Scout- The Complete Scout Box Set, page 10
part #1 of Scout Series
“The hooded boy sitting with Kal left with a girl on each arm,” says Luca. “And more than willingly. I’ll check in with the mistress out back to see if they perchance paid for a room.”
“Don’t get lost in a room yourself,” Trace calls to Luca’s retreating back. He turns to me. “Kal, you and I take the streets.”
Nodding, I step up beside Trace in tense silence, his presence oddly reassuring. But reassurance isn’t the same as a living prince. Within three blocks, sweat soaks my tunic and the pommel of my sword cuts into my palm, where I’m gripping it like a lifeline. Each skip of broken cobblestone jerks me about, the strange linear shadows of rooftops unfamiliar after years of studying the forest. Smells change with every passing door, from the stench of vomit in an abandoned alcove to a cheap brothel’s reek of perfume.
“Get used to it, Kal,” Trace says, peering into the door of another pub to exchange a few words with a guard, who shakes his head. “The royal disappearing trick is not a one-act kind of show.” If Wil lives that long. My heart threatens to crack my ribs. I force my breath to slow before Trace sees just how close to shaking I am.
But it’s too late.
Trace steps in front of me, and with deliberate slowness, as if careful not to startle a deer, he lays a heavy hand on my shoulder. My muscles coil, but his arm stays steady. “Young William is more likely in a bed than a dungeon. But yes, I know the danger is there. And real.” Trace holds my eyes. My body feels torn between wanting to jerk free of Trace’s grip and savoring the oddly curious sensation of his body heat caressing my neck. Trace’s jaw tightens. “But whipping yourself over that spoiled little whelp’s stupidity will change neither the facts nor him. Just as my whipping you for it did not.”
An apology. I shake my head, finally jerking free. “Like I said, I little care about that.”
Trace’s hand lowers, his fingers gripping the pommel of his sword. “I know,” he says quietly. “And I hope one day you will shred to bits whoever made it so.”
Lord Gapral? I snort despite myself and start us back into a walk. Yes, us. Despite my best efforts, Kal seems to have found himself a partner. “What do you know about Samuels?”
“Only his name and reputation for keeping the games civilized. Appears decent enough for a rose.” Trace turns to square the block, his voice back to its usual stoicism. “An unlikely candidate for a terror-monger group.”
“I didn’t say it was likely, I said it was true,” I mutter, but decide against pressing the issue. There is no reason for Trace to take Kal’s word and no reason why Trace’s trust should matter to me. Samuels is my first solid lead into what may be happening in Delta, and the fewer people who get underfoot while I track it down, the better.
“Trace!” Luca calls, strolling toward us from the other end of the street.
I sprint forward to meet him, slowing at the sight of Luca’s self-satisfied smirk. “You found him?” I ask.
“He’s still in the rental room now.” Luca’s smirk morphs into a full grin. “And none too happy. Apparently, the ladies only took him up there to discuss the work of the Goddess and her Messenger. Serves him right.”
Relief rushes over me like a wave, and I start back toward the Wandering Dog, only to realize that Trace is keeping stride with me. “It might be better if I retrieved the prince without you, sir,” I say quietly.
“The hellion is all yours,” Trace says, his own voice low. “But a word of caution before I depart—you go around slandering holy guardsmen, much less accusing them of associating with Viva Sylthia, and you won’t live long in this city.”
I tighten my jaw and glance over my shoulder at Trace. There are a lot of things in Delta that can shorten one’s lifespan, it seems. “Do you know how Novan really died?”
Trace’s lips press together but he nods. “Yes. A fight with a holy guardsman over a girl,” he says with a resigned exhale. “I found a note in the training hall the following morning, warning the Royal Guard to stay away from anyone under the roses’ ‘protection.’”
The Holy Guard killed a man and morphed the murder into a message? Perhaps Samuels’s dual loyalties are not as distant as I thought. “That isn’t what Wil thinks happened,” I say instead. “Did you not tell anyone?”
“And start a bloody riot? Are you insane?” Trace snorts. “Speaking of which, the details of Novan’s death are not for the prince’s consumption. We’ve enough trouble without that idiot deciding to go looking for either the wench or her friends.”
