed his arms over his chest.
“Immediately.”
“Verify it with a name.”
“You know I can’t tell you. Anonymity and deniability.” The man’s hand rested on the sword at his hip. “But you may know my name—Johesha.”
Suddenly Tarley didn’t want to run away or hide in the woods anymore. She didn’t want to run from Lachlan. She wanted to run toward him. To protect him. To fight for her home, for Keyanna, for her sisters and every other woman in Kaloma subjected to injustice based on her sex. She’d twistedly thought hiding and living her life hidden had been an act of subversion, but revolution meant action. She was ready to fight.
As if the man next to her—Johesha—heard her thoughts, he moved. He was a blur, the stealth, speed, and power of it—so quick—Tarley barely had time to blink, before Johesha held a blade to Romis’s throat.
