RONAN
The Locksmiths’ Marrick safe house is more like a safe basement. The floor above is a tailor’s shop owned by a friend of a friend of Ronan’s teacher, with a kitchen in the back room and living space on the second floor. The tailor sells and fixes clothes, and keeps an altar to the Flame Twins in her kitchen. She doesn’t ask questions when Ronan or his allies spend a night or two sleeping in her basement.
A pile of crates hides the basement entrance in a narrow alleyway. Ronan props the unconscious squire against the crates as he picks the lock, then drags him inside.
He wonders if kidnapping was the right decision as he lays his hostage out on an unmade cot in the corner. Karis slumps bonelessly on the hard mattress, auburn hair spilling in waves. Unconsciousness softens away the barbs of attitude he brandished while awake. Ronan doesn’t really like the change. Apparently kidnapping is easier on the conscience when the kid is talking back.
“Don’t mind me.” Ronan brushes the hair away from Karis’s ear, his fingertips catching on warm, delicate skin. “Can’t have you magicking the lamps in here.” Karis stays still and silent as Ronan carefully unfastens the jewel from his earlobe. The gold and lapis earring finds a new home in Ronan’s pocket.
He keeps thinking about Karis as he secures the safe house—tidying up the alley, locking the door, lighting the lamps, and taking stock of the supplies. Ronan’s seven years of running the Locksmiths have given him a good sense of whether people will be useful. Few mages, contracted or uncontracted, could have detected the spell Ronan cast when he broke Dace’s truth spell. Combined with his much-lauded tracking magic, Karis is definitely useful.
Whether he’s willing to be used is another question entirely.
The basement slowly warms with the heat of two people. There are quilts in a chest at one corner, and half of the space is taken up with boxes of fabric and sewing supplies. Ronan stacks some of them in front of the outside door, clearing more of the floor and uncovering another chest. This one doesn’t belong to the tailor, and Ronan pulls out a length of rope and a bag of small objects. His taut nerves ease with a set of dice in his hand.
A low groan sounds from the other side of the room. Then silence.
Karis is bad at pretending to be asleep. Curled up on his side, he keeps his eyes shut, but there’s movement under the lids, and his breath is too shallow. His mouth hangs slightly open, drawing Ronan’s attention to the plump pink of his lips.
“You have a choice.” Ronan retracts his gaze. “You can stay quiet, or I can gag you.”
Karis’s eyes flash open, ending the pretense. His eyes are a startling gold in the lamplight, and Ronan reaches for his dice on instinct—but no magic flares around them. Of course. Karis doesn’t have his focus stone, and he didn’t recite any incantations. All he did was open his eyes.
The adrenaline’s making Ronan jumpy.
“I’ll stay quiet.” Karis sits up with a wince. He touches the back of his head. “So much for letting me go at the market. Where is this?”
“You slept for half a day,” Ronan lies. The kid doesn’t need to know how little distance they’ve had time to travel. “And plans change. Especially when people start exploding streetlamps.”
Karis wrinkles his nose. “What does that have to do with anything? Exploding streetlamps didn’t force you to kidnap me.”
Ronan shrugs and grabs the length of rope. He needs to go upstairs to talk to the tailor, and though the basement is warded, he’ll feel better limiting Karis’s movement. “Get up and turn around.”
“Say please,” Karis says, lifting his chin.
Ronan just stares silently until Karis grimaces and jumps to his feet. He turns around, hands dangling at his sides. Reluctant without resisting, he allows Ronan to pull his arms behind his back and loop the rope around his wrists. The posture arches his back and pulls his shoulder blades together, the shift of muscle and bone only a suggestion beneath the loose tunic. Ronan pulls his sleeves up, so the rope sits directly over narrow wrist bones without excess fabric ruining the fit, and his fingertips glide incidentally over smooth, warm skin.
“You weren’t planning on letting me go anyway, right?” Karis’s head is bowed, auburn curls falling away to bare the back of his neck. Ronan can’t see his expression, but the nervous tension in his voice is clear. “My tracking magic’s too good.”
Ronan’s only answer is to adjust the knots before letting go of his hostage’s wrists.
Karis laughs without humor. “Thanks for not just killing me immediately, I guess.”
Revulsion washes through Ronan. He isn’t sure whether it’s directed at Karis or himself. “Changed my mind. I’m gagging you too.”
***
Upstairs, he finds the tailor who owns the building. She isn’t surprised to see him, having heard the movement downstairs. Ronan says a few words about honoring the Flame Twins, and she says he can take any supplies he needs from the kitchen.
She doesn’t ask why he’s here today, or if it has anything to do with the commotion outside. She just mentions that there are guards and paladins still running around everywhere—such a pain that she closed her shop early. Ronan doesn’t offer any answers, just thanking her for the hospitality.
“Flames burn bright,” she says, and heads upstairs to the dwelling above the shop.
Ronan pulls a bench close to the kitchen fire and stokes the flames. Every time one of the Locksmiths visits this shop, the tailor’s life is at risk. She never complains, and the thought has never bothered Ronan before. The Locksmiths’ goal is to fix a great wrong, an injustice hundreds of years in the making. But he remembers what Karis said just moments ago downstairs:Thanks for not just killing me immediately.
Ronan isn’t sure when he got used to treating life so lightly. Not just killing adversaries, but putting allies in danger. It hasn’t bothered him in a long time. It shouldn’t be bothering him now.
Is unbinding the bound gods worth the risk to people like the tailor?
