by Mason Thomas
“You seem forget I’m not part of any of this. Certainly, no one else has.”
Dax glowered up at him. “I won’t have it brought down. Not because of this. Not because of you. It’s too important.” He turned his back on Hunter and massaged the base of his neck. “Of all the people to provoke….”
“You think I planned this?”
“You’d be dead now had I not come in.”
“A humiliating pattern, I admit,” he replied, lifting his eyes to the ceiling. He wasn’t sure what stung more, that Corrad had bested him or that Dax still saw him as weak. “Care to hear why it happened?”
“The damage is done,” Dax grumbled. “Doesn’t matter.”
Hunter pulled in a long breath. This was the first he’d seen Dax in three days. Hardly what he’d imagined their reunion would be like. But seeing Dax this angry with him struck him harder than he would have expected. “Listen to it anyway. They were harassing Uri, Dax. Tormenting him.”
Dax stiffened. That seemed to get his attention. “You’re mistaken. You don’t understand our ways.”
“I know abuse when I see it.”
“It’s taken time, but Uri has grown to be welcome here.”
“Then what’s a skeg, Dax?”
Dax’s eyes jolted to meet Hunter’s, a new surge of anger flaring his nostrils.
“Corrad,” Hunter continued, “and everyone else in this hole, is savvy enough to not show their hand around you. But it’s happening. The boy is being persecuted. Daily.”
“Uri would have said something—”
“Not if he’s afraid.”
Dax fell silent. He knew that was true.
Hunter stepped closer. “All I did was stand between them to put an end to it. Corrad’s been gunning for a confrontation since I arrived, and like an idiot, I played right into it.”
“Corrad goaded you into this fight?”
“Not precisely. But I was a convenient excuse to start one.”
“And you’ve witnessed this harassment?”
“Enough to know it’s not isolated.”
Some of the anger seemed to drain from Dax, or at least its focus shifted away from Hunter. “I’ll address it. And do what I can to mend this disaster before it reaches Quinnar’s ears. For now, follow me to the council room. You’ve been summoned.”
“Summoned?”
Dax marched out of the storeroom. “Quinnar wants to speak with you.”
21
THE LOW talk among the council members tapered quickly to silence as Hunter stepped into the packed conference room. All eyes lifted his way. Expressions pressing on him were a mixed bag ranging from the slightly hostile or annoyed to some undefined concern. None acted surprised to see him as he broke the threshold.
Zinnuvial was in the room as well. Her back was to the wall, her arms crossed. She lifted her chin at Hunter when he glanced her way, but she said nothing.
Quinnar sat at the head of the table, tenting his fingers in front of his lips.
“What kept you?” he asked, his tone somber.
Dax stepped in closer to the table. “A complication. To be addressed later.”
Quinnar’s eyebrow lifted a fraction, and his eyes shifted briefly to Hunter, but he didn’t comment. News of his scuffle with Corrad hadn’t reached him yet.
He passed his eyes over their faces. Each occupied the same space around the long central table as before, give or take one or two exceptions. No one spoke. All seemed to hold their breath and wait for Quinnar to lead into whatever this was about. Tension choked the room. They were uncomfortable. Or anxious. Or both.
This couldn’t be good, Hunter thought. It felt like he was standing in front of a jury box, awaiting sentencing.
Quinnar’s eyebrows knitted closer together, and he looked for a moment like he might respond with more force, but he seemed to rein himself in and the expression softened. He gave a curt nod instead.
“Can we proceed now?” said the balding man with a huff of impatience. Ronlin. “It has been too long already, and my absence will be noted.”
“Go,” said the older woman with the gray braid with a threat of impatience. She’d switched out her colored ribbons from green to powder blue. “If you must. Everyone here knows where you stand anyway.”
“You are not the only one who has taken risks to be here, Ronlin.” The speaker was a middle-aged man with smooth caramel skin and dark eyes. The band collar of his brocaded coat was buttoned up to the throat. He had a regal air that made him seem wildly out of place in this gloomy hole.
Ronlin scowled but didn’t move.
“Take a seat, Hunter.” Quinnar’s voice always had the conceit of expected compliance. He gestured to an empty seat to his right and smiled. Hunter knew it was supposed to be warm and welcoming but it came off as awkward in the cold tenor of the room. Quinnar’s clearly intentional use of his name grated him. They were friends now?
