Bribery, Magnus thought. How incredibly common of them.
Unfortunately, Magnus didn’t have a single coin on him. And if he did, that currency would have had his father’s face stamped onto it, not the goddess’s.
“But wait,” Emil said, plucking the obsidian blade from the folds of Magnus’s cloak. “What’s this pretty thing peeking out at us?”
Magnus quickly reached out and snatched it back. “It’s not a coin.”
“Clearly not. Perhaps this is your payment to Samara. I’ve heard she likes all sorts of shiny baubles in return for her particular talents.”
“If you’re unwilling to assist me, I’ll ask someone else for help.” Magnus moved past the table, but the dark-haired man stuck his leg out, and Magnus tripped over it, crashing to the wooden floor. He scanned his surroundings to see other patrons staring at him, and a few snickered that he’d managed to find some forbidden ale to make him so clumsy in the middle of the day. Embarrassed and outraged, Magnus looked toward Kalum to see that he again had taken hold of the obsidian blade.
Magnus scrambled up to his feet and held out his hand. “Give that back.”
“Get enough coin, boy, and I might consider a trade.” He placed the shard down on the table. “And make it quick, or I’ll be happy to take this to the lovely Samara myself.”
Magnus fought the urge to jump the man—to grab hold of his neck and squeeze—but it was no use. He had no weapon on him and no idea how to make two grown men obey his command if they had no idea who he actually was.
Here in Northern Mytica, the name Prince Magnus Lukas Damora meant nothing.
And he was already running out of time.
Heart racing, he left the tavern and began searching the streets, ready to beg, borrow, or steal whatever he needed to get information on Samara and have the shard returned to him.
His palm stung, but he clenched his fist, his short fingernails biting into the bandaged wound. The pain reminded him of the witch who’d caused this mess. He needed to focus.
The door to an inn opened, and two figures emerged, pausing long enough for the woman at the doorway to hand over a thick pouch that made the unmistakable sound of coins clinking together as the taller of the two cloaked figures took it from her.
Magnus drew close enough that he could overhear them but not be seen.
“Your fee,” she said. “Much gratitude for your help, Livius. This is such a small price to pay for your son’s assistance today. My family will sleep well tonight for the first time in months.”
“It is our duty, my lady, to assist those who need my son’s very special skills. I trust that his secret is safe with you.”
“Of course.”
Livius bowed before her. “Then we shall take our leave.”
Livius and his son left the inn and moved down the road.
Magnus followed, his gaze steadily fixed upon the sack of coins.
“Care to share why you hesitated today?” Livius asked, his tone less friendly now.
“I didn’t hesitate.”
“We were there since dawn.”
“Sometimes it’s not that easy for me.”
“Then you should make it look easy,” Livius growled. “We nearly lost her interest, not to mention our payment.”
The boy sighed. “But we didn’t, did we?”
“Are you disrespecting me again?” Livius grabbed the boy by the back of his neck and directed him forcibly into an alleyway.
“Apologies! I’m simply tired.”
Magnus heard the all too familiar sound of a hand striking a cheek before he turned the corner to see the man’s son recoil from the blow.
Outraged at the sight, Magnus clenched his fists so tightly that his short fingernails dug painfully into his palms.
Focus, he reminded himself. Focus only on the money. You care about nothing else.
But when the man raised his hand to strike his son again, Magnus couldn’t stay put. In a few strides he closed the distance between them and shoved the man backward.
Livius turned a furious glare upon Magnus. “Who do you think you are?”
“No one,” he replied, casting a quick glance at the boy, younger than him by a year or two, his hand held to his pale face, pain in his dark eyes. Then he turned toward the man, looking down his nose at the unmannered barbarian. “Does it make you feel powerful to beat your son for the crime of speaking his mind?”
“He’s not my father,” the boy said.
“That’s right,” Livius said. “I’m the guardian to a little fool who tries to cross me daily. And I’ll reprimand him as I see fit.”
“You need him to help you make your living, don’t you?” Magnus nodded at the small canvas sack the man still held by its drawstrings. “Seems a poor way to treat someone you need.”
Livius narrowed his eyes, not answering, as Magnus crouched down to inspect the ground, picking up a handful of dirt and small stones.
“I suggest you move along,” Livius said, his voice low and dangerous, “before I lose my patience completely. You don’t want to see that.”