“The King understands there is danger, of some kind,” said Kel, “but I do not believe he has a clear picture of it. His faith in the stars and what they portend is almost religious. He believes in prophecy, not actuality.” He hesitated. “I must speak with Prosper Beck instead. He knows his own plans; no one else seems to.” He’d reached out to brush the yellow petal of a sunflower. “I’ll need to find Jerrod Belmerci.”
There had been an explosion of argument. Jerrod could not be gotten through; he would never let Kel near Prosper Beck; it would only alert Beck that Kel was looking for him. But Kel had been adamant, and at last Ji-An had reluctantly proffered the information that Jerrod could be found between the hours of noon and sunset at a noodle shop on Yulan Road, where he conducted business on behalf of Beck.
“If you’re determined to go,” Andreyen had said darkly, “take Merren with you.”
“Merren?” Kel had echoed. “Not Ji-An?”
The Ragpicker King’s lip curled in amusement. “Don’t be rude to Merren.”
“I don’t think it’s rude,” Merren had said. “I think it’s a good question.”
Kel had half expected Ji-An to be offended, but instead she had merely exchanged a quick look with the Ragpicker King. One that told Kel that she understood Andreyen’s reasoning. “Poor Merren,” she said. “He hates conflict.”
“That’s true,” Merren said, looking glum but resigned. “I do hate conflict.”
But here they both were, marching up Yulan Road as the Windtower Clock began to chime noon, the sound of its bells carrying on the breeze from the harbor. Yulan Road was lively now with students in search of a cheap midday meal at one of its many dumpling pushcarts. Gold and white banners hung above carved wooden doors, bearing the names of shops in Castellani and Shenzan: a jeweler’s store, a tea shop. Scarlet lanterns of paper and wire, painted with characters for prosperity and luck, dangled from hooks in plaster walls. Similar neighborhoods bearing the cultural imprint of those who had settled in Castellane from Geumjoseon, Marakand, and Kutani dotted the city, though the area around Yulan Road was likely the oldest. Trade in silk had been the first Charter, after all.
Kel had started his trip to the Black Mansion with a plan, one he had not entirely shared with Andreyen. The closer he got to Jerrod and the enactment of the plan, the more he felt tension rise like a bitter taste in the back of his throat.
He pushed the thoughts away. “You’re awfully loyal to the Ragpicker King,” he remarked as Merren paused to examine the wares of a cart selling medicinal herbs.
“You’re awfully loyal to the Prince,” said Merren mildly.
“I didn’t realize you’d sworn an oath to protect Andreyen,” said Kel. “Or that keeping him safe was your duty and vocation.”
Merren looked up, squinting against the sun. His hair was bright as new-minted gold. “I owe him.”
Despite his jangling nerves, Kel’s curiosity was piqued. “For what? Is this something to do with Gremont?”
“Artal Gremont is the reason I became a poisoner,” said Merren matter-of-factly. “So I could kill him. Andreyen offered me a place to work. To hide from the Vigilants, if necessary. One day, Artal Gremont will set foot in Castellane again, and I will be ready. And Andreyen will have helped me.”
“Gray hell,” said Kel. “What did Artal Gremont do to your family?”
Merren’s gaze darted away. Abandoning the cart and its wares, he started back up the road, his hands shoved into his pockets. Kel went after him.
“It’s all right,” Kel said. “You don’t have to talk about it—”
“This is the place.” Merren pointed across the street at a low-slung shop with a white-painted wooden front and windows screened with rice paper. The sign above the door proclaimed it the YU-SHUANG NOODLE HOUSE, home to a proprietary recipe for ginger-pork noodle soup.
Kel felt his stomach tighten, but he was in no mood to show his nerves to Merren, or even to acknowledge them to himself. They went inside. A silk curtain hung in the entryway; ducking past it, Kel found himself in a wood-paneled room where a row of cooks, dressed in red, tended steaming pots of soup and curry. The air was redolent of green ginger, scallion, pork broth, and garlic. A watercolor map tacked to the wall, its edges curling, showed the continent of Dannemore from a Shenzan perspective, with Castellane marked out as the Kingdom of Daqin. The greatest detail was reserved for Shenzhou and its neighbors, Jiqal and Geumjoseon. Kel thought of something Bensimon used to say: We are each the center of our own worlds. Castellane may believe itself the most important country in Dannemore, but remember that Sarthe, Malgasi, and Hind all think the same about themselves.
Kel had been in shops like this before. They tended to stay open late into the night, which made them attractive to Conor’s friends. Using a technique he’d learned from Jolivet, Kel scanned the room without making it obvious that he was doing so. The place was about half full, and Jerrod was indeed there—alone, seated at a wooden booth in the back of the shop.
The top halves of the booths were open fretwork, with a geometric design. Through the latticed squares, Kel could see Jerrod was wearing a black linen coat over a hooded tunic, his silver mask gleaming in the dim light that filtered through the rice-paper screens.
It was as if someone had held a lit taper to his skin. Kel recalled all at once the stinking alley behind the Key, the pain in his side, his chest. Jerrod looking down at him, only his mask visible, his face hidden in shadow.
Kel’s anxiety bled away into a cold fury. He felt nothing at all as he walked up to the long rosewood counter, placing his order in Shenzan. The cooks seemed surprised and even a little amused by his command of their language; they chatted a little, while Merren looked bored, about the intricacies of their recipe, and the way Kel wanted his food prepared. As he reached over the counter, Kel could not help but wonder if Jerrod was watching; he studiously ignored him as he ordered ginger tea for Merren （everything else had meat in it, which Merren wouldn’t eat）， paid, and headed for Jerrod’s table, Merren muttering in his wake.
No one gave either of them a second glance as they approached the back of the shop. The owners must be used to Jerrod entertaining a stream of visitors, if he was doing business here. Presumably the restaurant got a cut of whatever deals he made.
It was only when they had reached his booth that Jerrod looked up. If he was surprised, there was no way to tell it: Jerrod’s eyebrows quirked, though his expression was otherwise hidden by his tarnished quarter-mask. It was as if someone had laid the palm of their hand, in a silver glove, over the left side of his face, covering his eye and the upper part of his cheek. Was it hiding burns or scars? Identifying marks of some kind? Just an affectation, meant to alarm?
“I didn’t think I’d be seeing you again,” he said with remarkable composure. His gaze slid from Kel to Merren. “Merren Asper,” he added, his voice taking on an entirely different tone. “Do sit down.”
Merren and Kel slid into the booth across from Jerrod. The table between them was gnarled wood, sanded to smoothness, stained here and there with the marks of old burns and spills.