Hettie squeezed Annon’s arm, and he turned to look at her. Her upper lip had a sheen of sweat. “He’s looking at me.”

Annon followed her gaze. Across the room, there was a cluster of chairs and a crowd of Romani men and women lounging amidst the chaos. In the center of the hive sat a tall man, darkly handsome, with Vaettir-like eyes and long jet-black hair. He was adorned with a bejeweled doublet and a gaudy black ring on his hand. Not just any ring, a ring of a Rike of Kenatos. There was something undeniably lazy about his slouch, but his slanted eyes belied the laziness—they were alert, probing everything happening in the room. He had taken notice of their entrance immediately.

He raised his hand to a gold hoop in his ear and massaged it.

Hettie gasped.

“What is it?” Annon asked.

“He summons me,” Hettie whispered with dread. “I must obey.”

Annon tugged at her arm as she started away from them, stopping her. “You do not have to go,” he murmured.

“You don’t understand, Annon. That is Kiranrao. No one defies him. He has more ducats than the Arch-Rike. He can buy anyone or anything he wants. Believe me, I must go.” She gave him a desperate look. “Find Erasmus. Quickly.”

“Why is it that the Cruithne dwell in the mountain passes and the Preachán live amidst dying trees? Why do those in Stonehollow dwell amidst massive stones and Waylanders the open plains? Why an island kingdom? People are where they are because that is exactly where they really want to be—whether they will admit that or not.”

– Possidius Adeodat, Archivist of Kenatos

The din and howling commotion in that horrible room made Paedrin’s thoughts seize up with icy blackness. The unmistakably raw demonstration of greed made his fists clench, his eyes narrow, and his breath seep from his body. As soon as they had entered, he had absorbed the scene in its fullness, every tinkling coin, every grunt of a bid, every gulp of ale or sour wine, and every horrid stinking breath from a hundred stinking Preachán. There in the periphery, like a king in court, sat the king of greed himself—a wretch known as Kiranrao. He had Vaettir blood. The fury congealing in Paedrin’s chest made him forget every person in the room except for two.

He watched Hettie submit, drops of nervous sweat forming on her brow. Whether she knew him or not, she knew of him. Still wearing her mask of aloofness, she maneuvered through the crowd to him. Paedrin followed like her shadow.

As they threaded the knot of men and mugs and things for sale, Paedrin studied the Romani more closely. His doublet was fine, no doubt, but the rest of his garb was casual and ordinary. The pants, for example, could have been any tradesman’s. The shirt beneath the doublet, also black, was open at the throat though he wore a silken collar that would have made an excellent handle to choke him with. His boots were nicked and scuffed, not the polished black of the gentry. His hands were brown and large, fingernails immaculately trimmed. The black hair was combed back, part of it tethered in a braid and fashioned with a pin, and his teeth were white, barely visible past a wry smile as he studied Hettie.

The way he sat in his chair reminded Paedrin of a lounging alley cat. His arm draped around the back of another chair, lazily displaying the huge black beetle of a ring, flaunting for all to see what he had obtained from a Rike of Kenatos. No one could lie to Kiranrao, that much was certain. The ring detected any falsehood.

Hettie reached the cluster of Preachán and Romani thronging him. She stood at the outer edge, chin high, eyes haughty as she had always proven to be. It was then, when they were close, that Paedrin noticed the sword belted to Kiranrao’s hip. He almost started when he looked directly at it and it wasn’t there. A trick of the light? He looked away and noticed it again, hidden in the shadows of his dusky blue rider’s cloak. It seemed to fade in and out of view, and Paedrin found himself blinking furiously, his mind starting to haze from staring at it too long, as happens to a child when gazing at the sun.

“What is it?” Hettie asked, arms folded, looking more put-out than defiant.

“I knew every Romani in Havenrook,” Kiranrao said, his voice tinged with a Preachán accent. “Until today.”

“Well, your reputation precedes you, Kiranrao,” Hettie replied. “What is it?” she repeated. “What do you want?”

“A Finder,” he replied, taking a sip from the cup near him. He swallowed slowly. “Are you for hire?”

“I’m on a job,” Hettie answered evasively.

Paedrin watched an immaculate fingertip stroke the lip of the cup, causing a subtle squeal that could only be heard through the din because Paedrin was trying to hear it.