“There was a dead body,” Kurtz said, “and Walter said, ‘By the Three.’”
“Then Derby went in with Lord Livna,” Quimby said, “and the body was all wrapped up in rope. Derby grabbed it, but it was a Poroo trap that cinched his hand to the body.”
“Then the Poroo came running out of the trees, singing their battle cry,” Kurtz said. “You’re right, Cole. It’s unlike them to attack like that, it is.”
“Then what happened?” Mistel asked.
As Kurtz and Quimby recounted the battle, Cole’s thoughts drifted back to Mistel’s kiss.
Ever since Nya had ripped out his heart, he’d longed for someone who truly understood him, someone who could save him from the emptiness that had haunted his life. Nya had given him a taste of companionship, but she’d been an actress. A liar. He used to wonder if there might be someone out there who could see him for who he was—and like him because of it.
Could Mistel be that person? Later, of course, long after the mission was done? Their shared love of music gave them an instant connection, and she stirred his soul in ways he couldn’t deny. Yet he hated giving anyone power over him. With her brazen confidence and unparalleled beauty, Mistel could sweep him away. He wasn’t sure he could trust himself around her—or trust her with his heart.
Plus Cole was, this moment, leading her into more danger. A place where she might be hurt. Even killed.
That didn’t sit well with him either. Not at all.
Chapter 10
Kurtz
Home, joyous home.
The sentiment rose unbidden inside Kurtz as he led Cole and Mistel through Tsaftown’s narrow streets, his gloved hand tight on Smoke’s reins as the cold nipped at his cheeks and his breath clouded out in front of him.
The mingling scents of roasted chestnuts, wood smoke, and manure hung thick on the air, they did. The afternoon light slanted low, casting long shadows from the timber-framed buildings that leaned precariously close overhead, frost and icicles clinging to their eaves. Up ahead, the spire of Thalassa’s Temple towered over the city like an old sentinel.
Back at the Dale, they’d left the army behind and headed west through the narrow streets. Kurtz had bloodvoiced Prince Oren yesterday and received instructions. They were to go to the Ivory Spit and ask for Anna. That’s all he knew.
Their horses’ hooves clattered against the uneven cobblestones, a sound so familiar it almost twisted back time. How often had Kurtz roamed these streets as a gangly sapling, eh? A wooden practice sword strapped to his back, dreaming of finding glory in the Fighting Fifteen?
A fool, that lad.
It was good to see the city in Light again. The last two times Kurtz had been here during the curse of Darkness—first going into Ice Island, then over a decade later, mercifully coming out.
Thirteen years of his life, lost.
Heat burst in his chest as he recalled how, during the trial to find King Axel’s killers, Kenton Garesh and his cohorts had testified—blatantly lied—against him and Eagan and that Verdot Amal had done nothing to stop it. Careeanne too, that blackhearted viper, telling the Council of Seven that he had used her! Of course, with Kurtz’s maverick reputation, no one had had any reason to doubt the minx’s word.
The injustice of so many turncloaks conspiring to help Nathak cut down a legend like King Axel—the man’s own father—still boiled Kurtz blood, it did. He’d been simmering over the diabolical treachery for thirteen years, and while it pleased him that Nathak and Kenton were dead and rotting, Kurtz would not rest until everyone complicit in the king’s murder was exposed and brought to justice.
Now that he was free, he finally had the time to figure out the truth, he did.
“How much longer?” Cole asked, pulling Kurtz from his reverie.
“A few more blocks,” Kurtz said.
Mistel drew her hood tight around her chin. “It’s so cold.”
“Aye, that it is,” Kurtz said. The girl wasn’t dressed for it either. She’d need winter clothing and fast, or she’d turn into the prettiest icicle Tsaftown had ever seen.
They came upon the Ivory Spit suddenly. The tavern and inn sat back off the street, and you couldn’t see it until you’d reached its door. Kurtz knew the place well and steered Smoke down the side of the building to the stables in back.
Prince Oren wanted them all to stay here, but Kurtz would rather find another place to shove the girl off. Only a blind man could miss the way Cole and Mistel gogged at each other, eyes all witless and full of stars. Kurtz had enough to deal with, he did, without tending a pair of lovestruck pups.
The three of them put up their horses, then went inside the tavern. A bell tinkled as Kurtz passed through the entrance and stomped his snowy boots on the mat. Ah, but the place smelled like home, and this wasn’t even Fat Vandy’s. All taverns had the same scent: a blend of ale, sweat, stew, and smoke—both hearth and pipe. Earthy, spicy, and savory all at once.
The Spit had a low ceiling due to all the rooms on its upper floors. The timber panel walls were covered in Merrygog’s trophies: a stuffed hawk, two falcons, a boar’s head, four pair of antlers of various points, and a half dozen carvings of fish, crab, or some other sea creature. Kurtz grinned, remembering how tacky Serra Vandy found Merrygog’s décor.
