Sword Catcher (Sword Catcher, #1)

“This is the place.” Merren pointed across the street at a low-slung shop with a white-painted wooden front and windows screened with rice paper. The sign above the door proclaimed it the YU-SHUANG NOODLE HOUSE, home to a proprietary recipe for ginger-pork noodle soup.

Kel felt his stomach tighten, but he was in no mood to show his nerves to Merren, or even to acknowledge them to himself. They went inside. A silk curtain hung in the entryway; ducking past it, Kel found himself in a wood-paneled room where a row of cooks, dressed in red, tended steaming pots of soup and curry. The air was redolent of green ginger, scallion, pork broth, and garlic. A watercolor map tacked to the wall, its edges curling, showed the continent of Dannemore from a Shenzan perspective, with Castellane marked out as the Kingdom of Daqin. The greatest detail was reserved for Shenzhou and its neighbors, Jiqal and Geumjoseon. Kel thought of something Bensimon used to say: We are each the center of our own worlds. Castellane may believe itself the most important country in Dannemore, but remember that Sarthe, Malgasi, and Hind all think the same about themselves.

Kel had been in shops like this before. They tended to stay open late into the night, which made them attractive to Conor’s friends. Using a technique he’d learned from Jolivet, Kel scanned the room without making it obvious that he was doing so. The place was about half full, and Jerrod was indeed there—alone, seated at a wooden booth in the back of the shop.

The top halves of the booths were open fretwork, with a geometric design. Through the latticed squares, Kel could see Jerrod was wearing a black linen coat over a hooded tunic, his silver mask gleaming in the dim light that filtered through the rice-paper screens.

It was as if someone had held a lit taper to his skin. Kel recalled all at once the stinking alley behind the Key, the pain in his side, his chest. Jerrod looking down at him, only his mask visible, his face hidden in shadow.

Kel’s anxiety bled away into a cold fury. He felt nothing at all as he walked up to the long rosewood counter, placing his order in Shenzan. The cooks seemed surprised and even a little amused by his command of their language; they chatted a little, while Merren looked bored, about the intricacies of their recipe, and the way Kel wanted his food prepared. As he reached over the counter, Kel could not help but wonder if Jerrod was watching; he studiously ignored him as he ordered ginger tea for Merren (everything else had meat in it, which Merren wouldn’t eat), paid, and headed for Jerrod’s table, Merren muttering in his wake.

No one gave either of them a second glance as they approached the back of the shop. The owners must be used to Jerrod entertaining a stream of visitors, if he was doing business here. Presumably the restaurant got a cut of whatever deals he made.

It was only when they had reached his booth that Jerrod looked up. If he was surprised, there was no way to tell it: Jerrod’s eyebrows quirked, though his expression was otherwise hidden by his tarnished quarter-mask. It was as if someone had laid the palm of their hand, in a silver glove, over the left side of his face, covering his eye and the upper part of his cheek. Was it hiding burns or scars? Identifying marks of some kind? Just an affectation, meant to alarm?

“I didn’t think I’d be seeing you again,” he said with remarkable composure. His gaze slid from Kel to Merren. “Merren Asper,” he added, his voice taking on an entirely different tone. “Do sit down.”

Merren and Kel slid into the booth across from Jerrod. The table between them was gnarled wood, sanded to smoothness, stained here and there with the marks of old burns and spills.

Jerrod, smirking, sipped his tea. The mask made it difficult to tell what he was thinking, but he seemed to be looking over the rim of the cup at Merren. There was something curious in his eyes—almost admiring.

Kel said, “Were you not expecting to see me again because you assumed I’d died in that alley?”

“I learned soon enough that you hadn’t,” said Jerrod. “Word gets around. I’m glad to see you looking better, Anjuman. It wasn’t anything against you personally.”

“So, now you do know who I am,” said Kel.

Jerrod inclined his head. “You’re the Prince’s cousin, who had the misfortune to look a bit like him and borrow his cloak on your night out in Castellane.” He glanced at Merren. “In fact, we followed you from Asper’s flat to the Key. We wondered what the Prince of Castellane was doing visiting a dank building in the Student Quarter.”

“It isn’t dank,” Merren said indignantly.

“But now I’m wondering what the Prince’s cousin was doing visiting a dank flat in the Student Quarter. You do know your friend here”—he gestured at Merren—“has been spotted going in and out of the Black Mansion? That he seems to run errands for the Ragpicker King?”

“I can see how that might trouble you,” Kel said, rolling his eyes. “Proximity to crime, I mean.”

“I am not a cousin of House Aurelian,” Jerrod pointed out. “Whereas you are, yet you seem to favor the more . . . seedy sides of Castellane.”

“Some of us are drawn to sin,” Kel said darkly, and noted Merren shooting him a glare. “And some of us are stupid enough to try to kill the Crown Prince of Castellane in an alley.”

Jerrod shook his head so violently he dislodged his hood. It fell back, uncovering a head of tousled, brown hair. “We weren’t trying to kill anyone. It was only a matter of money owed. And the money is still owed, by the way.”

“I thought we could discuss the matter,” Kel said, as a waiter carrying a tray approached their table. “Look, I’ve bought you dinner. A show of good faith.”

Jerrod’s eyebrows went up just as a server arrived at their table carrying a steaming tray. Two copper bowls were set down in front of them, followed by small ladles, ornately enameled with flowers and dragons. Soup was served from a vast pitcher of noodles and broth, and garnished with the traditional shavings of ginger, garlic and scallion, topped off with a rice cake and a dash of spiced oil.

Kel picked up his ladle and dug in. There was an art, in his opinion, to consuming noodle soup: One needed to get the right blend of broth, meat, and garnish into each mouthful. He glanced at Jerrod, who had not yet taken a bite. Finally Jerrod shrugged, as if to say, Well, we’re eating out of the same pitcher, what’s the harm? He picked up his ladle.

“I’d like to meet with Beck,” Kel said. “Discuss this with him.”

Jerrod swallowed his soup, then chuckled. “I don’t have to ask, because Beck would never agree. He doesn’t meet. Not with anyone.” He cast a sideways glance at Merren. “Well. Maybe he’d meet with you, if you were interested in crossing sides. Working for Beck. He likes attractive people.”

Merren raised an eyebrow.

“Beck’s being awfully reckless,” Kel said. “Trying to start a war with the Palace. What does he have to back up his threats besides a pack of criminals from the Maze?”