A Grace of Crowns | ☑ Queenkiller, Kingmaker #1

[03.1] The Silver Servant

After three consecutive tests resulting in no significant increase or decrease of theurgic level, it is considered to have settled and no further testing is necessary. The exception is late-bloomers, who require only two unchanging consecutive tests.

—Corthair's Compendium of Theurgy

3

↝ THE SILVER SERVANT ↜

She always took the alleys. They cut through the thoroughfare and her distance by half. But they were also empty. Walls on either side, bare but for grilled vents lining the gutter, out of which scents and sounds were perpetually discarded into the kitchen backstreets: spices, sizzling oil, the tang of fresh blood ...

Isla searched the narrow path ahead. A discarded crate. A broken vase. She could use the glass, if it came to that.

She quickened her pace, listening for his footsteps behind her.

There it was – a crunch on the gravel, boots scraping sand. Gaining speed, and Isla's heart with it.

The footsteps were paces behind her now, and a larger shadow started to fall over hers. Isla bent to one knee and tightened her sandals.

Now!

She scooped at the ground. Dirt, sand, gravel – horse shit for all she cared – dug into her nails. Isla whirled, rising to her feet, and chucked into the man's eyes.

His curse as she fled was in her native tongue.

Isla dared not look behind. She ran down the alley, turned a corner, squeezed into a tight path between two buildings. There was no way the man could follow. Not with his build.

Still, she did not slow. She snaked through one constricting passage after another, until she was out of breath and gasping against a milliner's wall.

The streets were wider and more densely occupied; carts rolling by, shopkeepers drawing their curtains or turning the sign on their doors. Isla allowed herself a brief moment of respite before continuing, this time following the main roads.

It was raining by the time she came upon Diner's Lane. The coffee house was located close to the northern corner of the street, just before the junction with Weaver's Road. Isla checked all directions, but it was useless. The Eastern Markets were always occupied with people of every shape and colour. Her follower could easily blend with the passing crowd.

Someone pushed past her into the coffee house, Isla hesitantly followed suit.

Noi had set the place the second year they were settled, and it had done well despite a slow start. They were popular with academy students, whom presently occupied the tables. The only exception was an Eastern Islander by the window, where he sat watching the rain.

Isla studied him as she joined Juri at the counter. Unremarkable features with an equally unremarkable shade of brown skin that could belong to anyone from any of the four Eastern Isle nations. But nothing like the man in the alley.

'Though you as good as own this place, it would help a lot more if you served the man rather than ogle him all day.' Juri chucked her a smock, which Isla tied around her neck and waist. 'You're half an hour late as is.'

'I wasn't –' Isla dropped her protest. Juri had already turned towards the shelves, her back to Isla as she rummaged through their jars and pots. 'Noi's ill ... had to care for her before ... I could leave.'