???
The watchman’s name was Jarol. And he was not happy.
He led Venick through Irek’s streets, his steps uneven, his expression grim. He’d balked when Venick had first named his price, then narrowed his eyes, piecing it together. Some stranger appearing in town, mid-twenties, asking for a woman named Lira. A lowlander, and vaguely familiar. The watchman blinked when he connected two and two to get—oh. He’d realized then who Venick was. Realized he’d just given his life price to an outlaw and a killer. For a moment, Venick thought Jarol might revoke his price, that he might simply drop his hand to his sword and attack.
Venick had known that was a possibility. Knew it well enough to station Branton and Lin Lill in the nearby marsh, hidden like tigers in the reeds, their bows nocked and drawn. But killing the watchman hadn’t been necessary, because Jarol didn’t attack. To revoke one’s life price was to earn dishonor among his people. Maybe even among the gods. Venick watched Jarol think this through, weighing the possible risks and consequences before firming his jaw and nodding his agreement. Venick had won Jarol’s life price freely—or so he assumed—just as Jarol had given it willingly. He wouldn’t take it back, not even from an outlaw.
“Alright,” the watchman had said. “I’ll take you to Lira.”
“And?” Venick prompted.
A heavy sigh. “And I’ll make sure no one stabs you in the back along the way.”
They trudged together through the city streets. Venick cast his gaze around, trying to soak it all in. The smell of fish and saltwater. The tink and clatter of people and livestock. Wide ferns hanging from porches, vines creeping up walls, water pooling in cracks in the cobblestone. Venick felt his homesickness wash anew with each sight remembered, like a wave against the shore: surging high, then retreating, and again.
At first, no one recognized him. Then someone did. About halfway through the market square, a women met Venick’s eye and froze, dropping the fresh basket of laundry she’d been carrying. It toppled and muddied on the pavement.
Her shock drew attention. Heads turned as others tried to see what she saw, and did. Faces hardened. Fists closed over weapons. Venick ducked his head, shoving his hands into his pockets. He wished then that he’d chosen to seek redemption under the cover of night rather than in the bustle of midafternoon, even if one of the reasons he hadn’t come at night was because he didn’t want to feel like he felt now: a beaten dog slinking home.
By the time they reached the fat double doors of Irek’s central tavern, it seemed like the entire city was staring.
“The council convenes soon,” Jarol said gruffly.
Venick lifted his eyes. The tavern was a bloated three stories of sticky floors and wood-paneled walls and activity. Meetings were held here, weddings performed here, babies born and blessed here. The tavern was the beating heart of the city.
But: “I asked you to bring me to my mother.”
Jarol nodded. “I am.”
“Lira is…here?”
“Yes.”
Venick still didn’t understand. Was this where his mother worked now? Behind the bar, serving food to the locals? Or—the thought cracked itself open—was this where shelived?
“She’s usually the first to arrive,” Jarol continued. “Your mother, I mean. The councillors don’ like to start late.”
“Jarol.” Venick heard something in the watchman’s words that he’d missed before. “Are you saying Lira isonthe council?”
“’Course. She’s our Spokesman.” He corrected himself. “Woman.”
He pushed the doors wide.
Venick’s stomach did a funny flip. The Spokesman was the leader of the council, the highest-ranking member among them. Eight councillors in total, one for every lowland city, and if a vote was split, it went in favor of the Spokesman.
It wasn’t unheard of for women to serve on the council. And it made sense that his mother would have taken her husband’s place. Councillors were voted in by sitting members. Anyone could be nominated, but preference was always given to family—the closest the lowlands would ever come to having their own sovereignty. After the death of General Atlas, the rest of the council must have offered Lira the spot. Atlas, however, had not been Spokesman. Lira would have climbed to that role on her own.
Venick looked for her among the seated row of councillors and spotted her almost immediately: her soft features, that wild brown hair, eyes the color of winter rain. She looked like Venick, or he looked like her. One glance at the two of them side by side and there was no doubting their relation.
Venick moved forward as if pulled by an invisible hand. He couldn’t hear his footsteps over the din of the waiting crowd. He couldn’t have said what kind of noise his boots would make. But he felt each step as if it was a gong, the thud of every footfall against the hardwood, and he thought, from the way his mother’s gaze lifted, that she could hear it too.
Lira’s eyes locked on his. Her face changed. She stood from her seat, one hand gripping the arm of the chair, her knuckles shining white. When she spoke, her voice was barely a whisper, yet she had the room’s full attention.
“This meeting is adjourned. Everyone. Get out.”
FOURTEEN
Jarol locked the tavern doors. They sealed with a dull thud. The room was nearly empty now. Only the councillors remained, seated as they had been at the back of the tavern, and Jarol, who turned
