She shrugged. “Close enough.”
“You’re so far off you could be in Kehr.”
“Then go ahead. Say it again.”
Toran scowled but obliged her. “Why did you bring me to a brawlhouse?”
“See?” She flung a hand out, twirling it in front of his twisting mouth. “You did it again. What’s so wrong with a brawlhouse that you have to say it like you’re constipated?”
“I’m not saying it like I’m—” He cut off, his eyes snapping to the other patrons around them, as if only just realizing they weren’t alone. “Constipated,” he finished in a whisper.
She laughed. “Oh, Captain, you are not cut out for the Ditch.”
His gaze lingered on three men nearby, all larger and taller than Toran and sporting more blood and bruises than a corpse. “Is anyone?” he muttered under his breath.
“No,” she said firmly. “That’s why it’s called the Ditch. No one intends to fall in.”
“Except for you.”
She didn’t deny it. “Except for me.”
Toran didn’t seem to have a response for that. Which was just as well. She hadn’t come here to argue city injustices.
“It’s a busy night,” she said, eyes locking on Minot across the room. She watched as Minot scratched at his ear.
“Why does that matter?” Toran asked.
“It’s the whole reason we’re here.”
Toran crossed his arms over his chest. “And why are we here?”
“For information,” she said, looking away from Minot.
“Information? On the symbols? This doesn’t exactly look like a library.”
“And you don’t exactly look like a scholar.”
Toran huffed. “When you said you knew someone who might be able to decipher the symbols, I assumed you meant an academic of sorts. Someone with a knowledge of history.”
She pursed her lips. “Oh, he’s got knowledge. Probably more than anyone rightly should.”
Toran frowned at her.
But she ignored his unspoken question and turned to a boy on her right. He was a small thing, no more than eleven, but had a big voice. He called for and shouted out bets and sometimes taunted those who refused him until they begrudgingly pulled out a few gadots.
She waited for the boy to take a breath before holding up a fistful of gadots and telling him, “Ten on baldie to win.” She jutted her chin in the direction of the pit at the top of the circle, where a man with biceps as wide as his head roared to the gathering crowd.
Behind her, Toran’s eyes were hard and pained as he stared across the crowd. She followed his gaze to the bar. She knew that look. She’d seen it many times on magic users trying to quit. Addiction was a monster that so often came back for seconds.
She slid her elbow into the crook of his arm, and he jolted at the touch. He glanced down at her, confusion replacing the ache she’d seen in his eyes.
“Stay close,” she said.
He nodded, but she didn’t let go—didn’t shy away when his sleeve rose and the hair on his arm tickled the sensitive underside of her own.
“Name for the bet?” the boy asked her.
“Phineas.”
