“No one assigned you that task.”
“I assigned it to myself,” Kurtz said. “A young poet should have women tripping over themselves to speak with you. But that frown on your face scares them away.”
“There are no women in the army, Kurtz. And even if there were, I have more important things on my mind.” Like how they were going to get hired anywhere in Tsaftown with Jeffrey Korngold for competition.
“Bah,” Kurtz said. “Talent is wasted on fools, it is. If I could spin words the way you do, I’d have more women than a king.”
“You have had more women than the king,” Cole said.
Kurtz blinked a measured beat. “Stop being so literal. I thought you were a poet, I did. Don’t you know about metaphors and hyperbole and all that nonsense?”
Cole raised an eyebrow, impressed that Kurtz knew such terms. “I do, but you’ve missed the biggest point, my friend.”
“What’s that?”
“I don’t want more women than a king. I’m content with my memories of Mistel.”
Except for the part when she hadn’t come to see him off. That still smarted, though he supposed he deserved it.
“Enough talk of women, then, if all you can do is mope,” Kurtz said. “Talked to Quimby today. He wants to know our plans once we arrive in Tsaftown.”
“Get hired at some alehouses and taverns,” Cole said. “Unless Jeffrey gets hired everywhere first.”
“He can’t play every establishment in the North by himself,” Kurtz said. “How do you want to handle Ice Island?”
“Don’t know.” Cole was still shocked that his uncle was alive when he thought the man had died years ago. Prince Oren wanted Cole to question him, see if he’d admit who framed him. “Stop by for a visit, I suppose.”
“Jol seems to think we won’t be able to just show up. Says the place has been locked down pretty tight lately. We’ll have to get invited.”
“By who?” Cole asked.
“Verdot Amal.” Kurtz said the name as if it tasted bad. “He’s the warden.”
“And that’s a problem why?” Cole asked.
“Because I spent thirteen years on Ice Island for a crime I didn’t do,” Kurtz said, “and Verdot Amal is the man who made it happen.”
Cole’s stomach dropped. He’d known getting into Ice Island would be hard. Now it felt impossible. “Wonderful. I need help from the one man who’ll probably throw me in a cell just for knowing you.”
“Bah!” Kurtz said. “What’s thirteen years’ worth of hatred when it comes to uncovering the truth, eh? I’m sure you’ll think of something.”
And suddenly, talking to his long-lost uncle didn’t feel like a reunion to Cole. It felt like a trap.
Chapter 2
Mistel
Following the Tsaftown army was supposed to be a grand adventure, yet Mistel Wepp’s great tale of daring had taken a rather tedious turn.
Bart, the horse she had borrowed from the Armonguard stables, shifted beneath her, his breath steaming in the dusky air as they made their way along the road, both half frozen and starved. They were somewhere between Mahanaim and Allowntown, following rolling hills of snow-covered prairie. They should be over halfway to Tsaftown by now, but Mistel had long ago lost count of how many days they’d been traveling. At least a dozen.
She wondered—for the umpteenth time—if she’d made a terrible mistake.
The idea had seemed flawless: a daring, romantic gesture to follow Cole north. He needed her. She was half of their duo, after all. That freckle-faced boy could charm every string on that lute of his, but without Mistel, his songs were just music.
Excellent music, of course, but what Cole didn’t understand about an audience was that they didn’t just want a song. They wanted a show. Cole gave them music, and Mistel gave them a memory. That’s what made them such a perfect team.
The trees thickened into tangled brush, and Bart gave a nervous snort. Mistel glanced toward a shifting shadow, heart increasing in tempo as a pair of gray wolves darted from the undergrowth.
