The thought hits me quick and hard, and I shove it away before it can fully take root. We have more important things to worry about anyway.
When they join us at the table, Tycho and Malin sit on opposite sides of me. It’s obvious that Sephran is ready for Mal to pick a fight— and Leo is sitting here ready to watch. The bracing apprehension in the air is simply that thick.
So I attempt to slice through it before any aggression can truly form. “Tell them,” I say to Sephran. “Tell them what she said.”
That gets Malin’s attention. “What who said?”
Sephran’s gaze goes dark, but he repeats what we heard from the barmaid. When he gets to the part about ameeting, Malin and Tycho exchange a glance, and I can tell they’re thinking of everything we heard from Wenda in the last town, about how nobility shows up at the tourney here, ready with silver to spend. I think of that slain courier again, wondering if that is somehow related to all of this.
While they consider, Sephran looks across the table at me. “Maybe you reallycouldbe here for that meeting.”
My eyebrows go up. “Me?”
“Yeah. You are from Syhl Shallow. You’d know what they’re saying at least.” Before I can respond, his eyes narrow, and he glares at Malin. “I mean . . . if I’m allowed to make suggestions before our captain.”
“You’re allowed,” Malin says, but he doesn’t sound annoyed. He sounds like he’s actually considering this.
“But I am no— I no— Inot—” I break off, frustrated, tripping over my words because I have too much to say and not enough of the language to do it. I look to Tycho and switch to Syssalah. “I’m not from one of the Royal Houses. I’m not even born of the nobility. No one would believe it.” I pat the pouch on my belt, and it rattles with a handful of coppers. “I don’t even have silver to spend.”
Malin must have understood most of what I said, because he looks to Tycho. “Youhave silver,” he says in Emberish. He gives us both more of an appraising look. “And you’re both in black armor.”
I didn’t consider that. Tycho and I are clad in the same black armor that the king’s guard wears here in Emberfall— but it’s not unlike the army livery worn on the other side of the border. It’s not trimmed in the green and silver of Syhl Shallow’s royal crest, but I doubt a barmaid in Gaulter would even notice that.
I glance at the windows at the front of the tavern. It’s nearing dusk. I doubtanyonewould notice it in the shadows. Back when I was shoeing horses in the shadows of a forge, I certainly wouldn’t.
Tycho runs a hand across his jaw. “We still don’t know who’shere. Even if we pretend to be soldiers, someone from the Royal Houses might recognize me.” He hesitates, considering. “Lesser nobles probably wouldn’t, but . . . well, it’s a risk.”
“The barmaid is coming back,” Leo says under his breath, warning in his tone.
Sephran and Malin exchange a glance, and in that one look, there’s a spark of their old camaraderie. I’ve heard no shortage of stories about the pranks and hijinks they used to pull together, and I realize I’m seeing a flicker of it now.
Malin kicks Tycho under the table. “Speak Syssalah,” he hisses. “Now.”
Tycho gives him an aggrieved look, then turns to me. “So,” he drawls. “How much longer do you think we’re going to have before these two punch each other?”
That’s so unexpected that it startles a smile out of me. “You think it’s just going to be a punch?”
He scoffs. “I think it’llstartwith a punch.”
Malin kicks him under the table again just as the barmaid steps up between him and Leo.
My smile widens. “Malin understands a lot more Syssalah than I remember,” I say to Tycho.
He shrugs. “Our time in Syhl Shallow gave him a lot of practice.” His gaze turns a little wicked. “He was all over Nolla Verin.”
I was in the middle of taking a sip of my ale, but this makes me choke. “The sister to thequeen?”
Tycho nods. “They kept trying to kill each other. For Verin, that’s practically a love letter.”
The barmaid turns to him. “I’m so sorry,” she says, her cheeks turning pink. She speaks slowly and clearly. “As I told your friend, I don’t speak Syssalah. But . . . ah . . .” She bites at her lip, waiting to see if he comprehends.
“I understand your words,” Tycho says with such a thick Syssal accent that I almost choke on my ale again. “I speak some Emberish.”
“Clouds above,” I mutter. “That’s terrible. Is that what I sound like?”
Tycho is still looking at the barmaid. “Ale for me, too, if you please,” he says, his fake accent thickening further, which makes me grin. But then he glances at me and switches to Syssalah. “No,” he says earnestly. “When you speak in any language, it’s beautiful.”
That catches me off guard, and a flush crawls up my neck. Tycho isn’t teasing now, and he said it so plainly that it knocked the smile off my face. Honestly, it almost knocked me out of the chair.
