“What are you doing here?” Griff asked bluntly, clearly unsettled by this breach in their unspoken agreement to stay the hell away from each other. “Is something wrong with Wynnie? Or Vic?” A brief pause followed in which he looked stricken, and then, “Is it … Alys?”
Mal glanced quickly toward the smoke curling from the nearest chimney just over Griff’s shoulder, which was easier than looking at Griff himself, and shook his head. “Everyone’s fine.”
“Dove saw Alys in the jeweler’s recently. The expensive one who makes the rings,” the foreman offered curiously. “Any idea what that might have been about?”
Mal shrugged. “No more than I know why she’s started hanging out with you again. But I doubt any man could win her overwith a bit of jewelry or a stupid title. The last guy certainly couldn’t, and they had three kids. That stuff is all just someone’s moneymaking scheme, anyway, and calling each other special names is for the chronically insecure.”
Griff hooked his fingers into the back of his waistband, glancing sideways at Mal like he feared one small misstep might provoke his temper, and simply nodded. Maybe he had lost his appetite for bloodshed since the attack.
Mal, meanwhile, tried not to stare too hard at Griff’s still-bare chest, sweat glistening where it had dried on his cooling skin. Tried not to let his gaze wander lower, to the waistband of Griff’s pants, unwilling to look upon evidence of the stabbing he had plotted even though he probably deserved to have to see it.
“Anyway,” he continued, his voice heavy with the effort of what he knew he had to say next. He might as well get this over with before things could sour like they always did. Still, the words had to be dragged out of his throat from some unfathomable depth. “I’m actually here on business.”
Maybe he should have chosen his words more carefully, given the way Griff blanched like he’d just chugged a bottle of the moonshine one of the barkeeps at the Maiden’s Arms sold under the table to regulars. He was so delicate, so easy to rile. He must have folded immediately when they stabbed him. A perfect, pretty victim.
Mal’s stomach churned. He almost regretted hitting the flask.
“Business?” Griff’s shoulders were rigid with tension. Thanks to the foreman’s lack of a shirt, it took little effort to notice, and Mal definitely wasn’t trying to study the lines of muscle there for any other reason. “You’ve got funny ideas of what exactly business is, Mal. I’m pretty sure your version includes scams and intimidation and outright extortion.”
Mal didn’t bother correcting him. Griff was mostly right, to be fair. But it still stung, the way he always thought he was sosmart, thought he could read Mal like one of his books, one where he had every chapter memorized. Arrogant bastard.
When Griff tilted his head a little at the lack of a scathing rebuttal, Mal huffed a breath and began like he had practiced in his head on the way here: “I have a lead on an exciting new prospect, a chance to strike it rich and get some answers about the past. And I’d like for you to come along … with Alys and me. To Rotrose Mire. As our official healer.”
“You want to go to the Mire? On purpose?” Griff paced a few steps around the chopping block. “Of course you do. Even knowing the stories. Even after Rhun …”
Rotrose Mire lay to the east past the Wyrmwood, across the Plains of Plenty—so named because they were seemingly endless fields of tall grass, some ancient explorer’s idea of humor—out where the friendliest faces they could hope to encounter were businessmen like Mal, roaming bandits, or even wargs, huge hairy dog-beasts of the Shadow Queen’s with jaws like a steel trap. And then there was the Mire itself, full of orcs and trolls who worshiped the dark queen like some kind of deity, most destined to join the ranks of the undead under her command; carnivorous plants; poisonous berries that looked temptingly like common fruits; and sinister beings like revenants, walking corpses with souls inside created by the Shadow Queen to bolster her army. Her control over the dead was precisely what made some believe she had once been a human necromancer rather than, as others argued, an elf gone mad.
“That’s far from here. A long journey, especially on foot. And dangerous as hell, besides,” Griff pointed out after pacing a few more rounds.
“Which is why we’ll need a healer,” Mal said again, trying for patience. “In case the roads aren’t as friendly as in a fairy tale.”
“I’m hardly that,” Griff protested, though Mal had it on good authority from Alys that he had learned something of the art from the elves.
Mal circled partway around the spot where Griff was pacing, leaning against one of the beams already secured to the bakery’s foundation, the partial roof throwing him into shadow as the sun sank lower. “Then stay here,” he said, voice and eyes flat as the road that led toward home; he could generally count on Griff to do the opposite of what he asked for, anyway. “Work your straight jobs and play hero like your dear old dad.” His withering tone made it sound like such a bad thing, which was mostly habit at this point. He always made the things Griff did or wanted sound so small and stupid. It was the only defense he had when Griff acted so far above him, like he was a precious elf from Stormveil and Mal was some shambling corpse of the dark queen’s, trying to bludgeon him to death. “Parade around town with your boring little boyfriends, and keep on telling yourself you’re so much better than the rest of us. Alys and I will get rich and not have to share the extra coin with you.”
Turning more fully toward Mal, Griff sank onto the chopping block, casting aside the maul to make space and then resting his chin in his hand. For a moment, it looked as though some true pain had crossed his face—was the wound still bothering him? That didn’t seem normal. Too much time had passed.
“Alys put you up to this,” he accused, distracting Mal from his concern. “This is all starting to make sense—she made you ask me along because she still thinks we can all be friends. You don’t actually want me there.”
Mal’s gray eyes narrowed, his mouth becoming a thinner line. He hated that Griff really could read him still, after all this time. “So? Like I said, you don’t have to come. It’s just a job.”
“Like cozying up to helpless old widows to get your name on the deed to their land is just a job? Like that scam you ran on the farmers outside Barcombe where you were a ‘wolf hunter’ was just a job?” Disdain dripped from Griff’s voice. “What the hell is in the Mire that’s worth risking life and limb for, anyway?”
Mal shrugged, trying to let Griff’s sneering judgment bounce off his weathered cloak like rain. “Look, a job is just a job as far as I’m concerned—not good or bad, just work. Some jobs just happen to make more money than others, which is where I go, because I’m in it for me,” he said coolly. “It’s a hungry world out there, in case you haven’t noticed, and all I’m trying to do is not end up on anyone else’s plate.”
Griff shook his head like he had heard this all before, which was probably true.
“I found myself in possession of a map recently,” Mal continued while he still had Griff’s attention. Normally, he had no problem walking away from Griff’s unwelcome scrutiny, but he couldn’t do that this time. Not when thoughts of Kage making a second attempt on Griff’s life while Mal waded around in some swamp kept flashing vividly to mind.
“The writing on it is Rhun’s, Alys thinks,” he clarified, having saved this reveal in case Griff really needed convincing. “It looks like it leads to the stockpile of riches the Wardens were searching for when they went out there and came home without him. Ancient gold and weapons and armor from one of the first elven empires, all tucked into the barrows of their kings.”
He paused there to let the words sink in, and sure enough, Griff’s green eyes swiftly widened. He didn’t need to spell out the significance—that the treasure, or the hunt for it, might tell them the truth about what had befallen Rhun in the end. He crossed his arms. “Anyway, I don’t see the need to elaborate unless you’ve decided to come.”
Mal was certain, by the time he finished, that he could see a spark of interest in Griff’s eyes. It wasn’t a yes, not yet, but it was at least a step toward taking him far away from the agents who would want to finish the job and might not care about Mal’s treasure hunt.
“Say I was. Planning to come, I mean. For Rhun and Alys.” Griff leaned forward on his elbows. “Could we actually traveltogether for several weeks and not come to blows? You think it would change things between us? You really think we can be anything but each other’s demons?”
He shivered a little, no doubt becoming more aware of the chill working its way over the city, a rapid cooling now that the day was done.
