“Hello.” Rakos smiles. “No need to yell. I just want a friendly chat.”
Ludvik struggles weakly, then slumps against the wall. “This is friendly?”
“This is friendly.” Rakos pats Ludvik on the shoulder with his free hand. “Trust me. Let’s keep it that way, all right?”
Ludvik whimpers. “Fuck, I hate dragonriders.”
“Nice to see you too.” Rakos loosens his grip on Ludvik’s bobbing throat. He does need the man to actually answer questions. “What are you doing in Orthin?”
“Having a very nice night, until now.”
Rakos tightens his grip again until Ludvik coughs. “You’re nowhere near Parsk or Ostomar. There’s nothing of interest to Irenka here, except…”
Interrogation is hardly Rakos’s strong suit. He isn’t trained for it; his specialty is raining fire and darkness from above. He doesn’t do personal work.
But Ludvik’s so blazed out on whatever drug or elixir he’s taken, Rakos doesn’t need any expertise to crack him wide open.
“Except you, fine, yes, Irenka sent me south to find you.” Ludvik wheezes. “I didn’t expect tofindyou, though, because why the fuck would you be Orthin?”
The alley’s still empty. Rakos tries keeping his expression empty as well. Ludvik doesn’t need to know how little Rakos knows about what’s going on. “Why does Irenka want to find me?”
“Fuck, can you let go of me? We’re on your side!” Ludvik exhales. “Irenka’s certain you didn’t really desert.”
Fuck.
Numbness spreads through Rakos’s chest. Releasing Ludvik, he steps back. The man bends over, coughing.
“Who’s saying I deserted?” Rakos asks.
“Everyone.” Ludvik straightens, rubbing his throat. “You vanished overnight, with a barrel of scalestone scrap missing too. What else is that supposed to look like?”
Fuck.
At least the price for desertion is a clean execution. A blade through his neck—quick and easy. Scalestone smuggling? Rakos’s fate depends on the king’s temper. He’ll be lucky to die by lightning strike. Lucky if he only takes a few hours to die.
Prince Vana is crueler than Rakos thought, framing him for scalestone smuggling.
“I didn’t desert,” Rakos says. “I didn’t steal any scalestone.”
Ludvik leans against the wall, some of the glassiness fading from his eyes. “Sure. That’s what Irenka says, anyway, and she’s my boss, so that’s what I believe too.” He rubs his nose. “Look. Come with me back to Parsk. I’ll get a bonus, and she’ll help you figure out what the fuck’s going on.”
Tempting. But Rakos can’t trust anyone who recognizes him.
“Not a chance.” Rakos pastes on a grin that makes Ludvik flinch. “I’m heading south to the coast, and you certainly aren’t going to stop me. Now, do you want to bid farewell the easy way, or the hard way?”
Ludvik groans. “Just tell me the easy way.”
Rakos reaches out an open palm. “Hand over your coin purse.”
***
Half an hour later, Rakos emerges from an apothecary salon missing his straw hat and five gold from Ludvik’s purse. One gold for the dye, four gold for the apothecary’s silence. Rakos tries not to fiddle with his freshly dyed hair, still damp from the final rinse. Gone is the teal he’s been using for ten years. His hair is now a dark, chocolate brown.
Rakos didn’t expect to hate it this much. He didn’t expect to feel so lonely.
Draskoran dragonriders have dyed their hair for hundreds of years, since their ancestors first discovered they could communicate and bond with the fire-breathing monsters. Originally it was a way for dragons to identify their riders from a distance. Over time, the practice spread to other segments of society, drifting in and out of fashion among the nobility. But it hasn’t changed in the dragon corps.
Rakos’s hair is supposed to match Sarka’s scales. A sign of their bond, their connection. Changing the color now was necessary because Rakos stood out too much before. But it feels like a betrayal.
