Michel tried to work some moisture back into his mouth. “Who is Mara?”
“What?” Ichtracia blinked at him, looking genuinely confused. Perhaps he had misheard the word. His inexperience with the language had defeated him, and now he’d asked a question that could arouse her suspicion. Too damn late now.
“Who is Mara?” he asked again. “I heard Sedial say the name.”
Ichtracia still seemed baffled. This was certainly not the question she’d expected him to voice. “It’s not a name.” Michel’s mind began to turn faster, trying to fit pieces into place in the hope that this new information might help him find Taniel’s informant. Until Ichtracia continued. “It’s not exactly a name. I’m Mara. It’s an old word—a pet name that Sedial has used for me since I was a little girl.”
Michel began to pace immediately, the near panic of earlier blowing into a full panic now. She was Mara. The goddamned nickname of a Privileged, and Taniel hadn’t thought that either of those bits of information were important? Did he think that leaving out the Privileged bit was the only way to convince Michel to take the job? That otherwise Michel would have gotten out of the city as fast as his feet could carry him?
Because he was damned well right.
“Why do you want to know about that name?” Ichtracia asked, taking a step toward him.
Michel took the same step back, edging toward the door. He’d spent three days with her now, and he suddenly didn’t recognize her anymore. It terrified him almost as much as those gloves sitting on the nightstand. “I have to go.”
“What? No. Answer my question.”
Michel glanced at the gloves, then at Ichtracia’s face. “Yaret needs me right now,” he said with more confidence than he felt, heading for the front door.
CHAPTER 50
It took a day to set up the duel. Vlora stayed in a back room of Burt’s brothel, nursing the cuts on her hands and only leaving once, to send a secure courier to Olem with instructions to inch the army closer to Yellow Creek.
The morning brought a cold wind sweeping down from the mountains, chilling Vlora through her clothes as she stepped outside with an entourage that included Burt and fifty of his armed posse. Most of them were Palo, but more than a few were Kressian or Gurlish. The sun wasn’t even above the trees yet, and traffic was sparse. Children lined the rooftops, watching them pass, and Vlora guessed that word about this duel had spread.
They walked down the main road, passing the hotel where Vlora had spent the first week of her stay. The fidgety manager stood on the stoop, eyes glued to the procession. They kept onward, finally turning off the street and entering a dusty park, where a public gallows stood ominously creaking in the wind. The corner of the park was full of tombstones.
Men and women lined the other side of the park, all of them similarly well armed, and they outnumbered Burt’s people by at least a dozen. Nohan stood at the center of the group beside a dark-skinned Deliv woman in a corseted crimson dress. She was dressed more like a courtesan at a dinner party than someone out early in the morning to watch two people fight to the death.
Vlora leaned over to Burt. “Is that Jezzy in the red dress?” she asked.
“That’s her.” Burt puffed on a cigar. He wore a dashing brown suit, complete with cane and bowler cap, and he, too, seemed to be treating this as a matter of entertainment rather than dire consequence.
“Does she know what I am?”
Burt grinned around his cigar. “She has no idea. She bet her best gold mine against seven of my smaller claims without batting an eye. Either she knows something I don’t, or she doesn’t know that I know her man is a mage.” He looked skyward, as if making sure the order of the sentence sounded right, then nodded to himself. “Whoever wins, this is going to be a lot more interesting than she expects.”
So Burt was betting against the house. It didn’t surprise Vlora, not much, but she was slightly annoyed at how cavalier he was about this thing. He might lose a handful of small claims, but she could be dead in ten minutes.
Vlora eyed the armed men. “Is this going to turn into a battle?”
“It shouldn’t. The deputies are steering clear this morning, but nobody wants a real confrontation. This is just a bit of fun.”
“And all the weapons?”
“Precaution.”
Vlora eyed Nohan. He didn’t look great. He still limped from their tussle, and his arms seemed stiff. He didn’t look like he’d gotten much more sleep than she had—probably he’d been out hunting her each of the last few nights. She had little question that he was running a damned powerful powder trance.
Vlora was confident, but she knew that being too confident could get her killed. This was a trained powder mage who delighted in killing. He was bigger, stronger, and just as fast. Even if she won, she was unlikely to leave this fight unscathed.
She tested the tightness of the stitches Burt’s surgeon had redone on her arms, knowing that she’d probably rip them all out. Taking a powder charge between her fingers, she crushed the paper and reached up her sleeve to rub the powder beneath her bandages, feeling the fire as it reached her bloodstream. She took another charge and sniffed it, turning away from the others lest Jezzy see the act and try to cancel the duel.
She had Nohan out in the open. This had to end now.
Burt checked his pocket watch, then twirled it on the end of its chain. “It’s time, ma’am,” he told Vlora.
“Agreed.”
She and Burt went to the middle of the park, where they were soon joined by Jezzy and Nohan. Jezzy gave them both a toothy, charming smile. “My friends,” she began.
“Can it, Jezzy,” Burt replied pleasantly. “This is the woman you tried to have killed when she wouldn’t work with you.”
Jezzy lifted her chin, looking down her nose at Vlora. “Is that so? The one whose friend killed poor Dorner? Pity, that. Dorner was always a loyal dog. Does your champion have a name?”
“Verundish,” Vlora answered.
“Verundish.” Jezzy rolled the name around on her tongue. “Nohan says he knows you. Is that true?”
“We have a history.”
Jezzy’s smile broadened. “I’m glad we’re here to let you work out your problems. Do you know what Nohan is, little lady? He’s a powder mage. You sure you want to fight him?” Jezzy scrunched up her face, wiggling her nose, her eyes smiling.
“Powder mages are all fluff,” Vlora said, staring at Nohan. The bastard hadn’t even warned his boss what he was up against. What a weaseling asshole.
“If you insist,” Jezzy said. “Now, then, Burt. Are we agreed on the terms?”
“Your mine. My claims. Straight out bet with Kresimir and all gathered as my witness.”
Jezzy’s eyes flicked up to the armed men Burt had brought with him. “And no funny business?”
“None coming from me.” Burt puffed on his cigar, then extended his hand. The two shook. He leaned over to Vlora. “Don’t make me a poorer man, Lady Flint,” he whispered. Then he retreated back to the other side of the park.
It was the first time he’d outright stated that he knew who she was. Vlora tried not to let it bother her, watching as Jezzy retreated as well, leaving Vlora and Nohan alone. She couldn’t sense any powder on him, and had left hers with Burt. She wanted to focus on this without having to worry about him trying to detonate her powder, and he’d obviously felt the same.
“Just a couple of powder mages,” Vlora said. “High as Gurlish sandriders with a pair of swords between them. This should be fun, don’t you think?”
Nohan glared at her. “I’m not here for fun. I’m here to win back my pride.”
“I’m not sure you had any to begin with,” Vlora said, drawing her sword. Her mentor had always taught her to kill in cold blood—to set aside the quips and the insults and to let her sword talk for her. Vlora, however, was not Tamas. “You’re an asshole, Nohan. You should just have accepted it and tried to rein in your lust for blood. You would have gotten a lot farther in life.”