After they passed Marne, who worked gloaming shift and should have gotten off at two bells, Sábria glanced over at Shirin. “Is this your doing?”

  Chuckling, the Commander shook her head. “No. But I did hear Terrowyn tell you to be careful, so I assume she knew you were going to the Codpiece this afternoon?”

  “Argh. Of course.” Sábria ran her hand over her face and shook her head. “I never should have mentioned it to her. If this woman is the King Slayer, I wanted our first meeting to be very lowkey. I didn’t want her to see ten or fifteen Blades standing about, ready to rescue me from her wrathful fury. I don’t believe she has any wrathful fury in store for me.”

  “Why meet her at all? I don’t understand why you think it’s your place to come to her. If she was acting as an instrument of Elyon when she killed those Kings, as Aloric mentioned, shouldn’t it be she who comes to you instead of the other way around?”

  “Shirin, you’re just going to have to trust me on this one.”

  There had been so many times that Shirin hadn’t understood Sábria’s motives for doing the things she did that it had become second nature to trust the instincts the Goddess had given her Arch Priestess. Sighing, she realized that today should be no exception. “Yes, My Lady. I trust you implicitly, and as always, I’ll follow your lead if I can.”

  Sábria raised her brows and looked sideways at her. “If you can? What exactly does that mean?”

  “I have no idea, but I’ll know it when I see it.”

  As they rounded the corner onto Lost Hope Lane, they heard shouting up ahead. A crowd had gathered around the long tables set outside the Broken Tooth, and Sábria, who didn’t want to be noticed, strode up and stood quietly behind the bakers, tailors, and merchants, not to mention the various members of the lower-city scum, to listen.

  One man, whom Sábria recognized as one of Aloric’s servants, raised a fist in the direction of a woman sitting stoically with her back up against the outer wall of the Inn. Instead of the steel armor Terrowyn and the other Blades apparently thought a King Slayer should wear, she wore a faded, neatly patched brown tunic, tan trews, and knee-length suede boots. “We don’t need yer kind here, ya fowkin’ king killer. Gie on wit’ ya.”

  With a gleeful grin, a skelli lobbed a piece of horse manure at the woman, who shifted slightly to avoid being hit with the goopy mess.

  A burly man strode forward and put his fists on his hips. “We’s all wonderin’ who gave a fowkin’ pidge the likes of you th’ right t’ judge them kings?”

  That seemed to get the woman’s attention. She glanced up into the man’s face and cocked her head. “You’re the blacksmith? You look like a blacksmith. Well, blacksmith, do you have children?”

  The man balled his hands into fists and took a threatening step forward. “I do. And if yer threatenin’ me boys—”

  The woman held up a placating hand. “Let me tell you a story about the first King I killed, Jankin. He had a liking for little boys and girls, five, six, seven turns old. He’d send his men out to scour the kingdom for them, and when they returned, he’d take them one at a time and rape and brutalize them until they died, either that day or the next. Most of the time, the bairns that were tossed onto the trash heap had been split front to back by the man’s prick.”

  She stared at the blacksmith who stood glaring at her. “Well, there was a blacksmith in the capital city who’d managed to hide his boy from the soldiers, but one day they found him. The blacksmith was a big man, and the boy took after his father. He was almost too old for King Jankin, but I guess he decided nine would do as well as seven for what he had in mind. Jankin tried to put his prick into the lad’s bunghole, but the lad fought and bit part of the King’s finger off.”

  The crowd, who’d been so self-righteous a moment earlier, had gone silent. “Jankin ordered his soldiers to sharpen a pike and ram it up the lad’s arse. He then had the pike rammed into the ground in the center of the city, with the lad still spitted on it like so much meat, mind you. I helped the blacksmith pull his son off the pike and dig his grave. And then I challenged King Jankin’s champion to a fight to the death, and once the champion was dead, I challenged the King, and yes, I killed him, too.”

  A woman spat on the ground. “Ya kilt three Kings. They can’t all of been like ‘at.”

