“Aye.”
The old assassin smiled, hovered uncertainly. It was all Mia could do to stop herself from rising to hug him. But she held herself still, and he gathered up his walking stick, gave her a brief nod. Turning, he took a step toward the door, stopped short.
“’Byss and blood, I almost forgot.”
He reached into his greatcoat, proffered a small wooden box, sealed with tallow. Mia recognized the sigil scorched into the wood. Recalled the little store where the old man used to buy his cigarillos. Remembering the night he first let her smoke one. Sitting on the battlements above the forum. Dark all around. Hands shaking. Fingers stained with blood. Fourteen years old.
Don’t look.
“Black Dorian’s,” she smiled.
“Paper. Tobacco. Wood. It’ll all make the Walk. I remember that time you tried to quit. Figured it best you don’t run out in there.”
“Best not.” Mia took the box from his hand, her eyes stinging. “My thanks.”
“Watch your back. And your front.” He waved vaguely. “And the rest of it, too.”
“Always.”
The old man pulled his tricorn down, his collar up. And without another word, he limped from the taverna and out into the street. Mia watched him go, counting the minutes down in her head. Eyes on the old man’s back as he limped into the distance.
“They’ll ask you to do things, soon. Dark things. To prove your devotion.”
Mia rested her chin in her hands, lost in thought.
A rowdy pack of bucks was coming in from the street, dressed in the white armor and red cloaks of the Luminatii. The girl glanced up at the sound of their laughter, young faces and handsome smiles. Stationed this close to the Palazzo, they were probably all marrowborn sons. Pulling a few years in the legion to further their familia’s political ends. If things had gone different, she’d be betrothed to a boy like that, most like. Living a life of privilege and never stopping a moment to— “Pardon me,” said a voice.
Mia looked up, blinking. One of the Luminatii was standing above her. Lady-killer smile and a rich boy’s teeth.
“Forgive me, Mi Dona,” he bowed. “I couldn’t help noticing you sitting alone, and I thought it a crime against the Light itself. Might you permit me to join you?”
Mia’s hackles rippled, her fingers twitched. But realizing she appeared nothing more than a marrowborn girl out drinking alone, and remembering Aalea’s many and hard-learned lessons in charm, Mia smoothed her feathers and gave her best smile.
“O, that sounds lovely,” she said. “I’m honored, sir, but I’m afraid my mother is expecting me abed. Perhaps another time?”
“I trust your mother can spare you for one drink?” The boy raised a hopeful eyebrow. “I’ve not seen you in here before.”
“Apologies, sir.” Mia rose from the table. “But I really must be going.”
“Hold, now.” The boy blocked her way out of the booth. Eyes darkening.
Mia tried to quash her rising anger. Kept her voice steady. Stare downcast.
“Excuse me, sir, you’re in my way.”
“I’m just being friendly, girl.”
“Is that what you call it, sir?” Mia’s eyes flashed as her temper finally came out to play. “Others might say you’re being an arse.”
Anger blotched the boy’s face—the quick fury of a lad too used to getting his own way. He reached out with one gauntleted hand, seized Mia’s wrist, holding tight.
She could’ve broken his jaw, then. Buried her knee in his bollocks. Sat on his chest and wailed on his face until he learned not all girls were his sport. But that’d mark her as someone who knew the Song, and she was in a pub with half a dozen of his fellows, after all. And so she settled for twisting her arm as Mercurio had taught her, putting the boy off-balance and tearing free of his iron-shod grip.
The buttons at her cuff popped. Cloth tore. The sheathe at her wrist twisted and with the sound of snapping leather, Mia’s gravebone stiletto clattered to the floor.
A heavy hand clapped the back of the boy’s neck, a smoker’s voice growling.
“Leave the girl alone, Andio. We’re here to drink, not chase doves.”
The boy and Mia glanced over his shoulder, saw an older man in centurion’s armor looming behind the young soldier. He was a big man, his face scarred and grim.
“Forgive me, Centu—”
With a loud clunk, the centurion kicked the younger man in the backside and sent him on his way, folding his arms and scowling until the boy rejoined his comrades. The man was obviously a veteran, one eye covered by a dark leather patch. Satisfied, the centurion tapped the brim of his plumed helm, gave Mia an apologetic nod.
“Forgiveness for my man’s impertinence, Dona. No harm done, I hope?”
“No, sir,” Mia smiled, heart beating easier. “My thanks, Centurion.”
The man nodded, stooped, and lifted Mia’s stiletto off the floor. With a small bow, he proffered it on his forearm. The girl smiled wider, curtseyed with invisible skirts, and took the dagger from his hand. But as she slipped it back up her sleeve, the man’s gaze followed the blade, the crow carved on the hilt. A slow frown took seed on his brow.
Mia’s face paled.
O, Daughters …
She recognized him now. It’d been six years, but she’d not forgotten him. Leaning over the barrel she’d been stowed inside, with his pretty blue eyes and the smile of a fellow who choked puppies for sport.
“Maw’s teeth,” breathed the first. “She can’t be more than ten.”
“Never to see eleven.” A sigh. “Hold still, girl. This won’t hurt long.”
The centurion wasn’t smiling now.
Mia shuffled around the table, knocking over her empty cup. She tried another hasty curtsey and a quick walk to the door, but like the soldier before him, the centurion now blocked her way from the booth. Fingers creeping to the patch of leather, covering the eye she’d skewered with her gravebone stiletto all those years ago. Disbelief etched in his features.
“Can’t be …”
“Excuse me, sir.”
Mia tried to muscle past, but the centurion grabbed her arm, squeezing tight. Mia held her temper—barely—thinking she might still bluff her way through. Bolting like a frightened deer would cause attention. But the man twisted her arm, looked at the stiletto once more sheathed at her wrist. The crow on the hilt with its tiny amber eyes.
“Name of the Light …,” he breathed.
“Centurion Alberius?” called Mia’s scorned soldierboy. “Is all well?”
The centurion fixed Mia in his stare. Puppy-killer smile finally coming out to play.
“O, everything is well, all right,” he said.
Mia’s knee collided with the man’s groin, her elbow with his chin. The centurion cried out, helmet flying off his head as he toppled backward, and Mia was vaulting over his body on her way to the door. The legionaries took a moment to react, watching their commander drop like a whimpering sack of potatoes, but soon enough they barreled out into the street behind the fleeing girl. Mia heard whistles blowing behind her, furious shouts, running feet.
“Of all the pubs in Godsgrave,” she gasped. “What are the fucking odds?”
“… you did pick one right next to the palazzo …”