Fair point. Except . . . “Why do you hate Wil so much?” I ask. “I understand the frustration, but it seems personal for you—as if Wil poisoned your dog. Why?”
“I’ve no notion of what you speak,” says Trace, veering away from me. “Just keep your mouth shut and your piece in your breeches.”
15
Kali
For being a murderous terror monger, Sergeant Samuels leads a rather routine life. After six days of watching him patrol the temple grounds with other roses, keep the peace at the Wandering Dog’s games, and return home to a small house with a portly wife, I’m hard-pressed to say when exactly he schemes up plots to burn people alive in the name of Sylthia.
“Maybe he does his evil while Kal is shadowing Trace on guard duty or Lady Lianna is having evening tea with courtiers,” Leaf says as I kick off my shoes and throw myself on the bed beside her.
The divine softness of the feather mattress envelops me soothingly. “I checked on him at different times and spent two nights just watching his bloody house from a nearby rooftop. Samuels isn’t slithering to a secret meeting in the dead of night, and unless he is scheming violent plots with the Holy Guard in broad daylight, I haven’t seen him talk to anyone suspicious during the day either. He has a routine and he is around other people all the time.” I rub my face. I sent a note with my suspicions to Firehorn but have received no response. “Maybe Samuels gets his instructions through written correspondence—I haven’t breached that yet. What are you doing?”
Still sitting on the bed beside me, Leaf has her legs crossed and takes slow, rhythmic breaths. Her hands clasp a crystal rod that swarms with yellow tufts of magic. Bit by bit, the tufts weave themselves together like slivers of coiled yarn. I touch Leaf’s arm and the magical tufts scatter like the wind throughout the crystal. Leaf scowls. “Tuning a memory crystal. If woven correctly, the magic will remember the sounds it hears. A conversation, a song, anything. The base weave itself is difficult enough, but the trigger is worse.” She shakes her head. “The bloody thing is only useful if it starts imprinting on command.”
“Mmm.” I close my eyes, fatigue making my limbs lead. “Where are you getting all these crystals?” The answering silence is too long for comfort and I pop open an eyelid. Bowing to Bishop Bahir’s pressure, Firehorn officially ended all crown-sponsored magic study over a decade ago. The occasional servants or courtiers with the gift are not stupid enough to advertise it.
Leaf jerks her head toward the same catacomb passages I’ve been using to move between Kal’s and Lianna’s lives. “There is a small trove of crystals and knowledge beneath Delta. I’m not the first living-crystal scholar to set foot in the palace, Kali. Just the only one currently alive.” Pulling a journal out from beneath a pile of books, she tosses it to me. I sit up and open it carefully. Neat lines of meaningless words stare at me from the pages. “It’s written in code,” Leaf explains over my shoulder. “I’m still working out what it says, but I think it’s magical theory.”
I fall back onto the bed. “If Firehorn finds out—”
“Firehorn all but gave me a map,” says Leaf. “You think he just happened to put us into these rooms, beside a hoard of living stones and years of notes? He could have held me anywhere for collateral, but he wanted me here. The Drought is killing Dansil and the king is desperate for any ideas—even if they come from magic.”
“Then why didn’t he just—” I stop midsentence, the answer to my own question suddenly obvious. If anything goes against his interest, the king needs complete deniability. He can let Leaf work, keep me in line, claim moral superiority, and ensure both Leaf’s and my silence without lifting a finger. Lord Gapral told me that Leaf is the more valuable of us. He wasn’t wrong. “And have you any ideas?”
“Maybe. I’m not sure yet. On a different matter, however . . .” She takes the journal away and pulls out a handful of unfamiliar crystals. The magical tufts inside are woven into tiny intricate patterns that mean nothing to me. “Pick these up one by one.”
I make a face, bracing myself for the horrid mix of tingling numbness and sharp prickles that crystals spread over my skin. The first stone doesn’t disappoint.
Leaf counts to ten, then lets me put it down and pick up the next.
The third one hits me like a swarm of angry bees. I yelp, dropping the rutting crystal onto the bed. “What in the Dark God’s name?” I say through clenched teeth as I rub my hand.