  “Well, then, Jankin’s son, Crown Prince Godafre, ascended the throne. He’d learned his morality and ethics from his father, and he liked gold more than anything in the world. He upped the taxes on the poor by fifty percent. When a small town couldn’t pay the tax, Godafre sent his soldiers to massacre every man, woman, and child in the village, thinking that would frighten the other villages into paying what they owed. He had every peasant in three other villages massacred and burned before I challenged his champion and killed Godafre.”

  If Sábria hadn’t been watching so closely, she wouldn’t have seen the muscles in the woman’s jaw jump, nor would she have seen her swallow hard and blink to hold back the tears. She doubted anyone in the crowd noticed, as worked up as they were.

  “But I haven’t told you about the worst of the lot, King Godafre’s nephew, Azorius Jost. He had a taste for teen virgins. And when I say he had a taste, that’s exactly what I mean. He delighted in having his men bring him large-breasted young women between, say, fifteen and twenty-five turns. Why large-breasted? Because he enjoyed slicing them off, and he’d eat one and watch while his men force-fed the lasses their other breast until they choked to death.”

  The King Slayer’s grey eyes flashed dangerously. “Once or twice, you say? A King can be forgiven his excesses, no? There were twenty-eight virgins hung upside down along the inner walls of his castle before someone found me and told me what this latest monster was up to.”

  The guilt washing off the woman was a palpable wave buffeting Sábria’s senses.

  “I should have kept better watch, but like you, I didn’t believe there could be three such depraved monarchs ascending the Olarnian throne, one right after the other. I’d heard the next in line might be just as evil, so I went to him and gave him a choice. Abdicate his throne in favor of his son and leave the kingdom or die.” She shrugged. “His son, King Denaro, has actually turned out to be a strong and caring monarch. Thank the Goddess.”

  When the castle servant opened his mouth to speak, Sábria stepped forward and stopped him. “Aren’t you one of the servants from the palace? Were you paid to come and stir up the crowd against this woman?”

  The man bowed low and sputtered his denial. “No, Milady. I be loyal to th’ Emperor and to yerself. I’m only tryin’ to do what’s best and right fer th’ two of ya.”

  Lowering her chin, Sábria glared into the man’s small, rounded eyes. “You do know that one of my gifts is knowing when a man is lying to me, do you not?”

  Blushing furiously, the man turned and pushed his way out of the crowd.

  “I want the rest of you to leave this woman in peace. Go.” She glared into each face until everyone bowed, turned, and left.

  The woman, who’d been straddling the bench in case she needed to rise to protect herself, lifted her leg over the seat so both feet were now beneath the table. She picked up her book, found her place, and began to read.

  Sábria walked over and pointed to the bench on the opposite side of the table. “May I?”

  Without lifting her head, the woman raised her eyes to look at Sábria. She waited a moment and then shrugged, “It’s your Empire.”

  Smiling, Sábria said, “Ah, but at the moment, it’s your table.” Not a classical beauty, she thought, but someone with a strong, honest face that might even be considered handsome in some circles. A light scar ran just above her right cheekbone, a lucky miss that could easily have taken the eye. Her teeth were straight and white, evidence that there was no rukilla dust addiction. Most swordswomen steered clear of such drugs, but there was always a chance when someone loses everything in their life; family, hope, a future to look forward to.

  Without answering, the woman returned to her book.

  Taking that as an invitation, even when it clearly wasn’t, Sábria pulled out the bench and sat.

  Shirin climbed in next to her, closer than she normally would. When Sábria pointedly glared at her and shifted over, Shirin decided it wouldn’t be wise to slide close again.

  “It sounds like you know who I am. I understand you’re the King Slayer?”

  The woman rubbed her temples and spoke quietly, “I prefer King Maker.” She flicked a glance at Shirin, and in that one look, Sábria knew she took in Shirin’s height, weight, musculature, and callused hands. This woman’s quiet, mild demeanor was deceptive, and Sábria made a mental note not to underestimate her. Her hands were strong and had the same mixture of calluses as she; those of sword, staff, and knife.

