He blinked, as if just now realizing that he held her, and quickly released her. “Sorry,” he muttered sheepishly, rubbing the same hand over the back of his neck.
Mariah smiled, her rage from before cooling after the goddess’s outburst.
“Okay,” she said slowly, taking a tentative step forward. “You don’t remember.” Rulene lifted her chin, tired eyes holding a glimmer of fierceness.
Mariah met her with resolve of her own. “Tell me what youdoknow.”
Chapter 17
Dusk crept over the horizon as Quentin wandered deeper into the darker side of Desva.
The change was gradual. Fewer guards were stationed on corners. Coin clinked in the shadowed alleyways and alcoves in exchange for petty vices. People in stooped doorways watched Quentin pass with shifting eyes and twitching fingers.
Quentin couldn’t help the grin that cracked beneath his hood. Let them try. He’d fought off far worse when he was just a child, fending for himself in the streets of Verith.
The farther he walked, the sparser those guards became. When the sun set beneath the horizon, they disappeared altogether and the sordid streets came to life.
Prostitutes slinked out of their brothels, sheer paneled robes billowing in the evening breeze. Men fought on street-corners, spitting blood onto the dirty sandstone. Street urchins slunk between the crowds, sly hands slipping into pockets.
Something rustled at Quentin’s side. He moved on instinct, snatching the thin wrist of a young would-be thief. The boy’s dark eyes widened in shock, struggling against Quentin’s hold.
Before Quentin could give him the lecture sitting on the tip of his tongue—don’t steal unless you’re beyond sure you won’t be caught—there was a flash of blue light and the boy was gone. A small songbird took his place, wings fluttering up into the safety of the darkening sky.
Quentin dropped his now-empty hand with a scowl.Shifters. A useful skill, but gods-damn was it frustrating.
“I’ve told you. The High Counsellor doesn’t want to hear our petitions. The leeches will be here in days. If we’re going to act, we must do it now.”
Quentin kept his pace steady and unassuming as the man pushed past him, words growled in a heavy Kreah accent. His hooded cloak did nothing to hide his broad, towering frame. A second, much shorter man scrambled after him, nearly tripping over his feet. They dived into a seedy-looking tavern, the doors banging closed behind them.
Nowthatwas interesting. And exactly what Quentin had been after when he’d left theserekahthat day. He quickened his steps, following the two men into the bar.
The establishment was dark and reeked of sweat and stale ale. Prostitutes milled about, perched on the laps of men wearing scars and steel. There were a few games of darts going at the back, and more than a few gambling matches, cards and coin tinkling. Beneath the initial foul stench was something cloying and sweet. Something that made the eyes of the women—and a handful of the men—glassy and vacant.
A lowlife baranda drug den. A spy’s haven.
The two companions from the street were at the bar, the larger one leaning across the stained wood as he whispered to the barkeep. Quentin kept his hood tugged low—he wasn’t the only one—and snaked through the crowd. He found an empty stool a few feet from the companions and slid a silver coin across the sticky surface.
The barkeep cast him a quick glance even as the tall companion continued to whisper animatedly, eyes flicking down to the coin. He held a hand to the companion and leaned toward Quentin, swiping the coin off the bar.
“What’d you want?” he asked gruffly.
Charming.
“Just an ale.”
The barkeep narrowed his eyes, scrutinizing Quentin as if he could see beneath his hood.
As if he could see the freckled skin and bright red hair that would mark Quentin as very muchnotKreah.
“No ale,” the barkeep finally said. “Fire whiskey is all I got.”
Quentin’s stomach recoiled, but he kept his composure. “Fire whiskey it is, then.”
He remembered the last time he’d had fire whiskey. He’d just turned twenty-two and had dragged the other Marked down into the market district on an off day to celebrate. The owner of the tavern they’d stumbled their way into had lit up—stupid young men bearing palace steel and pouches of freshly-minted coin were the best clientele—and pulled out a bottle of fire whiskey from the back. He’d claimed it came straight from a Kreah merchant, a rare import considering Onita’s closed borders.
Quentin recalled all of that quite easily. He even remembered his first downed shot of the spicy, cinnamon-flavored liquor.
The next thing he knew, he was waking up curled around himself on the floor of the barracks bathroom, clutching the toilet as if it might save him from death.
