2. The Lion's Perch

25th of Nima

Nimkoruguithu basked in the late morning sunlight, a sprawl of metal and concrete buildings put up side by side in a hurry and added onto even faster. The streets were wide, much wider than they were in Edon. Everything in Nim K was like that: big, rambling, with lots of open spaces. Lots of ways to be shot at, lots of angles of observation, lots of places someone could be watching from. I had to keep telling myself to breathe as I strolled along the boardwalk, scanning all the overhead signs that jutted from the second story.

There it was, halfway down the block, just as it had been described: dingy yellow shingle, faded red lion perching like a bird in the branches of a grey tree, the words 'Lion's Perch Pub' in plain red letters along the bottom.

Just go in and sit down. This will all be over soon. Just go in and sit down... I reached the front doors. This will all be over... soon... placed my hand on the handle of the accordion door, took a breath, and pulled it open, my heartbeat thundering in my ears even though Captain Arramy was supposed to be right behind me.

I stopped just inside, and right on cue he came swaggering in on my heels, brushing past me and heading for the bar as if I were just an obstacle in his way.

I shot a glare after him but didn't say anything. The great argument over who and how many should come in with me had resolved into Arramy grudgingly assigning himself the job of undercover bodyguard because NaVarre had a famous face. For all his grumbling about it, I had to admit I really didn't mind. The people of Nim K had a bad reputation for shooting first without bothering to ask questions later. If things went sideways, I could probably do much worse than the man who had outsmarted the Bloody Red Fox.

Glancing around, I tried to get my bearings. The interior was dim, with no decorating scheme to speak of – unless mismatched and off-kilter could be called a style. Scores of antlered animal skulls were mounted on the wall above a huge fireplace, the floor was covered in nut shells and a layer of sawdust, and there were barrels and crates in place of chairs. None of which really mattered. I needed to find a table. There was no receptionist or usher, NaVarre had said. I simply had to find a spot and sit, and one of the kitchen workers would come over to take my order.

It sounded like barbarism, but thankfully it wasn't complicated.

There weren't many other customers. Three men were playing a game of cards on a barrel by the only window facing the street. Two women who looked every bit as battle-hardened as Arramy were sitting at the far end of the bar. Neither the women nor the men paid Arramy any mind. He fit right in, with a few days' worth of stubble darkening his jaw, and that metal-studded leather vest buckled over a scruffy grey shirt, and the set of pistols slung low at his hips. No. It was me they all looked at.

In my refugee clothes, I must have seemed drab and unremarkable, though, because their interest faded after a cursory glance, and to my relief no one stopped me as I began walking toward the row of booths along the far wall.

I chose the one in the left-hand corner and tried to keep from looking as nervous as I felt as I scooted into the bench facing the room.

It wasn't a long wait. A young woman about my age came out of the kitchen, and when she saw me, she made a beeline for my table. She gave me a warm, welcoming smile – which seemed out of place in such a cave of an establishment – and asked in heavily accented Low Altyran, "Wakinagitcha?"

I smiled back. "Butter cones, please."

"Roit," she said brightly. "Beritba." Be right back. The 'with that' apparently had to be understood. Interesting.

She told someone in the kitchen that there was another order of butter cones, and then one of the biggest men I had ever seen – overlarge pirates and a certain Navy Captain included – came lumbering out, wiping his huge hands on his apron as he walked down the inside of the bar. He bent over by the money box, reaching for something under the counter. When he stood again, he had a clay bottle in one beefy palm, and he was reading the label as he turned to go back into the kitchen. Just before the door closed behind him, he looked in my direction, his gaze flicking quickly over my features. Then he continued on through the serving doors with no other indication that he had seen me.

That was it. That was the moment NaVarre had been so terrified about. One split-second glance.

I bit my lip and tried not to fidget.

A few minutes later, the girl came back with a plate piled high with butter cones. She also brought a pot of cane syrup and a thick wedge of creamy white sweet cheese.

There wasn't anything else to do, so I waded in, and I had to admit the big man knew his way around a butter cone. They were perfectly crisp on the outside, light and airy on the inside, the top forming a crunchy little peak, the hollow inside filled with fluffy cream. In different circumstances, I might have actually enjoyed them.

Then the girl came back with an urn of Praidani and poured some into a mug without being asked. I glanced up at her, mildly confused. She gave me a pointed, meaningful look, and put the mug down in front of me. Carefully. So I could see the note stuck to it, but anyone watching couldn't.

"Taya," I whispered. Thanks.

"Yawellca, Miss. I'll giyit wenyadun."

I nodded. She wasn't talking about coming back for the dishes. I was going to have to memorize what was on that note.

I picked up the mug as she left, glanced around to make sure no one was looking, then took a closer peek at the scrap of wet paper.

 

2200 tonight. Park bench on Lagrossa. He'll find you.

 

I took a sip to give myself a reason for holding the mug near my face, then grimaced and put it down. That part wasn't pretend. It had the consistency of tar.

Like magic, the girl came bustling back out, exclaiming, "Y'askin fer'randge n'alosye. Gongoroitoumemind!" ("You asked for orange and I forgot. Going right out of my mind!")

She whisked away the mug and replaced it with a chipped little porcelain cup of orange provincial. Then she went back into the kitchen, taking the note with her. With that, the entire transaction was over.

I took a few more bites of butter cone and sipped my tea, then put my fork on my plate.

That was Arramy's signal. Immediately, he finished off whatever he had ordered, tossed a coin on the bar, and went striding out of the Lion's Perch like he had somewhere to be. He did. He was supposed to make sure nothing happened to me while I walked down to the 'extraction point,' as the two of them kept calling it, where I would meet NaVarre.

I paid the bill when the girl came back to collect my plate, then got up and made my way out into the early morning sunlight. I turned right and began wandering down the boardwalk.

Wherever Arramy had gone, I couldn't see him. Which, to my annoyance, made me feel very, very alone. I gave myself a mental shaking, but still that creeping-insect sensation snuck up my spine.

'Act like a tourist,' NaVarre had said. Tourists took their time. Tourists window-shopped. They didn't rush along with their head down, looking like they were running from someone. I tried not to, but I walked faster the farther from the pub I got. I couldn't help it. My neck was prickling, the sensation of being stalked clinging to me the entire way down the street to the corner where NaVarre was waiting in a hired horse-drawn cab. I was out of breath by the time I climbed inside and collapsed in a heap on the threadbare cushion across from him.

NaVarre tapped the handle of his cane on the roof and the cab started forward.

I sat up straight and brushed my hair out of my face. "You're used to this sort of thing, all the skulking about in corners, passing messages on tea mugs... does it get easier with practice?"

"Did you find anything?" NaVarre asked, calmly. To the point.

"2200 tonight, bench on Lagrossa, he'll find you," I provided. "When will it stop feeling like someone is secretly aiming a pistol at my head?"

NaVarre shrugged. "I've found that to be a healthy concern in my line of work."

"Well you can keep your line of work. I can't wait to go back to living my adventures vicariously through literature."

NaVarre gave me a small, humorless smile and glanced out the window.