  The biggest difference in their hands, though, were the calluses on the tips of the woman’s thumbs and forefingers. While Sábria was quite adept at knife fighting, this woman, judging by the thickness of those finger calluses, was an expert at knife throwing, a skill far more deadly than either sword or staff since she could kill without ever having to engage her enemy. “As I said, you seem to know who I am, but I’ll introduce myself anyway.” Sábria held out her hand over the table. “My name is Sábria, Arch Priestess of the Daughters of Elyon.”

  The woman glanced at the hand and then returned to her book.

  Shirin leaned forward to berate her, but Sábria retrieved her hand and held up a finger telling her not to interfere. “I can’t keep calling you King Maker. I’ve never heard your real name.”

  Placing her finger in the book to hold her page and closing the cover, the woman sighed with exaggerated patience and finally looked into Sábria’s eyes. “Is there a reason you need it?”

  Taking advantage of the connection, Sábria held her gaze steady and smiled. “Friends usually call one another by name.” The darkness, maybe even emptiness, she saw in those brooding, dark grey eyes was startling. The Goddess had said this woman’s soul was empty, and she’d been right. Despite her misgivings, Sábria’s heart went out to this warrior who’d been witness to so much cruelty and had been exposed and forced to confront such evil.

  The brows descended. “Friends? I’ve never met you before.”

  “Well, I understand that during one of your trials, you said you killed the kings in the name of my Goddess, Elyon. Since I’m the voice of Elyon here in Cibía, I think that’s a good basis to begin our friendship, don’t you?”

  Master Tomer, the cook at the Inn, carried out a tray of bread and two tankards of ale, one for Sábria and one for Shirin. He carefully set the tankards in front of both women, placed the bread in the center of the table, stepped back, and bowed. “Milady. It’s honored I be to have ye at th’ Broken Tooth.” He lifted a lip in the woman’s direction. “They’s better tables fer ye, or I kin clear this ‘un of th’ filth if ye prefer.”

  “I prefer that you bring our companion her own mug of ale and leave off insulting someone I choose to call friend.”

  Even though the woman had returned to her reading and acted as though she hadn’t heard the man’s insults, Sábria defended her with such authority that the innkeeper took a step back and bowed again. “F…friend, Milady? This here’s the—”

  “This is the King Maker who saved hundreds if not thousands of people from cruel and bitter deaths.”

  “So says she.”

  “So say the transcripts of the records of the trials presided over by the magistrates and the Olarnian nobility. Now, that third mug of ale, Master?”

  “Tomer. Ain’t no master about it, Milady. Just Tomer.”

  He started to turn away to fetch the ale, but Sábria stopped him. “And Tomer?”

  “Aye, Milady?” He turned back and pulled his forelock.

  “If there’s anything in this woman’s ale that shouldn’t be there, I’ll know.” Her emphasis on the word wasn’t lost on the man. Everyone knew the Blades protected all women, regardless of status, race, or standing in the community, and their punishments were swift and feared by everyone within the Cibían Empire.

  “If she’s yer friend, Milady, then she’s welcome here at th’ Tooth, and there won’t be no special s’prises in neither drink nor food. I give ye me word on that.”

  Once the man had gone, Sábria tried again to open a conversation. “Even though I love to read, I never seem to find a spare moment to open a book.”

  The woman ignored her.

  “Our Temple has a wonderful library. I’d love to know what tale has you so enthralled. What’s the name of your book?”

  Pulling in a deep breath, the woman let it out slowly and, with that same exaggerated patience, held the book up so Sábria could read the title.

  Sábria read the words aloud and then raised her eyes to the woman’s face. “Wolf of the Breaking Heart.” She’d read the story many turns earlier after one of her Blades had committed suicide. It was a complicated, lyrical story told through the eyes of a wolf who sought out the lost and devoured their souls. Lying just beneath the surface of what seemed to be a child’s cautionary tale was a horror story where tormented souls languished beneath a crushing blanket of evil, deception, and fear. Sábria nodded and decided not to let on that she knew the darker side to the tale. “Isn’t that a child’s book of fairytales?”

  Grey eyes caught and held Sábria’s gaze before slowly returning to the pages of the book. “Aye. I’m not known to be a deep thinker, My Lady.”

  “Somehow, I doubt that very much.”

  “You’ve read it, then?”

  “I have.”

  “You enjoy fairytales, do ya?”

