Thread of Ash and Fire

Ch. 26: I Trust You

Slowly, Camille lowered the bread knife.

Isaac was wreathed in shadow. The candlelight threw his cheekbones into sharp relief, hollowing his face. He was stooped slightly — probably to avoid the ceramic pots dangling from the kitchen ceiling — but his shoulders were squared. Defiant.

"Bingham?" Camille echoed.

Isaac tossed a wedge of cheese. "It's... My brother had a gambling addiction. He used to steal things from the manor — coins, jewels, whatever he could get his hands on — and then sneak out to the tavern. We tried to intervene, but it was... difficult."

The tossing grew faster. Camille swallowed.

"I'm sorry," she said.

Camille returned to slicing bread. Not because she gave a damn about the sandwiches — Anna and Ryne could make their own bloody dinner — but because Isaac was like the last drop of honey in a glass jar: he needed to be coaxed out.

Isaac exhaled. "Anyway, Bing was mostly gambling with farmers and local merchants. Nobody important. But then he ran into Dartmouth. The bastard introduced my brother to the world of deeds. A deed to his horses. A deed to his share of the house. Bingham lost everything. He was thirteen at the time."

Camille set down the knife. "My gods."

Isaac's smile was hollow. "My father wouldn't give him the money. Obviously. So Bingham went down to the tavern — to apologize, I can only assume — and a group of thugs jumped him. He came home with two broken ribs and a fractured wrist." His face tightened. "He couldn't use his right arm for two months."

Camille's mouth was dry. "Isaac..."

Her heart was beating so fast that it felt almost painful. Burning stars. No wonder Isaac had tried to stab the young general through the arm. She turned to the drying rack, pulling down several cured meats.

"Is Bingham alright?" Camille asked.

"Fine," Isaac said curtly. "No lasting damage. And he doesn't gamble anymore." There was a pause. "Dartmouth claims he never ordered the attack, but they were his men. They were his responsibility."

"I'm sorry," Camille said. "I had no idea."

"No," Isaac said. "Nobody does. Not even Ryne."

More silence. Camille stared at the items on the counter — mustard and pickled beets and boiled eggs — and tried to think logically. But that was the issue with Isaac; he was the one place where logic refused to live.

She looked up. "There's a secret tunnel under the kitchens. That's what Dartmouth told me."

His eyes widened. "Camille—"

"Nobody knows about it," Camille said quickly. "Not even Eris. Dartmouth said it was a closely guarded secret; my brothers used it to sneak into the local village at night. Meeting women and drinking, that sort of thing."

Actually, Dartmouth had almost used the word whoring before catching himself. She could still feel his large palms on her shoulder, smell the sticky-sweet sap drifting through the window mixing with the sherry on his breath. Don't tell anyone, he'd said. You must promise me.

Isaac's brow furrowed. "Why wouldn't Dartmouth say that in front of me?"

Camille sighed. "He's convinced there's a mole in the group."

Isaac started violently. Not that Camille blamed him. It was stupid, she thought, dipping a knife into the mustard; she trusted all her friends. It was ridiculous to think any of them would betray her. And yet, Dartmouth had been utterly convinced.