“It just means that you’re comfortable enough around me to speak freely. I’m glad of it.”
He’d thrown a cloak over his livery to disguise his affiliation with the Palace, and the two of them strolled down the street like any other couple. A silk vendor waved a gold scarf to get Kyra’s attention. “It will bring out the warm tones of your skin, lovely lady.” When she ignored him, the silk vendor turned his efforts to Tristam. “Young Lord, get your lady a scarf to match her beauty.”
Kyra chuckled. The merchant’s honeyed words would have been more convincing if he hadn’t said the same thing to every other person walking down the street.
The silk merchant’s voice echoed after them. “You’re a feisty pair of young lovers. I can tell that you adore each other.”
Kyra’s laugh trailed off, and she took an involuntary glance at Tristam. The street vendor’s words rattled in her mind. Feisty? She supposed she’d been called that before. Young? That was certainly true. But lovers?
Six weeks ago, after they’d been released by the Makvani, the two of them had shared a kiss. It didn’t take much effort at all to conjure the memory of his arms around her that night, or the tingle on her skin as they’d leaned their faces close. But that had been one moment in the forest, when they didn’t know what the future held. Now they were back in the city, and things felt less clear. Tristam was the son of a noble house, and she was a pardoned criminal. How could a stolen kiss in the forest stand against that? After weeks of working together under Malikel, they were comfortable with each other, even flirted on occasion. But things remained…uncertain.
As they continued walking, the lively trappings of the merchant circle gave way to the blackened walls of the fire-burned district, the part of the city that had been destroyed in the Demon Rider raid orchestrated by James. The streets were lined with charred frames. A few of the ruins had been torn down, and some of the poor had set up tents and lean-tos in the burnt-out buildings. The air still smelled faintly of charcoal, and though the ash was gone, Kyra couldn’t shake the impression that breathing too deeply would clog her nose with blackened dust.
“It doesn’t look much different from before, does it?” said Kyra. “There’s been some rebuilding near the merchant sector, but not down here.”
“The landlords are likely waiting for the city to clean it up,” said Tristam. “The first person to rebuild has to also clean the wells and unclog the gutters. Nobody wants to do that.”
“It would only take a crew of Red Shields a couple weeks to clean everything,” said Kyra.
“That sounds about right,” said Tristam. Neither mentioned the obvious, that the Council hadn’t seen fit to use its soldiers this way.
Their path didn’t take them directly by the ruins of The Drunken Dog, for which Kyra was grateful. Her friend Bella, who had been like a mother to her, had died after the fire overtook the tavern, and Kyra didn’t want to dwell on the loss today. She sped up her steps as they neared the vicinity of her old home and didn’t stop until it was far behind her. Tristam kept pace with her and didn’t comment.
Finally, they came to a place where the houses stood intact, though they were still marked by smoke. The beggars along the street became more numerous, and soon Kyra and Tristam neared a corner where she recognized other Palace men. All of them, like Tristam, wore plain cloaks to hide their Palace livery. In addition to Kyra and Tristam, there were three Red Shields and Sir Rollan, a knight new to Malikel’s command. He’d been transferred after Malikel dismissed another knight for taking bribes while on gate duty. The Defense Minister was one of the few who actually enforced honesty in his men—most other commanders simply overlooked such infractions.