“He can be.” He drew a hand over his armored chest. “But only to the point where he makes a nuisance of himself.”
From what Britta had shared, I wouldn’t consider Lord Mazeen’s behavior a nuisance. But there was only so much Vikter could say about the Ascended—or would, considering he didn’t exactly trust me.
But I knew enough to know to keep an eye on Lord Mazeen. I changed the subject. “So, that’s all she does?”
“Other than attending the City Councils, that’s about it,” Vikter confirmed. “She doesn’t go out in public.”
Oh, yes she did, but that was beside the point. I glanced at the closed doors behind me as Vikter continued on with a much longer list of things she couldn’t do. She was not to speak to others, eat among company, leave the castle grounds—the list went on and on until I wondered if she was allowed to visit the bathing chambers without permission for fuck’s sake. “What does she do with the rest of her time?”
He frowned. “Why do you ask?”
“Why?” I faced him. Was he serious? “She spends the majority of her time in her chambers? Alone?”
That muscle was ticking double-time now. “Yes, and other than the situations I listed above, it will be rare for you to find yourself in her chambers.” His chin dipped. “Very rare. And when you do, the doors should be left open. She is aware of this.”
I didn’t respond to his clear warning, and silence descended between us. I was stuck on the fact that the Maiden truly spent the entirety of her time alone or being watched. I’d known the latter, but I’d assumed her days were spent doing…well, whatever it was the so-called Maiden did.
Apparently, this…this was it.
Damn. I dragged a hand over my head. Her existence had to be a lonely one. Damn.
“You used her name.”
My attention cut to the Royal Guard. “What?”
“When you spoke your vow,” Vikter said, “you used her given name. Why?”
A slew of lies rose to the tip of my tongue. I could just claim that I didn’t know why, but after what I’d learned? “I just wanted her to know that someone saw her.”
Vikter inclined his head, but there was no other acknowledgment. No reprimand, either. I didn’t think he had an issue with it, and my reluctant respect for him grew.
And that was a damn shame.
Because if we were summoned to the capital, he would be one of the guards escorting her. Which meant it was likely that Vikter Wardwell would have to die for me to succeed in what I’d come to do.
MADE A NEW FRIEND
The acrid scent of cold-cut steel filled the air as I lifted a gloved hand and removed the loosened brick on the blacksmith’s shop. A slip of parchment passed through an intricate chain of supporters and spies had been tucked behind the loose block. It was unsigned and included only five words.
I’ve made a new friend.
My lips curled as I tucked the note into the interior pocket of my cloak. I’d destroy it later, leaving no trace of its existence. I made my way to the mouth of the alley, where puddles from the quick, drenching downpour formed narrow streams in the pitted cobblestones.
I quickly slipped in with the throng of people hurrying through the clogged streets at dusk, some heading home while others were just starting their days. There was a chill in the air, so many were cloaked like me. I blended in, unseen or forgotten the moment I passed another as I crossed the twisted, convoluted network of streets in the Lower Ward. There was always gloom in the shadows of the Rise, but even more so with thick clouds choking out the sun earlier and now the moon.
I took note of the white handkerchiefs tacked onto the doors of the squat, narrow houses—three of them. My jaw clenched, but I forced myself to keep going, telling myself that someone would answer the silent calls. I thought of what Jole had said about the Maiden and shook my head.
Cutting between two tarp-covered wagons, I crossed the street and was suddenly swallowed by the stench of slaughter and animals. One smelled the meatpacking district before they actually entered it. The rain did nothing to quell the scents. Many of the shops here didn’t close for the night, so the streets were just as filled with commoners and the unhoused.
Since I’d been here, the number of those without shelter had doubled, if not tripled. The Blood Crown did nothing for them, not even as the coldest months approached. In Atlantia, everyone who wanted a home had one. Providing for those who were unable to do so themselves for whatever reason wasn’t easy, but it wasn’t impossible. Atlantia had always done it, even when we ruled the entire continent.
I skirted a vendor hawking smoked pork, reaching a tight lane between two smoke-stained warehouses. In the flickering yellow glow of the streetlamps as I headed for the side entrance to one of the buildings, I almost didn’t see the two small, young children—a boy and a girl. They couldn’t have seen more than their tenth year of life. Their faces were smudged with dirt, their bodies slender beneath their too-thin shirts and pants. They had managed to press themselves into an unused stoop, their eyes sunken, but they still watched those on the sidewalk with the wariness of an adult who’d seen war.
Gods, they were too young for this kind of life.
Slowing my steps, I pivoted and returned to the vendor, buying a package of pork.
One of the children leaned forward, using their body to shield the other as I approached. Were they siblings by blood or circumstance?
I knelt, keeping myself at arm’s length so I wouldn’t frighten them. Though all they saw was a cloaked and hooded figure in black, crouching before them, so I doubted much I did wouldn’t scare them.
“Here.” I extended the package. The one who’d leaned forward watched me with brown eyes. Behind him, the other child peered over his shoulder. “It’s yours.”
The boy looked at the package, hunger sparkling in his hollow features. He didn’t take the pork, though. I didn’t blame him. Nothing on the streets was given for free.
Except for tonight.
I placed the package by the child’s dirty boots, then saying no more, I rose and backed off. A second passed, and then the boy snatched up the package before disappearing into the shadows of the stoop. The pork was salty, likely tasted like shit, and not the healthiest, but it was better than an empty belly, and smarter than handing over coin, which would only make them a target. It was the best I could do.
For now.
Walking through the building’s side entrance, I entered the busy warehouse. Wooden crates thumped off tables, and sharpened cleavers sliced through bone and tissue. Heads rose as I strode between the tables, discarded parchment wrapping crinkling beneath my boots. There were a few smiles. No one said a word. They’d seen me before.
They could guess who I was.
At the back of the space, a large man I only knew as Mac sat on a stool by a closed door, head bald and apron stained with dried blood. He, too, said nothing, but he did nod. He knew who I was, and I knew exactly who he was. He was the unofficial leader of the Descenters here.
I pushed open the door. The hall was cramped with unused crates, and the sound of pigs rooting around in the outdoor pens silenced the sounds of the meatpacking floor. Two doors were at the end, and one led outside. I took the other to the right, going down a steep, unlit set of stairs that one without light or my vision would break their necks attempting to descend. There was one more door, and dull yellow light and cold air seeped out from the frame. Pushing it open, I entered the underground ice cellar packed with large blocks of the frozen water used to keep the slaughtered meat hanging from the rafters fresh for long enough it could be packaged on the floor above. The spot was cold and smelled like fresh kill, but what happened down here wasn’t heard above.