“Could you ask for some paper, too?”
My hand pauses on the doorknob. “What do you need paper for?”
She gives an embarrassed little laugh that brings a rash of pink to her cheeks. “Oh, it’s the view—it’s so pretty. I promised Suri that I would write to her about the voyage, and so I thought I’d sketch her a picture. I’ve been trying to find some pleasantry about this damnable ride to share with her. I figure it’s better than a description of your snoring, isn’t it?”
I snort as I saunter out of the room, being sure to lock the door behind me, and head downstairs. I toss another handful of coins on the counter. “My lady would like a hot bath brought up to her. Paper and ink, too. And clothes. Something to sleep in, undergarments, and a daytime dress. Clean. The nicest you can find on short notice. I’ll pay extra.”
The innkeeper nods to a young girl sweeping the foyer, who scampers off to run my errands.
“Wolf Bowborn.”
The sudden, unexpected sound of my name has me immediately laying a hand on my knife hilt, preparing to return to those dark days of the early work I did for Rian, but as I face the common room, an astounded laugh barks out of me.
I gape. “Folke Bladeborn?”
Sitting alone at the corner table, a half-empty flagon of ale as his only companion, is perhaps the sole person on earth I would consider a friend.
Folke is a decade my senior, his tidily matted locks already graying at his temples, but the look suits him. His light, russet brown face is pockmarked from acne in his youth, but the scars don’t stop women from admiring him. His straight teeth don’t hurt, either—a rarity in a town like Blackwater.
He grins broadly. “Come here, you devil.”
I saunter over to his table, shaking my head at the odds of having run into him here—although perhaps it’s not such a slim chance after all, given the type of traveler Blackwater draws. Folke and I trained together in the Golden Sentinel army. Both bastards by birth, we were given the surname “Bladeborn” to mean soldiers, and he still carries it. After he was wounded in a skirmish, the Valveres released him from service due to his permanently incapacitated leg. Still, a man has to eat, so Folke became a spy for whoever would employ him.
“You’ll forgive me for not standing,” Folke jokes, patting his bum leg. His cane leans against the wall.
I drop into the empty seat across from him, clasping his hand in greeting. His grip is as firm as ever. “They gave the pathetic likes of you a room here?”
“That they did. And what brings you to this hellhole, eh? Last I heard, you’d left this life behind. Gone straight.”
“Yeah. Well. If that’s ever possible.” I glance toward the stairs—I need to catch the servants on their way up with Sabine’s bathwater so that I can unlock the door.
“I’ll raise a glass to that.” He lifts his flagon, notices I have nothing to drink, and then starts to flag down the bartender’s attention, but I shake my head.
“I can’t catch up at the moment, old friend. Regrettably. I’ve pressing duties.” I glance toward the stairs again.
His dark eyes twinkle with mischief. “It wouldn’t have anything to do with some stark naked beauty everyone’s been buzzing about, eh? Judging by the gossip, I came down from my room too late to steal an eyeful.”
I rest my big fists on the table, hunching forward over its candle, grinding my teeth at the thought of every man in Blackwater’s impure thoughts about Sabine.
Folke laughs. “Easy, big fellow. Ah. So it is about a girl. Who is she?”
“Rian’s new bride.”
“Fuck.” He downs the rest of his ale in one go, then wipes his mouth with his sleeve and leans toward me across the table. “You’re properly fucked, aren’t you, Wolf?”
“Why would you say that? Because I’m here with your ugly ass?”
“Because a man doesn’t bristle at the mere mention of a woman unless he’s extremely interested in fucking her.”
I stem the slight tremor in my hands, not wanting Folke to know how close he’s struck to gold. Folke’s keen eyes mark my subtle tells anyway. He’s a spy, after all, trained to pick up on clues. He blows out a long, resigned puff of air that makes the candle flame ripple. His voice is soft with pity when he speaks. “It’s like that, then, is it? More than lust.”
My hands ball into tighter fists. I messed up when I kissed Sabine, it’s true, but it was just the effect of going a few weeks without sex and having a pretty girl splayed across my lap. It wasn’t anything more. It can’t be anything more.
“You love her?” Folke asks in an uncharacteristically tender tone, like me loving Sabine would be the most terrible and most wonderful thing in the world.
“Of course not. Don’t be fucking ridiculous. She belongs to Rian.”
Folke holds his hands palms up with a shrug as if to suggest that the two things are not mutually exclusive. She can belong to Rian, and I can also be in love with her.
Which is utter horseshit.
I stand, sending the chair sliding back a few inches, and give Folke a smirk that I hope hides how hard my heart is pounding. I rib him, “It was good to see you, Folke, even if you are looking like an old man these days.” But I pause before turning away. “What brings you to town, anyway?” Though my tone is light, we both know the true nature of his work—it would be a shock if someone doesn’t end up dead while he’s in town.
His brown eyes catch the candlelight. He drums his knuckles on the table. Rat-a-tat. Rat-a-tat. For a second, I feel sure he will speak of Volkish raiders. I can’t be the one to bring it up. I’d sound like a raving madman if I started spouting off about woken goldenclaws and Volkish bandits who crossed the wall after five hundred years of being cut off. There are enough fanatical street preachers professing that the sleeping gods will soon wake; I don’t need to add to their ranks. Besides, people have been prophesizing their awakening for centuries.
And what’s happened? Fuck all, that’s what.
Still, my pulse taps like torturous water drips as I wait for his answer.
He leans forward over the candle, eyes skimming the common room for any sign of eavesdroppers, but we’re alone except for an old man in the corner. “Business that concerns Old Coros.”
“Old Coros? You’re working for King Joruun?”
He wavers in his answer. “I’m working for the royal advisors. The king’s health is . . . failing.” His eyes bore into me with an alarming urgency. “They’re concerned about what could happen to the throne after his passing. If he doesn’t name a successor, a power vacuum will open, and there are those who are eager to fill it.”
King Joruun’s health has been failing for twenty years, but something about Folke’s tone makes me suspect the end is nearer than anyone thinks. I prompt, “Who?”
“I’m in Blackwater to meet with a former priest who claims the Grand Cleric is scheming to transform Astagnon into a theocracy.”
I snort. “Fucking priests. We had a run-in with them on the ride. Five of them, armed, couldn’t stop a naked girl from crossing the street—they can’t overthrow a kingdom.”