That’s not the only thing that feels wrong as Rakos veers towards the travelers’ quarter. He’s trying to be practical. Cautious, for once in his life.
But he can’t help wondering whether Bell has found a place to sleep.
?
CHAPTER SEVEN
Bellamy
Bellamy can’t resent Rakos for leaving him. Rakos already helped far more than he was obliged to. Even so, Bellamy’s distress mounts as Rakos vanishes around the streetcorner. His absence is like a lump of rock wedged beneath Bellamy’s heart.
Bastard blinks from her pouch to Bellamy’s shoulder, nuzzling under his chin, but even petting her doesn’t ease Bellamy’s nerves.
It’s as bad as thinking he was alone in the waystation. Maybe worse. At least then, Bellamy had some hope Gregoire or the other oathguards might find him. Now, he and Bastard are truly alone in Draskora.
Bellamy can only rely on himself now. The trouble is, he’s never been a very good person to rely on.
Rubbing his eyes, Bellamy turns away from the street Rakos vanished down. He needs somewhere to stay for the night. A caravan to rent. Hopefully a shop will buy his jewelry; his necklace and ring should fetch him enough money to make it across the country.
Bellamy drops a treat into Bastard’s pouch, and she blinks inside. Most of her energy is burned out, so at least he doesn’t have to worry about her running away. As she crunches the treat, Bellamy sets off in the direction Rakos pointed out.
Orthin isn’t that crowded, but everything is more overwhelming without guards separating him from the rest of the world. Sure, Bellamy hasn’t spent his entire life locked up in palaces. Claude took him to the markets outside Sandrelle while queensguards and oathguards kept civilians at a safe distance. Julien took him to taverns a few times and tried teaching him darts and card games—again with rings of oathguards, and Claude still freaked out when she learned of it.
Even that outing was tightly controlled. As Julien defended himself to Claude, of course he only took Bellamy to the nicest tavern, and he reserved the establishment ahead of time. The only other patrons present were vetted before they entered. It wasn’t a real adventure.
Turns out Bellamy wasn’t ready for a real adventure. This is far more terrifying than he imagined.
At least nobody stares as he hurries down the street. The merchants and townspeople don’t notice Bellamy at all, since they don’t know he’s a prince.
Orthin’s architecture is interesting. Intimidating, in a defensive sort of way. Bellamy recalls a tutor explaining that Draskorans decorate their buildings aggressively to scare off natural disasters. Lots of gargoyles, some frightening, some unexpectedly friendly. One residential building in particular catches Bellamy’s attention. Carved brass wyrms loop around every window. The wyrms around the first-floor windows are paler on top of their heads from being patted by passersby.
Bellamy detours across the street to pat one of them. He smiles at the small, snarling face. Then he looks up and freezes.
He’s forgotten which direction he was heading.
This is fine. This has to be fine. Bellamy will just keep walking until he finds something. Somewhere. How hard can it be to find an inn?
But what will he do when he gets there?
Bellamy’s education has been lacking. He knows Draskora’s recent military history, foreign policy, and every version of its borders for the past hundred years. He knows three different Draskoran ballroom dances. But he doesn’t know how much an inn room or caravan passage costs.
Time to find out. Bellamy is twenty-one years old, and he can’t afford to be useless when he has no one else. He touches his necklace beneath his shirt, pulls his coat closer, and sets off down the street.
This far west, most of the signs are in Draskoran instead of Trade. Bellamy was never good at languages, and he can barely decipher some of the words. He stops at a corner and looks for someone who could help.
Most people hurry along, intent on their own business. Bellamy fails to make eye contact with several nice-looking peasants in a row before he spots a pair of women speaking together at the next corner. Maybe they’ll help him.
He drops another treat in Bastard’s pouch to keep her occupied as he approaches the women. “Excuse me, I’m looking for a room for the night. I was wondering if you could—”
The shorter woman spins, hand flying to the long knife at her hip. “Not interested,” she snaps. “Move along.”
Bellamy stumbles back. “Sorry, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean—”
The knife slides half an inch from its sheath. “I said move along.”
“Sorry,” Bellamy repeats, too frightened to explain himself better. If that would even work. He hurries down the sidewalk without looking where he’s going.
No more asking for directions. He’ll just keep walking until he finds something that resembles an inn.