“Was that anything like what you felt when Bahir’s ring touched you?” she asks.
I frown. “No. I mean, they both hurt, but it was nothing alike. What was that crystal?”
Leaf picks up the small orb. “Just a heat crystal, nothing special. But I tuned it to your blood. That is, I wove a trigger into the magic, telling it to stay dormant until it feels your blood. The fascinating part is that it felt your blood through your skin. Not only that, but it’s glowing hotter than it ever has before.”
A chill runs through me. “I’m not a whisperer.”
“No, you’re not. But you are something.”
“What I am is a step away from being late for dinner,” I say with forced lightness. There is enough complication in my life without Leaf researching more. “Do you imagine Princess Raza will be as delightful this week as she was the last?” I say, pulling a black satin dress out of the closet. This one is cleverly designed to let the slippery material slide against itself instead of entangling my legs if I run, while still underscoring Lady Lianna’s soft curves and grace.
Standing in front of a mirror, I practice moving my arms so as to conceal the extra weight of the throwing knives strapped to them. Coming up behind me, Leaf adds a few stitches to the cape covering the gown’s originally open back. The extra fabric feels soft and cool, while hiding the scars and lingering pattern of striped bruises that Leaf assures me still look spectacular. Short of the dress being ripped from me, I’m safe from inconveniently roving gazes.
“What do you think?” I twirl, the skirts floating obediently into the air.
“Stunning.” Leaf smiles. “You look like liquid night.”
“Lady Lianna looks like liquid night.” I collect my body into a feminine posture—long neck, shoulders down and spread, my hip swayed slightly from a taut stomach. Each body part isolated and shaped. I check my sleeves one last time when Trace knocks, then stride forward to face the evening.
Trace bows when the door opens, his dress uniform hugging his muscled frame, and his gray eyes survey me efficiently, lingering a second too long on the extended sleeves. As if he knows I’m concealing abused flesh.
Which, of course, I am. An absurd part of me wonders whether Trace might also notice the rest of me, whether he knows that his own dress uniform makes him look every inch the formidable warrior. My insides shift uncomfortably at the thought. First I break the scout’s rules of solitude, and now I’m looking at Trace like . . . I don’t know what like. But I know that no good can come from it.
Trace flips his cloak aside and offers me his arm, his voice quiet and confident. “My lady.”
I lay my hand on his sleeve, the hard muscles underneath shifting in a pattern I recognize from Kal’s morning training. The scent of Trace’s soap still lingers on his hair, tickling my nose. Stars. Soap and hard muscle. That is what I’m thinking about.
Tonight’s dinner is being held in the family residence, which sits apart from the castle in the far northeast corner of the palace grounds, past the royal stables. Trace leads me out the back entrance before turning right to walk along the North Wood. The sticky scent of pine and the majesty of towering oaks form a backdrop of intoxicating wilderness. I draw a lungful of air, savoring it for as long as I can until Trace herds me inside.
Heads stare at me from the wall. Boar, deer, a buck with antlers that weave up like trees. “Wil and I fancy ourselves hunters,” says Firehorn, coming over to kiss me on both cheeks. “I’m so glad you could make it.” The king’s mouth lingers by my ear and his voice lowers to a whisper. “First the bishop jolts you with mystic agony, and now a holy guardsman from the capital is secretly a countryside Viva Sylthia rebel? I’m surprised you managed to conjure up all that between Kal’s gambling and whoring. Have you gone mad?” He pulls away from me, his gracious smile disguising venomous eyes.
“If you distrust my judgment, why did you bring me?” I murmur.
“Not for this nonsense,” Firehorn answers just as quietly, his smile as welcoming as ever. I curtsy and force a smile of my own as I glide to the dining table, finding myself once again seated between Princess Raza and Bishop Bahir. She gives me a subtly condescending nod, and he smiles at me, sickly-sweet and insincere. The man is wearing his red velvet robes again, the ring on his finger reflecting the candlelight. A rich ensemble that overshadows King Firehorn’s more demure blue tunic. As he moves his arms, Bahir’s wide sleeves flow and pool so artfully on the table that I’m certain he’s rehearsed the motions before a looking glass. Godly, gaudy, and carefully presented—whatever else Bahir is, the bishop is a performer, and I’m hard-pressed to say where the man ends and the role begins.
