“Not many,” Kurtz said, “but the Hamartanos do.”
Cole frowned. “They must be smuggling something.”
“Oh, definitely,” Kurtz said. “The question is, what?”
“Prisoners from Ice Island?” Cole said.
Silence fell.
“Now, that could be,” Kurtz said. “You’re on to something, poet.”
“We need to search Thusk’s warehouse,” Cole said.
“I’ve passed it a few times,” Zanna said, “but it’s always swarming with workers.”
“Then let’s look at Verdot Amal,” Cole said. “He must be involved.”
“I’m sure he is,” Kurtz said. “But tread lightly. He put me in Ice Island for thirteen years. He’s dangerous.”
Cole felt that in his bones. Prince Oren hadn’t sent them here for nothing. He didn’t want Mistel near a man who trafficked people, but today had again proved she had skills the rest of them lacked. She would risk herself again and again, and he had to allow it, learn to work with it somehow.
Trust Arman to do what he could not.
Chapter 17
Mistel
Smile and nod, Mistel. Smile and nod.
Bower Renwall smelled like ale and onions and stood far too close. “You sing like a songbird,” he said, his grin revealing teeth crusted with bits of food. “When you’re done, let’s find a more private space. Some of my regulars like an intimate encore.”
Mistel held her grin but clenched her fists at her sides. “I perform onstage, Master Renwall. Nowhere else.”
“We’ll see.” The grimy hunx chuckled, slow and knowing, as if certain that time would change her answer.
Before she had to decide between smacking him or walking away, Kurtz stepped in and clapped a hand on the man’s shoulder like they were old friends. “Master Renwall, is that your storeroom I passed on the way in? I noticed the latch is cracked, I did. Might want to check on that before someone walks off with your best ale, eh?”
Bower cursed under his breath and shuffled off, muttering about thieves and lazy help.
“Thank you, Kurtz. I wanted to check on Cole, but Master Renwall would not stop talking.”
Kurtz gestured to where Cole sat on a chair by the kitchen door. “You’re free now, you are.”
Mistel hurried over to Cole. “This is a terrible spot,” she said. “Will you be able to play with that door swinging open?”
Cole glanced up at her as he continued to tune one of his strings. “I’ll be fine.”
She looked over the tiny space, counted fifteen tables, only five of them occupied. “This is shocking,” she said. “I’ve never sung in a venue this empty.”
“Might be because of the attack on the city today,” Zanna said, coming to stand beside her. “Poroo raiders ambushed a caravan at the southern gatehouse—killed several merchants and at least one Howler.”
A chill ran over Mistel’s arms. “That’s horrible. I’m not surprised people don’t feel like going out.”
“We already accomplished what we needed to this morning,” Cole said. “Tonight is just about playing well enough to get people talking.”
Mistel frowned at the measly crowd. “All nine of them.”
“Let’s start with ‘Hear the Pretty Maiden,’” Cole said. “Then do, ‘I Bless My King,’ followed by ‘The Pawn Our King,’ then slow things down with ‘Mountain Song.’”
