Page 5
The scent of iron permeates the air, and as I examine the evidence of foul play, bile scorches the back of my throat. My heart plummets. With the amount of blood coating this chamber, I sincerely doubt the victim remains among the living.
With trembling hands, I drop to my knees and dig through the mess, scanning the papers as quickly as possible and hunting for any clue, any sign of where the Everhand came from or where it might be now.
One page lists the shipping manifests from three different ports in The Havens, Tír Ríoga, and Kamor. Another shares the gambling odds for an upcoming tournament in cramped writing, hosted by the Queen of The Havens. Others include a bill for a new lamp, a flyer advertising an upcoming lecture, and a doodle of what might be a dog of questionable heritage.
Frustration wells in my chest. Useless. All of it. Unless they’re coded messages I can’t decipher. Either way, Veradin will know more. My mentor always does.
The mission was supposed to be simple. Buy the Everhand from the thief and leave. Nothing complicated. No cleverness or charm required…or any other skills I don’t possess.
A sketch of a grinning face stares at me from one of the papers—a large circle with two dots for eyes and a curved slash of a smile—and I freeze.
My stomach drops.
I recognize that symbol.
The illustration is the infamous Rook’s calling card, left behind after every impossible theft and audacious heist for someone to find in place of their most prized possession.
Beneath the sketch are two words in neat script.
Too slow.
Ice slithers into my veins and locks me to the floor. Rook’s potential involvement spells trouble.
An agent of chaos, Rook doesn’t steal for money or power but for the sheer delight of it. To witness important people sputter, rage, and look ridiculous. Rook is the kind of person who’d set off a Nob-Bomber in the middle of a royal funeral procession to relish in how the nobles scatter.
Only the rich and mighty, people always say, like that’s somehow better. As if there’s honor in demeaning those tasked with overseeing and guiding the kingdom’s citizens. To my knowledge, Rook’s not a killer. So what makes this theft different? Why did this person have to die, and where did Rook move the body?
I suppose the fact that someone stole the Everhand from my father is enough reason to capture Rook’s attention. But that doesn’t explain how they knew it was here. Or why they’d even go after an ancient Warden artifact in the first place.
The Wardens aren’t necessarily political. We’ve never done anything that could draw Rook’s notice. We heal the land and its people, and the Everhand has no use to anyone except us.
What game is Rook playing?
My mind races, trying to fit the pieces together, to understand the logic, but there isn’t any. Or I’m simply missing the obvious. Too slow, like the note says. I bow my head, defeat pounding through my veins. I shouldn’t be here. Veradin should have sent someone else.
Footsteps on the stairs snap my head up. My palms start sweating. Is that the killer returning, or some stranger about to discover me kneeling amid all this blood?
The footsteps reach the hallway, pause for two heartbeats, then continue toward the room.
My back tightens as the door swings wide.
The stranger from the tavern stands in the threshold.
His broad shoulders span the frame, his coppery hair now free and hanging to his shoulders. His knowing eyes scan the ransacked space before settling on me clutching my satchel and an armful of papers like I’m sheltering stolen goods.
He smiles that same cocky half-smile from the tavern that unleashes a strange yearning inside me. “Hello, princess.”
Chapter Four
Agnar
My first solid lead on what’s amiss in Meridia was accompanied by my informant’s blood splattered across the walls and floor. Not an auspicious start. The stench of ink and copper rather than piss and viscera suggests a quick death.
I scrub a hand across my face, a sour taste at the back of my throat.
Well, fuck.
From across the room, the crimson pools possess enough of a wet sheen to tell me that only the outer borders are tacky. Thin lines of darker red, almost brown, form at the bottom edge where it’s colder and drier. An hour old, maybe two.
