The words Tom Raven had said to Verdot Amal in his office surfaced, how Verdot could fix something but refused to.
Cole needed to know what “it” was. Tom Raven likely had answers about the Ice Island prison. Maybe about his father too. If Cole could talk with that clerk, he just might find out what was going on.
Chapter 28
Mistel
Mistel should be focusing on their mission, not the adorable wrinkle between Cole’s eyes that always formed when he was worried or concentrating, which was the first thing she noticed when she entered the Ivory Spit.
“What are we talking about?” she asked as Cole pulled out a chair for her at the table he was sharing with Kurtz.
Adorable and chivalric manners. The boy didn’t even know he was racking up points.
“Questioning Merrygog about the happenings in Tsaftown fifteen years ago,” he said. “Trying to see if we can figure out who might have framed Crispen.”
Good idea. Mistel sat down and let the heat from the hearth fire seep into her bones. It was early afternoon, and Zanna had just dropped her off on her way to work at the prison.
Mistel was grateful not to be going back to that horrible place and hoped Cole had learned all he needed on their visit. She studied him as he sank back onto his chair. He looked to be holding up well, considering he’d found out only yesterday that the man he’d always thought was the uncle who abandoned him was actually his father.
Poor Cole.
His hair was an absolute mess today—staticky from the dry heat of the fire. She hated how much she loved it.
“Andric Gershom, for sure,” Merrygog said, his bushy white eyebrows all wrinkly. “Lord Gershom’s younger brother. A right rascal, he was. Smuggler through and through. Wouldn’t be surprised if some of his blood still stains the docks.”
Rilla approached and set a steaming mug in front of Mistel. “Some mulled wine for you.”
“Thank you.” Mistel palmed the mug, letting it warm her hands. Ever since their visit to the Erlichman’s estate, she’d developed a taste for the spicy, heated drink.
“Could I get a refill?” Kurtz asked, lifting his tankard.
“Drink slower,” Rilla said as she walked away. “Problem solved.”
“Ouch,” Mistel said. “What’d you do to upset her?”
“It’s more like what he didn’t do,” Cole said.
“Still no dancing, huh?” Mistel asked.
Cole shook his head.
“Anyway…” Kurtz, frowning, turned his attention back to Merrygog. “Did he have any accomplices?”
“None worth noting,” the old man said. “Even his son, Tom Raven, refused to take his father’s name when he offered it. Always trying to prove he was cut from another cloth, that Tom.”
“Verdot Amal’s clerk?” Cole asked.
“That’s right,” Merrygog said.
“On the straight and narrow now, is he?” Kurtz asked.
“He certainly tries,” Merrygog said. “Arman knows it can’t be easy, working for Verdot.”
Mistel hadn’t liked Verdot Amal. He reminded her of Vasaa Hoff, a merchant from Sitna who’d known her father. The man thought very highly of himself, until he was around someone above his station, then he became a simpering, fawning toady. Mistel bet Verdot Amal would do the same should Lord Livna come to call.
Rilla returned and poured ale into Kurtz’s tankard so fast, it sloshed over the side. “It was only about eight years back when Andric Gershom died,” she said. “That’s too recent for what they’re asking about.”
“Thank you, Rilla,” Kurtz said, pulling his drink close.
