a breakfast of salmon porridge and sourdough bread downstairs in the morning, something in his expression had shifted. “I have news,” he said through a mouthful of food. He’d showered and changed into a clean white shirt, hanging open at his collar. He squinted, and waved a spoon at her. “Is that hood always part of your outfit?”
“Is ignorance always part of your outfit?” Ana snapped, and cast a glance around the inn. It was mostly empty, save for one or two weary-looking travelers nursing mugs of black ale over cracked wooden tables. Still, she kept her hood drawn tightly as she sat across from him. “Besides, shouldn’t you be more cautious? After what happened with the mercenaries?”
Ramson leaned back, brandishing his spoon. “Caution’s my middle name, sweetheart.”
“Is that why you got kidnapped in the thirty minutes I left you alone?”
“I had that situation under control.” Ramson grinned at Ana’s expression. “All right, let’s just say I have some insurance now. Someone high up wants me alive.”
Ana dug her spoon into her thick bowl of porridge. “So what’s the news?”
“May is scheduled to perform in three days. One day before Kerlan’s Fyrva’snezh.”
Her spoon dropped. Porridge spilled on the table. The rest of the world—the dim inn, the smell of seared fish in the air, the chipped wooden table—faded. “How do you know?”
“I know everything.”
“You’re absolutely certain?” Her tunic suddenly felt too tight; it was hard to breathe.
“Yes. When you’re done interrogating me, perhaps we can finalize the plan.”
Plan. She couldn’t concentrate, couldn’t think of anything besides May behind those blackstone wagon doors, alone and helpless and afraid.
“Don’t worry so much.” Ana blinked, and realized Ramson was watching her with a smile curling his lips. “The plan’s simple. We’re going to bid for her contract after the show. Remember I told you that’s what happens in the back rooms.”
Ana’s mind spun. “I don’t understand. Bid for her? What if we don’t win?”
“We will. I called in an old favor.” He finished his last bite of sourdough bread and wiped his fingers on his napkin. “If you can’t win it, just rig it.”
“This is not a game, con man,” Ana snarled, her temper rising at his levity, at the thought of May sitting in a cell somewhere in that horrible place from hell. “If even one thing goes wrong, then May’s life is in danger.”
The grin faded from Ramson’s face. He placed his spoon back in his bowl, carefully, deliberately, as though handling a weapon. “You think I don’t know the difference between life and death?” he said. “I’ve been in this business for seven years. I started as a street rat and worked my way up to where I am today—where I was. One slip along the way, and I would’ve been dead.”
Her breathing came shallow. Ramson Quicktongue had taken care to never reveal anything about himself to her, other than what was strictly necessary. Yet something had changed. She just couldn’t place…what.
“And that’s why we have backup plans,” he said, and the moment was gone. “I have one for several different scenarios, and they consist of secret tunnels and underground passageways.” He leaned forward, his hazel eyes bright in the morning light, tousled hair curling against his temples. “As soon as we have May, we need to be ready for the Fyrva’snezh ball.” He slid something across the table at her.
A piece of parchment, with names hastily scribbled on it. Ana scanned the title. “Kerlan’s Fyrva’snezh guests?” She thought of asking him how he’d procured it but knew that questioning Ramson Quicktongue’s sources would lead to precisely nowhere.
“Yes.” Ramson touched a finger to a single name in the middle of the list, and for a moment, all that she saw were the words blazing up at her. Mesyr Pyetr Tetsyev.
Ana drew a sharp breath. She gripped the parchment so hard that her knuckles turned white. “We’ll need to lure him somewhere quiet. Somewhere I can talk to him and then leave, unnoticed.”
Ramson’s eyes glinted. “There’s a secret room in Kerlan’s basement. It’s soundproof. I have it on good authority that no one will be standing guard during the ball.” He drummed the table in a restless beat. “It’s perfect. There’s a tunnel leading out from the basement to the back—it’s where all of the estate’s supplies come in. Food, flowers, clothing…the like. I’ll arrange for a carriage pickup. We just need to agree on the timing.”
* * *
—
They retreated to their rooms to hash out the rest of the plans.