“That’s all you have to say?”
“I’ll pardon your threat to my quarterlord this time. I told him you’re ignorant of our ways.”
“Me, ignorant? The cutting of children’s fingers is barbaric!”
He stepped closer, pressing me up against my horse. “Starving is barbaric, Princess. Stealing from the mouth of another is barbaric. The infinite ways your kingdom has kept us on this side of the river are barbaric. A fingertip is a small price to pay, but a lifelong reminder. You’ll notice we have very
few one-handed people in Venda.”
“But Yvet and Zekiah are children.”
“We have no children in Venda.”
* * *
On our way back, we returned through the Velte quarter.
Again, he greeted those we passed in the street and expected me to nod in kind as if I hadn’t just seen a child mutilated by an ogre. He stopped our procession and dismounted to speak with a stout man who stood just outside an open-air butcher shop. I looked at his hands, all his fingers intact, large and stubby with neatly squared nails, and I wondered at how Gwyneth’s careful observations about butchers extended all the way into Venda.
“You butchered and distributed the horses I sent with Calantha for the hungry?”
“Yes, Komizar. They were grateful, Komizar. Thank you, Komizar.”
“All four?”
The man paled, blinked, then stumbled over his words. “Yes. I mean, there was one. Just one that I—but tomorrow I will—”
The Komizar drew his longsword from the scabbard on his mount, and the slow sound of freeing it chilled everything else to silence. He gripped it with both hands. “No, tomorrow you won’t.” In a move quick and precise, the sword cut the air, blood sprayed my horse’s mane, and the man’s head toppled to the ground. What seemed like seconds later, his body crumpled next to it.
“You,” the Komizar said, pointing to a man gawking in the shadows of the shop, “are the new quarterlord. Do not disappoint me.” He looked down at the head. The dead butcher’s eyes were still wide and expressive, as if hoping for a second chance. “And see that his head’s dressed up where everyone can see him.”
Dressed? Like a pig that’s been slaughtered?
He got back on his horse, gently clicked the reins, and we moved on without another word, as if we had stopped to buy sausage. I stared at the glistening red drops on my horse’s mane. Justice is swift in Venda, even for our own citizens. I had no doubt the bloody message was for me as much as it had been for the butcher. A reminder. Life in Venda was precarious. My position was still precarious—and not only quarterlords could be dispatched without so much as a blink.
“We don’t steal from the mouths of our brethren,” he said, as if explaining his actions.
But I was certain that the quarterlord’s deception was the greater crime. “And no one lies to the Komizar?” I added.
“That above all.”
When we dismounted in Council Wing Square, he faced me, his face still spattered with blood. “I expect you to be well rested tomorrow. Do you understand? No more dark circles.”
“As you command, Komizar. I will sleep well tonight if I must slit my own throat to do it.”
He smiled. “I think we’re beginning to understand each other at last.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
RAFE
There was no sign of Jeb when we returned, but knowing he was here—looking and sounding more Vendan than ever—helped to ease my mind. Somewhat. I had seen today what could be his fate if he were found out. What could be all of our fates.
“You don’t have to do that,” Calantha said.
“Habit,” I said.
“Emissaries in such a grand kingdom as Dalbreck brush down their own horses?”