Folke jerks his head in a nod and follows the directions. I keep my head down, all too aware that the last thing I want is to be recognized. After all, I’m trying to mitigate my reputation for growing up a street rat, present myself as worthy of the crown. It wouldn’t do to be caught sniffing around the Sin Streets with the likes of a spy and a traitor.
A bar fight breaks out across the street, and despite my better sense, I grin beneath the cloak’s hood. Damn, but it feels good to be back on the streets. A little mud on my boots never bothered me. Blood on my knuckles, either.
Folke stops at the street corner and pulls a flask out of his vest. He takes a deep swig and passes it to me with a wink. “Need to look convincing.”
“Well. In that case.” I take a deep drink, then pass it back.
I’m here to help my kingdom, yeah. But even a king needs to let off some steam.
“Hey!” Rian argues. “Not so convincing if wealldon’t drink.”
Folke tucks the flask in his pocket and pats it. “Sorry, friend, but you can’t drink without revealing your shackles. You’re here to identify faces, notgetshit-faced.”
He grabs Rian by the shoulder and hauls him down the street toward the Cracked Keg.
Inside, it’s so crowded that we have to shuffle to even get in the door. It’s a payday evening, so everyone with two cents to rub together is out drinking. And, it’s a bit of a celebration, too. The city is finally liberated from the Golden Sentinels’ hold. Supplies and food are flowing through the gates once more. Finally, bellies are full.
I swallow, feeling a strange warmth in my chest.Pride. But then a customer suddenly shoves past me and vomits on the floor right next to my boots.
I grimace and wipe my boot on a stool leg.
“Okay,” Folke says, leaning in close to me and Rian. “Where’s this safe house?”
Rian jerks his head toward the bar. “Kitchen.”
Folke’s brow wrinkles. “What?”
“The kitchen,” Rian hisses again, jerking his chin a second time at the bar. “Through that door. Behind the bar. It’s a safe kitchen.”
“Who the hell ever heard of a safekitchen?” Folke hisses.
I groan, because I very well might be the world’s biggest idiot to put my faith in Rian Valvere.
And yet, here we are.
Folke heads for the bar, but Rian grabs him, the shackles clattering softly in the folds of his cloak. “Wait—you can’t just walk behind the counter. You’ll be beaten over the head with a pewter tankard. There’s a rear entrance. That way, by the latrines outside.”
He indicates a small wooden door.
We push our way through the crowd as unobtrusively as possible. Not that anyone throws us looks, anyway. We’re three men in a bar full of bastards just like us. Half of them are too drunk to even see their own noses, anyway.
Still, I keep careful tabs on the few individuals around the room who don’t reek of ale. The sharp ones pretending to be drunker than they are. Sure, most just want to cheat at cards. But I catch a glimpse of the bartender sliding a thick pouch of coins under the napkin of an outgoing tray.
Safe kitchen.Well, fuck, maybe Rian knows what he’s doing after all.
We exit to the narrow, muddy alley with a deep ditch by way of latrine, with a half dozen men pissing into it while singing old fae ditties. Rian points toward a wooden swinging door next to crates stacked up and a bucket of rotting potato peels.
Folke pauses to face us, pulling back his cloak a few inches to show the short sword in its scabbard. “Okay, here’s how it will go down. We’re going to pull the old Drunkard’s Deceit. Basten, you’ll have my back. Rian, you find a corner and post yourself there like a fucking broom, got it? Not a peep, not a move. Your only role is to not get in the way.”
Rian sighs. “Fine.”
My heart is thumping. My adrenaline is pumped. Thank fuck for the handkerchief that hides the smirk on my face, because I’m enjoying this far too much.
“Let’s play,” I say, cracking my knuckles.
In a snap, Folke transforms into a slobbering, cross-eyed drunk. He throws himself against the swinging door, stumbling into the kitchen, and Rian and I watch from the upper gap in the doorway.
“Bladder’s about to explode!” he slurs as he blusters his way toward two young men cleaning tankards by a barrel of soapy water.
