For King and Corruption, page 8
Quinn tilted her head to the side and said, “You fear us Maji for what we are. You know deep down that there is nothing you could do in a real invasion. I find it interesting that you fill these boys with hope.” His teeth chattered, doing everything he could to stay on his feet. “Instead, you should instill them with fear. Make them cautious. Make them careful. Don’t fill their head with false dreams of glory. Their ignorance might mean not just their king’s life, but theirs as well.”
Quinn reached for her dagger. Not a man stepped forward to stop her, though; not when she dispatched two with such ease. They were learning, or at least that was how Quinn justified it to herself. She turned her hand over and offered the guard the handle.
“Take it,” she whispered. Fingers shaking, he reached forward and grasped the leather grip. “Now lift the knife—there—yes, just like.” He held it with the tip pointing toward the sky, but not toward her own person. “Now touch the tip to your temple.” A cold chill broke across the courtyard as the guard did exactly as she directed him. Tears leaked from the corners of his eyes, but Quinn didn’t let up.
The metal touched his skin, and his hand trembled. She knew he feared what she would make him do. They all did.
“Slowly push the blade in.”
Blood welled as the edge of the dagger broke skin, and just as she’d told him, he slowly began to push.
“Stop,” the voice behind her made Quinn blink. She held up her hand and the man paused. He didn’t withdraw, but he didn’t keep going. “Stop it. They didn’t ask for this.”
Quinn turned, leveling Risk with a cool glare. “Ask for this?” she prompted.
“They didn’t ask to be toyed with. It’s not . . . right.”
Quinn lifted both her eyebrows. “Right?” Risk stared back in defiance. “What is right or wrong doesn’t matter. It’s what will keep all of us alive—what will keep Lazarus alive—that matters.”
Risk shifted side to side. “How does torturing them keep anyone alive? You came out here to make a point—which you have,” she quickly added. “Now let them go. They realize their folly.”
Quinn clenched her jaw. “Lazarus doesn’t. Hurting them will—”
“Enrage him,” Risk said. “Sister, you know I hold no love for men, nor do I care for this court or its politics. Please, take the knife and let’s go back to our room. You’ve made your point. He will hear of it.”
Quinn teetered on the edge. Part of her wanted to punish them. To show Lazarus what true punishment was. To make him see that he’s playing at a position he already held.
But Risk also had a point.
Hurting them would only enrage him. And to what gain?
Quinn cracked her neck and then extended her hand. The guard lowered the knife, hilt first into her waiting palm. “Consider yourselves lucky,” she snapped before striding back toward the palace entrance. Risk followed on her heels.
It was only when they got back to their room that her sister finally spoke. “Why did you do that, Quinn?”
Quinn walked toward the window and stared down over the city of Leone.
“They do not respect me, and they never will. I am a woman in a man’s world. Something I was reminded of today.” Quinn looked over her shoulder, back at her sister. Risk was still not great at hiding her emotions, and the troubled expression on her face said much. “Lazarus doesn’t listen when I behave, perhaps reminding him of what I am will do the trick.”
Check
“Wild dogs cannot be tamed; just as wild women cannot be caged.”
— Lazarus Fierté, soul eater, the frustrated King of Norcasta
* * *
“She’s a menace. My men were made a mockery of in that courtyard today. You must do something about her. Whether she is your vassal or not, as King, you have a duty to—”
“That is enough!” Lazarus snapped, lifting his voice sharply.
Captain Barbaro stilled, his angered face lessening in its redness. His eyes went to the floor as Lazarus fixed him with a particularly cruel look. “You will not lecture me what I am and what I should do. Is that clear, Captain Barbaro?” Lazarus emphasized his title, reminding the little, insignificant man what his role was here in the palace and how easily he could be removed from it.
“Yes, Your Grace,” the man said as he went to his knee—the formal greeting of a high-ranking military soldier to his King—one he had forgotten when he had first come barreling into Lazarus’ throne room, ranting and raving about Quinn’s behavior. “Forgive my insolence.”
