He draws a breath and says, “Kiki.”
I have the funny thought about what it might be like if he knew my true name. How the shape of it on his lips would look, sound... I shake myself from the thought as another one lands. How did the demon at work know my name?
Trotter holds my gaze as though listening to words I’m not saying and then with a warm, twinkling smile says, “I’ve known Soren since he was,” he holds his hand at his waist, “about this big.”
“I was never that small,” Soren jokes.
“No, I suppose you weren’t. His father and I used to sail together. That was a long, long time ago.”
“He looked after me until I was,” Soren holds his hand up, indicating about my height, “This tall.”
“I’m still looking after you, my boy. I promised your father.” He claps Soren on the shoulder. “Unless you want to take over,” Trotter says to me with a wink.
“I’m here to play tiles,” Soren says, getting down to business.
“To what purpose?” Trotter asks as though he’s well versed in hidden agendas.
“To keep the patrol at a distance.”
Trotter surveys Soren. “Why would you need to do that?”
“The usual reasons,” Soren answers.
Trotter turns to me as though the vague answer suffices. “You came from the north?” he asks.
“New York,” I say. “
We’re seeking the ravens and a mage,” Soren whispers.
If the shifting of Trotter’s eyes indicates surprise, it’s fleeting. “Then you must be hungry,” he says as though understanding exactly what we’re up to. This place seems like it deals in shady endeavors and breaking into the guard’s barracks definitely qualifies.
“Always,” Soren says with a grin.
“Then we’ll make sure you leave here with full bellies and pockets.” He nods in the direction of the table as though satisfied with Soren’s explanation.
Soren takes a seat and in short order, he’s casting the white stones, carved with strange markings.
A bowl of stew appears in front of me along with a chunk of warm bread with a thick crust and a lump of cheese on the side. “We save this for special guests,” Trotter says, sitting down next to me.
“I’m not that special but thank you.”
He glances from Soren whose profile reveals ease as he leans back in his chair. “I daresay you are.”
“I can’t accept this meal though. There are so many hungry people here.” Guilt grips me tightly.
“Soren wouldn’t have come tonight unless this was important. You’ll need your strength. Go on. Have a bite. Let me know if you like it. Secret family recipe.”
I take a spoonful and the smooth broth warms me instantly. I smile.
“That’s a girl. This stew is what grew him up so big. Put a bit of hair on his chest too.”
I chuckle.
“Under his tough exterior, Soren has become a good man. Good as he can be growing up here, losing so much so young. I’ve always known he’ll do something great just not when.” With a sideward glance in my direction, he adds, “Seems the time has come.”
We watch the tile game in amicable silence as Soren pools a small pile of dukhs in front of him. I don’t quite follow the rules of play, only cheer when Soren does, which happens frequently when he matches his stone to that of another player.
Trotter excuses himself with a genial smile. Before his seat cools, a man with a sallow, thin face saunters over.
“Hey, sweetheart,” he says as his gaze lengthens from my head to my feet in a devouring sort of way. I recognize his brand of flirting is meant to flatter and find weakness. “I haven’t seen you before. This tavern can be trouble. Maybe you’d like to spend some time at my table and I’ll look after you. Show you some sugar.”
Nasty. I fight the urge to barf in my mouth. “Hey, sweetheart?” I ask with an edge to my voice. I may not have frequented taverns or bars back home but that doesn’t mean I can’t spot slop like him.
“I’m Krebs. Can I get you a mug of cider?” He makes a move to pull me to him.
“Can I get you a clue, Crabs?” I counter as I shove myself back.
His eyebrows wrinkle. “A clue?”
“I’ll clarify. A clue in this instance means no. One word. Full-sentence. Not interested.”
His expression darkens and he leers, licking his lips.
I get to my feet, squaring off.
“Feisty,” he breathes.
“Deadly,” I correct, pulling my blade from its sheath.
He holds up his hands. “Okay, okay. I get the picture, sweetheart.”
I lean in. “Do you? Because there’s nothing sweet about me unless you’d like me to carve out whatever lump of coal beats in your chest.”
At that, he backs off and returns to his table.
A young woman with freckles popping from under coal-smudged cheeks slams down a metal cup between us. My spoon rattles against the empty bowl. “I was going to intervene, but see you can take care of yourself.”
“Not the first time I’ve come across dumb buckets, but usually they’re demon shape.”
“You here with him?” she asks in a gruff voice, eying the tile table.
“Soren?” I nod.
She takes a long sip from the cup and then passes it to me. “In that case, finish this off. You’ll need it.” She pulls off her cap, releasing a cascade of dark copper curls, and sits down. Two blades rest in her belt. A bow and quiver of arrows are across her back.
“How do you know Soren?”
“The good, the bad, and the bitter know Soren Blackthorne,” she says. “The question isn’t why they know him, but what they want from him. And I have to ask, what do you want from him?”
“Are you good, bad, or bitter?”
