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“Of course not,” I snap back, unable to hold back the quaver from the words now. “But how under the gods’ gaze am I supposed to say no to the king himself?”
Alek and Casimir come around the table to join us.
“You shouldn’t have to,” the scholar says, his tone raw with pain. “You’re not a killer.”
I force a shrug. “I am, though. And I said I wanted to see the scourge sorcerers destroyed. If this is the way to do it with the least damage to the people we’re trying to protect, then that’s the way it is.”
“If they catch you in the act, they’ll killyou.”
His voice breaks with the last word. I clutch my cloak tighter. “I know. But that was always true, wasn’t it?”
Except before I was doing everything I could to appease the scourge sorcerers. Now I’m going in with the intention of committing the worst crime any of the conspirators could imagine.
If I can’t flee quickly enough—
Dread pools in my gut. I don’t want to think about that.
“Ivy…” Casimir’s dark eyes flash. “I’ve tracked down someone who may have information that’ll give us a bigger picture. It might not be necessary to go quite that far after all.”
I smile at him with a twinge of gratitude, but I can’t summon any real hope. “Thank you.”
The courtesan touches my cheek and presses a quick kiss to my temple. “I’ll see about getting that bathing room for you. You’ll need that chance to unwind now more than ever. And if I can get you out of this awful mission, I swear to you, I will.”
Forty
Casimir
The carriage rolls to a stop. My chest constricts around my heart for just an instant before I nudge myself forward to open the door.
From an objective standpoint, there’s nothing to be afraid of beyond that door. It’s just a baron’s country home, and I’ve visited more than a dozen of those in the past.
But I’m not here to entertain a court noble on holiday. In theory, I’m making a friendly call on an old family friend, though I can’t say she was ever really a friend ofmine.
And I’m not a man of objectivism anyway. My calling is all about matters of emotion, and this conversation is likely to stir up a whole host of those, no matter what guise it’s under.
I step out into the crisp fall air. The leaves of the tree overhead gleam in brilliant shades of red and orange. The breeze carries the light floral scents of the last late-blooming flowers from the garden around the side of the sprawling house.
I only take the smallest enjoyment from the pleasant setting as my gaze latches on to the woman waiting by the house’s gilded doorway.
Laselle stands shorter than in my memories, mainly because I haven’t seen her since I was ten. I have a few inches on her now. Her presence still looms large, though—enough so that I have the instinctive urge to bow even though she no longer has even a passing authority over me.
She must be well into her fourth decade now, perhaps even reaching her fifth, but the creams and powders skillfully layered over her face turn her golden-brown skin perfectly smooth, her eyes large and bright, her rouged lips full nearly to the point of absurdity.
She and my mother both practiced the art of toeing the line, amplifying their beauty to the absolute limit before it became grotesque.
She’s kept a figure Ardone herself would admire. A vast ruby-red gown embroidered with gold emphasizes her hourglass figure. Jewels glint amid her intricately whorled hair and around her neck and wrists.
Clearly, Laselle has been doing well for herself as she continues to ply her trade. The most adept courtesans can continue drawing high ranking clients well into their elderly years.
Her current clients are one of the wealthiest couples in King Konram’s court. It’s taken me this long to track her down because they whisked her off to Icar for a more exotic international trip.
She steps forward with a smile that doesn’t part her lips. Her voice is the same resonant lilt that fills my memories, with just a hint of hoarseness. “Cas! Solovelyto see you after all this time. And you’ve come all the way from the city—goodness. Come along. We have lunch waiting for us in the pavilion.”
I dip my head to her, even though she hasn’t offered me the same respect. “It’s good to see you too, Laselle.”
She sweeps through the garden without another word to me until we reach the rounded, open-air structure that could have held a luncheon for thirty. The chic wooden table and chairs set up in its center look oddly dwarfed by the empty span of floorboards all around it.
Laselle sinks into one of the chairs with perfect grace, and I take the seat across from her. Bread, sliced meats and cheeses, and pastries are already laid out on a few platters between our plates.