Lazarus sat back against his iron seat, taking a breath to dispel the frustration that was currently building within him. “I understand you’re upset, Captain Barbaro,” Lazarus said, “and I will ensure that my right-hand is dealt with accordingly. I have already dispatched a servant to retrieve her and bring her to me.”
The Captain’s head snapped up. “She’s coming? Here? Now?” The man did not look so happy. In fact, he appeared very much like a frightened fish, ready to swim away at a moment’s notice. Lazarus released another breath and reached up, rubbing the bridge of his nose with two of his fingers.
“This would be the place that I have requested her to meet me, yes,” he said. “Is there a problem with that, Captain?”
“N-no, of course not, Your Grace. I apologize for my rude behavior earlier. I’m sure you know how best to deal with your vassal. Thank you for—”
He was interrupted by the sound of the twin doors opening behind him. He stiffened, realizing just who was behind him. Lazarus fought off the smirk forming on his face. The man may be respected by the palace guards, but he would have no chance against a creature such as Quinn. Something that he obviously knew, given away by the paling of his skin.
Draeven came to his rescue. “His Grace will speak with you later, Captain Barbaro. You are dismissed.”
He nodded and quickly got up from his position on the floor. Lazarus watched as the man realized that to get out of the room, he would have to walk by the very woman he had been scorning just moments ago . . . and that Quinn was no fool. She knew exactly what he’d been doing. She lifted her chin as she followed behind Lorraine, and when she and the Captain passed each other, while the man’s head went down another notch and his legs sped up, she merely lengthened her stride and smiled, acting as though she were on her way for a leisurely stroll through the gardens.
Closing his eyes, a dull pounding began to start up behind his eyelids. Lazarus took a moment to collect himself before reopening them and settling the woman who so loved to torment him with a cold glare. Even as he kept his gaze to Quinn, however, he spoke to Lorraine. “Thank you, Lorraine, you may go now. I appreciate you running that errand for me.”
Lorraine smiled under the praise and curtsied politely. “It’s always a pleasure, Your Grace.”
With that, Lorraine turned and headed back the way she came. Lazarus didn’t speak again until the doors had closed behind her. “You know why you’re here,” was all he said.
“Of course,” she replied.
They looked at each other—Lazarus with a deeply rooted frustration and perhaps a small measure of amusement, and Quinn with a wicked grin fixed upon her face. Draeven was the first to break the silence.
“What happened in the courtyard with the guards cannot happen again,” he stated flat out.
It took a while for Quinn to shift her gaze from Lazarus to Draeven. When she did, however, the grin on her lips only intensified. “It’s not my fault they’re weak and needed me to prove it to them,” she said.
“You were going to make one of the guards stab himself in the head,” Draeven said.
She shrugged. “I can assure you; he probably would have been much more useful after I was done.”
“As what?” Draeven said, shocked, “A pin cushion?” He shook his head. “The only reason you stopped at all was because Risk was there with you.”
Quinn’s eyes hardened, and her lips fell into a flat line. Lazarus watched on with curiosity. “And just how would you know that, Draeven?”
“Because I’m not an idiot,” Draeven replied blandly. “When they said that a woman with you—one with horns—stopped you, who else would it be?”
“You’re not an idiot?” Quinn laughed, the sound sharp and biting. “You could have fooled me earlier.”
“Is that what this was about?” Draeven asked. “You were angry about what happened in the council meeting.”
“I’m not angry, Draeven,” Quinn replied, her voice calm. “I’m furious.”
“Why? Because you didn’t get your way?” Draeven snapped. “This is a kingdom, Quinn, and you are in the King’s palace. You have a duty to Lazarus—”
“My duty is to keep him safe, and it seems as though I’m the only one who is actually working to do so,” Quinn interrupted him.
