“Welcome to the Warlord’s Inn. You have come alone, yes?”
The Warlord’s Inn? That went against everything the princess knew about the ruler’s decrees. Movement was key; housing people who could use close proximity and routine to conspire? Definitely not. But in the past day, it had become as clear as the diamonds hiding in her skirts that there was so much about this place—and the Warlord—she didn’t know.
Amarande didn’t react. She simply replied, “Yes.”
“And you have no other weapons upon you?”
The princess’s knife sat heavy in her boot. “As demanded, none but my wit.”
“We shall see about that,” the man said. “These are not my edicts; they are the Warlord’s. No one is to be stationary unless they are alone. One in and one out, and a tax upon each head. At the inn you can purchase shelter, food, supplies, and information. Now, I ask you, what do you require?”
The princess didn’t hesitate.
“Food, supplies, information.”
He laughed, long and hard, everything echoing off the empty hollows of a place filled with nothing but this man and other people’s belongings. “That’s a heavy load for a girl who looks as if she’s just come from a celebration.”
The princess’s muscles stiffened under her ruined skirts—again with cracks about her gown. If the Warlord was a woman why did she elevate men such as these who didn’t have the capacity to comment on anything other than her appearance? Surely the Warlord could find better. Or women—Koldo could stop this man’s heart with the right expression.
Amarande’s eyes narrowed—both she and this man were visibly unarmed, but they were not equal in training. “Do not let my appearance deceive you.”
The man reset, tenting his fingers. The more she watched him, the more he reminded her of an aged Renard—lily white and bland, the lines of his body fading along with his coloring. “The majority of my guests can only pay for one of the four.”
Of course. That lump crawled back into her throat. Tears pressed against her eyes. It would cost all her diamonds just to get what she needed to continue this journey past the morning.
The man continued. “Of your requests, which is the most important?”
The princess answered immediately, swallowing that lump away. “The information.”
“And what is your payment?”
“Nothing until I know you have what I need.”
The man smiled, thin. “You’re the chicken or the egg kind, I see.” He untented his fingers, his posture hardening. “But let us remember the particulars of the sign beyond my door. The second portion of that sign isn’t simply for a rhyme. By standing here, you are gambling your life. If this transaction doesn’t go your way, it’s off to the compost garden with you.”
The princess coughed out a laugh at the utter lack of drama in the name. “The compost garden? Am I to do manual labor or become worm food?”
The man was not impressed with her reaction.
“Not quite either. If you run afoul of me, you will be unceremoniously dumped into the very special white sand at the center of my compound. It’s fed by a geyser that runs as hot as the Warlord’s fire pits. The second you slip through that earth, you’ll be poached right in those beautiful clothes. An hour later, the earth will spit you into my garden and you’ll become stock for stew, tallow for candles, marrow for horses. I’ll use every single piece of you until there’s nothing left.”
It was so over the top that Amarande didn’t believe it. But she’d already laughed at the man’s name for the place, and she needed to get whatever information she could before she broke a vase over his head or retrieved her swords.
“Noted, sir—”
“Innkeeper.”
Stars, of course.
“Innkeeper, how do I purchase information from you?”
“It’s a simple exchange. You tell me what you want. If I confirm I have what you need, you give me information in return before I give you an answer.”
Not ideal, but her father had taught her to play. If you underestimate your opponent, you overestimate yourself.
“I am looking for four riders on three horses. They should’ve come this way last night. One boy, my age, of Torrent, is a hostage.”
The man’s posture relaxed. It was as if he only had two settings: cold and stubborn or sagardoa warm and ready for gossip. He leaned back and, though he didn’t have a mug in his hand, she imagined him at one of the cafés lining the market outside of the Itspi, trading information of a less valuable kind. “That is something I know about. The only question is how you plan to pay for it. I trade in like. In this case, information requires more information. I will accept nothing else.”
The diamonds lining her pockets clicked together, at the ready to test his policy. The knife in her boot, too. Amarande chewed her cheek. Somehow, she thought her news would hit this man differently than it had the guards. Finally, she spoke.
“I am the information. Princess Amarande of Ardenia, running away from my castle after someone dear to me was kidnapped to push my hand into a marriage contract.” She lifted her chin. “Surely you can find value in that.”
The man leaned forward and again tented his fingers. Amarande’s knife hand twitched.
“You were correct earlier—your looks do not deceive, Princess. What do you think those who you seek paid for their time here? I already know all about you and your stableboy.”
“Good, then which direction did they go?”
The man clicked his tongue—tsk, tsk, tsk. “Tell me who they work for.”
“Pyrenee.”
The man tilted his head. “I said who.”
How was that answer incorrect? “Renard.”
The man tilted his head farther. Clicked his tongue again. Tsk, tsk, tsk.
Amarande’s guts turned to water. Had the kidnappers lied to him?
“Where are they? Was my … was he hurt—the hostage? What did they tell you?”
The princess’s questions died on her lips as a door opened to her left and she realized they weren’t alone. The innkeeper made the rules, but he didn’t abide by them. A man twice the size of her father staggered out and grunted, “Pretty compost.”
Amarande’s hand was in her boot in a flash, but the ogre was much faster than he looked, picking her up as she grappled for her knife. His massive hands grabbed her about the waist, an arm curling around her back and across her stomach as she knelt. She was upside down, several feet in the air, knife jiggling against the slit of space between her stocking and the top of her boot shaft. The giant man belly-laughed, and she shook with it. “No weapons, girl. No weap—”
The repetition died on the man’s lips as Amarande kicked back and up hard, heel of one boot and then the other smashing into his jaw from the underside. The giant’s head cracked back, spittle and blood flying along with maybe a tooth or two, and his arms failed.
She fell to the floor face first, getting her arms out in front just quick enough to roll forward, backbone smacking against the plush rug and wooden floorboards with a thud, and to her feet.
The giant stumbled into a vase and marble pedestal with a crash, knocking the candle there to the floorboards. Amarande didn’t see if the flame caught, because the ogre was moving toward her again, the man behind the desk screaming orders now. The giant tossed the sharp remainder of the vase at her as she reached again for her knife, and Amarande turned in time for the large shards to hit her back.