At that moment the door opened. Ambrose whirled round, but it wasn’t Noyes’s men that entered.
Ambrose was struck by how old his father looked: smaller, weathered, and wrinkled, not the vibrant, strong man Ambrose remembered from just a few months earlier. The death of one child and the exile of another might do that to a man, he supposed.
Ambrose bowed. “Father.”
His father entered the room, closing the door silently behind him. “It’s many years since I’ve sneaked around these halls at night, but I can still do it.” He approached Ambrose. “So, it takes the king and Noyes’s men to bring you back to Tarasenth.”
“No, Father. My behavior last time we met brought me here. I wanted to apologize for what I said in Brigane. It was foolish and cruel, and I’m sorry. And I’m sorry to have brought danger to you and Tarquin and anyone in Norwend.”
“Foolish indeed. I tried to warn you, but you wouldn’t listen. Your recent troubles are a consequence of your behavior at Anne’s . . . the execution.”
“And as a consequence of having a tyrant as king.”
Norwend bristled. “With an attitude like that . . .” His face softened. “But let’s not go down that road again. Your brother tells me you’re bound for Pitoria. Perhaps your idealism will fare better there.”
“Perhaps. At least, I hope no one will try to kill me for it.”
The silence stretched. Ambrose didn’t know what else to say. Perhaps there was nothing more to say.
“I must go. The longer I stay, the more danger I bring.”
His father frowned. “You’re a good soldier, Ambrose, and you’ll be a fine man one day. Remember, the world does change. Perhaps one day you will be able to return here to Tarasenth. This is your home, and whatever happens, you are my son.”
And to Ambrose’s surprise his father opened his arms to be embraced. Ambrose went to him and held him. “Farewell. Remember, your brother and I care much for you.”
Ambrose turned to Tarquin and hugged him hard, but Tarquin smiled and pushed him off, saying, “You don’t need to say good-bye to me yet. I’m coming with you.”
TASH
DORNAN, PITORIA
TASH ENTERED the Black Bat Inn and made her way to the corner table where Gravell sat alone, eating an enormous steak. A tankard of beer stood close by. Tash stopped at a safe distance to assess his reaction. Gravell’s eyes roamed the room as he chewed, and then his chewing stopped. His eyes were on her as he stabbed the steak with his fork, then cut at it as if he was sawing off a limb.
Tash thought this looked pretty promising: he hadn’t shouted or thrown the knife at her.
She’d been lurking around the edge of the fair, giving Gravell time to calm down, but she’d quickly become bored and also realized that the chances of her getting her beautiful gray boots were precisely nil unless she made up with Gravell. So she’d gone to retrieve his boots and managed to recover the one she’d hurled into a particularly stinking outhouse. The other one, which she’d thrown into the road, had disappeared.
Tash moved closer to the table slowly, as one might approach an injured bear. Gravell did look like a bear, but not so much injured as angry. She stood opposite him, keeping the table and a reasonable distance between them, and a clear route out of the inn directly behind her. Gravell stared at her, clutching his knife in his fist, the blade pointing up from the table.
Tash held up the item she’d retrieved from the outhouse and said, “Your boot.”
Gravell’s face twitched.
“I looked for the other one, but I couldn’t find it.”
“Fuck my boots. Where’s my bottle?”
Gravell’s hand slammed on the table, and his plate and steak jumped.
“What?”
“Don’t play the innocent with me.”
“But . . . you mean . . . the bottle of smoke?”
“Don’t shout it out to the world! What do you think I mean, a bottle of pruka?”
“It’s gone?”
Gravell shook his head. “I trusted you, I did. Thought we were partners. Didn’t think you’d steal off me.”
“But I didn’t. I wouldn’t steal from you.”
“Didn’t have you down as a liar or a thief.”
“I’m not either! I haven’t got your . . . bottle—our bottle. I took your boots.”
“So it seems you are a thief then.”
“Well . . . that’s not . . . Look, I took the boots ’cause you were being unfair, but I’d never take the smoke, I mean bottle. You know me, Gravell. I wouldn’t do that.”
“I thought I knew you.”
Tash edged closer to Gravell. “Did it disappear while you were in the bathhouse chasing me?”
Gravell didn’t say yes, didn’t say no; he just looked mean. Tash continued, “Well, I think I know what’s happened. When you stepped out of the compartment after me, someone went in there and took the smoke.”
“Or you took it and you’re too scared to admit it.”
“Honestly, Gravell, I wouldn’t.”
“Honesty doesn’t seem to be one of your strengths, missy.”
“Look, you wait here. I’ll go to the bathhouse and ask if they saw anyone looking suspicious.”
Gravell snorted. “Why don’t you go and ask the sheriff for help while you’re at it?”
“Well, if anyone tries to sell it, then everyone knows we’re the only demon hunters around here, so . . .”
“So all the people who buy smoke are such honest, law-abiding people they’re bound to come and tell me about it.” Gravell glared at her.
“Well, they know not to cross you.”
“Someone stole off me! They crossed me! I don’t know who, but when I get my hands on him—or her—I’ll . . .” He hacked again at his steak.
“Look, I’ll ask around. Someone must know something. But you do believe I didn’t take it, don’t you?”
“Yes, I believe you,” growled Gravell. “But that bottle’s gone because of your antics, missy. Get me the name of the person who took it and I’ll think about forgiving you.” Gravell pointed his knife at Tash. “You’d better sort this out, or our partnership is off for good.”
EDYON
DORNAN, PITORIA
EDYON RELAXED in the bath after Gravell left, dozing in the warm water that never seemed to cool. He felt not just clean but reinvigorated. His tooth was still a little sore, and definitely loose, but his body no longer ached. He could believe that was due to the warmth of the water, but his lumps and bruises had completely gone, and his skin was glowing and smooth as a newborn baby’s. Warm water alone can’t do that, he mused.
Edyon dressed in his clean, dry clothes, wrapped the smoke bottle in a fresh towel, and then covered it with his leather jacket. Tucking that under his arm and checking that the purple glow from the smoke couldn’t be seen, he left the bathhouse. If the sheriff’s men caught him with demon smoke, he’d be in serious trouble. Demon smoke was illegal as well as expensive; possession of it alone would mean twenty lashes and a year’s hard labor.
Edyon worried at his loose tooth as he walked. He’d told himself he’d never steal again. But stealing wasn’t a decision; it was a . . . a compulsion. The need to take the bottle, to possess it, had seized him as simply and as strongly as it always did. He couldn’t explain it any more than he could have explained his need to take a picture frame or a silver ship. And while his body felt good, his mind now followed the path it always did after he had stolen—a troubled one.