“Wish we could’ve put together a better disguise before we left Daruvar,” the other woman said, as she started hacking.
She shared that sentiment. “I had no supplies laid in. This…” Thalia stopped talking, aware that Ferith probably knew what she was about to say anyway.
“Isn’t how you pictured things playing out,” she finished.
No scissors, so the assassin sawed her hair off in a ragged, chin-length bob. Ridiculous to be upset, but as the other woman stuffed her shorn locks into a trash bag that she found in the back of the Rambler, it was hard not to snuffle like a child. Thalia gritted her teeth and turned toward town.
“We can’t leave this here. It’s evidence.”
Ferith hefted the sack with a nod. “Agreed. I’ll find somewhere in Outwater to dispose of this.”
They were lucky that House Gilbraith hadn’t set up checkpoints yet, but then, Ruark must be scrambling for a new plan, since Tirael had failed, and he’d lost his grip on Daruvar. He wouldn’t expect a frontal assault—he must know she couldn’t field that many soldiers—but Thalia didn’t imagine he would expect such a daring strike, either. Unexpected boldness might carry the day.
Coming over the next rise, she spotted the lights of town, bright and beautiful against the backdrop of night. If she didn’t know they’d already passed the border, this might have been one of her settlements, similar in layout and design. There were no walls, nothing to stop the Golgoth brutes, should they push this far, but before she could worry about an outside enemy, she had to vanquish her internal foes first. She pulled a dark knit cap over the ruins of her hair and set her shoulders.
“This way,” she said.
Ferith followed her, surefooted and silent, making Thalia uncomfortably aware that she was the weaker link in this partnership. Yet she couldn’t simply assign the Noxblade to Ruark’s death and wait for results. No, to prove her worth, she had to take Ruark’s head as she had Tirael’s. Only then would the challenges stop, and she could focus on unifying the people and moving forward with progressive policies that would pull their provinces into the modern world.
At the outskirts of town, a ramshackle wooden hostel flashed a VACANCY sign. This wasn’t the sort of place that cared if you came on foot, only if you had local currency. While Thalia hovered outside in the shadows, Ferith took care of the rental. On her return, she sighed and shook her head at the sight of Thalia stamping her feet.
“It’s cold,” she said.
“I’m aware. Here’s the room key, wait for me inside. I’m going shopping.”
Thalia intended to follow instructions, but half a block away, she glimpsed a fire barrel with several thin and sickly people clustered around it. More proof that Ruark doesn’t care about his people. Her father hadn’t either. Thalia intended to change all of this for the better, implement infrastructure to protect the impoverished and infirm. Nobody said anything when she eased into their circle, though they did complain when she dropped the sack into the fire.
The nearest male grabbed at the edge of her jacket. “Are you dimwitted, child? Don’t you know how much burning hair reeks?”
“Sorry,” she whispered.
An older woman slapped him on the shoulder. “Oh, leave her be. It’s fuel anyway, and we all smell a bit already.”
“Thank you,” she said.
Thalia had studied etiquette for all kinds of occasions; none of them covered a situation like this. It might seem suspicious if she dumped the bag and immediately ran away so she lingered, pretending to warm her hands, and soon the conversation she’d interrupted resumed its course.
“Anyway, be careful of the gray tar coming out of House Manwaring. It’s not safe,” the homeless man said.
Gray tar? What’s that?
“It’s not even a decent head rush. Heard it’s supposed to make you stronger, more resilient, but the people who take it, they get fearsome strange after a while.”
As Thalia parsed that information, she recalled Raff saying that the soldiers from House Manwaring that attacked them after the hunt smelled strange. Off. Maybe they were using this gray tar? Perhaps it was developed to make her people better able to stand up to the Animari and Golgoth in combat. That meant the other houses intended to go to war, following Ruark to potential annihilation. A cold chill suffused her.
Deciding she had warmed herself long enough to seem casual, Thalia returned to the hostel, still thinking about what she’d learned. Nobody seemed to be paying attention when she slipped into the grungy closet of a room. She made a point not to look in the mirror or she would have had to face the pale, frightened woman in the mirror.
Not a queen, just a terrified nobody.
By the time Ferith came back, she had herself in hand, calm and stoic once more. The Noxblade dumped her purchases on the bed. “Here’s what I could find. Hope it’s enough.”
Russet hair dye, disposable brown contacts, varied cosmetics, cheap, thick trousers and a heavy sweater. “I can work with this. I’ve got an idea.”
“That’s good, because once you’re geared up, I have a lead on someone who supplies provisions to Braithwaite.”
There were no Noxblades left in Daruvar.
And Raff’s wife had gone to personally assassinate her political rival. What the fuck was wrong with the Eldritch anyway? He leashed a snarl, chained up his rage, when all he wanted to do was shift and track Thalia in wolf form. Fighting his instincts had never been so fucking tough.
He had only a rudimentary idea about the chain of command since he was supposed to be a damned consort, no actual power, but now suddenly, command of Daruvar’s forces had fallen into his lap. Questions about supplies, costs, and when to reorder, well, he knew even less about that shit, and there was a goddamned queue of people outside the strategy room waiting for his word.
Raff cast a helpless glance at Sky. “Can’t you help me out? I don’t even manage the
