CHAPTER6
Iwalked through the doors of the Taryz Teahouse in one piece.
The teahouses had come to Kair Toren almost three hundred years ago, when Dhonir, a small nation on the southern side of the continent, joined Rellas, becoming the Dhonir Duchy to escape the aggression of a nearby warmongering Crimson Empire. The teahouses were a staple of the city now, and drinking tea had become the dominant way to hydrate. Boiling water was the simplest way to disinfect it, and tea leaves made it taste better.
The Taryz Teahouse occupied a large, coveted plot in Golden Leaf, named so for the beautiful trees that grew along the river and turned bright yellow in the fall. The neighborhood straddled the line between the middle-class district of the Fens to the east and the affluent Anchor Drop estates to the west, just across Virka River. The farther north you went, the more dangerous the streets became, but here the cobblestones were clean, and robberies were rare.
The layout of the Taryz Teahouse echoed the Garden, although it was nowhere near that luxurious. It had the same arrangement of the extra tall main floor and the second-floor balcony running the length of the room, followed by two floors of smaller rooms: quiet, elegant, and very private. Many underhanded deals were hammered out in those rooms and people were occasionally murdered here. With the utmost discretion, of course.
The fourth floor consisted of a small room that opened to a large outdoor terrace. That’s where I went, up a very long staircase, following a polite server with a platter supporting a small teapot, a cup, and a little glass dish of honey.
Unlike most of the fandom, I’d never crushed on Solentine. I had spent way too much time in his head and his problem solving would give you nightmares. But I liked him, because I knew what had shaped him and understood why he did what he did. The Bastard of Dagarra knew he was messed up and twisted, and yet his priorities never wavered. It was always about family. He was ruthless and brutal, but to his relatives he was a beloved and loving son, nephew, and cousin.
I admired that loyalty. I grew up as an army brat. We moved so much during my childhood that nothing was permanent. Schools, other kids, sports teams, all of it came and went, “for now” rather than “for always.” I never got a chance to form lasting friendships, but my brother was always there for me. No matter what happened, he was a constant the way Solentine was a constant for his family.
I wanted Solentine to survive, despite all the awful shit he had done, but as much as I rooted for him, I had no illusions. Putting myself on the Shears’ radar was extremely risky. If Solentine wanted to get rid of me, he could simply snap his fingers, and it would be done. In a week I would have to interact with him again to get my payment. I needed some way to lessen the danger of that encounter. I needed a bodyguard. Someone that even he would have a difficult time killing.
At his core, Solentine was an assassin. An exceptional assassin, true, but he relied a great deal on the element of surprise. I needed a warrior. Someone who could stand up to an assassin. Rellas was a place that valued martial skills. Finding a great swordsman wouldn’t be that difficult but convincing them to work with me was a whole other story.
The stairs ended and I followed the server onto a roof terrace.
The Taryz Teahouse had never forgotten its roots, and the echo of its native Dhonir was everywhere—in the ornate stone rail of the terrace with protective symbols carved into the posts; in the metal windchimes shaped like strange animals tinkling gently in the wind; and in the long stretches of beautiful green fabric, draped at an angle over some tables to shield the patrons from the sun. The shading canvas stirred in the wind, as if the teahouse were a ship and these were its emerald sails.
Right now, with the afternoon sky threatening rain again, the terrace was mostly empty, and I saw him right away, a man sitting alone at the table closest to the western rail. He would be drinking Thieves Tea, a strong smoky brew, although he was not a thief.
He wore an old cloak, so faded you could no longer tell its original color. It hid most of his build, but his broad shoulders stretched the fabric, and he leaned in his chair with the kind of effortless, controlled grace particular to very strong men.
He sat under a green sail, half in the shadow and half in the light. The cloak’s thick hood was down, and the morning sun warmed his olive skin, while the wind blowing from the river stirred his dark brown hair. His face was striking. His features were powerful and chiseled, a hard jaw, a strong nose, high cheekbones, a firm mouth . . . He was looking away from me across the river, and I couldn’t see the color of his eyes, but they should’ve been gray. The trait ran in his family.
His sword rested on the table. A simple wooden sheath, a downcurved guard, a grip of reddish-brown leather, a blade that was about forty inches long, and most importantly, a small white pebble embedded in the round pommel. Location, outfit, features, sword—everything checked out.
Everything except his age. He’d become a professional soldier at seventeen and served in the King’s Army for twenty years, so he was at least thirty-seven. The exact line in the book said,A harsh life of battles and marches added years to his face. He looked like a man who was a decade older.
The man in front of me was in his very early thirties at most. He didn’t look old enough to have a fifteen-year-old son and he didn’t look worn down by life either. He looked tempered by it. Heated to the breaking point by danger, quenched by experience, and hardened like a blade to a sharp, unbreakable edge.
I had about two seconds to decide what to do.
He had the sword. Nobody else would be here, in this teahouse, looking across the river at that house, and carrying that sword. The owner of this weapon wasn’t just a soldier, he was a blademaster, knighted at the age of seventeen for exceptional bravery and skill. I didn’t know if he was the best swordsman in the kingdom, but he was in the top five. The people capable of separating him from his sword could be counted on the fingers of one hand and none of them would be sitting on this terrace.
Don’t screw this up, don’t screw this up . . .
I walked over to his table and sat down across from him. He looked at me. His eyes, more green than gray, took my measure from under dark eyebrows. No apprehension, no surprise. Only calm, calculating intelligence and invincible will.
He’s real.
He wasn’t a character. He felt more real than anything or anyone in Kair Toren so far. I was looking into the eyes of a living, breathing man, who was infinitely dangerous, and I couldn’t look away, because that connection, that reality, was magnetic. It was the kind of moment when, after being trapped in a confusing nightmare, you realize that you are dreaming, and you have the power to wake up.
The server placed my teapot and my cup in front of me and departed with a soft smile.
I poured a cup of tea. The waters of the Virka flowed past us, on their way to join the Dokkon, the city’s main river, a quarter of a mile to the southeast. Across the river the estates of Anchor Drop hugged the water, some with docks, others without, all wrapped in sturdy walls and sitting on about an acre or so each.
The estate directly across from us abandoned the walls completely. Instead, the entire house was a wall, a large square built with Kair Toren’s trademark swirly stone, three floors high and about sixty feet deep, with a courtyard in the center. A single stubby tower rose at the left corner of it. The first floor had no windows. The second and third floors had a few, but all of them were guarded by thick bars or shutters. No points of access. The only obvious door lay on the opposite side of the estate, facing the street.
The place was a fortress. It took safety to the next level, even by Kair Toren’s standards.
“If human suffering had color, that house would be churning with black and red,” I said.
The man across from me said nothing.
