Orthin brightens as they progress into the city. Lanterns on every street corner and beneath every eave highlight increasingly elaborate carvings. Most of the streetlights are plain yellow, but some homes and businesses light their walls with red or blue instead.
A group of children chase each other around a corner, and Bell stumbles back. Rakos grabs his arm instinctively, holding him up.
“Thanks.” Bell hugs Bastard to his chest.
“Watch your step,” Rakos says. “The ground’s uneven.”
“I will.” But Bell’s gaze remains on the smoke-smudged sky.
Bell’s been acting more and more comfortable the past few days. Reminds Rakos of Sarka, the way he just needs to be comforted and coaxed a little—but not coddled.
There hasn’t been a repeat of the stupid collapsing incident, which is all Rakos cares about. Because it would be inconvenient, not because he’s invested in this directionally challenged minstrel.
Rakos can’t be invested. Because this is the part where they say goodbye.
Does it have to be?
Some inexplicable part of Rakos wants to delay that separation a little longer. They could rent a room together for the night. He could make sure Bell gets on a caravan going the right direction tomorrow. He could even tag along for the first leg of the journey. Tack east to Nirava before breaking off north—
Except every concession paves the way for the next. And Bell will be safer without him. Rakos is sure of it.
“All right.” Rakos pulls Bell to a halt between two scorched, tottering buildings. “Do you have money?”
“I only have Silaisan coins, but silver is silver, right?” Bell answers. “Why, do you need money?”
Rakos’s heart twists. “Don’t be that accommodating to anyone else you meet in Draskora, all right?” When Bell just blinks at him, Rakos points down the street. “The travelers’ quarter is that way, riverside. You’ll find inns, food, and caravan masters in that area. There’s probably some sort of minstrel guild house, but I wouldn’t know where. Don’t join any caravans without at least two security mages, or you’ll get eaten by wyrms twenty miles out.”
“I won’t, but why—oh.” Bell’s eyes widen. “You’re leaving me here.”
Rakos pushes down the guilt. The temptation. “I said I’d get you to Orthin. Here’s Orthin.”
Bell’s lower lip whitens beneath his teeth. Rakos expects him to protest. To question. If Bell begs, Rakos won’t be able to refuse again.
Instead, Bell straightens his shoulders. “Thank you for your assistance, then. Safe travels.”
“Safe travels,” Rakos echoes. Claps Bell’s narrow shoulder one last time and turns away.
Orthin’s slums feel darker, more oppressive, the farther Rakos gets from Bell. Rakos tugs the broad-brimmed hat lower as he passes an open-air tavern. The off-duty drasgard don’t look drunk enough, and Rakos doesn’t want to risk recognition. More patrons spill out from the establishment’s gate.
One of them stumbles into Rakos. “Sorry, my very muscular friend—oh.”
The man meets Rakos’s eyes and freezes.
Rakos freezes too, taking in the sky-blue dye fading from the man’s pale blond hair, the glassy quality of his violet eyes. Ludvik—one of Wing-Captain Irenka Miraz’s retainers. Rakos doesn’t know Ludvik well, but he’s seen him around. Always on the sidelines of gatherings, always with a flask or powder at hand.
Clearly, Ludvik recognizes Rakos too. This could be bad.
Except Ludvik isn’t reaching for a weapon, and if Rakos isn’t mistaken, he’s taken something strong tonight. Maybe this is an opportunity instead of a disaster.
“My bad,” Rakos says cheerfully, and continues on his previous path.
He crosses the street, and from the corner of his eye sees Ludvik following. Rakos adjusts his hat and detours into a narrower alley. Maybe it’s a good thing he’s already parted from Bell. The sweet, innocent minstrel doesn’t need to get entangled in matters like this.
Footsteps follow Rakos down one alley, then the next. Rakos stops just around the next corner and waits.
As soon as Ludvik appears around the corner, Rakos seizes him by the throat.
“Fuck!” Ludvik yelps as Rakos slams him against the wall.
