Chapter 9
As soon as I reached the marketplace, I returned Laurel's book straight to the library and lingered around the temple. I slipped inside with a cautious glance, but he was nowhere to be seen. The old man sweeping the floor eyed me with suspicion after watching me come and go several times, finally speaking up.
Flustered as if caught harboring a secret, I beat a hasty retreat from the temple. I circled around out front dozens of times at a snail's pace, but never ran into him.
Don't priests come to the temple every day? Would I have to do this daily just to cross paths with him? And what if I kept this up every day and still never saw him?
My legs were aching, and with the sun setting soon, it was time to give up. Crossing the marketplace with a weary face and gnawing on my lip, someone suddenly stepped into my path. Looking up, I saw Mark standing there with an awkward expression.
My name is Lucien, but I had no intention of correcting him. It was a meaningless name anyway, but that was just how I felt.
When I put it bluntly, Mark waved his hand dismissively.
I agreed with Laurel that Mark wasn't a bad sort. Even if I couldn't quite fathom the confidence radiating from him as he ran a hand through his hair to look cool.
When I turned to give the temple one last glance, Mark made a dumbfounded face. But soon enough, he broke into a grin, flashing his teeth.
At my flat refusal, Mark furrowed his brow and scratched the back of his neck.
My eyes had been on him at first, but they quickly drifted past his shoulder. A squad of guards was marching toward us, and after looking around, their gazes locked dead onto me the moment they spotted me.
Leading them was a short, slight man. He wore the leather vest marking him as a guardsman. When the man behind him pointed at me, he stepped forward, shooing people aside with a wave of his hand.
I answered dazed, clutching my market basket tight. I felt my heart seize with tension. Before I could even swallow dry spit, soldiers encircled me at the man's signal. The man's voice rang out, putting on a show of solemnity that failed to mask his petty nature.
“You are under arrest for the murder of Baron Christopher Beekman.”
I saw Mark's jaw drop. From somewhere in the distance came a middle-aged woman's shriek.
Murmurs from the crowd surged in like a tidal wave. The solid ground beneath my feet was crumbling into a bottomless abyss whose maw gaped wide.Lars, who had been reading a letter with his feet propped on the desk, raised his brows in displeasure.
He had a distaste for scrawled handwriting. Especially when it came to letters meant to carry critical news.
A lack of care directly translated to an issue of trust. Just as he shook his head and folded the parchment, the room door burst open.
Though he was staying in a cheap inn, the door was never thrown open like that unless an addled drunk barged in during the dead of night. Through his furrowed brow, Lars took in the sight of Yanken.
They had spent nearly ten years together. Yanken was rarely expressive, but the tension radiating from him made it clear something had happened. As Lars watched him in silence, Yanken shut the door tight and stepped close.
He had known it would be trouble, but the news was entirely unexpected. Lars sprang to his feet.
The trade was four days away. Beekman was hardly thorough, but it was his guarantee as the intermediary that had made the deal possible.
A tangle of conflicting interests raced through his mind. In two days, the suspicious Fremont merchant troupe would send an envoy. There was no telling whether they would trust him without Beekman, given that they had only agreed to negotiate on the strength of their ties to the baron.
The one who stood to lose the most if the deal went through was Count Balshuin, who held a monopoly on the existing trade route to Fremont. Cruel and ruthless where his own profit was concerned, it was entirely like him to catch on and decide to butcher Beekman.
When Lars finished his calculation and asked in a low voice, Yanken's expression grew odd. Screwing up his rough face even further, he spoke.
Every word was more absurd than the last. There was no way this was a coincidence.
Beekman's promiscuity was common knowledge to anyone who paid attention. Regardless of status, he indulged in so-called ‘romance’ with all sorts of women. Lars knew more than ten of those names, but Nora Allmon wasn't among them. Which meant she was hardly a frequent partner.
Stunned, Lars dropped back into his chair, pinching his brow.
Being poisoned right before the trade pointed suspicion toward Balshuin, but with a tangled mess of women, it wouldn't be shocking if an aggrieved lover had done him in.
Poison, after all, was a favored method among women.
The pact with Beekman had been conducted in secret, so Lars couldn't simply step forward to investigate. Above all, he was not in a position to show himself openly.
As Lars asked, rubbing his chin, Yanken cleared his throat.
Lucien.
He remembered the sight of her back as she ran off after blithely tossing out her name. The noble composure on Lars's handsome brow began to crack.
Yanken twitched an eyebrow in affirmation. A soft sigh escaped Lars unbidden.
This country was lenient when it came to affairs, but Lars had never understood applying the term ‘lover’ to more than one person in the first place. Pressing a hand to his throbbing forehead, he asked again.
Yanken laid out the details, but Lars waved his hand dismissively with a scoff.
As Lars dredged up his memory, the tension drained from his face. He rested his chin on his hand, leaning back.
For a moment, he had no answer. Yanken stared squarely at his striking, caught-off-guard face and pressed on.
At a theory straight out of a novel, Lars let out an incredulous laugh.
There was no mockery in his voice. Yanken's brows were raised in genuine astonishment.
