Total pages in book: 222
Estimated words: 210715 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1054(@200wpm)___ 843(@250wpm)___ 702(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 210715 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1054(@200wpm)___ 843(@250wpm)___ 702(@300wpm)
The layout of the Taryz Teahouse echoed the Garden, although it was nowhere near that luxurious. It had the same arrangement of the extra tall main floor and the second-floor balcony running the length of the room, followed by two floors of smaller rooms: quiet, elegant, and very private. Many underhanded deals were hammered out in those rooms and people were occasionally murdered here. With the utmost discretion, of course.
The fourth floor consisted of a small room that opened to a large outdoor terrace. That’s where I went, up a very long staircase, following a polite server with a platter supporting a small teapot, a cup, and a little glass dish of honey.
Unlike most of the fandom, I’d never crushed on Solentine. I had spent way too much time in his head and his problem solving would give you nightmares. But I liked him, because I knew what had shaped him and understood why he did what he did. The Bastard of Dagarra knew he was messed up and twisted, and yet his priorities never wavered. It was always about family. He was ruthless and brutal, but to his relatives he was a beloved and loving son, nephew, and cousin.
I admired that loyalty. I grew up as an army brat. We moved so much during my childhood that nothing was permanent. Schools, other kids, sports teams, all of it came and went, “for now” rather than “for always.” I never got a chance to form lasting friendships, but my brother was always there for me. No matter what happened, he was a constant the way Solentine was a constant for his family.
I wanted Solentine to survive, despite all the awful shit he had done, but as much as I rooted for him, I had no illusions. Putting myself on the Shears’ radar was extremely risky. If Solentine wanted to get rid of me, he could simply snap his fingers, and it would be done. In a week I would have to interact with him again to get my payment. I needed some way to lessen the danger of that encounter. I needed a bodyguard. Someone that even he would have a difficult time killing.
At his core, Solentine was an assassin. An exceptional assassin, true, but he relied a great deal on the element of surprise. I needed a warrior. Someone who could stand up to an assassin. Rellas was a place that valued martial skills. Finding a great swordsman wouldn’t be that difficult but convincing them to work with me was a whole other story.
The stairs ended and I followed the server onto a roof terrace.
The Taryz Teahouse had never forgotten its roots, and the echo of its native Dhonir was everywhere—in the ornate stone rail of the terrace with protective symbols carved into the posts; in the metal windchimes shaped like strange animals tinkling gently in the wind; and in the long stretches of beautiful green fabric, draped at an angle over some tables to shield the patrons from the sun. The shading canvas stirred in the wind, as if the teahouse were a ship and these were its emerald sails.
Right now, with the afternoon sky threatening rain again, the terrace was mostly empty, and I saw him right away, a man sitting alone at the table closest to the western rail. He would be drinking Thieves Tea, a strong smoky brew, although he was not a thief.
He wore an old cloak, so faded you could no longer tell its original color. It hid most of his build, but his broad shoulders stretched the fabric, and he leaned in his chair with the kind of effortless, controlled grace particular to very strong men.
He sat under a green sail, half in the shadow and half in the light. The cloak’s thick hood was down, and the morning sun warmed his olive skin, while the wind blowing from the river stirred his dark brown hair. His face was striking. His features were powerful and chiseled, a hard jaw, a strong nose, high cheekbones, a firm mouth . . . He was looking away from me across the river, and I couldn’t see the color of his eyes, but they should’ve been gray. The trait ran in his family.
His sword rested on the table. A simple wooden sheath, a downcurved guard, a grip of reddish-brown leather, a blade that was about forty inches long, and most importantly, a small white pebble embedded in the round pommel. Location, outfit, features, sword—everything checked out.
Everything except his age. He’d become a professional soldier at seventeen and served in the King’s Army for twenty years, so he was at least thirty-seven. The exact line in the book said, A harsh life of battles and marches added years to his face. He looked like a man who was a decade older.