with a beer to wash away the final taste of blood that the Rossin had left him. Once it was gone, perhaps he could live with what had happened the previous day—or at least file it away with the rest of the horrors the Curse had brought him. Ahead lay his sister, and that was the anchor his sanity clung to.
ELEVEN
Buried in Roses
After three beers at the Angry Trout, Raed was ready for action. Tangyre sat at his side, but he noticed she did not touch her pint of beer.
The interior of the pub was the same as every other one in the Empire: dark, smoky and filled with patrons intent on reaching the bottom of their mug as soon as possible. Orinthal was a great trading city, however, so there was a mixed selection of facial features and clothing in the Trout.
Crowds made Raed nervous, not just because of the possibility that Imperial spies might be about but also because he could not help but imagine the chaos the Rossin would create in such a place. The Young Pretender shuddered and took another healthy draft of his beer.
“He has eaten, Raed.” Tangyre leaned close and whispered into his ear. “You are safe for now.” She was well acquainted with the Curse as were all in the inner circle of his family.
He looked up at her serious face and thought to himself,
Yet he did not share those dark revelations, because the truth was they would do none of them any good.
Once the Rossin had only appeared when a geist triggered its awareness. Once being at sea had been protection. Now Raed did not trust any of those things. Something had happened in the ossuary when all three of them had fused with the geistlord. Not anything good.
“I know.” He muttered the lie to his friend, scarcely caring if he sounded convincing or not. “We just need to find Fraine, and then—”
The door banged open, and a young man swathed in a dark brown cloak strode in. Raed felt Tang flinch at his side and guessed this was their man.
Together they rose and, via a slightly circuitous route, reached this newcomer’s side. Raed’s eyes darted about, but no one was taking particular interest in any of them.
Tangyre gave their contact a little nod, and the three of them wandered back through the door where straining ears could not hear. Outside in the sticky, warm darkness, she led the way around the corner of the pub. Alleyays were the traditional place to conduct covert activities.
When Captain Greene spoke, her voice was low as to suit the surroundings. “My Prince, may I present Isseriah, Earl of Wye.”
It was a title about as useful as his own as heir to the Empire. The Earls of Wye had famously stuck by the Rossins and had paid the penalty—hence why they were meeting in a filthy alleyway now. Still, Raed greeted him as if they were in the Imperial Hall. “Well met, Wye. Your grandfather served mine admirably.”
Isseriah stepped forward. “I remain your man—even in exile, my liege.” He was taller than Raed by a head but bowed low enough for it not to show.
“Wye is far from Chioma,” Raed said, uncomfortable with the admiration in the young man’s eyes. It was clutching at straws in the saddest way.
The young would-be Earl smiled and shrugged. “And there is a price on my head if I ever return there. I have been making my way as a merchant since birth, just like my father.”
“I hear you are doing well,” Tangyre added.
“Not as well as I should.” Isseriah turned his face and showed the long scar running down his left cheek. Wye had the tradition that its rulers had to be perfect in mind and body to rule. Obviously someone had made sure that this heir to the principality would never be able to contest his place, even if he should chose to.
“I am sorry.” Raed found himself apologizing for something he had not done.
“My family does well enough for itself, but we can never be aristocrats or rule again, unless—”
Raed cut him off. “For now, Isseriah, we are only looking for my sister, Fraine.”
“I am sorry, my Prince”—the other man dipped his head—“but if I had known she was your sister—”
Raed steeled himself, wondering if their trip would stop here. Had Fraine been killed and thrown into the river? His mind raced through a whole range of terrible possibilities.
“She has been taken to the Hive City itself.”
The relief that washed over him made Raed actually take a step back. Though it was a terrible thing to hear, it was wonderful to know that she was still alive. “Tell me more.”
“Many slavers pass through Orinthal, as they cannot be sold here.” Isseriah was incapable of voicing the rest.
“Go on,” Raed urged, though his stomach was in a tight knot.
“However, sometimes those seeking advancement in the Court of the Prince have been known to buy the prettiest and pass them off as their own kin.”
“Into his harem, you mean?” Raed’s hand went to his sword hilt. He was so used to thinking of Fraine as a little girl—yet when he calculated, he realized she had to be twenty years old. Then he thought about their mother: she had been the beauty of the Empire. He had almost forgotten that, because his last image of her had been anything but lovely. If he pushed past that, however, he could recall her thick waves of gold hair and brilliant blue eyes. If Fraine had grown up to look anything like their mother, then indeed she would be a striking woman.
“So, into the palace we must go,” Raed replied firmly. When their informant exchanged a glance with Tangyre, he asked, “Is there some sort of problem with that?”
“The palace is, as you know, highly guarded.” The young Earl looked about as if he expected to be overheard. “Every caravan must have permission to enter—but since I am going there, it will be easy enough to swap your crew for my workers—it is not that . . . ” He trailed off again.
“No need to mince your words, my lord.” Tangyre let out a short laugh. “The price on the Prince’s head has been reposted by the Impostor.”
Like the reprieve from the Rossin, Raed had taken heart from the fact that the bounty on his head had not been increased nor found its way to market squares since before the fight in the ossuary. Obviously saving his sister’s life had not wiped the slate clean in the Emperor’s eyes.
“None of your usual contacts can be trusted,” Isseriah whispered. “We must make sure none hear of your arrival in Orinthal.”
His eyes locked with Raed’s, making an accusation his lips would not. “My crew are reliable—down to the last one.”
“Then how did the Emperor know you were coming to Chioma?” The Earl-apparent asked softly. “Excuse my boldness, sire—but Captain Greene said that you only got news of your sister’s kidnapping a mere week ago . . .”
Raed stroked his beard but did not mention that Possibility Matrix that he, Sorcha and Merrick had found beneath the Mother Abbey. The Abbot was dead, that pit of conspiracy cleared out. Wasn’t it? Sorcha had told him about the lengths the Order had gone to, but he could not recall if she had mentioned the eventual fate of the unholy creation. The idea that once again someone could be dogging his steps before he even made them was maddening.
He could not explain such horrors, such impossibilities to them. “There are fell things abroad in the world, things that would reveal our path before we walk it—yet walk it we must. I cannot have my sister disappearing into the harem of the Prince—or worse.”
“Agreed,” Tangyre murmured. “The Princess Royal must be recovered.”
Raed’s heart sank further because Isseriah still looked worried. “There is more, isn’t there?”
“Only . . . ” The youth stopped and cleared his throat. “Only rumor, my liege—but I am sure you would hear it from others. They say there is a murderer on the loose in the Hive City. The guards of Orinthal are trying to keep things quiet, but there have been deaths among the aristocracy, which is harder to hush than if it were any
