Nevernight (The Nevernight Chronicle #1) - Jay Kristoff Page 0,93

father. That’d be easy for the softest of us.” The old man sighed. “Sometimes I wonder if I did the right thing. Bringing you in. Teaching you all this.”

“You said it yourself,” Mia hissed. “Scaeva is a fucking tyrant. He needs to die. Not just for me. For the Republic. For the people.”

“The people, eh? That’s what this is about?”

She reached out across the table, squeezed the old man’s hand.

“I can do this, Mercurio.”

“… Aye.” He nodded, his voice suddenly hoarse. “I know it, lass.”

He looked wearier than she’d ever seen him. The weight of it of all, piling up turn by turn. His skin was like paper. His eyes bloodshot.

He looks so old.

Mercurio cleared his throat, drained the last of his wine. “I’ll leave first. Give me ten minutes.”

“Aye.”

The old assassin smiled, hovered uncertainly. It was all Mia could do to stop herself from rising to hug him. But she held herself still, and he gathered up his walking stick, gave her a brief nod. Turning, he took a step toward the door, stopped short.

“’Byss and blood, I almost forgot.”

He reached into his greatcoat, proffered a small wooden box, sealed with tallow. Mia recognized the sigil scorched into the wood. Recalled the little store where the old man used to buy his cigarillos. Remembering the night he first let her smoke one. Sitting on the battlements above the forum. Dark all around. Hands shaking. Fingers stained with blood. Fourteen years old.

Don’t look.

“Black Dorian’s,” she smiled.

“Paper. Tobacco. Wood. It’ll all make the Walk. I remember that time you tried to quit. Figured it best you don’t run out in there.”

“Best not,” Mia took the box from his hand, her eyes stinging. “My thanks.”

“Watch your back. And your front.” He waved vaguely. “And the rest of it, too.”

“Always.”

The old man pulled his tricorn down, his collar up. And without another word, he limped from the taverna and out into the street. Mia watched him go, counting the minutes down in her head. Eyes on the old man’s back as he limped into the distance.

“They’ll ask you to do things, soon. Dark things. To prove your devotion.”

Mia rested her chin in her hands, lost in thought.

A rowdy pack of bucks was coming in from the street, dressed in the white armor and red cloaks of the Luminatii. The girl glanced up at the sound of their laughter, young faces and handsome smiles. Stationed this close to the Palazzo, they were probably all marrowborn sons. Pulling a few years in the legion to further their familia’s political ends. If things had gone different, she’d be betrothed to a boy like that, most like. Living a life of privilege and never stopping a moment to—

“Pardon me,” said a voice.

Mia looked up, blinking. One of the Luminatii was standing above her. Ladykiller smile and a rich boy’s teeth.

“Forgive me, Mi Dona,” he bowed. “I couldn’t help noticing you sitting alone, and I thought it a crime against the Light itself. Might you permit me to join you?”

Mia’s hackles rippled, her fingers twitched. But realizing she appeared nothing more than a marrowborn girl out drinking alone, and remembering Aalea’s many and hard-learned lessons in charm, Mia smoothed her feathers and gave her best smile.

“O, that sounds lovely,” she said. “I’m honored, sir, but I’m afraid my mother is expecting me abed. Perhaps another time?”

“I trust your mother can spare you for one drink?” The boy raised a hopeful eyebrow. “I’ve not seen you in here before.”

“Apologies, sir.” Mia rose from the table. “But I really must be going.”

“Hold, now.” The boy blocked her way out of the booth. Eyes darkening.

Mia tried to quash her rising anger. Kept her voice steady. Stare downcast.

“Excuse me, sir, you’re in my way.”

“I’m just being friendly, girl.”

“Is that what you call it, sir?” Mia’s eyes flashed as her temper finally came out to play. “Others might say you’re being an arse.”

Anger blotched the boy’s face—the quick fury of a lad too used to getting his own way. He reached out with one gauntleted hand, seized Mia’s wrist, holding tight.

She could’ve broken his jaw, then. Buried her knee in his bollocks. Sat on his chest and wailed on his face until he learned not all girls were his sport. But that’d mark her as someone who knew the Song, and she was in a pub with half a dozen of his fellows, after all. And so she settled for twisting her arm as Mercurio had taught her, putting the boy off balance