She answered, “We want to slay a dragon.”
Kihrin blinked at her.
“A dragon? A dragon?”
Janel blushed. “Please lower your voice.”
“A dragon,” Kihrin repeated a third time. “Do you have any clue—? No, wait. Look, I applaud your ambition or greed or whatever reason you have for thinking this is a good idea. Let me assure you—this is a terrible idea.”
“It matters not if it is or it isn’t—”
“No. I’m sorry. ‘Let’s go kill a dragon’ ranks among the worst of ideas. It’s right above invading the Manol in summer and right below freeing Vol Karoth ‘just for a little while.’ Do you know why parents don’t warn their children not to attack dragons? Because no parent wants to think their kids are that stupid. A dragon would annihilate me before I got close enough to hurt its feelings, let alone do any real damage to it.”
Janel raised an eyebrow at Kihrin. “Are you quite finished?”
“No,” Kihrin said. “I want to know who told you to enlist me into this ludicrous scheme, so I can find that person and shove my—”
“A quarter million people are currently in Atrine,” Janel interrupted. “And they have no idea they’re about to be attacked by the largest dragon ever known.”
That stopped him cold. He ignored the bartender—doing double duty as waitstaff—as she shoved another mug of cider onto the table. She followed that with a bowl of rice and vegetables covered in a thick paste. Without asking if anyone needed anything else, she retreated to the bar.
Kihrin pushed aside the food. “What?”
Musicians and storytellers in the Capital loved to talk about Atrine. What wasn’t to love? Atrine was a literally magical city, crafted of poetry and marble, built by Emperor Atrin Kandor in a single day. Ironically, Kihrin had never met anyone who’d actually been there; it was everyone’s favorite city from a distance.
“You heard me quite well,” Janel said, no longer smiling. “Now, as I decided to recruit you for this plan, just what, pray tell, are you planning to shove, and where? Would you care to elaborate?”
Kihrin turned red. He exhaled and turned to the priest. “How are you involved in this?”
“Oh, I’m uh…” Qown floundered. “I used to be … that is to say…” He scowled, flustered. “It’s complicated,” he finished.
“As Qown mentioned earlier, he’s a votary of the Vishai Mysteries,” Janel said. “He’s also a qualified physicker and my best friend.”
Qown looked uncomfortable. Kihrin wondered what part of Janel’s description had upset the priest—his religion or his status as a Royal House licensed healer. Being called dearest friend hadn’t bothered him earlier.
“And you’re fine with this ‘Let’s go kill a dragon’ plan? Because you don’t strike me as the type to throw away your life.”
“With all respect,” Qown replied, “my approval or disapproval is irrelevant. Once Morios surfaces from underneath Lake Jorat, he’ll attack Atrine. Thousands will die. Normally, the emperor would handle the problem, or the Eight Immortals themselves, but Emperor Sandus is dead, and the gods…” He held out his hands.
“The gods are busy battling demons,” Janel finished.
Kihrin looked around the room. Everything seemed normal, or what passed as such in this corner of the empire. Star and that old groom were at the bar. The crowd was making the best of the storm and had started a sing-along.
Kihrin turned back to the two reckless would-be heroes. Xaltorath clearly hadn’t set a trap here.
The demon prince wouldn’t have invented a scheme this implausible.
As far as Kihrin knew, the last dragon attack on a city in the Empire of Quur had taken place during the Age of God-Kings, thousands of years ago. Kihrin had always assumed dragons were nothing but a story: a myth the minstrels trotted out whenever they wanted to sing the first emperor’s praises. At least that’s what Kihrin had believed until he’d met a real dragon—the Old Man, Sharanakal. He had no desire to repeat the experience.
Kihrin scrubbed a hand over his face. “Do you two mind if I eat while we talk? I haven’t had food since west of the Dragonspires.”
Janel agreed with an aristocratic finger twirl.
Kihrin wondered if those red eyes meant she was Ogenra—the name the Royal Houses gave to bastards lucky enough to show the god-touched marks of their bloodlines.
For example, House D’Talus red eyes—or his own House D’Mon blue.
“Okay, so you … fine. You have my attention. At least until the storm clears.” He nudged around the food in the bowl. The rice appeared unflavored. The vegetables looked blanched. The thick paste on top seemed edible, but the white goo was a mystery.8
Joratese cuisine had been all the rage back in the Capital. Kihrin’s heart sank at the prospect of eating more of what he remembered being flavorless garbage.
Brother Qown took pity on him. He walked over to a table, said a quick “Pardon, pardon,” and swiped a pot of bright red paste. “They have chili sauces.” The priest set the jar in front of Kihrin. “But they don’t bring them out for outsiders unless you ask. If you’re liberal with the peppers, it’s not bad.”
“Not bad?” Janel raised an eyebrow.
“It will never beat my vanoizi-spiced eggplant,” Qown said. “I’m sorry, but that’s a fact. You Joratese can’t be expected to compare your cuisine to perfection.”
Janel slapped Qown’s shoulder. “Stop it. Priests are supposed to be humble.”
“Humility is a virtue much to be desired by those who walk in the light,” Qown agreed, beaming. “But then, so is honesty.”
Kihrin chuckled as he opened the jar and sniffed. The priest seemed much more relaxed when talking about food instead of dragons. Kihrin’s eyes watered—a good sign. He mixed in a large spoonful. “We’ll assume for the moment you’re serious. What’s the plan if this dragon—what was his name?”
“Morios.”
“Fine. Morios. How are you proposing to kill—” Kihrin stopped himself from laughing. “I’m sorry. How is this supposed to work? Humor me.”
“We’re waiting for another person.” Janel gave an anxious glance to the tunnel leading to the tavern entrance.
“Who?” Kihrin asked. “And how do you know this dragon—Morios—is about to go on a rampage all over this dominion’s capital? Did he send you a letter?”
Janel and Qown shared a look.
Janel said, “That’s … complicated.”
Kihrin possessed a well-honed sense of caution thanks to a childhood spent with criminals. This entire scenario smelled like a con. His adoptive mother, Ola, had taught him the best way to avoid ending up a mark: never stick around long enough to end up on the hook.
Kihrin dropped his spoon and grabbed his pack. “All right. I’m out of here. Good luck with your dragon hunt. It’s been a pleasure meeting you.” He yelled across the room. “Hey, Star, we’re leaving! Right now!”
The other man looked up from his drink in surprise. “We’re what?”