sinister man in the darkness with a smile that sliced.
Yet now he stood at the height of an adolescent boy, a friendly beam on his face. Could this really be the man whom his father spoke of with such bone-deep hatred, that Admiral Roran Farrald sought to bring down?
“What is it that I can do for you, boy?”
Ramson of the Quick Tongue was at a loss for words. He spluttered inelegantly, “I can…I can help you.”
Kerlan looked amused. “What’s your name, boy?”
“R-Ramson. Ramson Farrald.”
Kerlan’s lip curled almost imperceptibly. “A Bregonian boy, then,” he said. “Invite him in, Nikolay. I’d like to hear what brought a young Bregonian so far from his homeland.”
Kerlan had known whose son Ramson was—of course he had known. But Ramson’s arrogance had blinded him. Half an hour later, he found himself in a room, wearing an oversized vest and breeches, with silk slippers replacing his mud-caked boots.
The room was lined with shelves that were neatly stacked with leather-bound books. When Ramson looked closely, he could see gold letters shining off their spines. A large red carpet sprawled across the middle of the floor, tucked beneath an ebony coffee table. The room wasn’t filled to the roof with gold statues, but its opulence pulsed subtly in the lapis lazuli–laced designs on the table and the rare Kemeiran vases dispersed across the shelves.
“Well.” Ramson jumped; he hadn’t even heard the door open. Lord Kerlan drew a gold fountain pen from his breast pocket and gently shut the door behind him. “Have a seat, son. Ramson…was it? Would you like some tea? You look half-frozen.”
Ramson numbly sat himself on the red velvet couch across from the coffee table. Lord Kerlan was still looking at him with that glimmer of amusement in his eyes, and he realized he hadn’t responded to the question. “No,” Ramson said, “thank you.”
Lord Kerlan dipped his head. “Very well.” He strode over to the coffee table, flipping his golden pen between his fingers as he did. “What can I do for you, Ramson Farrald?”
Ramson parted his lips. He had been rehearsing this line since that night in the barn, when he’d lain on the hay, unable to sleep and aching in every joint and muscle fiber. “You know my father, Roran Farrald.”
Lord Kerlan had been shuffling through a stack of papers; he paused, and his eyes flicked to Ramson’s face like the tongue of a snake. “I do.”
Ramson leaned forward, gripping the edges of his seat so hard that his knuckles were white. “I want to help you destroy him.”
* * *
—
That had been a lifetime ago. The boy who had been heartbroken and angry at the world had died seven years ago in a dark alley. Someone else had crawled from the mud that day and risen to take his place. He stood in this room now, calm and cold and clad in a black silk vest paid for by the blood of his trades.
But part of him knew that he wasn’t any less lost than the broken boy of seven years past.
“Well.” Kerlan shut the door and moved silently across the room. Ramson was used to it. Kerlan had a way with the shadows.
He stood before his coffee table, wearing his confidence like an expensive suit and carrying that same twinkle in his eyes. One only had to step closer to sniff out the stench of power clinging to him, to catch the rotting smell of greed and corruption hidden beneath layers of kologne. The Farrald boy of seven years ago hadn’t seen that: to him, Kerlan had been a means to an end. A means to end his father, who had taken everything from him.
But Ramson Quicktongue saw everything.
“Sit, my son,” Kerlan said, and seated himself in front of the coffee table, gesturing for Ramson to take the seat across. Behind him, the great brass clock tapped down the seconds. “I thought my runners were mistaken when they brought news of your escape. It seems like I was the one mistaken.”
Ramson matched the smile playing about Kerlan’s lips. “I’ve come a long way for you, Alaric.”
“So convince me why I shouldn’t send you right back.”
“You don’t need convincing. You haven’t killed me yet, which means news must have reached you that I have something to offer. Something worth more than any Trade or deal you’ve made in your entire life.”
Kerlan tapped a gold fountain pen against a large jeweled ring on his middle finger. “Some similar whispers might have found their way