His head cocked. “What is the Romani way?”
“This,” she answered, dipping her head and pressing her mouth against his. She grasped his neck, entwining her fingers to hold him in place, and pressed a long, savory kiss against his completely befuddled mouth. She tasted the salt from the soup. The fireblood stirred inside of her. Possibly it was something else. It took several moments before the shock passed and he started to respond, to kiss her back, to kiss her in earnest.
She pulled away.
“That is the Romani way,” she said, pleased at the silly grin she found on his face.
It took a moment before he found his composure or his voice. That was gratifying too.
“How does a Romani say you’re welcome?” he asked, his eyebrow lifting.
She sat on his lap, stroking the stubble on the dome of his head. “You wish me to teach you the Romani ways, do you?” she asked, grazing his ear with the tip of her nose. He shuddered.
“I wish I could see your face,” he said softly. “You have me at a disadvantage.”
“You’ve always been blind, Bhikhu. Only now you have realized it.”
The camp smoke from a hundred fires hung in the night air like a shroud, threading through the gaps of the trees. Only a thin sliver of moon radiated from the sky, peering between the branches. There was a sentry in the shadows, spear held upright so that the edge of the tip would not glint in the moonlight. He was paying attention, ignoring the sounds wafting from the army as they washed over him. He stared into the night’s darkness, vigilant. Kiranrao thrust the blade Iddawc into his ribs, watching the magic of the blade snuff his life out instantly. There was a plume of memories released and Kiranrao inhaled them, discarding most until he found the one he was after—the location of the pavilion where the King of Wayland slept. The rest of the memories he scattered to the breeze and then entered the camp.
Gripping his sword pommel with one hand, he was invisible to all but the most astute Finder. The magic of his blade allowed him to pass unseen, his very essence the semblance of a blur. In his other hand, he gripped the blade Iddawc. He almost always carried it unsheathed, listening to the faint whispers of promised death. It exposed the vulnerabilities of any man, the most efficient way of killing them.
That one, fidgeting with his stew. He’s weak on his left.
That one, crossing the camp believes he’s a sword master. He’s a fool. Get in close and he’ll panic and drop his weapon.
Over there—see the Finder? He’s looking our way, but he hasn’t seen us yet. You may have to kill him next.
Over and over the whispers came to his mind, spoken by the blade’s hunger to kill. It worked best when he had a target in his mind. The blade seemed to sense everyone around, probing for weaknesses and assessing their vulnerabilities. It was a useful tool. No wonder the Arch-Rike had paid so handsomely for it. It revealed the weakness of others so perfectly, it allowed Kiranrao to kill his victims in a single thrust. It unmasked everyone.
That way, where the flames burn brightest. The king is there. Kill him.
Kiranrao moved through the camp like a wraith, fueled by pure desperation to murder. The Wayland army was closing fast around Havenrook. The price of meat and bread had tripled in the last two days. No caravans had arrived in a fortnight. The road to Alkire was infested with Cruithne bringing their goods down the mountain roads but bypassing Havenrook along the way. The city was shriveling. Kiranrao’s vast wealth followed suit. The Romani attacking the armies along the border did insufficient damage to lift the blockade. Perhaps a dagger in the king’s chest would suffice.
Kiranrao burned with anger and hatred. The empire he had created around the trading hub was unraveling. How had it happened so quickly? How had the Arch-Rike managed to outmaneuver him so? His breath was quick in his ears. A bold move—an assassination—would shift the tide. He was certain of it. Isn’t that why Tyrus had yielded the blade to him at last? All his talk of a fool’s errand into the Scourgelands was a feint. Tyrus wanted the Arch-Rike dead. He wanted the King of Wayland removed. He had held the blade tantalizingly as bait until Kiranrao had snatched at it.
He nearly collided into an approaching Paracelsus and shifted his path just in time, almost cursing. That was sloppy. It was unlike him to be sloppy. Kiranrao was no fool. He was still the wealthiest man in all the kingdoms. His fortunes may have begun a landslide, but he would rally them again. The Arch-Rike had coffers enough to plunder. So did the King of Wayland. He would regain every ducat he had lost through this farce of war. Kiranrao’s lip curled into a sneer of anger. He shuddered with the emotions. The Romani were being systematically hunted down and slaughtered, yet they bore the blame for starting a war when they had never so much as lifted a dart to hurl. The hypocrisy was galling. Romani poison could not injure the army for the Arch-Rike knew the cure and every victim was quickly remedied. Well so be it then. The course of history would change on this night. The King of Wayland had a young wife and a little boy. They would grieve the loss of husband and father. And then he would spit in their eyes.