stammering or ducking at every loud noise. Unfortunately, the impulse to tug at his forelock at odd intervals continued to be disconcerting.
“What of Pryor?” Gray sipped at his ale, a rancid brew that reminded him all too much of the sickly viscosity of the Fey draught.
“He’s closeted with the duke mostly. But they say he’s starting to fret. Looking less dapper than his usual self as if he’s worried over happenings. Rumors are flying, and it seems like a power struggle is inevitable. Some say The Skaarsgard plans to ride south from his islands as soon as the duke breathes his last. Others are saying Glynjohns is hungry for the Duke of Morieux’s power and he’s got ties to the dukedom through his wife.” Doule’s throat worked nervously, and he hunched closer, his voice dropping an octave until Gray could barely hear him over the din of the tavern’s rowdier customers. “Last week, the Ossinetrapped three of us in a house in Ashburton. Me and another man got away, but they murdered the families, babes and all, before they strung up the third fellow with a stake through his chest.” He used the cloth in his hand to wipe the sweat beading across his brow. “I’d not go to Deepings if I were you. It’s too dangerous. The enforcers would snatch you up faster than a fly on a cake. They’ll stake you. Stake you and leave you to die in the dirt. I’ve told my brother to get out but he won’t. Says he’s got to stay, but it’s a risk.”
Gray fought back the spasm of fear that rippled up his spine. Ran a finger around the rim of his glass with the same nonchalance he might bring to a night at Almack’s or an evening at White’s among friends. None would ever see him cringe or flinch or look less than completely confident. None would see him beg—ever again. A vow he’d made in the early days of his exile, when the flesh on his back blistered and broke and blistered again and breathing was an agony to be endured.
“I appreciate the warning, Doule.” He tossed his coins on the counter and rose from his stool. “If you hear anything more, send word through the usual channels.”
“Aye. As you say.”
He’d taken only a few steps before inspiration turned him around. “What have you heard of the new N’thuil?”
The tavernkeeper frowned, as if he was trying to recall any gossip he might have gleaned from his brother’s visits. He slowly shook his head. “Only that she’s a woman. A lady N’thuil, who’d have thought such a thing would come to pass? Maybe it’s true what some say.”
“What do some say?”
“That Pryor thinks to control Jai Idrish through the girl.” Another long pause as Doule’s frown deepened, the shake of his head slower and more deliberate this time, his words seeming to be pulled from him syllable by syllable. “Others say it doesn’t matter and the crystal’s power is just a faery story. Which do you think it is?”
Gray pulled on his gloves and settled a hat upon his head. “I don’t know—yet.”
Outside, it drizzled, the waning moon of Berenth lost behind a low layer of thick clouds. He pulled up the collar of his coat, scanning the darkness with a knowing eye. A warm breeze brought with it the stink of the stables and set the trees to dancing. Two drunkards assisted each other home to a rousing chorus of “John Barleycorn.” A man took a piss against a tree. A woman’s giggles grew breathless when her companion’s hand slid into her bodice.
Reassured that he’d not been recognized, Gray set off toward the posting inn, though he still kept to the darkest lanes and loneliest paths, every sense alert for trouble, every mile closer to Deepings tightening already taut muscles. So wrapped up in searching out two-legged trouble, he never saw the dog chained in the timber merchant’s lot until he tripped over it.
The brute leapt to its feet, barking and snarling loud enough to raise the dead. Gray eased away, one slow step at a time, never taking
“What of Pryor?” Gray sipped at his ale, a rancid brew that reminded him all too much of the sickly viscosity of the Fey draught.
“He’s closeted with the duke mostly. But they say he’s starting to fret. Looking less dapper than his usual self as if he’s worried over happenings. Rumors are flying, and it seems like a power struggle is inevitable. Some say The Skaarsgard plans to ride south from his islands as soon as the duke breathes his last. Others are saying Glynjohns is hungry for the Duke of Morieux’s power and he’s got ties to the dukedom through his wife.” Doule’s throat worked nervously, and he hunched closer, his voice dropping an octave until Gray could barely hear him over the din of the tavern’s rowdier customers. “Last week, the Ossinetrapped three of us in a house in Ashburton. Me and another man got away, but they murdered the families, babes and all, before they strung up the third fellow with a stake through his chest.” He used the cloth in his hand to wipe the sweat beading across his brow. “I’d not go to Deepings if I were you. It’s too dangerous. The enforcers would snatch you up faster than a fly on a cake. They’ll stake you. Stake you and leave you to die in the dirt. I’ve told my brother to get out but he won’t. Says he’s got to stay, but it’s a risk.”
Gray fought back the spasm of fear that rippled up his spine. Ran a finger around the rim of his glass with the same nonchalance he might bring to a night at Almack’s or an evening at White’s among friends. None would ever see him cringe or flinch or look less than completely confident. None would see him beg—ever again. A vow he’d made in the early days of his exile, when the flesh on his back blistered and broke and blistered again and breathing was an agony to be endured.
“I appreciate the warning, Doule.” He tossed his coins on the counter and rose from his stool. “If you hear anything more, send word through the usual channels.”
“Aye. As you say.”
He’d taken only a few steps before inspiration turned him around. “What have you heard of the new N’thuil?”
The tavernkeeper frowned, as if he was trying to recall any gossip he might have gleaned from his brother’s visits. He slowly shook his head. “Only that she’s a woman. A lady N’thuil, who’d have thought such a thing would come to pass? Maybe it’s true what some say.”
“What do some say?”
“That Pryor thinks to control Jai Idrish through the girl.” Another long pause as Doule’s frown deepened, the shake of his head slower and more deliberate this time, his words seeming to be pulled from him syllable by syllable. “Others say it doesn’t matter and the crystal’s power is just a faery story. Which do you think it is?”
Gray pulled on his gloves and settled a hat upon his head. “I don’t know—yet.”
Outside, it drizzled, the waning moon of Berenth lost behind a low layer of thick clouds. He pulled up the collar of his coat, scanning the darkness with a knowing eye. A warm breeze brought with it the stink of the stables and set the trees to dancing. Two drunkards assisted each other home to a rousing chorus of “John Barleycorn.” A man took a piss against a tree. A woman’s giggles grew breathless when her companion’s hand slid into her bodice.
Reassured that he’d not been recognized, Gray set off toward the posting inn, though he still kept to the darkest lanes and loneliest paths, every sense alert for trouble, every mile closer to Deepings tightening already taut muscles. So wrapped up in searching out two-legged trouble, he never saw the dog chained in the timber merchant’s lot until he tripped over it.
The brute leapt to its feet, barking and snarling loud enough to raise the dead. Gray eased away, one slow step at a time, never taking
Similar Books