  She spoke with a lilting accent that lightly carried the Olarnian’s rhythmical cadence, but there was also a harsher element that added an interesting counterpoint that Sábria found fascinating and vaguely familiar. “I’m intrigued by your accent. What region of Olarna are you from? And yes. To answer your question, I love fairytales.” She glanced down at the book. “Maybe not that particular one, but most.”

  “Yer familiar with Olarnian geography, then?”

  Why did the woman always answer a question with a question? Sábria didn’t think it was because she was interested in the answer. It was more that she wanted to evade giving away any personal information. “I am. When I was a child, my father traveled there with a trade delegation, and he took my mother and me with him. We traveled from Sustin to Rance and then around the cape to Utrey.”

  A barely discernable spark of humor or perhaps interest flashed in the woman’s eyes. She set the book down and rested her hands on her lap. “Then ya must have traveled through the hill town of Firbridge.”

  Sábria suddenly sat up straight, shot her arm out, and snapped her fingers, almost knocking into Tomer’s hand as he delivered the third tankard of ale. “That’s it. I knew your accent wasn’t strictly Olarnian. You’re one of the hill folk, aren’t you?”

  A smile almost crossed the woman’s lips. “Ya mean, am I a Nóko?”

  “You are! From the Nókopawa Hills. I loved your people. They were so generous and kind to my mother and me.” Sábria glanced sideways as she tried to remember where she’d put the gift their Nóko hosts had given to her. “I believe I still have a small, child-sized flute one of the artisans carved for me. I know it’s somewhere. It had pictures of wild animals painted on it because I’d told him I loved the way his playing reminded me of different forest animals talking back and forth to one another.”

  Before Sábria knew what had happened, the woman slipped a knife from a sheath on her leg and brought it forward onto the table.

  Shirin, who must have been watching for such a move, reacted instantly. She shoved forward and grabbed the woman’s wrist with one hand while she drew her own knife with the other.

  Like a striking snake, the woman flipped her hand over and slammed Shirin’s knuckles onto the wooden table, breaking her grip. With her other hand, she quickly disarmed the Commander, leapt into the air, clearing her bench and landing solidly on both feet behind the bench.

  She was crouched and ready, and when she saw movement behind her, she expertly flipped Shirin’s knife so she held the tip between thumb and forefinger. She held her arm cocked in front of her waist, ready to fling it behind her if necessary.

  Sábria found her voice and shouted, “Geller! No!”

  Prime Geller, who’d been standing in the shadows guarding her Priestess, had drawn her sword and moved forward. She froze at Sábria’s command.

  To Sábria’s great relief, the hand holding the tip of the blade relaxed slightly, so the Arch Priestess decided to take a chance. “Geller. Sheath your sword.”

  Ten or more Blades had also drawn their weapons and advanced.

  “The rest of you, back up, now.” She pulled Shirin back onto the bench. A sheen of sweat had appeared on the Commander’s brow, and her face had lost all its color. She was holding her injured hand, and Sábria hoped the woman hadn’t broken her knuckles.

  The woman glanced warily around at the Blades, who’d moved in to protect Sábria. Tossing Shirin’s knife on the table, she sheathed her own blade and turned to leave.

  Ailith, who was standing between Marne and Geller, stepped forward to block her way.

  The woman kept walking, and Sábria barked. “Ailith. Move!”

  If Ailith hadn’t stepped to the side, the woman would have walked right over her. Or tried to anyway. As Ailith had proven with the Emperor, she could be an immovable object when she wanted.

  A bearded man dressed in black canvas trousers gathered at the knee and a sea captain’s white shirt and black vest strode forward while everyone watched the woman walking into the Codpiece. He stopped next to their table, lit a match, and set it to the bowl of his pipe. He puffed a few times to make sure it lit and then held it down by his chest. “Yer people are lucky to be alive, Milady. I’ve never seen none better with knife nor sword. Th’ lass came across on me ship, so’s I know a bit ‘bout her an’ her ways. Th’ hill folk where she’s from cut bread with their knife to share an’ then pass th’ knife to th’ next person, who cuts a piece and shares it back as a gesture of trust and friendship.”