He had warned her to stay in good health and take pains to keep herself physically attractive. All Romani girls were expected to be beautiful and cold. The more mysterious and alluring, the higher the value to prospective buyers. She had dyed her unfashionably red hair and made it a brown instead, disguising the trait that might have revealed her fireblood. Her lifestyle in the woods had kept her fit and trim, and she wore her clothing tight deliberately. Other Finders sought out Evritt, not so much for his wisdom and experience but for a glimpse of his Romani-girl, Hettie. Some of the younger men had tried to win her eye. But her instructions from Kiranrao were plain. She was to be Tyrus’s undoing. She would be the one to trick him into revealing the blade’s hiding place.
She understood fully well that Evritt’s life was at stake if she did not comply with Kiranrao’s plans. He did not threaten the old man, but it was implied as surely as water freezing into ice during winter. He coached her in what to say, what to reveal, and what not to reveal. Just enough truth to flavor the stew. Not to ask for his money but for a way to prove herself worthy of his trust. She was furious with herself for even caring. What had her uncle ever done for her?
Tyrus had seemed genuinely pleased to see her, willing to help. Was it because he, as a man, simply could not resist helping a beautiful girl who had come to him for assistance? Kiranrao had warned her not to be fooled. Tyrus was not an emotional man. Yet he had seemed so convincing. He had summoned a Druidecht boy and claimed him to be her brother. They were as unlike as syrup and milk, yet there was a blood connection between them. She had felt it in Annon’s presence, just as she did in her uncle’s. They were family. Despite the lies, that mattered.
She had not expected to be sent to Havenrook to look for Drosta’s treasure. It was the last place she wanted to go, to be surrounded by Preachán and Romani and the hive of deceit. She suspected Kiranrao was startled to see her so soon as well, which was why he had summoned her to his table. The conversation they had with their hands masked completely the conversation they employed with their voices. Even their words had multiple meanings, meant to confuse and deceive Annon and Paedrin while giving Kiranrao the useful information he needed.
She warned him about the deaths on the road, of course, and the trouble that would come. She had told Paedrin and Annon that the men hiding in the trees were Romani and had exaggerated her hatred to add conviction to her ruse, but, of course, she never would have willingly killed a Romani man. She knew they were all Preachán and their lives were worth little more than the money they gambled with. She had given the Preachán on the wagon a subtle hand sign to see if he would let them pass, but he had either not noticed it or was stupid enough he didn’t care.
Hettie sighed deeply. Paedrin and all his chatter and talk. His entire outlook on life was almost comical. Just walk away from the Romani. The imprisonment was only in her mind. She wanted to believe him. But how could she expect him to understand that defying them would mean she would never have a moment’s peace the rest of her life? Every crust of bread, every swallow of wine could contain monkshood. Just enough to kill her and anyone else eating with her. She would spend her days in mortal suspense, wondering which dish would be her last.
If it was freedom she truly wanted, only Kiranrao could ensure it. And he wanted the blade Iddawc. All of his thoughts were bent toward locating it and claiming it as his own. The most powerful weapon forged by a Paracelsus. A weapon that would not lose its power in a thousand years. Kiranrao did not want it in the hands of a Kishion. He wanted it for himself.
She wondered if she should stop by the temple and see how Paedrin was faring when she arrived. Her uncle’s task to find the bag would be ridiculously simple. All she needed to do was show her carnotha, ask the right question, and all of Kiranrao’s resources would be put to her use. If someone had found it already, they would be able to trace it and give it to her. If not, every thief in the city would be scrambling for a chance to do Kiranrao a favor. All she needed to do was wait the appropriate amount of time, to make the discovery seem convincing, and then travel to Silvandom with the missing stones.
Her uncle had given her the clue to finding him again. That alone would be worth a sizable fortune from Kiranrao. And the assignment to bring the bag of stones would give her a reasonable excuse to approach him again, to win his trust.
There was a strain in her heart as the kettle of emotions rattled again, surging with the force of shame and guilt. She refused to let the contents leak out. It was a vicious world. Every day, people were murdered for nothing more precious than a fistful of ducats. The more ducats, the better the chance of surviving the next bout of Plague.
She wondered if that was the real reason Kiranrao wanted her near him so much. She had the fireblood. It was said that those with it could never be harmed by the Plague. Was there some distant connection between her ancestors and the origins of the Scourgelands? Some riddle remaining with no one living who knew the answer to it?