“I’m fine standing,” Hunter replied. This whole business was making his skin prickle. He felt like there was a guillotine dangling over him.
He noticed some eyes glancing expectantly in the direction of the far corner to Quinnar’s left. The light from the irregularly placed candles didn’t reach that corner of the room, cloaking a man Hunter hadn’t seen before in shadow. He was seated on a stool with his back to the wall, arms folded over his chest. He was dressed in the same red and black uniform the guards at the city gate wore, but the front was unclasped and loose, exposing a white tunic beneath it.
Somehow, his presence explained the grim tone in the room.
“Hunter,” Quinnar began. He lowered his hands to the tabletop and leaned in. “The council has concluded that we could use your aid.”
Hunter shook his head not sure he’d heard him right. “My aid?” His face flushed with sudden heat. Something about the casual, almost friendly use of his name made Hunter’s blood pressure rise. “You were pretty damn clear that you didn’t even want me here. And now you want me to help you out?”
“Circumstances have changed.”
“My lucky day.”
“We understand your hesitancy—” Ronlin began.
Hunter spun on him. “Do you now?” He was angry, and he had no interest in hiding it. He’d almost had his throat slit twenty minutes earlier, and now they were going to sit here and pretend to play nice with him?
Ronlin shrunk down in his chair. Eyes wide, he looked about to squeak out an indignant complaint, but Quinnar’s glare silenced him.
“We would not ask this if need were not so great,” Quinnar said. “We recognize that it’s perhaps not fair to ask this of you—”
“You’re right. It’s not.”
Quinnar took a deep breath. “But we are prepared to offer something in exchange.”
“Is that so?” His throat constricted. It couldn’t be this easy. “Well, you know what I want, Quinnar.”
Quinnar pressed his lips together and tilted his head. “Unfortunately, that is not something we can promise at this time. Once this business is over, perhaps….”
“So your opening offer is a maybe later, something… maybe,” Hunter replied.
Everyone around the table looked at their hands or at the wall—anywhere but at him. Quinnar was the only one who held his eye firmly on Hunter. “If that isn’t suitable, make a request of us.”
Hunter folded his arms, shook his head, and chuckled low in his throat.
“Is something funny?” Quinnar asked.
“Yes. I find all of this rather laughable.”
Ronlin leaned back in his chair. “I said this would be a waste of time.”
“Patience,” Quinnar said to him, irritation rising in his voice.
“You haven’t even told me what you want from me,” Hunter said. “I’m not agreeing to anything—”
“A place to live,” Dax broke in. “Above ground.”
The room was jolted into silence.
Dax swept his eyes around the table. “That wo
uld be a place to start, I think. Something he would desire, something we can provide.”
Quinnar’s mouth pursed, his gaze hard on Dax. “It was your idea to keep him here, Dax.”
“But he cannot be expected to live here indefinitely,” Dax replied. “He needs something permanent.” It wasn’t about that, Hunter knew. Dax had come to realize it was no longer safe for him here. Despite Quinnar’s decree of not being harmed, one of Corrad’s sycophants would gladly take the first opportunity to finish the job. Dax was working to get a deal in place for him now, before the news about his skirmish with Corrad broke.
The darker-skinned aristocrat frowned and shook his head. “For how long? Our resources are rather thin, Master Dax.”
Dax lifted his brow. “Do you require his cooperation or not?”
The council members exchanged nervous glances.
“Knowing you, Master Dax,” the gray-haired woman said with a silky lilt to her tone, “you have already figured out where.”
Dax’s expression remained unchanged. “We have safe houses, yes?”
Each head turned to Quinnar, who seemed to consider the question by leaning back against the chair and drumming fingers on the table. “None available. They are all in use currently.”
“I’m certain you can make some changes,” Dax pressed. “Seems a reasonable solution.”
“How can we even consider letting him roam freely in the city?” Ronlin said, shaking his head. “If he is captured, or the safe house discovered… and ends up in the hands of the palace, he could expose us all.”
A wave of nervous grumbling circled the table.
“We already agreed to trust him with this mission.” The speaker was a thin-faced woman with her head mostly concealed in a brown linen wrap. Wisps of ruddy hair escaped the edges of it to frame her delicate features. “We will need to concede something.”
