Page 90 of The Isles of the Gods
“We’re going to be late,” I mutter, drumming my fingers on the countertop, my nails landing in quick succession.
Tap-tap-tap-tap.
Tap-tap-tap-tap.
Dasriel shrugs, working his way methodically through his third slice of pie. He gathers up the crumbs meticulously, with far more care than his huge frame suggests he could manage,the tendons on the back of his hand flexing under his green magician’s marks.
“How can you just sit there?” I hiss, keeping my voice low.
He shrugs again. “Starving myself won’t hurry her up. She’s coming or she’s not.”
I clench my teeth so hard I feel it in my temples, but he’s unaffected.
I know why he stays with me. Ruby assigned him as my muscle years ago, when I first started working jobs for her. Now everyone sees us as a pair. Dasriel doesn’t particularly like me, but his reputation is linked to mine, and he knows it. He couldn’t leave even if he wanted to.
I stop my foot from tapping against the stool’s footrest and stare at my own untouched slice of pie, trying to tamp down the anger coursing through me.
How dare they. Howdarethey?
I brought them the idea. I got my hands dirty—no, not dirty, bloodied,soakedin blood—and then Ruby and Beris think they can dismiss me?
“She’s not coming,” I mutter, pushing my plate toward Dasriel, who stacks it atop his own empty one and starts in on my pie.
“Perhaps she is,” he says, unhurried.
“She’s not. I’m going to church.”
I need to pray, let the familiar chants calm me enough that I can think clearly. Sister Beris might have betrayed me, but my god knows what it’s like to be denied his due, and though he sleeps, I’ll take my frustrations to him and—
I slide off the stool. “Let’s go.”
“Not yet,” says Dasriel mildly, nodding at our reflections in the mirror behind the counter.
I follow his gaze and watch as his eyes flick across the room—and there she is, standing by the door, glancing around the diner with something wild in her eyes.
The ambassador’s assistant.
She spots Dasriel and comes running toward us, pushing past a pair of diners on their way out, past a courting couple. She’s in a pale blue dress with a hem that fishtails down her calves, her curls held back in a jeweled headband. She looks like she’s come straight from a party.
I don’t bother with small talk. “What is it? What do you have?”
She shakes her head, and I see she’s panting—she’s run here. And she looks like she wants to be sick. It’s an expression I’m familiar with—she doesn’t want to talk, but she got in too deep with me long ago, and so she simply spits it out.
“You won’t believe,” she says quietly, “what I just heard.”
KEEGAN
The Salthouse Inn
Port Naranda, Mellacea
The ambassador is punctual, which I suppose is to be expected.
A sleek, black, locally made auto edges its way into the square, slowly nudging past stacks of crates and through the milling crowd. There are more people than there were yesterday.
We can see one of the Queensguard behind the wheel, but the auto stops about halfway across the square, held up by a Kethosi captain who’s in the middle of a vehement argument with a group of customs officials—they appear to be confiscating her cargo, which is stacked haphazardly behind her, protected by a ragtag crew who look ready to defend it with violence if necessary.
When it becomes clear the auto is going nowhere fast, another of the guard jumps out and opens the door for the ambassador, looking around at the crowd nervously.
