CHAPTER ONE
Magnus brays like a donkey when he laughs.
He lounges back in his chair like it’s a throne, idly gesturing for a barmaid to fill his cup as he peruses his cards. She sends me a wry look and makes her way from the bar, a bottle of wine in her hand.
The barmaid is responsible for serving both men.
I’m responsible for keeping one of them alive.
And so, each week as I stand in this exact spot, I focus on the money I’ll earn. Money I desperately need.
Heat radiates from the fire on the wall to my left, turning my eyes heavy-lidded. I shift on my feet, boots clinging to the sticky floor as I force myself to stay alert. My position is a strategic choice. I can see almost the entire tavern,andit’s the best view of the clock hanging above the bar.
Fifteen minutes, and I’ll have earned enough money for a trip to the apothecary. The half tonic I left for Evren isn’t enough to ease the anxiety that gnaws on me day and night.
Magnus stops laughing, and I hear more than one sigh of relief from the patrons sitting at nearby tables. On Magnus’s left, Gaius nods at the barmaid to refill his cup, rolling his eyes as Magnus gestures broadly, immediately knocking the cup with his large fist. The barmaid’s bronze sigil flares across her brow, and the cup rights itself, the arc of the wine reversing to splash back in.
The barmaid looks young enough that her power must still feel like an unexpected gift she’s only just begun to unwrap.
Gaius studies his cards, his brows slamming together. When he reaches for his own drink, I catch a glimpse of his hand.
Fold.
But he won’t. I sigh.
I used to love this game. I relished being underestimated, delighting in the way I could swipe piles of coins from players unaware of my reputation. By the time I was old enough to take a seat at the backroomtables of the Thorn’s most notorious taverns, I was winning enough to supplement my mother’s meager income.
Some part of me still misses the thrill of studying my opponent, of keeping my own expression carefully neutral while I surveyed my hand … even though I know it attracted too much unnecessary attention.
At least fifty people linger over wine, ale, and mediocre food. Tables are packed tight, forcing strangers into reluctant intimacy as they jostle for space. It’s a typical crowd for this time of night—late enough that anyone still here is relaxing after a long day of work or planning to stay until last call, unwilling to go home to their own loneliness.
From behind the bar, Yorick meets my eyes, his bald head proclaiming his sigil-less state. I shake my own head. Stubborn bastard. No matter how many times I tell him he should refuse Gaius entry, he insists he won’t turn away a paying customer. It’s difficult for mundanes to eke out a living anywhere in this city, and Yorick knows that better than anyone.
One of these days, that collection of high-quality wines he’s so proud of will end up in pieces on the scarred wooden floor—along with the mirrored wall behind him. The customers who have been his regulars for the past decade will find their night ruined, and his reputation will be shattered along with his wine.
Another glance at the clock. Ten minutes.
At the table, Gaius still hasn’t folded. Magnus has the better hand. He throws his cards down with a grin, and Gaius curses.
I crane my neck. If he’d played smarter, he could have won.
Gaius’s shoulders tense, and he shifts his attention toward the door. All my senses go on high alert.
When he first hired me, I’d assumed my presence was a way to display both his wealth and his sense of self-importance. I soon learned he had good reason to fear for his life. If I’d known how many men would attempt to kill him for sleeping with their wives or cheating them in business, I would have negotiated a much higher wage.
At least I would haveattemptedto negotiate a higher wage. Everything they say about beggars and choosers is true.
Gaius’s beady eyes are intent, and his wiry body stiffens. His hand slips beneath my side of the table as he keeps his attention on whoever is walking toward us. Two fingers tap against his thigh.
I suppress an eye roll.
This little signal is something he insisted on early in our business relationship. Apparently, for Gaius to look my way would be an intolerable admission of fear.
I drag my gaze across the tavern to the well-dressed man striding toward us.
“Gaius Panthen,” the man shouts, and patrons move out of the way, giving him a direct path toward my client.
He’s taller than Gaius, and his wide shoulders are thick with muscle. I’d put him in his early sixties, but he’s moving with the ease of a man twenty years younger. His silver sigil sweeps out across his forehead, ending at the middle of each of his eyebrows.
