“We can’t leave them like that.” The people hanging on the gallows are beyond saving, but the ones still alive suffer needlessly. I have to do something.
“Beg your pardon, but I think that guard with the big sword might say different. Unless you want to tell him who you are and see if he’d listen?”
I follow his gaze toward the man sheltered under a porch overhang, watching. And curse under my breath.
“I’m guessing you getting caught within five minutes of coming through the gates wouldn’t be helpful to anyone.”
A subtle reminder that I need to focus. Pan is right.
“We’ll figure this out later.” A stable on the left side keeps dozens of horses. I steer Eros there.
“That’s His Highness’s horse.” Pan points to the black stallion Zander has been riding since Bellcross. “And those are the commander’s and Elisaf’s beside.”
“No real names or titles here,” I hiss, even though a thrill stirs in me as it does every time I know Zander is near.
“Right.” He pauses. “Who are you going to be, then?”
I borrow Gesine’s fake name. “Cordelia. And you’re Dunn.”
“Hey! I knew a Dunn once.”
“Did he end up on the gallows for talking too much?” Because if this keeps up, Pan is going to blow our cover.
He presses his lips tight in response.
A stable boy comes around to greet us as we dismount, and I fish out some coin, silently thanking Gesine. She knew I would try to escape as soon as she planted that thought in my head. Why she was so willing to allow it—to even encourage it—I’ll have to consider later.
Right now, I have work to do.
Despite my churning nerves, I push my hood back, lift my chin, and push through the heavy wooden door, Pan trailing after me.
Boisterous laughter and a fiddler’s jig carries through saloon doors to our right. But ahead, a heavyset woman with rosy cheeks staffs the front desk. She looks up from her needlework to appraise me through round, wire-rimmed glasses perched on her nose. They have no lenses in them. “What can I do for yous tonight?” A gold cuff peeking beneath frizzy auburn hair marks her a mortal.
I channel my best Gesine impression of poise and civility. “We are in need of a warm meal and possibly a room for the night.”
“I can help ya with the meal, but the inn is already brimming. Though there’s a tavern full of patrons who may be willin’ to share their bed with a pretty thing like you, if you play your cards right.”
There’s one patron in there who was supposed to be in my bed with me already.
“I will keep that in mind, thank you.”
“Go on in, then, and find an empty spot.” She jerks her chin to the right before shifting her focus back to her needlework. “One o’ the girls will be with ya when she can.”
She’s speaking to me as if we’re equals.
We are equal, I chastise myself. Maybe I’ve been playing the role of future queen for too long. Something tells me being royalty wouldn’t make a difference to her. Still, it’s refreshing, and the smile I’m wearing as I push through the swinging doors feels genuine.
A wall of stifling heat from the fire and the smell of sweat, smoke, and sour hops hits me, but I focus on the dingy tavern, a simple rectangular room with long, cafeteria-style tables and benches and a bar where metal steins line the counter as fast as the husky bartender can pour from the keg behind.
And it is packed with patrons, shouting and sloshing ale from their mugs as the fiddler on a wooden platform stomps his foot in time with his upbeat melody.
It’s as if that horrifying scene outside doesn’t exist, and those poor people aren’t out there freezing and aching within their wooden traps while listening to the revelry.
That reminder dampens my spirits, but I can’t think about them now. I scan the dimly lit room. The patrons are mostly male and the staff is mostly female, the waitresses’ breasts spilling from low necklines of their dresses.
It became easy for me to mark the mortals from the elven in Cirilea, but here they’re all dressed similarly, in leathers and furs, and rugged in appearance, with wild manes of hair, some with even wilder beards. No one is bowing and deferring to anyone, even though there are plenty of cuffs marking ears. Some, I note, are a dull silver patina as opposed to the typical gold.
“Um … Cordelia?” Pan hisses in my ear, nodding ahead of us.