Draeven shook his head. “You are out of control. There are rules here. Laws that we must abide by.”
“Who cares about rules?” Quinn spread her arms wide. “Lazarus is the law, Draeven. He doesn’t have to care what anyone says or thinks. Certainly not those pathetic lords.”
“It is your kind of thinking that will get him killed,” Draeven argued.
That dull thudding behind his eyes was beginning to grow into a steady roar, Lazarus noted with displeasure as he finally decided it was time for him to step in. “Enough with the squabbling,” he snapped, halting the both of them and drawing their attentions. “You are acting like children.”
“And you are acting a fool,” Quinn shot back immediately. She took a step toward the throne, her stance strong and ready. He could feel she was brewing for a fight.
It had not gone unnoticed that she had—once again—called him a fool. It seemed to be the insult she loved to throw his way, and he would not have it. Without looking at Draeven, Lazarus let his voice drop low. “Leave us,” he commanded.
Draeven may have hesitated a moment, but sensing Lazarus’ precarious emotions, he nodded once and then took his leave, striding down the steps of the throne and passing Quinn on his way out. Lazarus did not wait for the doors to close as he rose to his full height, forcing Quinn to crane her neck back to keep her gaze glued to his own.
By the time he descended the steps, Draeven was nothing more than a whispered memory in the room. “What have I said about calling me that?” he asked casually, as if he were asking for nothing more than the time of day.
Quinn straightened her shoulders. “I do not listen to fools,” she replied coldly. “When you are not acting like one, I will not call you that.”
“I am King,” he reminded her.
“Which only makes your foolishness more disturbing,” she said.
“If you are to remain here as my right-hand, you need to be more inconspicuous,” he warned. “Making an enemy of the soldiers who watch the palace is not wise. While powerful, you can’t be everywhere or alert at every moment. If I am a fool, then so are you.”
Quinn froze, her muscles bunching as though she wanted to punch something, but Lazarus had her backed into a metaphorical corner. He knew it, and so did she. He stopped in front of her, waiting for her reply.
“Draeven would have you cater to those around you,” she said through clenched teeth as her fists tightened at her sides.
“Draeven has his points,” Lazarus said.
She shook her head vehemently. “If you are King, then they should cater to you. Not the other way around, Lazarus. You are the ruler here, are you not? Tell me, am I your right-hand, or theirs?”
She pointed at the hall behind her, and Lazarus drank in the violence in her eyes. He listened to the sweet music of her words. All the while, a war raged within him. On one side, Draeven’s voice whispered in his ear of keeping the peace, of giving a little to receive much more. And on the other side . . . Lazarus could not dispute that he preferred Quinn’s way of thinking. Though he understood the political way of the world—it was not his nature to cater to others; to appease them as if they were worth more than the dirt beneath his shoes. Few people were.
Quinn was one. And as she stood before him, urging him, fighting with him as she was, he couldn’t help but stop and admire her.
“You are right,” he finally said. “I am the ruler, and you are my right-hand, which is why you will respect my decision. Draeven is right. What happened in the courtyard today is not to happen again, do you understand?”
Quinn gritted her teeth. “I will make no such promise.”
“Quinn,” he growled out her name, but before he could truly say anything more, there was a heavy knock upon the door. His head lifted over her shoulder as she pivoted.
Who dared to interrupt them?
“Your Grace, Lord Callis wishes an audience with you,” the guard outside announced.
“Send him in,” Quinn called. Word must have spread of her run-in with the other guards, for the man opened the door before Lazarus could form his own reply.
Glancing down sharply at the wicked demon in front of him, he stared at her neck with a fiery ire, wanting nothing more in that moment than to wring her little neck.
“Your Grace; Quinn,” Lord Callis said in greeting, drawing his reluctant attention up as the other man hurried through the throne room. “How splendid that both of you are here. I came on behalf of my earlier offer. I was hoping I could entice the two of you to come visit my estate outside of Leone for another hunt. Tomorrow, perhaps? Or the next day if it’s more convenient.”
