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But many of these so-called sailors and merchants looked nothing like the kind Wren had seen before. Not on the Dragon Isles, even though people came from afar to trade there, nor in Verlanti or any of the other port towns Wren had since visited. They were all dressed as haphazardly as the city itself, often far finer than a sailor or a merchant had any right to dress.

Pirates, Wren guessed.

All in all, Delansh was perhaps the most bizarre, interesting place Wren had ever seen.

“Seems the Verlantian prince hasn’t been able to reach Delansh yet,” Bram muttered, as he, Leif, and Wren filtered through the early morning shoppers as if they, too, were merely here to purchase fish and exotic goods from pirate merchants. “That’s good.”

Leif nodded in approval. “Josenudidsay we’d likely have a day’s head start.”

“Then let’s not waste it. Where were we meeting this wealthy merchant of yours?” Wren asked, tightening her coin purse on her belt.

“In a tavern on the corner there,” Leif said, pointing toward a building that looked as if it had seen better days. Though the sun had scarcely been up three hours, the door to the tavern swung open and closed every few seconds, indicating that business was already booming for the day.

Wren wondered if the place had closed during the night at all, or if it merely remained open forever.

Bram’s lip curled in distaste. “Dare I ask how you came to know about this establishment?”

“I’ve performed here more than once,” Leif said, shrugging before leading the way to the front door of the tavern and waving them in. “My foreign appearance isn’t so interesting to them here, so I can sing in peace.” Wren regarded Leif curiously. Certainly, it was true Leif wasn’t Verlantian or even Vadonese. But Wren had seen merchants with the same creamy skin and slanted eyes before, back on the Dragon Isles. They came from far, far to the east. She supposed that meant Verlantians were not used to the young bard’s appearance. Given what Wren had learned of the nobility here, she reasoned that meant Leif had to deal with undue interest whenever he performed.

Most of it likely unpleasant.

That’s how he learns so much.

Wren shared a smile with her friend. If people treated him as the object of interest—their entertainment for the night—he was likely to be privy to a whole host of things the rebellion might otherwise never know. It was a brilliant ploy.

That was, until Leif’s face was plastered on wanted posters right beside Wren’s.

As they made their way through smoke-filled air to a tiny, circular table in an obscure corner of the tavern, a familiar unease began to creep up Wren’s spine. She did not believe it to be a good sign that there had been such a light city patrol upon their entrance to Delansh. It was…suspicious.

Arrik would have sent a messenger along to increase the guard tenfold if he thought you might be here.

That was what had happened in the last few towns Wren and the rebellion had passed through, after all. Why would the pirate city be any different?

Does the Verlanti crown not hold much sway over the city?

Wren could only wonder. If the merchant they were meeting was sympathetic to the rebellion’s cause, and had wanted to meet in Delansh, did that mean there were others within the city wall who might wish to rise against the Verlantian royal family, and the higher classes in general?

“Right,” Bram huffed out once they’d sat down and he surveyed their surroundings. “Ale all around, then?” He waved a hand at the bar and held up three fingers.

Wren frowned at Bram in confusion, for though the man had clearly disliked the tavern when they were outside, and now he held himself as if he were right at home. He’d pushed his hood down and slid a hand through his hair to reveal the ugly scar by his right ear, and there was a glinting, clearly genuine gold chain resting across the hollow of his throat which hadn’t be there before.

“How do you do that?” she mumbled out of the corner of her mouth, shifting the hood around her head to ensure her red hair did not show.

Bram kept a smarmy grin plastered on his face as he replied, “Do what?”

“Fit in.” He was generally unpleasant to deal with but the man had skills when it came to subterfuge.

“He wouldn’t be very good at his job if he couldn’t fit in.” Leif chuckled. His gaze never stayed on one place for too long, constantly surveying their changing environment. When his shoulder tensed, she casually glanced behind her, lowering her lashes to observe the room.

A man sat there at a table, alone. Going by his odd but expensive attire, she assumed he must be one of the pirate merchants she’d seen out on the docks. He caught her look and nodded once.

Wren batted her lashes and lazily turned back to the table with a calmness she didn’t feel.

When their ale arrived, Wren had to fight not to snatch the tankard out of the barmaid’s hand out of sheer nervousness, though she was still careful to hide most of her face and her hair.

Leif, on the other hand, did not bother hiding his, clearly deciding that confidence would prevent suspicion—something which Wren, with her unique hair, could not emulate. When a tawdry bard stood up on the bar and began playing a tune on his guitar, Leif whistled along to the melody before pulling out a flute from his cloak and adding a harmony to the song, much to the delight of both the bard and the tavern’s rowdy customers.

“You know it?” Wren asked, when the boy’s harmony grew even more merry and complicated.