Truthwitch (The Witchlands 1)

“Who cares?” Dom Eron cried, rounding on Aeduan. “I’ll pay you whatever you want, Bloodwitch. Name your price and I’ll pay it—”

“With what money?” Henrick cut in. He laughed, a scathing sound. “You borrowed from the crown to attend this summit, Eron, so if you have any money hiding in your purse, it is owed to me first.” With another laugh, Henrick swiveled back to Aeduan. “We will cover your fees, Voidwitch, but it will come from the coffers of whomever has kidnapped Domna Safiya. If it is the Nubrevnans who have her, then it is the Nubrevnans who will pay.”

“No.” Aeduan’s fingers tapped faster. “I require five thousand piestras up front.”

“Five thousand?” Henrick reared back. Then lurched forward—close enough to make most men flinch.

Aeduan didn’t flinch.

“Do you realize to whom you speak, Voidwitch? I am the Emperor of Cartorra. You get paid when I say you get paid.”

Aeduan stopped tapping. “And I am a Bloodwitch. I know the girl’s scent and I can track her. But I will not do so without five thousand piestras.”

Henrick’s chest heaved, a full bellow clearly on the way, but Leopold stepped in. “You shall have the money, Monk.” The prince lifted his hands submissively toward his uncle. “She is your betrothed, Uncle Henrick, so we must pay whatever price is needed to get her back, no?” He turned from the Emperor to the Doge and then to Dom Eron, somehow managing to get a nod from each man.

Aeduan was impressed. And he was all the more impressed when Prince Leopold fon Cartorra turned to him, stared him in the eye, and said, “You may come with me to my chambers. I should have at least half the money there. Will that suffice?”

“Yes.”

“Good.” Leopold smiled an empty smile. “Now, I believe we can all agree”—he looked back to his uncle—“that we have wasted enough time here. If you will give me permission, Your Majesty, I will join the monk on his search for your betrothed. I know Safiya well, and I think my insight could aid the monk.”

Any esteem Aeduan had felt fled instantly at those words. The prince would slow him. Distract him. Yet before he could protest, Henrick nodded curtly. “Yes, join the Voidwitch. And keep his leash tight.” The Emperor sneered at Aeduan, clearly hoping to illicit a response.

So Aeduan gave none.

Moments later, Leopold motioned for Aeduan to follow and he set off through the room. Aeduan stalked after him, wrists rolling and frustration brewing in his blood.

At least no one had mentioned that Safiya was a Truthwitch. Once Aeduan was well compensated for all the hassle of hunting the girl, he could still hand her off to his father.

For although these Cartorrans were paying Aeduan to find Safiya fon Hasstrel, no one had said anything about returning her.

NINETEEN

In the two hours since Merik had led Safi back to her room and ordered her to stay belowdecks for safety purposes, Safi had run through the same thoughts over and over again.

And questions—so many questions. From her uncle’s plans to her betrothal with Henrick, it all played out atop an unwavering terror for Iseult.

There were footsteps too—hammering and relentless. They shook through Safi’s skull until she wanted to scream. Until she wound up pacing in the tiny cabin while Evrane tended Iseult’s wound.

“Stop,” Evrane eventually snapped. “Or leave the room. You distract me.”

Safi opted to leave—especially now that she had someone’s permission to do so. Here was her chance to examine the main hold. To sort out how she would get Iseult to their hard-earned freedom. She could hear Habim’s lessons as clearly as if he were beside her, harping about strategy and battlegrounds.

The hold turned out to be a shadowy space crammed full of trunks and nets, sacks and barrels. Every nook she inspected had something squeezed in—including sailors—and there was no light save a square burst above the topside ladder.

It all stank of sweat and unwashed bodies, while the caustic stench of chicken crap wafted up from a livestock deck below. Safi was just grateful she couldn’t hear the chickens—or any other animals. There was already too much noise for her temper to endure.

Though most sailors seemed to be overhead, Safi counted twenty-seven men curled up against crates or nestled beside casks. There seemed to be no crew quarters, and Safi filed that away for later consideration.

Of the twenty-seven sailors Safi passed, nineteen bit their thumbs or hissed “’Matsi-lovin’ smut” at her. She pretended not to understand and even went so far as to offer an amiable nod. Yet in the dim light, she memorized their sun-seamed faces. Their vile voices.

When a lanky, black-skinned boy with shoulder-length braids hopped down the ladder belowdecks, Safi’s witchery purred that he was safe. So Safi snagged him by the shoulder as he stumbled by. “Would the crew ever turn on a Nomatsi?”

The boy blinked, all his braids shaking before he answered in a decidedly female voice, “Not if the Admiral isn’t behind it—and I don’t think he would be. He doesn’t mind the ’Matsis like the rest of us.”

“Us?”

“Not me!” The girl’s hands shot up. “I swear, I swear. I don’t have a problem with ’Matsis. I just meant the crew.”

True. Safi dug her knuckles in her eyes. Overhead, toes dragged, swords clanked, and voices barked. Whatever drill was running, Safi wished it would stop.