“That they did. And what brings you to this hellhole, eh? Last I heard, you’d left this life behind. Gone straight.”
“Yeah. Well. If that’s ever possible.” I glance toward the stairs—I need to catch the servants on their way up with Sabine’s bathwater so that I can unlock the door.
“I’ll raise a glass to that.” He lifts his flagon, notices I have nothing to drink, and then starts to flag down the bartender’s attention, but I shake my head.
“I can’t catch up at the moment, old friend. Regrettably. I’ve pressing duties.” I glance toward the stairs again.
His dark eyes twinkle with mischief. “It wouldn’t have anything to do with some stark naked beauty everyone’s been buzzing about, eh? Judging by the gossip, I came down from my room too late to steal an eyeful.”
I rest my big fists on the table, hunching forward over its candle, grinding my teeth at the thought of every man in Blackwater’s impure thoughts about Sabine.
Folke laughs. “Easy, big fellow. Ah. So it is about a girl. Who is she?”
“Rian’s new bride.”
“Fuck.” He downs the rest of his ale in one go, then wipes his mouth with his sleeve and leans toward me across the table. “You’re properly fucked, aren’t you, Wolf?”
“Why would you say that? Because I’m here with your ugly ass?”
“Because a man doesn’t bristle at the mere mention of a woman unless he’s extremely interested in fucking her.”
I stem the slight tremor in my hands, not wanting Folke to know how close he’s struck to gold. Folke’s keen eyes mark my subtle tells anyway. He’s a spy, after all, trained to pick up on clues. He blows out a long, resigned puff of air that makes the candle flame ripple. His voice is soft with pity when he speaks. “It’s like that, then, is it? More than lust.”
My hands ball into tighter fists. I messed up when I kissed Sabine, it’s true, but it was just the effect of going a few weeks without sex and having a pretty girl splayed across my lap. It wasn’t anything more. It can’t be anything more.
“You love her?” Folke asks in an uncharacteristically tender tone, like me loving Sabine would be the most terrible and most wonderful thing in the world.
“Of course not. Don’t be fucking ridiculous. She belongs to Rian.”
Folke holds his hands palms up with a shrug as if to suggest that the two things are not mutually exclusive. She can belong to Rian, and I can also be in love with her.
Which is utter horseshit.
I stand, sending the chair sliding back a few inches, and give Folke a smirk that I hope hides how hard my heart is pounding. I rib him, “It was good to see you, Folke, even if you are looking like an old man these days.” But I pause before turning away. “What brings you to town, anyway?” Though my tone is light, we both know the true nature of his work—it would be a shock if someone doesn’t end up dead while he’s in town.
His brown eyes catch the candlelight. He drums his knuckles on the table. Rat-a-tat. Rat-a-tat. For a second, I feel sure he will speak of Volkish raiders. I can’t be the one to bring it up. I’d sound like a raving madman if I started spouting off about woken goldenclaws and Volkish bandits who crossed the wall after five hundred years of being cut off. There are enough fanatical street preachers professing that the sleeping gods will soon wake; I don’t need to add to their ranks. Besides, people have been prophesizing their awakening for centuries.
And what’s happened? Fuck all, that’s what.
Still, my pulse taps like torturous water drips as I wait for his answer.
He leans forward over the candle, eyes skimming the common room for any sign of eavesdroppers, but we’re alone except for an old man in the corner. “Business that concerns Old Coros.”
“Old Coros? You’re working for King Joruun?”
He wavers in his answer. “I’m working for the royal advisors. The king’s health is . . . failing.” His eyes bore into me with an alarming urgency. “They’re concerned about what could happen to the throne after his passing. If he doesn’t name a successor, a power vacuum will open, and there are those who are eager to fill it.”
King Joruun’s health has been failing for twenty years, but something about Folke’s tone makes me suspect the end is nearer than anyone thinks. I prompt, “Who?”
“I’m in Blackwater to meet with a former priest who claims the Grand Cleric is scheming to transform Astagnon into a theocracy.”
I snort. “Fucking priests. We had a run-in with them on the ride. Five of them, armed, couldn’t stop a naked girl from crossing the street—they can’t overthrow a kingdom.”
Folke scratches his thumbnail along his bottom lip. “Well, they aren’t the only ones with an eye toward the throne, if rumors are to be believed.”
“Who else?”
“Your employer.”
I shake my head to clear out my ears, certain I didn’t hear him right, even with my heightened senses. “Rian?” I scrape my nails back through my hair. “No. You’re mistaken. He would have told me if he had any aspirations for the throne.”
Folke’s steady stare makes me second guess myself, but what he says is impossible. Rian trusts me more than anyone, which is why he sent me to guard Sabine. The Valveres already have the lion’s share of wealth and power in Astagnon; do they need the crown, too?
“The Valveres have a legitimate claim,” Folke says. “Lord Berolt is a distant cousin of the late king’s.”
Yeah, very distant. I’m aware of Lord Berolt’s supposed claim to royal blood, but I’m also keenly aware that the royal genealogist is known to accept bribes over five thousand coins.
The stairs creak. Two young men carrying boiling pots ascend toward the third floor. I root in my pocket for the key to Sabine’s room.
“I have to go. This news . . . You’re wrong. Lord Rian wouldn’t lie to me.”
“He’s called the Lord of Liars, you idiot.” Folke’s words have sternness but also fondness, like an older brother chiding his younger sibling.
My nails bite into my palms. A vein twitches in my arm. I’ve punched men for milder insinuations about Lord Rian. Somehow, Folke is mistaken. A plot to steal the Astagnonian throne is extreme, even by Valvere standards. If Rian was even slightly entertaining the idea, I would have been the first one he’d confide in. Hell, he’d conscript me to storm Hekkelveld Castle, the home of the king, and throw open the gates for him.
Then again, I’ve been in the woods more often than not the past few years. Could I have missed something? Am I out of Rian’s circle of trust?
“Stay alert out there, Wolf,” Folke says, not joking this time.
I knock my fist on the table, both an acknowledgment of his warning and to emphasize again that I trust my master and won’t bend on that.
“You as well, old friend.”
Chapter 15
Sabine