The warlord frowns at my hesitation. “What’s more important than loyalty?” he asks.
There’s a hardness to his tone, and his question strikes a nerve. Have I been disloyal? Does running away make me a traitor, or smart?
Who cares? I’d rather be disloyal than dead.
My eyes dart to the men behind him. “All four?”
“All four.” He nods to his crew.
I swallow my misgivings. The warlord doesn’t know me. He doesn’t know what I’m capable of. “Four coppers then. One for each.”
He puts the coins on the table, and I pocket the money, turning to the ax-wielder first. “What’s more important? Your warlord’s life or your own?”
“My warlord’s.”
There’s no hesitation. No soul ripping.
“You have to choose between this savage”—I sink a lot of sneer into my voice just for the fun of it—“or your wife. Who do you choose?”
“I have no wife.”
“But if you did?”
“If I choose to marry, my wife and children will come first.”
No searing flames. No melting bones. No pelting truths to outweigh the lie.
I let my eyes glaze over and place my hands on my crystal ball, pretending to do soothsayer-like things for an appropriate amount of time. I should probably make up a chant, but I can’t bring myself to do it.
“Your man is loyal,” I finally announce. “But I don’t advise using his future family against him.”
“I’ll have a family?” The ax-wielder’s face splits into a wide grin.
Eh… “Yes. Lovely wife. Several strong children,” I lie. Or maybe I don’t. How in the Underworld should I know?
The warlord’s unwavering stare has me shifting uncomfortably in my chair. “Step back, Flynn,” he commands. “Carver, you’re next.”
A dark-haired man approaches, moving forward with a confident stride. He’s about my age, lean and tall, and looks like he’d be mean in a fight. He’s the type of sinewy swordsman that can move like a shadow and strike before you blink. I know his kind. He’s the kind you want watching your back, not sneaking up on it. There’s a resemblance to the warlord in his facial features, black hair, and gray eyes, but the similarities end there. The warlord outweighs him by about sixty pounds and is probably ten years older.
The man—Carver—smiles at me. There’s a disarming, rather friendly gleam in his eyes, but I have no doubt his easy smile could turn sharp with menace.
“Is loyalty important to you?” I ask.
“Yes.”
I point to the warlord. “Would you follow this man into a fight?”
Carver nods.
“Say it,” I prompt.
“I would. I have, and I would again.”
I glance at the warlord. His expression is unreadable, but his eyes feel like a Cyclops’s foot on my face. I ask for Carver’s hand, feeling awkward. Even if palm reading is a hoax, his rough skin still tells a story of battles and blood. “Would you die for this man and his cause?”
“Yes.” A simple, one-word, truthful answer.
I stare at Carver’s long, powerful, callused fingers. What is the warlord’s cause? From what I heard, the new royal family outlawed warring among the Sintan tribes. They’re all supposed to get along now that one of theirs has taken over.
I repress a smirk. Good luck with that.
“I would bleed for him. I would die for him.”
Carver’s truth is so strong that it carries a word—brother. Shocked, I drop his hand like a poisonous snake. I almost never hear an echo from truths.
The word still bouncing around inside me, I say, “Your brother is loyal, but I think you already knew that.”
“Hmm.”
I scowl at the warlord. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I never said he was my brother.”
Damn it! Who stole my filters tonight? “You look the same.”
“Not that much.”
I wave my hands above my table. “Soothsayer, remember? I know stuff.”
He tilts his head, looking hard at my eyes. He keeps up his scrutiny until unease ripples through me, making me squirm.
The warlord breaks eye contact. “Basil,” he calls out flatly, motioning another man forward.
A blond man takes Carver’s place. He’s handsome without being remarkable, strong without being overwhelming. He blends in. I guess that’s what he’s good for. Warlord, Flynn, and the fifth man don’t blend. They’re too big, too powerful. They demand attention. Carver doesn’t blend, either. He’s lean and angular, with wily eyes. Basil is just…blah, as far as I can tell.
Basil moves to the right, away from the warlord and closer to the fifth warrior who has watchful blue eyes and a colossal mace that could probably crush three skulls at once. Basil’s movement is minute, and I only notice because I’ve trained myself to look for body language that will help me fool people into thinking I’m not a fraud.
Great. The warlord’s question suddenly makes sense. This is a party to out Basil. Too bad I’m invited.
“Basil, is it?” I ask even though I already know. I’m just stalling the inevitable.
The man nods.
I take a deep breath and lock my muscles, bracing for a false answer. “Where do your loyalties lie?”
Basil looks smug. Like most southerners, he has no idea of the power of magic and words. If he did, he’d be running away.
Fire explodes in me at his deceitful answer, agonizing. Bones fry. Organs roast. I try not to blanch as truths ignite along with his lie, scorching my insides like red-hot coals.
In a sudden burst of movement, the warlord disarms Basil and grabs him by the throat. “Who do you work for?”
“I’m loyal!” Basil squeaks, looking as stunned as I feel.
His lie blasts me again.
“I saw the look on her face.” The warlord squeezes Basil’s neck until the other man gasps for air. “You’re a liar.”
He saw my pain? I’m more worried about that than I am about anything else. I controlled my reaction. I always do. How does some Hoi Polloi warlord know what a little flinch means anyway?
Basil plunges his hand into his pocket and pulls out a thin, glass vial filled with gray powder that glitters silvery in the torchlight and impresses the magic out of me. He draws back a gloved hand, ready to smash the poison into the warlord’s face.