Agatine (Terres book II)

Chapter Ten

Ittra shook Rannok by the shoulder and he nearly dropped his book into his lap. He turned his head and gave her a displeased stare. She raised her eyebrows at him and leaned her face into his.

"You are living in my house and I want to talk to you," she snapped, and Rannok sat up and placed the book beside him. He wondered if she was always like this, so hawklike and hostile. It made him bristle and want to shake her, and he thanked the heavens that he had the self control to resist the temptation. Not that long ago he would not have been so lucky.

"I'm listening," he said.

"Good," Ittra responded, skinny arms folded indignantly. She turned and walked to the other end of the room, then beckoned to the table. "If we're going to talk like adults we are going to sit and drink a cup of spice like adults. This is important."

Rannok resisted the urge to roll his eyes and walked over to the table, which really amounted to a crate set in the middle of the floor than anything else. Ittra set a mug down in front of him and he wrapped his hands around it--it was already way too hot for him to wrap his hands around anything, and it burned when he did. He kept his eyes level with Ittra's as she inhaled the steam across the top.

"What I'm going to ask you to do is dangerous," she said as she glanced around the room as if to make sure no one would hear. She took a sip of her spice and her eyes softened a bit, faint lines filled with something Rannok recognized as fear rather than determination. 

"I'm not saying yes unless I know what it is," he responded. He'd learned that lesson once already. He could still see the man dragging his leg across the floor, when he closed his eyes and forgot not to think about it. Heard his screams as he bled onto the ground. He only hoped that this time he wouldn't be asked to kill anyone, or even worse, lied to about it.

"Sensible boy, I like you," Ittra said. Her eyes darkened in a way that made him afraid instead. "But I like that girl more. I made a mistake sending her to the brothel, but I can't undo it now. I need you to--"

"--You sent her to a brothel?" Rannok interrupted, trying to keep the alarm out of his voice. His eyebrows crawled up his face and his eyes widened. Everyone knew what the marked women in the caravan did. How they spent their evenings, roving around in packs and then retreating into the night singularly with someone on their arm. It was one of those things people whispered about behind their backs but found impolite to say to their faces.

"It's just a name, they won't make her do anything she isn't privy to, don't worry. We're not like the caravan." The last word rolled off her tongue like a curse, like poison she wanted to wash away the bitter taste of. Rannok looked away.

"What do you need me to do?" he asked, afraid of what the answer might be. If he might have to break her out, or talk her out of coming back. If he'd have to abandon her again like he did the first time, just when he'd started to feel like he was helping. He thought about the hurt and betrayal that flashed in her eyes every time she looked at him, and how badly he wanted that to go away and for her to not hate him anymore. He wasn't quite sure why the thought made him feel so awful, since he certainly didn't deserve anyone's forgiveness.

"There's a group of sellswords who's been hired out by the mayor to watch the brothel. I don't know what for, but Seltus' attention is never good."

Rannok rolled the name through his head. Seltus. It sounded like an exotic flower, or a kind of wine. Somehow people like that never were as good as the word let on. "How am I supposed to know who they are? Why are they so dangerous? What is he going to do, fuck them?" he asked.

Ittra's eyes darkened again and she locked him with an icy stare. "What kind of secrets have you told to a woman, just because she was pretty and in your bed?"

"What makes you think I've--"

"--Because I'm not stupid," she said. His face reddened a little as her eyes scanned him, like she was seeing into his soul. Like she could see all the women whose ears he'd whispered in. What sort of things he'd told them by accident while they pretended for a day to like one another before slipping off into the night. But none of them were prostitutes, none of them had so much reach. He could only imagine the kind of damage they could do. The havoc they could cause with such a powerful man's secrets. It ran a chill up his spine.

"How am I even supposed to know what they look like?" he asked.

"They travel in groups, all dressed the same, there are five of them. Here." She fished a piece of paper out of her pocket and shoved it into his hands.

"What if they see me?"

"They'll assume you're just another beggar and ignore you. They follow sellswords around all the time. Most people call them trade-dodgers. There isn't much else out there for marked ones."

Rannok didn't quite believe her,but he pulled at the corners of the parchment anyway and let it unfold in his hands. He smoothed it flat across the top of the crate and studied it, trying to find any details he might recognize, something that might help him remember their faces.

 Five small drawings stared back at him, charcoal on parchment, the edges smudged from having been folded. He could barely make out the detail on four of them, other than three of them looked scary and one looked like he was about fifteen. He scanned them for a moment, then froze.

The fifth drawing brought memories of broken ribs and a broken nose fresh into his mind. Of long hours spent training and an hour in the medic tent where they'd called some sort of truce and convinced each other everything was A-OK, as if they wouldn't have killed each other given the first opportunity. Of broken bodies laid on makeshift litters dragged across the desert while reavers sniffed behind. 

He knew he'd seen him, sitting on that cafe bench. At the time he'd assumed it was just a ghost of a memory, and that the look of confusion meant it was really someone else. It was easier that way, to think that Armand wasn't here and that therefore he wouldn't have to say anything to Wren. That he wouldn't have to break the silent promise he'd made to himself not to hide anything else from him. 

But now there was no other option. He couldn't tell her, not if his job was to follow them without being noticed and slip off without saying anything. He wondered if Armand would recongize him, if he would demand he leave and then tell his friends they were being followed. Judging by the look in his eyes, how he'd scrambled when he saw them, he doubted it. Rannok knew too much. He could only imagine what they'd do if they found out his brother was a marked one.

"I'll do it," he said.

"Good," Ittra replied with an approving nod. She stood up and took his cup of spice from her. It clattered as she placed it in the sink--she'd used the good pottery instead of wooden tumblers. He hadn't noticed until now. He wondered just how important this conversation was, truly. How much it meant to her. 

Rannok tried to wipe the look of shock off his face. He didn't want to know how Ittra knew any of this. How she knew the mayor was angry at the prostitutes or how she knew the sellswords were watching them, or what that possibly meant for Wren or for himself or for Armand. Instead he slowly nodded and looked up at her.

"Tell me where to find them."