Another fit of mirth overcame Larkspur. She managed a bemused glare at the wizard before it consumed her. She threw her head back, cackling wildly. Ganelon rolled free of her boot, but even he was chuckling as he crawled away.
The broken globe. Clay now understood. This is Moog’s doing. He could smell it now, a scent like raw sugar left to burn on an iron skillet. Clay couldn’t recall the concoction’s name, but he could remember the wizard using it at least twice before: once so the band could escape a Phantran prison, and again to liven up what turned out to be the most hilarious funeral he’d ever attended.
“Wait by the door,” said Kit, brushing past him. “I’ll grab your friend.”
Clay nodded. “Jain, get your girls out of here.”
The ex-brigand was too overcome by glee to heed his words, but a pair of Silk Arrows braced her between them and escorted her out.
By now everyone sitting or standing near the bar was laughing uproariously. Kit, who was unaffected by the gaseous content of the broken globe, groaned as he hefted Ganelon to his feet. “Grooms of Tamarat! You’re as heavy as a stone!”
Ganelon, who had been a statue these last nineteen years, found that remark positively hilarious. He giggled maniacally—a sound as incongruous to Clay as a troll reciting poetry—and slapped the ghoul on the back, which nearly toppled them both.
Clay stole a last glance at Larkspur before he bolted out the door. The woman was doubled over, bracing herself against the bar as fits of laughter racked her body. Her wings shuddered, loosing a storm of black feathers over the chaos of the common room. Her eyes locked onto him as she raised one arm, leveling the point of her sword at his chest. Despite the absurdity of her condition Clay felt his soul shrink away from the malevolence in her glare.
Jain was on her knees in the street. “Who ever heard of a fucking owlbear!?” she howled. “What even is that?”
Moog looked harried. “It’s a real thing,” he muttered, and Kit patted him consolingly on the shoulder.
It took a few seconds for Clay to notice Gabriel standing among them, a heavy pack over each shoulder. He was gaping at Ganelon as though the man had grown horns.
“What’s the matter with him?” Gabe asked.
“I’ll tell you on the way,” said Clay. Glancing up the street he spotted a cluster of men wearing the same red robes as Larkspur’s pet monk. He knelt by Jain and touched her shoulder. The woman who’d robbed him twice and who’d probably just saved his life wiped tears from her eyes. “Thank you,” he told her.
She snorted and laughed in his face, but she managed a nod.
Clay stood, wincing at the ache in his lower back. The Silk Arrows were watching him, a few of them beset by snickers of their own. “Get her out of here,” he said. “And good luck with the centaurs up in Coverdale. You girls are gonna make one hell of a band.”
A few of them accosted Clay for handshakes and brief hugs before melting away, as deft at hiding in city streets as they were in a wooded forest—even better, perhaps, considering their garish attire. When they’d vanished Clay relieved Gabriel of one pack and prodded him toward the western gate. “We need to run,” he insisted.
Moog, who was already scampering ahead, called back over his shoulder. “Forget running,” he shouted, “it’s time to fly!”
Kallorek was in a mood when they got back. Matrick had him tied to a chair and was seated opposite, sipping something that wasn’t wine from a wineglass and smiling placidly as the booker raged.
“I’ll pop your fucking eyes out and eat them with cheese! I’ll have you flayed and salted! I’ll turn your skin to jerky and feed it to dogs. I’ll feed it to rotters and feed them to dogs!”
Matrick raised his glass as the others entered. “Welcome back. Kal and I were just catching up.” He took one look at Ganelon, still beset by an irrepressible fit of high-pitched giggles, and his jaw dropped. He immediately looked to Moog. “What did you do to him?”
“He got a lungful of Jackal’s Jest,” the wizard explained. “Things got a little hairy in Conthas.”
“You’re a wanted man, by the way,” Clay said to Matrick.
The king paled a shade or two. “Lilith knows I’m alive?”
“If she didn’t before we wrecked the Maxithon, she does now,” Clay told him. “She’s hired a bounty hunter. A woman named—”
“Larkspur.”
Clay blinked. “Yeah, that’s her. She’s … bad news,” he concluded.
Matrick nodded. “Oh, she’s bad news, all right. I was afraid Lilith might resort to this. We hired Larkspur a few years back to track down a servant who’d stolen some of Lilith’s jewellery. She found him right quick, cut his hands off, and carved thief onto his forehead with a knife. It was almost a mercy when Lilith had him executed.”
Ganelon sniggered as if Matrick had told a bawdy joke.
“Moog.” Gabe tilted his head at the warrior. “Would you mind …?”
“Ah, sure.” The wizard took Ganelon by the shoulder and steered him toward the hallway. “Come on, big guy. Let’s go up top and get some air.”
When they’d left Clay turned to Matrick. “So what is she, exactly?”
The old rogue shrugged, perplexed.
“She’s a daeva,” said Kit.
“Which is …?” Gabe prompted.
The revenant shrugged, which set something—a rib, perhaps—rattling inside him. “Just that. Daevas are daevas. I have no idea where they come from, but aside from their wings—”
“Wait, she has wings?” asked Gabriel, but then raised his hand. “Never mind. You were saying?”
“Yes, well, aside from their wings, the daeva also possess a certain … charisma. Compulsion, I think, would be a better term for it.”
“You mean they can control people?” Clay inquired, relieved to know there’d been a justifiable reason behind his curious infatuation with the woman in the bar.
“Essentially, yes,” said Kit. “Their mere presence, or so I’ve heard, is enough to induce a mild fascination. Should one of them make a real effort to charm you … I suppose a strong mind might resist, of course, but a weak one …” He scratched at a bloodless gash across his throat. “I’ve heard of daevas commanding small armies of besotted thralls, ready and willing to carry out their bidding.”
“So what about our daeva?” Gabe wanted to know. “Larkspur, was it?”
Kallorek grunted a laugh, but a glare from Matrick settled him quick.
“Larkspur, yes. Although she once went by the name of Sabbatha,” Kit told them. “There are a number of songs about her. Most of them quite dark, as you can imagine. I’d be more than happy to sing a few, if you’d like?”
“Just tell us,” said Gabe, impatience clouding his tone.
The ghoul did something that might have been a sigh had there been breath in his body. “Most recount a troubled birth, a tumultuous childhood. A bloody one, even.”
Reasonable enough, thought Clay. Considering kids would tease one another for something so trivial as a haircut, or a simple stutter, he could only imagine that having a pair of black-feathered wings might draw the ire of other children—and the ire of children could be cruel indeed.
“At any rate,” said Kit, “she ended up at Taliskard, which was once a fortress and was then a secluded monastery renowned for breaking the spirits of troubled young girls.”
“Great job, guys,” Matrick scoffed.
The ghoul adjusted the drape of his bedsheet garment. “Indeed, Larkspur—or Sabbatha, as she was called at that time—proved too tough a nut to crack. There was an incident with the headmaster—something about him castrating himself in the bathtub—and before long she staged a revolt, took control of the fortress, and used it as a staging ground when she became a mercenary.”
“She was a merc?” asked Clay.
“Briefly, yes,” Kit affirmed. “And it was around this time she cast off her old name and became Larkspur. But it’s said she grew tired of fighting monsters, and had no desire to enter the arena, so she turned her sights upon a more unpredictable quarry.”
“People,” said Gabriel.
“Exactly.”
“And now she’s hunting us,” Clay muttered.
Kit grimaced. “I’m afraid so.”