of citrus that blossomed on the palate and lingered as an aftertaste.
Footsteps thudded up the stairs, and Igor sauntered in with a mug in each hand. He took care to shut the door behind him.
Ramson waited for the familiar click of a lock. No conversation in the Reservation Room was conducted with an unlocked door.
When it didn’t come, a thread of caution tightened inside him.
With a great sigh, Igor placed the second round of drinks on the table and plopped down on one of the settees. Firelight danced on his face. “I see the wardens haven’t beaten the spirit out of you. You look healthy as a young buck, just a shade paler. What’s it been, four moons?”
“Three moons and twenty-one days. I’ve been counting.” Ramson slouched back against the plump velvet cushion of his settee like a cat basking in the sun, watching Igor through heavy-lidded eyes. “They don’t serve stuff like this in prison.”
“Aye.” Igor raised his glass. “These’d cost a good few goldleaves.”
“Word on the street is that you owe me more than a few goldleaves.” Ramson leaned forward, his brandy forgotten, and instead savored the look of utter panic that flashed across Igor’s face. “I know you turned me in. Oh, don’t look so pitiful, man. Have some damned balls and own up to it.”
It was a wager on Ramson’s part, but it was his best guess thus far. He’d been holing up for the night at Igor’s pub when a squad of Whitecloaks stormed in and arrested him on a count of treason against the Crown. He’d spent his moons in prison combing through every gnarled thread of his network until he’d pinned down a theory: Igor had turned him in, but he’d been doing the dirty work for someone else. Someone close to Kerlan who’d had information about his mission.
Igor’s gaze flitted nervously to the door; he wiped a sheen of sweat from his face, smearing more grease on his forehead. “Ramson, my friend, you must know—”
“Don’t ‘Ramson, my friend’ me.” Ramson slammed his fist on the table, finally letting himself taste a sliver of that anger that had built up inside him as he rotted away in prison. “If you want to live, you’ll tell me why you did it, and you’ll tell me who made you do it.”
“H-he used to work for the Imperial Court.” Igor’s breaths came in shallow rasps, and he looked faint. “Y-you have to understand, R-Ramson—”
“There’s nothing I understand better than the gods-damned sting of betrayal.”
“You were sent to murder the Emperor!” Igor exclaimed. “Deities, man, your mission was impossible from the start!”
Ramson paused. This was the question he’d turned over and over in his mind back at Ghost Falls with no leads to an answer: Why had the greatest crime lord in the Empire wanted to murder Emperor Lukas Mikhailov?
He remembered the storm that night, rain lashing at the windows in fury. Kerlan’s small, twisted smile, the simple cadence to his words, as though he’d just asked Ramson to pick up beet soup for dinner.
Ramson had known, that very moment, that this was the ultimate test. If he had succeeded, Kerlan would have named him successor to the Order, cementing Ramson’s power once and for all. Everything he’d ever wanted in his life sat beyond that mission.
Yet Ramson had forgotten that in a gamble where you stood to win everything, there was even more you could lose.
And he’d lost.
Perhaps capture by the Imperial Court had been a kinder fate than death at Kerlan’s hands.
“I was his Deputy,” Ramson gritted out. “He entrusted everything to me. The mission got leaked. And I’m going to trace that leak and destroy everyone involved in it, starting with you.”
“Ramson, please—”
“Shut your damn mouth. The one thing I can’t stand is a spineless coward.” Ramson spread his hands on the polished oakwood table. His voice was a low growl when he spoke next. “The only reason you’re still breathing is because I want something from you. I need a name, Igor.”
“Pyetr Tetsyev!” The words came out in a sharp gasp. “He came to inquire about you and paid me a sum to turn you in if you came to my pub. And a week later you showed up.” Igor’s mouth was small, but it worked surprisingly fast. He fixed Ramson with a pleading gaze.
“That’s all I know, I swear, man. And it was a lot of money.”
“Pyetr Tetsyev.” Ramson rolled the name around his tongue; it had no taste