Bloodfeud (The Scarlet Star Trilogy Book 3) Read Online Free PDF Page B

Merion would have been offended. The baker was apparently satisfied, but the boy caught the hint of surprise that flashed across her face. She handed him a coarse napkin, and went back to her arranging.
    The only problem with pies is that they can never cool down quick enough to calm your hunger. Once Merion had scalded his lips and tongue a few times, and made them numb, he managed to swallow a few chunks. It was exactly what he was craving: rich, gravy-soaked beef with onions, carrots, and a tang of ale and pepper. No food of the Endless Land could ever come close. He was enjoying the pie so much, he had to sit down.
    When the last scrap of gravy had been wiped away, and the paper bag had been licked clean of crumbs, Merion patted his stomach and set off again, heading deeper into Westminster.
    This was the city’s core, where the buildings seemed to push themselves back from the streets, growing grander and taller with every step Merion took. It all came flooding back to him. The cramped roads became wide channels of cobble and flagstone, flowing with rivers of carriages rattling back and forth. Polished marble gleamed alongside buffed copper and gold, and jet-black iron. Window upon window stared down at the sodden bustle below, a patchwork of curtains and glowing gaslight. The rest were dead eyes, just waiting to be occupied. There was a different cut of cloth in London’s core, literally speaking. The clip-clop of shoes and heels were smarter, the hurrying a little more dignified. Wafts of aftershave and perfume filled Merion’s nose. Butlers waited at grand doorways, wrapped in finery and their masters’ colours, umbrellas prepared for important visitors. Even the carriages gleamed, waxed and relatively mud-free.
    Merion followed the curve of the streets until he could smell the river. He could see the Bellspire now, its summit peeking out between the soaring spires and rooftops. Four immense clock-faces surveyed all four points of the city’s compass, their gold and ivory visages glistening in the rain and the glow of spotlights. The tower’s pinnacle brushed the clouds, half-lost in their murky tendrils. Merion felt a shiver, then; a cocktail of feelings. There was pride, relief to be back, a dark and undeniable undercurrent of anxiety, and most of all, hatred. For the Bellspire was the mighty corner of the Emerald House, home of the Emerald Benches, soapbox of Lord Bremar Dizali.
    Merion had wisely chosen not to inform Calidae of this minor deviation from their plan. This he was keeping all for himself. It was a simple desire; he wanted to see Dizali. He wanted to lay eyes on the man who had dared to ruin his life, to besmirch his name and pilfer what was his. Dizali had refused to leave the boy’s thoughts since he had steamed along the Potomac. Now he wanted to combine fact with wrathful fiction and memory. He wanted to see Dizali in the flesh; to know he was just a man, like any other that walked these streets. This was not to torture himself, but rather to inspire. All men can be felled, one way or another, and that goes double for those infested with pride.
    The boy walked the mighty edges of the House, keeping his head as low as he could without bumping into the men and women huddled on the pavement, eager to be somewhere dry. He moved to the kerb, where the carriages thundered by. He watched each one from the corner of his eye, inspecting their coats of arms: a gallant hawk pierced with an arrow; a tree sprouting from a book; a hog with a clock in its mouth. None of them a tiger and eagle.
    Picking a spot across the street from the House’s grand entrance, he hunkered down beneath a shallow archway. From there he could stare out over the heads of the pedestrians, and survey the mighty steps of the House. Even though he feigned sleep—playing the street-boy, tired and cold—he refused to blink, refusing to miss a glimpse.
    Half an hour passed, filled with the slapping of wet footwear and the