Quinn took a step forward—a step away from Lazarus—a smile on her face as she welcomed the man. “That sounds wonderful, Artan,” she said in a blithely ignorant voice meant to lure Callis in.
Lazarus scowled.
“So, you will?” Lord Callis stopped before Quinn, taking her hands in his. “I would so love to show you my estate.”
“His Grace and I would be glad to take you up on your kind invitation,” she replied happily, shooting a conniving look at Lazarus as he seethed in his silent fury.
“Excellent.” Lord Callis looked up to Lazarus. The smile slowly faded, and he released Quinn’s hands at once, but the trifling twit didn’t have the sense to realize that he should take back his invitation as well. Instead, he backed away nonchalantly toward the door. “Oh, I do apologize. Were you in a meeting? I assumed when they opened the doors that I was allowed to enter.”
“It was nothing.” Quinn laughed softly, waving the man’s legitimate concerns away. “We were just finishing up. You came at the perfect time.”
He could not kill her, Lazarus reminded himself. She had more than four years left of their contract to serve. Granted, he could kill her and nothing bad would happen to him, but . . .
Lazarus shook his head and realized that the two of them—Quinn and Lord Callis—had moved away. Quinn was leading the man out of the throne room as though she had already been dismissed from his presence. Shock ricocheted through him. The vile little maruda.
Just before she disappeared with Lord Callis through the twin doors, Quinn turned and settled him with a particularly calculating smile. Her mouth opened, and Lazarus narrowed his eyes as he read the silent word that formed around her lips.
“Check.”
Lord Sunshine
“Sometimes those who understand us the greatest come from the most unlikely of places. After all, it is not where we have been, but who we are that matters.”
— Draeven Adelmar, rage thief, left-hand to the King of Norcasta
* * *
He raised his hand to the door and rapped his knuckles twice.
A shifting on the other side told him she was there. The lock clicked and the handle turned before the wooden door swung open. Draeven stepped back.
Standing in men’s clothing with Quinn’s purple scaled basilisk was Risk. The slight girl lifted her head and brushed a stray silver lock from her face. Her eyes narrowed in distrust, but she didn’t slam the door on him. That, at least, was a win.
“I’ve come to take you to your trainer. Quinn mentioned she’d let you know that I was overseeing it. . .” His voice trailed off as the snake lifted its serpentine head and hissed. The girl lifted her hand and caressed the creature without a care. Draven’s jaw tightened, but he resisted the urge to back away in fear—instead fixing the creature with a glare of defiance.
“She told me,” was all the girl said. She stepped into the hall and closed the door shut behind her. It took all his will power to not react to the beast curled around her small frame. Of course Quinn would leave the damned basilisk with her.
He wondered if it were just to mess with him. After their argument yesterday, he didn’t doubt it. She was cruel.
“Very well,” Draeven said. He started to motion for her to go ahead of him, but then thought better. Stepping forward, he started down the hall. Risk walked beside him, albeit keeping five feet of distance between them.
“My sister doesn’t like you much, does she?” Risk asked, never losing pace. He almost stumbled over his own feet, surprised that she was even speaking with him. Draeven glanced sideways and her open-expression almost immediately shut down.
“Sometimes. We don’t see eye-to-eye on many things, and for Quinn that can be a deal breaker on whether she respects you much at all. Why do you ask?” He worked to keep his tone conversational, and the suspicion in her eyes lessoned.
“She told me your name is Lord Sunshine,” Risk answered. He choked, masking it as a cough. “I’m not very well versed in who is who around here, but I had a feeling that wasn’t the truth.” He turned the hall, leading them out into the courtyard. Several of the guards took notice, and her posture became more guarded, not able to tell the difference between curiosity and what she assumed was hostility. Or perhaps, it occurred to him, the reason matters not. Their attention in itself is too much.
