Gabriel has been a prisoner in her dungeon for three years. Nothing I’ve done has freed him. No barter. No threat. No trick.
It’s been months since she’s let me see him. For all I know, he may be dead.
The thought should stir some kind of emotion, but it’s hard to feel anything when you can only feel nothing. If emotion is a well, mine is dry.
“You’ll want to hear this one,” Faos says.
I keep my eyes on my cards. “Oh?”
“She’s willing to make a deal.”
Now he has my attention.
“Go on.”
“If you agree to the job and succeed, she’ll release your brother.”
The entire tavern is entertained by this exchange and I’m aware that what I say next will be gossiped about for weeks to come. There isn’t much to distract the Enders other than drama in this cold, unforgiving land.
“What kind of job?”
“None of their concern,” he answers and sniffs at the tavern customers.
A secret mission then? Secrets are like desert scorpions—they’re only good if you’re the one who holds them.
But I may never have another chance to free Gabriel.
“Very well,” I say and throw down my hand.
I have three aces and the royal crook—the king of emeralds. A winning hand.
“Sorry, gentlemen,” I say to the other players and scoop up the golden piats. “Try your luck next time.”
“Hey!” The man to my left shoves his chair back and it teeters on its legs. “That’s impossible! You’ve cheated!”
“Have I?” The coins chime as I toss them in my pocket. “Say that again.”
The man’s name is Grainy or maybe Grosson. I forget. He’s neck deep in debt to just about everyone this side of the Crossroads. And desperate men are oftentimes more dangerous than dangerous men.
But not tonight.
Not with me.
“You’re a liar and a cheat!”
I have my axe in hand before Grosson finishes his sentence.
I have it swinging before he can blink.
I have his head lobbed off before he can gasp out a breath of surprise.
His head hits the dirty hardwood floor with a loud, wetthump. It rolls under the table and the rest of the players leap back to avoid getting blood on their boots.
The rest of his body slumps over in the chair and I use his shirt to clean my blade, then slide it back into its holster strapped to my back.
“Apologies, Mr. Hanson,” I call to the tavern’s owner. He’s standing behind the bar, a glass in hand, the polishing rag hanging limply from the other. “For the trouble.” I flip him a gold piat. He drops the rag, fumbles with the glass. The glass hits the bar top and shatters.
He manages to catch the coin though.
