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Cutting upstream through hordes of bustling merchant booths, Renton had to admire Denoden’s enthusiasm over whatever celebration was about to unfold. He just wasn’t in the mood for it. He browsed a small market jammed between two white stone buildings. Strips of faded cloth draped over the stalls, blocking the harsh rays of the sun. Smoke billowed from the vendors frying up seasoned meat and dough powdered with too much sugar and cinnamon for his tastes. His nose wrinkled at the sticky sweet smell clinging to the air, but in a moment of weakness, he dished out a few krotens for a bag of the treats.
Maybe Tenah would like them.
Venders haggled with shadows over jewels and scraps of rare metal and spices in a manner that confused him, often resorting to name-calling each other’s mothers before settling a deal with a handshake and a grin.
A table of assorted small glass orbs snagged his attention. He slipped through two bickering shadows to better examine the cracked, murky orbs.
Damn. Not a single glimmer of life when he picked them up to spin them in his palm.
Sniffing out a potential deal, the haggardly vendor appeared, his gold teeth shining. “Fine artifacts, those transportation orbs. Rare relics once used for the most advanced and rapid travel.”
Renton frowned. “Got any that work?”
The vendor’s grin dropped. “Sold the last of those to the Embassy, oh I’d say about seven years ago. Haven’t gotten my hands on any more shipments.”
“Of course,” Renton grumbled. Had one been within his reach in the archives? “Thanks anyway.”
He turned and nearly flattened a petite shadow.
“I can’t say I’m surprised to find you here.” Vesara propped her hands on her small hips. She’d swapped out leathers for breathable silks. For as much grief as she’d given on the flight to Denoden, she’d melted right back into her culture. “Still looking for the tome?”
“None of your business,” Renton said, brushing past.
To his irritation, she stalked after him like a Bogland insect, deadly and annoying.
Renton tossed her a cruel look. “You don’t owe us anything, if that’s why you’re hanging around.”
“Do you generally hate most shadows?”
He pushed on through the crowds. “I’m wary of those my intuition warns me against.”
Vesara kept pace, and he didn’t miss the way shadow eyes trailed her in admiration.
“Look, it’s nothing personal,” he clarified. “I just have a thing against your profession.”
Everything the Embassy stood for went against Mire’s codes. They operated like Boedworth, accepting contracts often formed out of spite or greed, not for the protection of shadowkind. And yeah, he realized their contracts went through a lengthy approval process, but it still didn’t sit well with him that the High Court would allow such an establishment to exist. Any time Renton had complained to Elder Nithril about something that seemed unjust, Nithril had explained that balance was essential in their world. In other words, the High Court believed some evil necessary, and they were happy to let the Embassy carry out that evil to keep their own hands clean from sin.
“I quit three years ago. Couldn’t complete a contract. So there’s that. Proof I have a heart and a conscience,” Vesara admitted, rubbing a hand up and down her arm in discomfort. “The only reason I can access the Embassy is because Izral makes special exceptions for me.”
Renton processed her words in silence. All right, so his initial impression of the assassin was wrong. She wasn’t a mindless killer.
“Not enough for you to open up to me?” Vesara asked.
He pinched the bridge of his nose, fighting the urge to pick her up and set her somewhere else. In a crate beside the vendor’s tables. In an alleyway. In a locked vault. He figured none of this would hinder her from returning to pester him.
“I need a transportation orb,” he said.
“You won’t find one here. The Embassy confiscated them.”
Renton sighed. “Yes, I’ve just been told that.”
She pursed her lips. “Grumpy after dinner, aren’t you?”
“Probably grumpy because I haven’t had dinner.”
“I can get you an orb.”
Renton paused to meet her flat gaze.
