A Grace of Crowns | ☑ Queenkiller, Kingmaker #1

[04.3] The Planted Blade

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Only the entrance to The Seven Peals could attract such vagrants. The moon was still to rise yet already a few men loitered by the pavement, chatting loud enough for the entire city to hear, laughing over obscene jokes. Across the street, a mother covered her son's ears and quickened her pace.

Isla clutched the knife under her cloak, but the drunkards gave them no grief. More people tumbled out the door, the terrace creaking under their combined weight. Isla pulled Haana aside as the men swayed past, leaning upon one another for support. Light and music spilled out, quickly fading once the door swung shut.

Isla peered through a fogged window. Aldir was not one to spend his time in the company of drunkards and barmaids. More likely than not, he would be spending his night in his quarters. 'Whitebill will have to call him down.'

His bondmate would easily find him. The erne took off, rising as high as the upper floor windows and disappearing around the side of the building. Isla rubbed her shoulder, dreading the bruise that would surely ripen come morning. Even under the thickness of her cloak, Whitebill's talons had been a painful reminder of just how bad an idea this was.

'We should wait inside.' She took the lead, immediately regretting her decision, for they were met with an onslaught of noise: laughter, shouts, chinking glass, and the thumping of a dozen fists onto wood as somewhere inside, a drunken minstrel danced atop a table, singing and plucking at his lute. They stood awkwardly by the door before Isla spotted an empty table off to one corner. 'Come, we'll take a seat over there.'

'I cannot hear you!'

'Over, there!' Isla yelled back over the cacophony and pulled Haana towards their table.

No one payed them any mind. Isla was reassured by the presence of a smatter of women and children, dining as far from the bar as was possible. Most of the clientele, however, preferred to watch the minstrel, who was dancing clumsily on heeled slippers far too delicate for his frame. The crowd around him roared with glee as he stumbled off the table and into the bosom of a passing waitress.

'This is where Aldir chooses to stay?'

'It isn't the most cultured of places,' Isla admitted, eyes scanning all corners of the room.

'At least it is safe, I suppose. One scream and the whole place will come to our rescue.'

If they can hear us over all this noise. Even then, the crowd of intoxicated men looked incapable of rescuing wine from its skin. Isla took the knife beneath her cloak and struck it into the table. 'Hopefully that deters anyone from approaching.'

Haana frowned but made no protest. 'It is so cold. Have we time for a glass of hot milk?' The door had opened, bringing with it another customer and a gust of wind. Haana had already shed off her furs – large, ostentatious thing that it was. The less eyes on them, the better.

'Later, when Aldir's joined us.'

'I hope he will not be angry to find us here.'

Isla played with the hilt of her knife. 'Aldir isn't one to keep a temper.' Nor one to keep others waiting.

'He does look more the studious type.'

'Don't let that deceive you. He's useful in a knife fight.'

'Might be we need it in a place like this. Never have I seen so many Eastern Islanders lose themselves.'

'This is the Eastern Markets. There are more people from our side of the sea.'

'They would not behave so vulgar back home.'