Heir of Fire (Throne of Glass #3) by Sarah J. Maas

She set them up in a veiled-off alcove littered with worn silk cushions that stank of sweet smoke and sweat, and after she lifted her brows at Chaol, he handed over three gold pieces. Ren groaned from where he was sprawled on the cushions between Aedion and Chaol, but before Chaol could so much as say a word, the madam returned with a bundle in her arms. “They are next door,” she said, her accent lovely and strange. “Hurry.”

She’d brought a tunic. Aedion made quick work of stripping Ren, whose face was deathly pale, lips bloodless. The general swore as they beheld the wound—a slice low in his belly. “Any deeper and his damn intestines would be hanging out,” Aedion said. He took a strip of clean fabric from the madam and wrapped it around the young lord’s muscled abdomen. There were scars all over Ren already. If he survived, this probably would not be the worst of them.

The madam knelt before Chaol and opened the box in her hands. Three pipes now lay on the low-lying table before them. “You need to play the part,” she breathed, glancing over her shoulder through the thick black veil, no doubt calculating how much time they had left.

Chaol didn’t even try to object as she used rouge to redden the skin around his eyes, applied some paste and powder to leech the color from his face, shook free a few buttons on his tunic, and mussed his hair. “Lay back, limp and loose, and keep the pipe in your hand. Smoke it if you need to take the edge off.” That was all she told him before she got to work on Aedion, who had finished stuffing Ren into his clean clothes. In moments, the three of them were reclined on the reeking cushions, and the madam had bustled off with Ren’s bloody tunic.

The lord’s breathing was labored and uneven, and Chaol fought the shaking in his own hands as the front door banged open. The soft feet of the madam hurried past to greet the men. Though Chaol strained to hear, Aedion seemed to be listening without a problem.

“Five of you, then?” the madam chirped loudly enough for them to hear.

“We’re looking for a fugitive,” was the growled response. “Clear out of the way.”

“Surely you would like to rest—we have private rooms for groups, and you are all such big men.” Each word was purred, a sensual feast. “It is extra for bringing in swords and daggers—a liability, you see, when the drug takes you—”

“Woman, enough,” the man barked. Fabric ripped as each veiled alcove was inspected. Chaol’s heart thundered, but he kept his body limp, even as he itched to reach for his blade.

“Then I shall leave you to your work,” she said demurely.

Between them, Ren was so dazed that he truly could have been drugged out of his mind. Chaol just hoped his own performance was convincing as the curtain ripped back.

“Is that the wine?” Aedion slurred, squinting at the men, his face wan and his lips set in a loose grin. He was hardly recognizable. “We’ve been waiting twenty minutes, you know.”

Chaol smiled blearily up at the six men peering into the room. All in those dark uniforms, all unfamiliar. Who the hell were they? Why had Ren been targeted?

“Wine,” Aedion snapped, a spoiled son of a merchant, perhaps. “Now.”

The men just swore at them and continued on. Five minutes later, they were gone.



The den must have been a meeting point, because Murtaugh found them there an hour later. The madam had brought them to her private office, and they’d been forced to pin Ren to the worn couch as she—with surprising adeptness—disinfected, stitched, and bound up his nasty wound. He would survive, she said, but the blood loss and injury would keep him incapacitated for a while. Murtaugh paced the entire time, until Ren collapsed into a deep sleep, courtesy of some tonic the woman made him choke down.

Chaol and Aedion sat at the small table crammed in amongst the crates upon crates of opium stacked against the walls. He didn’t want to know what was in the tonic Ren had ingested.

Aedion was watching the locked door, head cocked as if listening to the sounds of the den, as he said to Murtaugh, “Why were you being followed, and who were those men?”

The old man kept pacing. “I don’t know. But they knew where Ren and I would be. Ren has a network of informants throughout the city. Any one of them could have betrayed us.”

Aedion’s attention remained on the door, a hand on one of his fighting knives. “They wore uniforms with the royal sigil—even the captain didn’t recognize them. You need to lay low for a while.”

Murtaugh’s silence was too heavy. Chaol asked quietly, “Where do we bring him when he can be moved?”

Murtaugh paused his pacing, his eyes full of grief. “There is no place. We have no home.”

Aedion looked sharply at him. “Where the hell have you been staying all this time?”

“Here and there, squatting in abandoned buildings. When we are able to take work, we stay in boardinghouses, but these days…”

They would not have access to the Allsbrook coffers, Chaol realized. Not if they had been in hiding for so many years. But to be homeless…

Aedion’s face was a mask of disinterest. “And you have no place in Rifthold safe enough to hold him—to see to his mending.” Not a question, but Murtaugh nodded all the same. Aedion examined Ren, sprawled on the dark sofa against the far wall. His throat bobbed once, but then he said, “Tell the captain your theory about magic.”