The room cleared a path for her, travelers pushing out of her way before she could remove them. Her face was known and respected here, if not feared. Dom stood to bar her way, but she stopped short, bearing a smile like a knife.
“A pity you went from illuminating manuscripts to forging them, Charlie,” she sneered, bracing a hand on her hip. Her fingers were scarred and knobbled, broken and healed a dozen times.
Charlon seemed unsurprised by her presence. He only shook his head again and reached for Sarn’s abandoned ale, pouring it down his throat. “Hunting bandits in the Forest of Rainbows, eh?” he sighed, tsking at the assassin.
“I suppose I was misinformed,” Sarn said calmly. “Sigil, have a seat.”
Dom stayed rooted, reluctant to let the strange woman anywhere near Corayne. Or to take orders from the likes of Sorasa Sarn.
Sigil, the Temur wolf, did not seem bothered by his bulk. She held her ground too. “Another time, Sarn. I’ve business with the Ink King.”
“The Ink King,” Charlon sniggered under his breath. “What a stupid nickname.”
Sarn took no notice. “I’m busy saving the realm, Sigil. Your business can wait.”
“Charlon Armont,” Sigil said, her voice drained of emotion, as if she were reciting a prayer at an altar, “dedicant priest of the Madrentine Order of the Sons of Tiber, there is a bounty upon your head, and it is my sworn duty to see it fulfilled.”
A bounty hunter. Dom looked her over again, trying to read the Ward on her. She must have been watching the gates, waiting for her prey to emerge.
“Now, to which kingdom is she going to drag you, that’s the question,” Sarn muttered with a half smirk. “Tyriot?”
Charlon kissed his palms again. This time it felt like a rude gesture, and Sigil bristled. “Nah, that was just a spot of illegal export. It’ll be the homeland for certain.”
The bounty hunter forged on. “You are wanted by the crown of Madrence—”
Charlon grinned, elbowing Sarn. “See?”
“—for trespassing, thievery, arson, destruction to holy property, forgery, banditry, bribery of a priest, bribery of an officer, bribery of a noble, bribery of a royal, attempted murder, and murder,” Sigil reeled off, in perfect intonation. “By royal and holy writ, I, Sigil of the Temurijon, have been appointed to return you to the court at Partepalas and see you face justice for your many crimes.”
The charges were grave indeed. Attempted murder. Murder. Dom was sorely tempted to get out of Sigil’s way and take Corayne with him. Not that she would go. Corayne looked like a child enthralled by a play, hardly afraid of anyone, let alone the fallen priest. She looked between them, owl-eyed, sipping at her ale.
The unremarkable Charlon seemed a bit more remarkable now, an odd gleam in his eye. His grin took on a shadowed edge.
Sarn crossed her arms, putting a foot up on the empty seat Sigil had refused. “I’m so glad I don’t have to recite anything when I kill someone.”
“Careful, or I’ll drag you in too,” Sigil drawled with little bite, her eyes never leaving Charlon. “Let’s go, Priest. Make it easy on yourself.”
“I think it’s you who want to make things easy, Sigil.” Again, the assassin tried to wave her down. Her booted foot tapped against the chair. “Take a seat.”
The bounty hunter loosed the ax, dropping it smoothly into her hand. “I’ll be taking the criminal and nothing else. Besides, I don’t think you have room for us all,” she added, running a hand through her short hair, sweeping it back from her face.
In the far corner, a man stood. He was, as the mortals would say, big as a house.
By the hearth, two men turned, though they could have passed for bears with their looming bodies and furry brown beards.
At the kitchen door, a cook with an apron smeared in pig’s blood stepped out, his carving knife clutched in a fist.
And so it went. The whole world fell silent, the travelers and merchants and weary nobodies going round-eyed at the brewing conflict. Six other men stood around the tavern, some on the stairs, some coming in from the yard. Armed and monstrous, big enough to put a lick of fear in anyone. Even an immortal.
Dom snapped his head back, looking to Sarn. Hoping she saw, hoping she knew.
The assassin wore her mask again, features still and unreadable, cold and unmoving as stone. She unfastened her cloak, letting it drop. Her whip coiled on one hip, the curved sword and daggers at the other. Her pouches of tricks ran along her belt. She met his gaze with that familiar, lethal flicker in her eyes.