Unfortunately, Freya couldn’t afford to wait. All time left to spare had been used up during her healing period. A distracted Astrid had left everything to Varin. Freya liked the steward, and generally trusted his competence, but he was busy—things slipped past him, as she’d discovered when she first arrived in Torden. He could not put the kind of focus on the assassin that Freya could. And surely Sydlig’s council would send investigators to resolve the king’s death. That was, if they didn’t send an army and blame Torden instead.
Freya drummed her fingers on the table. Ever since the temple, she’d felt an unusual clarity. Suspects filtered through her mind. Many of the visitors were suspicious, but most wouldn’t be motivated to kill a king.
The door to the Rosebriar Inn opened, and an orc and a human entered.
Freya shivered against the sudden gust of cold. She made note of the newcomers’ garb—cloaks like everyone wore in autumn, no weapons at their hips—and let her eyes fall back to her drink, wary of appearing too interested.
The two approached the hearth. Freya waited for them to settle.
“Freya?” one of them said.
Freya’s eyes snapped up. She squinted at the newcomers in the low light of the room. Her knuckles tightened around her ale—she recognized them. Two of the ambassador’s servants. Hjotra, the orc, and Ingirun, the human.
She tried to compose herself, gave a little wave. What were Guthmar’s servants doing here? Was Varin doing a thorough investigation? If it had been up to Freya, she would have locked down the castle and refused to let anyone leave until she had alibis from every last one of them, and at least two stories to corroborate each.Anda dead assassin in her hands.
Guthmar’s attendants took the seats across from Freya. They smelled of fresh laundry and looked bright, well-rested. Freya felt a prick of envy. She might smell like eucalyptus, and maybe a bit like horse, but she doubted she exuded restfulness.
Once, Freya had winked at Hjotra at the staff table in the dining hall. Guthmar’s attendants called her handsome, she remembered. She did not feel handsome now.
“Whatever are you doing here?” Ingirun asked gently. She held up two fingers to the barmaid when the barmaid passed and received a grunt in exchange. “Have you sworn yourself to the goddess since we last saw you?”
Freya tugged at the novice robes. “Something like that.”
“We heard you were hurt,” said Hjotra.
“Yes,” said Freya curtly. “Perhaps not a conversation to have around others.”
The two exchanged a half-frightened look. Freya tried to cool her agitation. They’d found her, pallid and half-healed, wearing priestess’s robes at an inn in the early hours of the morning. Excuses would be lacking in logic. A change in subject was better.
“What are you two doing here?” Freya asked quietly. “I thought you would be with the ambassador.”
“We’ve been dismissed,” said Ingirun.
“He never really wanted us there,” confided Hjotra. “I’m sure he was dying to get rid of us.”
The ale tasted sour on Freya’s tongue. “I suppose he didn’t know what to do with you.”
“No, I don’t suppose so,” Ingirun said. “His spouses, on the other hand…”
Hjotra rolled her eyes. “Anyway, we’ve been sent away to find other employment, but traveling all the way to Sydlig is a lot of work. We thought we would stick around and see if there were any opportunities here.”
“What brings you to Rosebriar in particular?” Freya asked.
The barmaid set ale before the two attendants. They thanked her, clinked their tankards against each other, and took generous gulps.
“That’s good ale,” said Ingirun.
“Better than back home. Just another reason to stay in Torden,” said Hjotra.
“What brings you to Rosebriar?” Freya repeated.
Ingirun blinked at her, expression blank. “Oh. Uh. We heard there was good business here.”
“From whom?”
“Sorry?”
“Where did you hear that?” Freya said.
