CHAPTER 1
THERE ARE A NUMBER OF SMELLSone expects to encounter in a dungeon. Fresh rosemary generally isn’t one of them.
Slate grimaced and blotted her nose on her sleeve. It wasn’t that the herbal scent wasn’t a vast improvement—the ancient stone keep had been meant to hold prisoners in, not let odors out. The entire lower level stank of centuries of unwashed bodies, tallow candles, and despair.
The problem was that there was no earthly reason for the rosemary to be there. She knew already that there were no guards with a fondness for scented aftershaves, no potted herbs on the warder’s desk, and if she asked anyone else, they’d stare at her like she was crazy. The rosemary was all in her head.
Slate sighed.
It happened occasionally. Sometimes it meant “danger!” and sometimes it meant “here, look more closely, this is important!” As near as she could tell, the scent of rosemary flooded her nostrils when it was very important that she pay attention to…something.
Her grandmother had been a minor wonderworker. Slate figured the rosemary warning was probably inherited, and that she’d gotten the short end of the family stick.
Still, of all the magical odors one could be afflicted with, it could have been a lot worse. Goat. Skunk. Old cheese.
The rosemary hit her again, a direct blast, as if the crushed leaves were directly under her nostrils. Slate put a hand over her nose and wrinkled her eyes shut.
Fine, fine, you’ve got my attention…
“Sorry,” said the warder, “smells pretty rank down here. You get used to it. I hardly smell it myself.”
Slate nodded. It had been pretty thick before the rosemary choked her, although she’d smelled worse.
“Who’s left?” she asked, dropping her hand.
“Six in for assault, three murderers.”
“Lovely. All right, let’s see the ones up for assault.”
The warder opened a door and went inside. She heard shouting and muffled grumblings while he prodded the prisoners up to the bars. Slate tried to clear her head, got another whiff of rosemary, and pinched the bridge of her nose to steady herself.
Okay, okay, I know it’s important! I realize my life’s on the line here! Back off!
The phantom herb didn’t pay attention, but then, it never did. Slate turned in place, trying to get a better fix on it.
She was grateful that this sort of thing didn’t generally happen more than once or twice a year. It was always dreadfully annoying when it did, as if she were some kind of botanical bloodhound, following a scent that wasn’t really there.
It was hard to get a fix on any particular direction without wandering around with her nose in the air. She’d learned not to do that. People tended to look at you funny.
She sighed again. Maybe she’d be lucky, and it’d be one of themurderers. Then she could take him and get out of here, without any complications.
Beyond the current complications, which are already complicated enough, thank you.
“They’re ready, ma’am,” said the warder, leaning past the heavy wooden door.
Slate stepped over the threshold and into the hallway leading past the cells. Someone put his hands through the bars, then jerked them back when the warder made a move in his direction. Another prisoner laughed at him.
The men behind the bars were a sorry lot. The prison was progressive as such things went—they changed the straw regularly and gave everyone meals and fresh water—but there wasn’t much anyone could do about the lice or the smell or the despair.
Slate swept her eyes over the half-dozen men, frowning.
None of them were anything she’d want to take back to her partner. Most of them had the dull, sullen look of men who had fallen into violence for lack of any other option.
There was one near the end who had shoulders like an ox. He didn’t look very bright, but maybe he’d be good at hitting things.
At this point, that may be the best you can hope for. Who knew prison scum were so…unpromising?
The smart ones had talked or bought their way out, the truly dangerous ones had been hanged already—what was left were the dregs. She couldn’t see trusting any of these men, even on a suicide mission.
