“I did,” I admit as a squeal of wind whips past us so fast it makes the cart wobble again. The colk tosses his head and snorts at the sky rather than buck us over the edge.
That’s the difference between Noeve’s Path-traversing colks and almost anyone else’s: they’re truly charmed. Less chance of death. Well worth as much bloodstone as I can pack into her very deep pockets.
No wonder she turns them into belts.
“It’s been a while since you’ve graced my cart, my dear. I started to think you’d gone off me.”
“Never. I just decided I don’t like the wall anymore, or most of its inhabitants—present company excluded,” I say, giving her a soft shoulder-nudge. “Feeding folk to dragons because they piss you off rubs me the wrong way.”
“I couldn’t agree more,” she murmurs, and a heavy silence elbows between us.
I have no doubt she’s considering times past, when this colorful kingdom was at its prime. Until Cadok marked his scent all over it and turned it into a military nest.
“Heard you were sneaking folk out of the city for the Queen?” I ask, reaching into my pocket for one of my few remaining sticks of dried meat, chewing on the lanky end.
“Not since she tried to stall an execution.”
My eyes widen. “Really?”
Noeve nods. “I believe it got back to His Imperial Shit Stain. Apologies,” she’s swift to tack on, flicking me a quick glance. “I know he’s your blood.”
“Not gonna stop me from decapitating him,” I mutter.
Noeve chuckles, taking a while to recompose herself before she speaks again. “Anyway, I haven’t heard from her since. Guess it doesn’t look good for your significant other to publicly oppose a ruling of your Guild. Especially when that ruling’s against a member of the Fíur du Ath,” she says, waggling her brows.
“Interesting …”
Very.
“Mm-hmm.”
I rip into the meat, chewing through the tough salted meat, taking the edge off my hunger but making me incredibly parched. Unfortunately, I have only gritty water to look forward to when we reach our destination. And a date with someone who’ll probably eat me.
Noeve transfers both reins into one hand and pulls a leather roll from the pocket of her pants, unraveling it. She plucks out a smoke stick and waves it in my direction.
“Thought you gave that up?” I ask, reaching into my pocket for my fire weald. Well, Kaan’s old fire weald I stole when I was young, imagining I’d need it one dae. Or more to the point—wishing.
Hoping.
Wasted hopes they were.
“Over thirty times since you last sat in that seat. But I’ve decided I quite enjoy it.”
I smile, flicking the metal lid, using the dancing flame to singe the end of her death stick. She draws on it, blowing a swathe of sweet smoke that gets lost amongst the fog while I polish off my meat strip to the tune of our trundling cart.
“Why are you here, Veya?” Noeve asks between deep drags.
“Left something important in Gore,” I say, removing a glove to pick the meat from between my teeth.
“How long ago?”
I think back to the moment just after the blank in my head. The inky smudge that somehow feels both void and unfathomably hefty. “Over a hundred phases?”
“Ahh,” Noeve muses, taking another deep pull of her stick, blowing a plume of smoke that soils my next breath with the overly sweet residue of whatever herb she’s wafting. “And where did you leave this … thing?”
“Tossed it down the rubbish chute.”
I thread my hand back in my glove and cross my arms over my chest, settling deeper into the cold wooden seat. Frowning, I try to wiggle my ass into a more comfortable position.
Given how much Noeve charges for crossings, I’m surprised the seats still have no padding. Next time, I’m packing a cushion rather than two useless forks I haven’t even looked at since I left Dhomm.
Suddenly registering the void of silence beside me, I glance right, straight into Noeve’s wide gray eyes—the smoke stick hanging from her pinched fingers, a curl of ash threatening to blow away on the next whirl of wind.
“What’s wrong?”
“There’s a velvet trogg at the bottom of the rubbish chutes in Gore, Veya.”
“Oh, that.” I reach into my pocket for another piece of meat, inspecting both ends, picking the stumpier one to gnaw on. “Unfortunate, isn’t it?”
“You’re not intending to—”
“Confront her? Course I am. How else am I going to get the damn thing back?” I mutter through the leathery mouthful. “She’s obsessed with jewelry, correct?”
“From what I’ve heard, yes …”
“Wonderful,” I say, swallowing. Biting off another big chunk.
Hope she hasn’t eaten my bangle, otherwise this’ll be for naught. Especially since there’s next to no chance of me finding Elluin’s diary without this particular piece of jewelry I stupidly decided to part with many phases ago, tossing it down the chute like some cursed trinket. Certain it had something to do with the reason I had a blank spot the size of thirty aurora cycles smudged in my mind.
Seemed like a good idea at the time. Now it might cost me my life before I get to do something grand and heroic with it.
“You paid for a return trip,” Noeve says, and I shrug.
“If I die, keep the change.” I wiggle in my seat again, trying to find a more comfortable position while I stuff my mouth full of meat. “Perhaps use it to invest in some Creators-damn padding.”
It’s been seven slumbers since I saw him last. Since I heard him play Mah and Pah’s song, dropped my shield like a battle-weary soldier, cried in his arms until I finally drifted off, then woke wrapped in Slátra’s tail. Though there’s still a fresh meal set by the door each slumber, accompanied by a small stone carving I add to my growing collection of pint-sized pity-dragons I want to toss against the wall, there’s no song.
No him.
Every time I walk around the corner and find the hall empty, I’m weighed down by another brick of humiliation I throw into my punches.
My kicks.
Veya says I’m improving. If that’s what I get for trying to beat the shit out of this feeling, I’ll take it.
Tucked in one of the quieter wind tunnels, I stuff my head through the hole in the wall and peer down the rubbish chute, face twisting at the sour reek wafting up from the trogg’s lair.
I sigh, pull my head back, and unravel a length of rope from where it’s bound around my shoulder, attaching the large metal hook to the chute’s lip. I toss the rope down the hole, hoping it’s long enough to skim the top of whatever rubbish pile I’m about to become uncomfortably familiar with.
“Veya, you know what?” I mutter to myself. “You’re marvelous, but you really screwed yourself with this one.”
In the future, I intend to make much better decisions. Preferably ones that don’t land me in one of Gore’s rubbish chutes, preparing to have a conversation with a creature that nests somewhere near the top of the food chain.
With another sigh, I give the rope a tug, then climb into the hole feetfirst, slowly lowering myself down the chute’s lengthy throat toward a blue glow radiating from below. The warming air thickens with the stench of sour, rotten things, and the underside of my tongue tingles.
If I vomit all over my leathers, the trogg won’t take me seriously.
I swallow a wad of bile, tipping my head back while I try to keep it down.
Next time life throws me a magical bangle, I’m just going to put it in my jewelry box.
Wherever it is.
Reaching the opening, I ease down a touch farther, dangling midair above a pile of reeking trash.
“Fuck me,” I mutter, casting my wide-eyed gaze around the large cavern, taking in the ceiling—a splintered mess of stalactites. From their tapered tips hang long, blue, dripping strings that are draped across the ceiling like the threads of a web, igniting Gore’s refuse in a bold glow. Mountains of it.
I quirk a brow, noticing how there are separate, very organized piles for things: old chairs, clothing, footwear, plates, glass—
Everything.
She’d work wonders in my sleepsuite.