Ginny, he thought to himself, using his wife’s name as a mantra to clear his addled head. Ginny, Ginny, Ginny …
“A very specific man,” the woman clarified, and the men who’d stood sat down, abashed. “His name is Matrick Skulldrummer, formerly the king of Agria.”
Clay spared Jain a quick glance. Whatever spell the newcomer had cast over the denizens of the Back Door—and Clay was certain that was the case—the brigand had managed to shrug it off. In fact she looked positively terrified, and mouthed something to Clay that might have been lock spoor, or maybe look spry—Clay had no idea which.
If this woman was looking explicitly for Matrick, however, it meant the bounty belonged to Lilith. But if the queen thought a single hunter—even one fearsome enough to unsettle Jain—was capable of reclaiming Matrick from Saga’s grasp then she was seriously underestimating … well, Ganelon. She was underestimating Ganelon.
The woman at the door went on speaking. “The king was kidnapped by his old bandmates. There is a reward offered to any who provide information on Skulldrummer’s whereabouts, or any other member of the band called Saga.”
“What sort of reward?” someone asked.
The bounty hunter fixed her gaze on the speaker, a blond-bearded fellow with swirling tattoos across his forehead. She advanced slowly toward him. Her heavy boots clanked on the wooden floorboards with every step. Reaching out, she placed the tip of one black-taloned finger beneath his chin, lifting his face as she lowered her own, until they were so close it looked as though they might kiss. Absurdly, Clay felt a stab of jealousy at the thought.
“My eternal gratitude,” she purred, and the man whimpered like a dog. “And, in case that’s not incentive enough, Queen Lilith of Agria has offered the sum of one hundred courtmarks to whosoever helps facilitate his … safe return. My little birds tell me that he and his friends have been spotted here in Conthas.”
There was a moment of brief chatter, during which Jain whispered across the table at Clay. “Run, you fool.”
Clay would have loved nothing more than to slip out unnoticed, but he and Ganelon weren’t exactly an unremarkable pair. The moment they stood, they’d be spotted.
The bounty hunter was listing off the names of Saga’s members as she stalked toward the bar. “Golden Gabe. Ganelon. Clay Cooper, better known as Slowhand …” She was standing with her back to the room, and so didn’t see a dozen men raise their hands, every one of them looking at Clay and salivating at the prospect of whatever they imagined her “eternal gratitude” might entail.
The bench beneath him creaked as Ganelon shifted his weight, preparing to fight. Or run. But probably fight—this was Ganelon, after all.
The woman went on. “Arcandius Moog …”
“Here!”
Clay looked to the door—everyone did—and there was the wizard, hat in hand, ghoul in tow, smiling and waving at the woman who’d said his name.
Chapter Twenty-eight
Larkspur
The red-robed monk reacted first. He withdrew a small knife from somewhere and flicked it toward the wizard in the doorway. Kit, who’d drawn his sheet over his head to serve as a hood, lurched into its path.
The blade punched through the pallid flesh of his chest, and the ghoul glanced down, frowning as though he’d found a stain on his favourite sweater. “Oh, dear. That’s going to leave a hole.”
Clay and Ganelon launched themselves from the bench. Clay barrelled down the aisle, intent on tackling the monk, who was staring curiously at Kit. Ganelon mounted the table, scattering bowls and spilling cups as he pounded down its length. He ducked under a slanting beam and then leapt at the woman standing by the bar.
She grinned, turned a half step to her right, and spread her wings.
They were beautiful, black feathered, and powerful enough to knock Ganelon on his ass. Clay had a moment in which to feel exceptionally stupid for mistaking folded wings for a feathered cloak before he reached the monk, who turned and got a faceful of Blackheart. He sailed backward, unconscious before he hit the floorboards.
At the door, Kit plucked the knife from his chest and examined it. “Tipped with poison,” he announced. “A paralytic, actually. This wasn’t intended to kill.”
“I don’t care about its intent.” Moog was frantic. “That thing could have put my eye out!”
Ganelon, meanwhile, was only halfway to his feet when the woman’s metal boot crunched into his face. She kicked him again in the gut as he lay sprawling. His hand moved mechanically toward the haft of Syrinx, but the woman stamped his arm to the floor and pinned it there.
“You must be Ganelon,” she said. “I thought you’d be … older.”
“Who the fuck are you?” he asked through bloodied teeth.
She drew a sword from her back and lowered its tip to his throat. “My name is Larkspur,” she told him, “and I’m the last woman you’ll ever love.”
An arrow skimmed past the long feathers at the end of one wing, thudding harmlessly into a keg behind the bar. She and Clay both looked to Jain, who had another arrow already to string.
Larkspur tsked and shook her head. “You’re a terrible shot, my dear.”
“Am I?” Jain snarled. “Care to find out?”
“Jain—” Clay started, but she cut him off.
“Get out of here, Slowhand. Leave the manhunter to us.” To their credit, the Silk Arrows looked prepared to back Jain up on that. Every one of them had a weapon to hand, even if they looked a little in awe of their opponent.
“Manhunter …” Larkspur looked as though she was savouring the word. “I’ve always loved that name.” She turned her eyes on Clay and he felt his blood rise. “I only need Matrick. The rest of you are none of my concern.”
“He’s not here,” Clay said. “And he’s not going back to Agria in any case. Tell Lilith she can choose a new king.”
Larkspur laughed softly; the sound set butterflies to flight in Clay’s gut. “Oh, she already has. Pretty as Glif, he is. Strong as an ox and just as smart. Matrick’s return is merely a formality. I imagine she’ll charge him with treason and have him killed.”
Clay didn’t bother pointing out the injustice in that. This woman hardly seemed the sort to concern herself with moral trivialities. “Well, that sure as fuck ain’t happening, so how about we go our way and you go yours. You’re outnumbered anyway.”
“Am I?” she asked, echoing Jain’s earlier query with the same dangerous implication. “Care to find out?”
Clay remembered the raised hands when she’d called his name before. A quick look around told him all he needed to know, and the news wasn’t good: smitten grins and mooning eyes adorned the face of every man in the room.
You know what would come in real handy right now? asked a voice in his head that sounded an awful lot like Matrick. A horn that vomits bees.
Luckily, Moog came up with something else instead. He produced a glass alchemical globe from his bag and hurled it over Clay’s head. Larkspur ducked aside without letting her foot off Ganelon, and the globe smashed against the bar behind her.
There was no explosion. No puff of colourful smoke. Clay looked from Moog to the bar and back again. “Uh … thanks?” he murmured.
The wizard winked slyly. “You’re welcome.”
Larkspur chuckled. “Tell you what,” she said. “Ganelon and I will stay here and get to know each other while you run and find the king.” She giggled again, then frowned.
Ganelon gave a throaty laugh. “I’d rather get to know the ass end of an owlbear.”
“What’s an owlbear?” asked Larkspur, evidently amused, because she was grinning from ear to ear.
Clay heard a snort, and looked to see Jain trying to keep her bow steady. A few titters escaped the girls behind her, and some of the men on the opposite side of the room laughed as well, for no apparent reason whatsoever.