Thread of Ash and Fire

Ch. 11: High-Risk Gamble

Isolde's throat felt dry.

The cold metal ring pounded against her chest like a second heart. A swell of operatic music drifted up to them, accompanied by tinkling applause, but she was hardly paying attention. Edgar leaned back in his chair, swirling his glass of whisky; the amber-coloured liquid glowed in the dim candlelight.

"You know," Edgar said, "I consider myself to be a high-risk gambler, but even I think this is incredibly stupid."

"We just need five minutes of your time," Isolde said.

She leaned forward. The candlelight caught the edge of her mask, and Devan's eyebrows shot up. "You brought the empress too?"

"Bold," Edgar said.

Devan stabbed a finger. "Idiotic."

"Madness," Edgar crowed.

The brothers exchanged smiles. They had the same lazy edge to them, Isolde observed; something that reminded her of sloe gin and smoke-filled opium dens. Edgar drained his whisky. "Tell me, Winterthorpe: do you know what your head is worth these days?"

"Six hundred thousand rukka," Devan supplied. He jerked his head. "And I'd get twice as much for her."

Edgar filled his glass. "That's two new gambling dens and a year's supply of liquor."

"Six months," Devan countered. "You drink fast."

"We want your help," Julian said.

His voice was calm, although his hand was resting casually on his left thigh. Just below the waistband, Isolde knew, that contained his knife.

"With what?" Edgar asked.

"Overthrowing the emperor," Julian said.

Devan choked on his whisky. "You're staging a coup as well?"

"Hats off to you," Edgar said. "Go out with a bang, that's what I always say."

Julian leaned forward. "We require access to your private armies and weaponries. In exchange, I'll offer you five hundred thousand rukka from the Winterthorpe treasury, as well as a stake in the family business."

The brothers exchanged glances. Edgar exhaled.

"You're serious about this," he said.

"Do I look like I'm joking?" Julian asked.

Edgar shook his head. "You can't overthrow the emperor. He's too strong."

Julian's blue eyes were cold stones at the bottom of a river. "I've spent the last six years working as his personal advisor. I've helped Halson keep his throne. You think I don't know exactly what strings to pull to topple him off?"

Edgar and Devan exchanged a loaded look. A meaningful exchange must have passed between them because Edgar nodded. "You don't have the numbers."

Julian shook his head. "We have plenty of foreign political support. But you know that already."

Isolde's pulse quickened. It wasn't a lie, exactly, but it also wasn't the truth; Ryne Delafort and Seraena Agnirian would never send armies to support them. Then again, she realized, Julian had never said they would; he'd only implied it. Something like a strange sense of admiration filled her. He was good at this.

Edgar frowned. "What's your plan, then?" He took a swig of whisky. "Grab your pitchforks and march upon the castle?"

"Don't be ridiculous," Julian said mildly. "Nobody uses pitchforks anymore."