Page 111 of Revealing Fate

Just then, the door reopened. Domitan froze, eyes locked on the hooded figure that re-emerged. They couldn’t have been inside for more than a few minutes. Too quick for a tryst. What the fuck was going on? The figure hastened away from the building.

“Detain them,” he commanded his general.

Corstow stood silently.

“And Corstow? I want answers. By whatever means necessary.”

His general disappeared.

Four minutes after the general departed, Cinah slipped through the doorway and headed leisurely in the opposite direction. Domitan tracked him back to the tavern, where his attendant stole in unnoticed through the side door. Twenty minutes and one drink later, Cinah exited the tavern’s main entrance, strolling northwest.

Domitan wasted no time. He backtracked to the avenue where he’d left his charger and raced home. The king was waiting at his private estate when Cinah finally returned, smelling faintly of ale and pub dwellers.

“My king,” he greeted, dropping to his knees.

“Hello, Cinah.”

His attendant remained kneeling, shoulders relaxed, dark face smoothed into a composed mask. “How may I be of service?”

Domitan watched the man with quiet contemplation. His initial rage had simmered into a strategic calm. He could question Cinah now, press him for the truth. But his attendant was clever. He’d become too well acquainted with pain at his king’s urging. He donned his masks far too convincingly. No. Domitan would wait for Corstow. As the general said, there may yet be something to gain.

“You smell like a taphouse.”

Cinah’s features rearranged into an expression of ill-concealed shame. “Forgive me, my king. I visited a city tavern.”

“I know. The Morel House.” He studied Cinah closely. The man didn’t so much as flinch. “My stores are well stocked, Cinah. Why sully yourself in a hovel when you have access to the finest casks in all the realm?”

Cinah paused. Domitan could practically hear the cogs turning in his attendant’s mind. “I met with someone,” he began.

Domitan leaned forward in the settee, priceless leather creaking slightly with the shift in weight. “Not another nefarious meeting with a drug peddler, I hope.” The last time Cinah had a late-night rendezvous, he’d returned with euphorium, a highly illegal aphrodisiac and hallucinogen. Not that Domitan had minded the carnal encounters that followed.

Cinah hesitated.

“I found that dealer, you know,” the king said, remembering. “I removed his hawking hands and lying tongue.”

Cinah remained silent.

Domitan snapped his fingers. A servant appeared. “Search him.”

The servant rifled through Cinah’s pockets, patting him down. A sheaf of folded parchment was revealed. The servant handed it to Domitan before retreating.

“What’s this?”

Domitan thumbed open the note. Scanned the scribbled contents. He fixed his attendant with a narrowed gaze.

His doorman knocked, entered, and bent to whisper in the king’s ear. He’d only permitted interruption for one condition. Domitan returned his attention to Cinah, and the doorman left.

“Speak.”

Cinah cleared his throat. “It’s a recipe, my king. A delicacy. The man I met with is an accomplished chef. I asked him to prepare a treat. One I felt you would greatly enjoy.”

When Domitan offered no reply, Cinah pressed on. “He owns an exclusive bistro and is very busy. It was difficult for him to meet at an earlier hour.”

A slow smile cracked the king’s stony visage. “Oh? Shall I ask for a private audience? A demonstration of this supposed culinary prowess?”

“My king?”

Domitan stood.