“She’s just around the corner, waiting for me. A flesh Affinite. She took down five trained men with a flick of a finger.” He smothered a grin as the barman’s mouth dropped open completely.
“She’d be worth a fortune,” Igor whispered. “Deities, no wonder Kerlan hasn’t hired anyone to replace you yet. It’d be a hard match.”
Ramson stored this bit of information away. Outwardly, he snorted. “Money. That’s all you think about,” he said, raising his tumbler of brandy. “How much d’you think you can get for a bottle of this? Ten goldleaves? Think, instead, if I grew Kerlan a vineyard. How many bottles of brandy could he make then? How many hundreds ofthousandsof goldleaves would he get each year?” Ramson downed his drink in a single gulp and set the tumbler on the table with a satisfying clink. “Think bigger, Igor,my friend.”
In fact, that was the theory he’d told Kerlan when the crime lord had offered him a stake in the Order’s trafficking business. Ramson had refused. He told Kerlan his skills would be put to better use elsewhere—in the port, in the weapons trade, at the casinos, and just about anywhere else.
The truth, though, was he couldn’t stomach it. He’d walked past Affinite children on the streets, forced into servitude, their mouths sewn shut by terror, their eyes wide with a thinly veiled plea. And he’d seen in them the ghost of a childhood friend he’d promised to never betray.
Perhaps that was why Kerlan had assigned Ramson to the suicide mission to murder Cyrilia’s Emperor. Perhaps Kerlan had seen the seed of doubt that had grown in Ramson’s chest throughout these years, and he’d needed Ramson to prove his loyalty to the very end.
Ramson had failed.
He shoved these thoughts from his head now, keeping the smile playing about his lips as he looked coolly at Igor. Unbeknownst to the bartender, Ramson had just bought himself insurance. Igor would sell this tidbit to all the traders that frequented his pub, and news of Ramson’s imminent comeback—along with that flesh Affinite—would spread like wildfire. By the time Ramson reached Novo Mynsk, Lord Alaric Kerlan would be welcoming him with open arms. It would be a great Trade—two birds with one stone. Ramson would return with the name of his betrayerandintroduce the witch to Kerlan in one fell swoop. Undoubtedly, Kerlan would reinstate him as Deputy of the Order and Portmaster of Goldwater.
He simply needed a suitable occasion for his appearance: one that caught this Pyetr Tetsyev by surprise. It wouldn’t do to simply waltz into the Kerlan Estate—
Waltz.Something clicked into his brain. “Igor, what day is it today?”
Igor blinked. “It’s the twentieth of the third moon. Of autumn,” he added unnecessarily.
In ten days, it would be winter.
Each year on the first day of winter, the entire Cyrilian Empire celebrated the First Snow with festivities. And in Novo Mynsk, there was no party more elaborate than the one thrown at the Kerlan Estate by Lord Alaric Kerlan himself. The upper crust of the town would be invited—those with power, money, and connections to the criminal world.
Now,thatwould be an entrance worth remembering. Let all his enemies know that Ramson Quicktongue was back in business, and that he would hunt down every last man who stood in his way.
Ramson’s smile returned, sharper than his blade. “Igor, I need two horses for the road.”
“Of course, of course.” Igor looked tremendously relieved. “I have two mares I can lend you.”
“Good.” Ramson was about to stand when he remembered something. “One more thing.” He slapped a piece of paper on the oakwood table. With a clunk, he set his empty tumbler on one corner of the scroll and ran his palm over the folds, revealing the sketch of the bald alchemist with the thin nose and wide gray eyes. “Does this man look familiar to you?”
Igor froze. “Is this a joke?”
“It would be a poor joke to make. Enlighten me.”
Igor jabbed a finger at the sketch, looking up at Ramson, his face twisted in disbelief. “That’s Pyetr Tetsyev.”
Ramson had to stare at Igor for a full five seconds to determine whether the bartender was lying. But the man’s expression mirrored Ramson’s disbelief.
Igor was many terrible things, but he was not a great liar. He was simply too much of a coward. Apply enough pressure at the right spot and he’d crack.
“Looks exactly like him,” Igor babbled, frowning at the sketch. “I’ll never forget the night he showed up at my door. Drenched in rain, he was, but he came straight to me. Odd sort of fellow. Said he worked at the Palace and showed me some papers. Asked me your name and where you were.” He paused, seeming to realize that he was incriminating himself again, and hurriedly changed the subject. “It’s a good sketch.”
Questions burst in Ramson’s head like stars, but he focused on a single thought: he and the flesh Affinite had the same enemy.
The enemy of my enemy is my friend.
The day was turning out to be an excellent one indeed. Everything he had planned for—his traitor, the alchemist, and his ultimate trade of the witch with Kerlan—culminated in Novo Mynsk. Two birds with one stone was a good deal, butthreebirds with one stone was the type of deal that set a genuine smile on Ramson Quicktongue’s face. “Igor, old friend. You’ve given me nothing but good news today.”
Igor’s relief was palpable as he exhaled, the lines of tension melting from his shoulders. “Thank the Deities, Quicktongue. I thought you were going to do me in for…for what my big mouth let on…”
“Consider your debts paid.” Ramson stood and stretched. “You’re lucky I’m feeling generous today.”
Igor gave a shaky chortle. He glanced at the door again. “A toast, then,” he said, standing and handing Ramson one of the two mugs he had brought up. “To paid debts and fair trades.”
“Such generosity today, Igor. Usually I’m hard-pressed to get evenonetankard of cheap ale from you.” Ramson raised his polished brass mug. “To honest words and honest men.” He brought his drink to his lips and inhaled the scent of the Cyrilian sunwine.