“You are quite the student, Cousin Lianna,” says Wil, digging into the meat course with an appetite to match most of the keep’s trainees. “Both times I’ve tried to call on you, your maid has informed me you were in lessons.”
I know as much. Moreover, as Kal has been on the crown prince’s guard duty both days, I know why Wil called on his cousin. Some days, I’m unsure whether Wil is sixteen or six. “The customs of the palace are so complex that I find studies taking up a great deal of the day,” I say politely. “For instance, I’m still puzzled as to the purpose of water buckets balanced atop certain partially ajar doorways. Might you enlighten me?”
Wil’s eyes widen while the corners of Trace’s mouth twitch in a suppressed smile.
Raza’s eyes flash at the guardsman before returning to the guests. “I hear Dansil attacked our heat-crystal mines in Sylthia.”
“Viva Sylthia attacked the mines,” Firehorn corrects. “Not Dansil.”
Raza shrugs. “Many in Everett rely on those crystals for warmth. Quite a toll for a time of ceasefire, don’t you think?”
“Abhorrent,” agrees Bishop Bahir. “I will pray to the Goddess for their souls.”
“What a comfort,” says Raza, her fingers wrapping around the belly of her wineglass like vipers.
Firehorn inclines his head. “I’ve received the report as well, Princess Raza, and have already discussed it with Envoy Jajack.” He rubs his face and looks wearily at his daughter. “Violet, you’ve not touched your food. Are you unwell?”
“On the contrary, Father.” The girl raises her chin. “I’m fasting. It is my tribute to the Goddess.” She casts a shy glance at Bahir, who smiles approvingly. Violet blushes.
Wil snorts. “The Goddess must be exceptionally bored to care whether or not you eat dinner, Violet.”
“If we might return our attention to—ah!” Raza gasps as her wineglass shatters inside her grip. Eyes wide, she clutches a bloodied hand to her bosom.
Guests rise to their feet. Wil vaults over the table. “Are you all right, Princess Raza?” he asks, the concern in his voice surprisingly genuine. “Let me escort you to the infirmary, or shall I summon a medic to attend you here? It’s a bit of a walk, I’m afraid.”
Raza blinks, as if having just registered Wil’s presence, and then draws composure around herself like a cloak. “A well-thought idea, Prince William, but please, don’t disturb your dinner on my behalf. I believe I’m more startled and embarrassed than injured. Certainly, one of the king’s guardsmen might escort me to a medic?”
“Of course,” Firehorn says, but before he can make a selection, Raza beckons to Trace.
“Come along,” the princess commands.
I don’t need to see Firehorn’s meaningful look to know that I am to follow. I give the princess to the count of fifteen before excusing myself to check on my injured companion.
My gut, or perhaps simply occupational conditioning, keeps me sliding silently along in the shadows instead of approaching the princess directly. Hugging the wall of the hallway, I watch and listen from the darkness.
“Where are we heading?” asks Raza, pulling up the hood of her cloak.
“The infirmary,” snaps Trace, holding the door open for her. The fury rolling off him is as palpable as a hurricane, and the pace he sets appears more suitable for professional soldiers than an injured princess. “Where did you think?”
Raza’s answer dissolves into the distance of the outdoors. Slipping out after them, I feel the cool night air whispering against my cheek. Fortunately for me, Trace and Raza are keeping to the path along the North Wood, allowing me to melt easily into the trees while we head west from the residence toward the palace. With the calm familiarity of the woods embracing me like an old friend, I stalk closer to Raza. I wish I were wearing pants and a tunic, but if I must find myself in a dress, the liquid night is a fortunate choice.
The princess’s voice drips with disgust. “How does being Firehorn’s dog suit you, Trace?” My gut tightens. Raza’s tone is too familiar, her word choice too sharp, even for her. I wait for Trace’s signature formality, but he says nothing. Not at first.
Then, a soft growl. “Your display at the dinner table is befitting a spoiled child. Firehorn is what’s keeping us from war. Do you know what the world would look like with Bahir in charge?”
