Cam tossed him a knowing side-eye from the depths of her hood. “Find the entrance down below, sir. This way!” Just like that, the girl marched past the entire queue, then back behind the tower, and finally through a rusty gate. Here, the fat tower slanted against the matching granite of the city wall.
Two steps through the gate, and the jagged cobbles of the alley dropped sharply, as if there had once been stairs.
“Wait over there.” Cam pointed to a stretch of shadow, where the descending sun no longer reached. “I’ll get the door open, and then you can slip inside when no one’s lookin’.”
Merik hesitated. He didn’t want Cam inside—he’d only wanted her help getting this far, and then he’d intended to take the lead—yet the girl was already traipsing toward the door and lifting her hand to knock.
So even though a voice like Safi’s slithered down Merik’s neck, I have a feeling I’ll never see you again, he did as Cam had ordered and huddled into the farthest corner.
As he stowed deeper into the shadows, the sunset’s blaze hit the tower at just the correct angle to illuminate letters etched above the back doorway. First came a P, followed by a gap where rain, time, and bird crap had smoothed away letters. Then came IN’S KEEP.
Which answered a question Merik had held since boyhood: why the shelter was called Pin’s Keep. Below the name, in smaller letters, he could just make out DARKNESS IS NOT ALWAYS FOE, FIND THE ENTRANCE DOWN BELOW.
So that was what Cam had been echoing.
She rapped once at the low door, and in seconds it swooped wide. Heat and steam billowed out. “Who’s there? We have a line at the front you, know … Cam!” the woman on the other side shrieked. Then she yanked the girl inside, so fast Cam’s loose coat flapped behind her like moth wings. “Varrmin! You’ll never believe who the Hagfishes’ve dragged in!”
“No I won’t,” came the muffled reply.
“Camilla Leeri!”
The door began to close. Merik almost tripped over his own feet diving for it. He slid through right before it clicked shut. And only once he was inside, standing in a poorly lit, madly crowded kitchen, did it occur to him that the woman had said Camilla.
So not Cam—a name that Merik had never heard before—but rather Camilla. A solid Nubrevnan woman’s name, if he’d ever heard one.
Well, that answered another question he’d been pondering.
After checking on his hood, Merik set off through the kitchen of Pin’s Keep. A few workers glared his way, but otherwise no one paid him any heed.
He passed four people with Judgment Square tattoos below their eyes, and his chest warmed. His breath gusted. The assassin Garren had been sold here; this was the heart of Merik’s sister’s plans—he could feel it.
When at last Merik escaped the kitchen, a narrow entryway spanned before him. Low-beamed ceilings of dark wood brought to mind the belly of a ship, but instead of waves crashing outside, the waves crashed within.
Pin’s Keep lived, it breathed, with crowds streaming into three different doorways. One group moved to a bright room mere paces away. A sickroom—there was no missing the workers in healer robes. Another group moved left, into a darker, quieter space, and the final current drove straight ahead toward the hum of laughter and voices.
Nothing distinct could be heard above these rough seas—no conversations, no individuals, no thoughts. The chaos of Pin’s Keep filled every space inside Merik’s skull.
His muscles relaxed. Some of the ever-present rage in his gut unwound—replaced by something softer. Something older. Something … sad.
Twice a week Queen Jana had come here, and twice a week Merik and Vivia had dutifully followed. Until, of course, the day that Merik’s father had learned Merik’s magic wasn’t as strong as Vivia’s. Until, of course, the day that Serafin had sent Merik to live with his outcast aunt in the south.
Merik’s eyes shuttered. He wasn’t here for himself. He was here for the wronged, for the wicked.
“Sir?” Cam’s gentle grip settled onto his arm. At once recognizable and welcome. An anchor in the storm.
“I’m fine.” Merik fidgeted with his sleeves. “I’m looking for an office or a private space, where records might be kept. Any ideas?”
“Hye.” She tried for a grin, but it was tight. Furtive even.
Merik could guess why. Camilla. She must be worried that he’d overheard, so he made sure to say, with all the gruffness he could muster, “Which way, boy? No time to waste.”
Her smile widened into something real. “Through the main room.” She grabbed hold of Merik’s cloak and towed him along as roughly as one of the mule-pulled boats in the canal.
With each step toward the tower’s main space, the sensation of music grew louder. First a beat in his soles. Then a vibration spreading into his gut, his chest. Until at last he was through the door, and the song and the voices tumbled over him.
Merik and Cam were in a great hall, poorly lit yet boiling over with the stink of bodies spiced with the scent of rosemary. Of sheep’s broth.