Page 13

Never trust a quiet woman.

My sister taught me that. Rose, her daughter, continues to prove the point. Every time that girl comes over for a visit and it’s silent, I know she’s up to some mischief.

I crouch by the pile of wood. “You don’t happen to have fire magic, do you?”

Her voice comes out cold. “If I did, you’d be a writhing, whimpering pile of blisters by now.”

I grin despite myself.

This is the woman from the tavern who studied me like she was torn between unlocking my secrets or stabbing me. “Lucky for me you don’t, then.”

“Lucky for you.” She raises one perfectly arched eyebrow in a clear challenge that I can’t quite read.

I plant a knee on the ground and fish out my flint box.

“Guess I’ll just have to do it the hard way.” As I strike the flint, I wistfully recall my missions with Lark and the ease with which she could conjure flames.

The spark finally ignites into a tiny orange glow in the dried leaves and moss piled at the pyramid’s heart. I bend close, cup my hands around it, and blow gently.

I kneel in the perfect position for the woman to kick me, knock me over, and take off running.

She just sits here, watching. The idea of attacking me doesn’t appear to cross her mind.

She’s not a violent person, nor is she trained to be. Going by her ineffective fighting method back in the alley, I anticipated as much. In all likelihood, she didn’t kill my contact. That room was painted with a type of violence she doesn’t seem to possess.

That, of course, begs several questions. What was a small woman, without any training, doing in that meeting room in such a seedy part of town? Who sent her? For what purpose?

Flames lick up through the kindling, engulf the larger twigs, and start climbing toward the branches I stack on top. The familiar smoky scent wafts over my face.

Five minutes later, we have a real fire going. The light blooms outward, infusing our little clearing with a coziness perfect for a bit of pudding, if only I had a willing partner…

With flames illuminating our camp, I stretch toward the woman.

She subtly stiffens, though her features remain impassive. I only notice because I was paying attention. Knowing women can sense intent better than a pika, I remind myself she’s a captive and thus not willing at all. I may be a lot of things, but I would never become that kind of monster.

As suspected, she relaxes when I snag her satchel strap and lift it over her head. She ducks down to help me, not out of thoughtfulness but to escape my hands.

Maybe I’m not as good a kisser as I thought.

My only recourse is to practice more. However, it might be best to do that with a different partner, considering how she’d like to transform me into a pile of blisters.

I upend the satchel in my lap. Papers spill out, and I spread them on the ground so the fire can expose the writing.

She scoots over for a better view.

As if she doesn’t know what she picked up.

Stranger and stranger.

I flip through the pages.

Shipping manifests from three different ports on three different dates with goods listed in cramped handwriting. Grain. Textiles. A generic line called “medical supplies” that’s probably code for drugs or worse.

The next page is gibberish. Likely coded messages. Strings of numbers and letters that mean nothing without the means to decipher them. The kind of thing spies and smugglers pass back and forth.

Next are scraps of parchment with partial sentences. Notes. References to names I don’t recognize and places I’ve never heard of. “What do you know about these?”

“Nothing.”