An indeterminate amount of time later the stink of the place drove me to stagger to the door, still reeling, half-drunk from the night before, wrapped in a thin blanket and clutching most of my clothes, my boots, my sword. I took Emma’s copper too. Waste not, want not. The shirt I left as a gift for the next occupant—minus Mother’s locket, of course.

“—royally fucked.” A man stood in the doorway to the next room, facing into it. From the back he looked a lot like the older of the two mercenaries in the alcove last night. “So, are we ready to go?” he asked.

“Tell them an hour. I’ll be ready in an hour.” A younger man, inside the room.

The other shrugged and turned to leave, pulling the door behind him. A woman in the room said something about a prince, but the rest of it was lost as the door closed. The man—it was the fellow from the alcove—strode past me, a slight smile twitching on his lips.

It occurred to me that I might wear my clothes rather than carry them. I dressed, somewhat gingerly, sore in all manner of places, and went down the stairs.

The bar was largely deserted—just a handful of Brothers slumbering at their tables with heads on folded arms, and Snorri in the midst of it all attacking a pewter plate mounded with bacon and eggs. The dark-haired man from the corridor sat beside him.

“Jal!” Snorri shouted, loud enough to split my head, and waved me over. “You look like hell! Get some food inside you.”

Resigning myself to his good cheer I sat at the table, as close to his breakfast as my stomach would allow.

“This is Makin.” He jabbed a loaded fork at the man beside him.

“Charmed,” I said, feeling anything but.

“Likewise.” Makin nodded politely. “I see they have fearsome bedbugs in this establishment.” His gaze slid to where my jacket hung open, exposing chest and belly.

“Christ on a bike.” Something had bitten me all right. Emma’s tooth marks left me looking like I had some kind of giant pox all over.

“One of the women said you had some trouble with Brother Emmer last night?” Snorri shovelled half a sliced pig into his mouth, tucking in stray ends of bacon with a finger.

“That Emmer’s a tricky sort,” Makin said, nodding to himself. “Lightning fast. Some smarts too.” He tapped his forehead.

“No.” I avoided squeaking the denial. “No trouble.”

Snorri pursed his lips around his mouthful, peering down at my bites. I clasped my jacket closed over them. “I’m not judging,” he said, one eyebrow elevating.

“Man’s free to choose his own path.” Makin rubbed his chin.

I shot to my feet, immediately wishing I’d taken more time over it. “Damned if I’m sitting here watching you stuff down pig like a . . . like . . .”

“A pig?” Snorri suggested. He lifted his plate and scraped several fried eggs towards his mouth.