“Death to every rebel!” Welran screamed, spinning in a circle. “I will burn you all to ash before I turn on your Maridrinian master!”
His eyes fixed on Keris and the barber, and the barber squeaked, “He’s Maridrinian!”
Welran’s eyes bulged, and then he was sprinting toward Keris, bloody fists raised.
Chastised, the woman fell silent, and the conversation stuttered as the barber began to soap Keris’s Keris ran.
Leaping over the divans in his path, he slipped on the wet tile and nearly fell. Catching his balance, he raced to the front door, the glass cracking beneath the impact of his palms as he slammed it open.
Slush splashed his legs as he ran into the street, towel clutched in his hand.
It was madness.
People were screaming and running away, but from both ends of the street, soldiers on horseback approached.
Word
He was trapped.
Boots thudded against the glass tiles, and Keris caught hold of the barber’s wrist to force the blade of the messenger’s words hidden
The messenger heaved in a breath. “It is news of His Highness, Prince Bermin. They say he was slain.”
It felt like all the air sucked out of the room, and then a bellow of grief and rage shattered the silence. Keris reacted on instinct, diving out of the chair and away from the pool, dragging the barber with him.
Welran surged from the water, manhood slapping against his legs as he gained his footing on the slick tile. The messenger staggered backward, but the big man lunged and caught hold of his cloak.
With a howl that seemed more beast than human, he smashed his giant fist into the man’s face. Again and again, holding the messenger upright while he shattered the man’s skull into bloody pulp, then tossed him into the pool.
“I will have vengeance,” he roared, picking up the chair Keris had been sitting in and smashing it against the tiles. “I will have blood!”
Keris and the barber stumbled over each other as they retreated, Welran smashing the bathhouse while patrons and staff screamed and fled, the soldiers staying well out of reach of their general’s rage.
“Death to every rebel!” Welran screamed, spinning in a circle. “I will burn you all to ash before I turn on your Maridrinian master!”
His eyes fixed on Keris and the barber, and the barber squeaked, “He’s Maridrinian!”
Welran’s eyes bulged, and then he was sprinting toward Keris, bloody fists raised.
Keris ran.
Leaping over the divans in his path, he slipped on the wet tile and nearly fell. Catching his balance, he raced to the front door, the glass cracking beneath the impact of his palms as he slammed it open.
Slush splashed his legs as he ran into the street, towel clutched in his hand.
It was madness.
People were screaming and running away, but from both ends of the street, soldiers on horseback approached.
He was trapped.
SHE WAS GOING to kill him.
Wrapped in a robe and staring at her steaming tea, Zarrah did her best to focus on the
wrinkled matrons conversing next to her, but her mind kept going to Keris.
This had been his idea. His stupid bloody plan to sit in the bath and listen to gossip, but while she’d spent the past hour soaking in a tub, listening to women complain about her aunt’s soldiers while their husbands pretended not to stare at her breasts, Keris was nowhere to be seen.
What if something happened to him? fear whispered, but she just made a face and swallowed the rest of her tea. The only thing that had happened was that, as usual, he’d changed the plan with no mind to keeping her informed. He was probably in a bar somewhere, plying customers with drinks to gain information, which he’d subsequently deliver to her as though questioning drunks had been his idea, not hers.
“I’m going to kill him,” she said, aloud this time, garnering a few startled glances from other patrons. A heartbeat later, there was a commotion at the entrance to the bathhouse.
Keris, naked as the day he was born and gripping a towel in one hand, sprinted around the corner.
Sliding to a stop, he scanned the steam-filled room until his eyes latched on hers. “Run!” he shouted; then angry bellows shattered the silence.
Zarrah had barely made it to her feet when Keris had her by the hand and was dragging her to the rear of the building. “Another way out?” he shouted at one of the girls who worked there. With wide eyes, she pointed to a door.
Then they were running.
“What is going on?” Zarrah demanded, cold biting her skin as they flew out the back door. “Where were you?”
“Later,” he gasped.
Slush splashed her legs, her robe flapping as they ran, the shouts of pursuit loud, but she didn’t turn back. Weaponless, their only option was flight, and given Keris was naked and she was nearly so, they needed to get out of sight.
People gaped at them as they raced past, the clatter of horses’ hooves deafening as soldiers converged. “What did you do?” she demanded. “What the hell did you do, Keris?”
He didn’t answer, only tightened his grip on her hand. “We need to climb. Get to the rooftops.”
“You can’t!” She risked a sideways glance at him. His unbandaged wound was starting to seep blood. He might be able to get onto a rooftop, but not cross them with the speed it would take to evade capture.
“I’ll have to.”
A door swung open ahead of them, and a woman dressed in a black leather gown appeared. “In here! Hurry!”
Zarrah hesitated, distrustful of any offer of help, but what choice did they have? Hauling on Keris’s hand, she dragged him into the darkness of the building, the latch on the door shutting firmly behind them.
The interior smelled strongly of scented oils, and from somewhere, a drummer pounded a rhythmic beat. What was this place?
“Up the stairs, hurry!”
“Who are you?” Keris demanded.
“We’ve mutual friends,” the woman answered, even as a man called out, “Miri, the soldiers are searching every house on the street. Something about a Maridrinian assaulting Welran?”
“Don’t impede them,” the woman answered. “They need no justification for destruction.”
Red glass sconces on the walls provided only minimal light, and Zarrah stumbled twice as they climbed before her eyes adjusted. “What is this place?”
“Brothel,” Keris muttered.
Simultaneously, the woman announced, “A pleasure house.”
Reaching the second level, she led them down a carpeted hallway lined with doors. Hedonistic whispers filtered through the walls, but they were dominated by the pounding drum, the rhythm making it seem as though the building had a heart throbbing at its core. They passed an open door, and Zarrah glanced inside, her eyes widening at the sight of a masked woman with three men before Keris pulled her onward.
“In here,” the woman—Miri—said, opening the door at the end. The room was nearly filled by a silk-covered bed, cords fastened to the posters, the table across from it covered with things Zarrah had heard of but never seen with her own eyes. Climbing on the bed, the woman opened the window on the wall above it. “Climb across the roofs,” she said. “Seek an inn tonight called the Wounded Lioness, and you will find those you are searching for.”