His young age means nothing, I remind myself. I’ve seen people far younger than him kill for far less motivation than what he currently holds. His age doesn’t make him less dangerous. If anything it makes him more so. Because to have risen to this position so young shows ruthlessness. And no doubt, with his youth, he still feels he has something to prove.
‘Name’s Bryony,’ I lie. ‘As you can see, my friend is injured. And he needs a healer.’
‘Yes.’ Lofty leans forward. ‘He does.’ He looks me up and down with a salacious leer. ‘And what exactly would a beautiful woman like you do to heal a man like him?’
I glare. I managed not to prostitute myself the entire time I lived in the Wrohelm slums, and I don’t intend to start in the Galreckian ones.
I draw my dagger. ‘I’d slit your throat, and steal your coin and position, and use it to find and pay a healer.’
He stares at me for a beat, then throws his head back to laugh. ‘I like you, Bryony,’ he says, still chuckling. ‘I like a woman with fight in her.’ He admires me again. ‘You surely have that.’ A beat later, the smile is gone. ‘You have coin. Why don’t you head into the city?’
Because Prince Kyor would be recognised; his whereabouts, his injuries and – most importantly – his choice of companion would instantly be reported back to his prick of a father.
‘Discretion is needed,’ I say nonchalantly.
He nods. ‘Discretion I can do, but it comes at a premium.’
‘I expect nothing less.’
He names a price that makes my jaw drop.
‘Oh fuck that,’ I snap. ‘I don’t care that much for the idiot.’
Elska lets out a low growl, which I try to ignore. I wish I could tell her I amnegotiating.Only an idiot expects the first price to be the true one. Paying it without arguing would put a target on our backs, so I argue, even as every word from my mouth feels like an unconscionable delay.
We both ignore the wolf and haggle for a few minutes, but my heart isn’t in it. I want a healer for Kyornow.But revealing that could seriously screw this up, so I do my best to play my part.
We settle on a price that is just the right side of outrageous, but I force him to throw in some plants I need, some food, a flop for us to stay in overnight and, finally, a lookout to keep an eye out for when our friends reach the edges of the slums.
He agrees to all of my extras and shows me to a hovel not too far from him. It’s cold, has no window, and what feels like rocks for a bed, but it’ll do.
‘Healer’ll be here in half an hour,’ he tells me.
‘If they’re not, I’m sending her after you,’ I say with a nod to Elska. ‘And she doesn’t take kindly to excuses.’
Lofty purses his lips but sees sense. Rather thanresponding, he retreats to leave Elska and me alone with Kyor. The wolf lowers herself to the ground with relief, with her rider still splayed over her back.
‘Should I lift him off you?’ I ask, like she’s going to answer. But in the end, I don’t move him. At least on her, he’s being kept warm.
I don’t have the tonics I brought from my mother’s supplies, but I do have the small stove in the one satchel I brought, so as much to keep myself busy and awake as anything else, I set some water to boil on the travel stove.
Thankfully, it’s not long before Gret returns with the list of herbs and plants I requested, not to mention some stale rolls and a single log of wood.
I put the log in the metal bin that acts as a makeshift fireplace, although I don’t light it straight away. While Kyor’s on Elska, he’s warm. We’ll save it for later, when we truly need it.
After forcing down a bite of the rock-hard roll, I claw through the supplies, select the paparvy seeds, and brew the strongest pain-relief potion I know while we wait for the healer.
Half an hour rolls by, at which point Elska lets out a low, rumbling growl.
‘I know what I said,’ I reply as if we’re having an actual conversation. ‘But things can take longer here. We’ll give him a few more minutes.’
As calm as I’m pretending to be, when the thirty minutes shift to forty-five, and then to an hour, I’m about to go and drag Lofty out by his pubescent nose. But before I can, a polite knock sounds on the door.
‘Yes. Come in,’ I say, my voice breathy from the combination of fear and relief.
The door creaks open and an older man with a large bag slung over his shoulder hobbles in. He’s dressed in a rich green robe that’s all Galreck, though the patches on the elbows and seams are all slums.
‘I’m the healer,’ he says unnecessarily. He sniffs the air. ‘Robbard’s tincture?’ he asks, impressed.