No one had a response.
“Fine,” Quinnar said. “I will make arrangements to have one of the safe houses made available to him.”
“And in the interim?” Dax pressed. “Quarters that are not public?”
Quinnar narrowed his eyes at Dax. Hunter could tell he sensed something was amiss. “Offer him your own chambers if you like.”
Dax made a single curt nod. “Very well. Until arrangements are made, I relinquish my private quarters to him.”
Quinnar continued to drum his fingers on the table while he considered Dax with a furrowed brow. His eyes shifted to Hunter. “Are these terms agreeable to you?”
Hunter swept his gaze over the faces in the room. “Depends on what you want from me.”
Quinnar and the man in the guard’s uniform exchanged a look, then Quinnar straightened in his chair. “One of the benefactors of our cause has been identified. Her name is Yvenne. She’s a textile merchant, supplying the cloth used for the city and palace uniforms. She isn’t directly involved in operations here, but she has been a powerful ally, backing us financially and providing us with valuable information from inside the palace. She’s been an effective runner of supplies for us too. Steffor, here”—Quinnar indicated the guardsman with a tilt of his head—“tells us her association with us has been uncovered. She needs to be warned.”
“So send someone to warn her,” Hunter replied.
Out of the corner of his eye, he caught movement by the door. He glanced over to spot Uri slinking in. His head was low, his body tense and pulled into itself. From his body language, Hunter worried something else had happened after the scuffle in the common area. Uri threaded his way through the room, handed a roll of parchment to Quinnar, and worked his way back to the door. He didn’t look anywhere other than at his feet.
“It’s not that simple,” Steffor said. “They were sloppy with this information. Too sloppy to be believable. They wanted the information leaked.”
He was young, likely no older than twenty. His beard wasn’t even filled in all the way along his jawline. He had a cocky edge to him—the brand of arrogance youth can transmit so effortlessly.
“So it’s a trap,” Hunter said.
“I came to assure no one falls for it,” Steffor said.
“At great personal risk,” Quinnar added.
“The risk of a message getting intercepted was greater still,” Steffor said. “I chose to ensure the intelligence reached you.” He rose to his feet. “But the hour does grow late. I should return.”
“Of course,” said Quinnar.
Steffor bowed to the council. “I take my leave.” He followed around the wall and exchanged a look with Zinnuvial before he slipped out of the room.
Quinnar turned his attention back to Hunter. “Yvenne has been loyal to us and deserves our aid. I will not abandon her. That is why you’ve been asked here.”
Hunter could see how this was weighing on him, could hear the heft of it in Quinnar’s voice. He understood where this was going. “You want me to deliver the message to her.”
Quinnar nodded. “The palace has spies throughout the city. Somehow, they have learned the identity of many who fight for our cause. How many, we cannot be certain. But some have already been killed. Others imprisoned. We have no idea who is known to them. So anyone we send could potentially be recognized and seized. However… we can say with certainty, they have no idea who you are.”
“So I just walk in, deliver the message, and leave? What good will that do? You know she’s being watched. If she tries to leave the city, they’ll assume you got to her and nab her then.”
“Which is why we need to get her out ourselves. Get her back here. Then we can smuggle her out safely.”
“And how am I to do that?”
“We will dress you as the man supplying her dyes. You resemble him. He’s a bit smaller than you, though I doubt anyone will take notice. Zinnuvial will be hiding inside a cart you will bring with you to Yvenne’s shop. Pull the cart inside the shop, Zinnuvial trades places with Yvenne, and you bring Yvenne back here, hidden in the cart.”
Hunter glanced over at Zinnuvial. “Seems pretty dangerous for you. You agreed to this?”
“I did,” Zinnuvial said, her face unreadable.
He turned to Dax. “And what do you think of this plan?”
Dax’s lower lip tightened. “Too risky,” he replied in a deep whisper. “This is a task better suited for me than you. But I was not considered.”
Because the palace certainly knew him. He worked there.
Hunter turned back to the table at large. A heavy silence consumed the room. The only sound was the creaking of a chair as Ronlin leaned in.
“When do you want this done?” Hunter asked.
“Immediately,” Quinnar replied. “There is no time to waste. The longer we wait, the more risk to Yvenne.”
Hunter tugged on his ear as he thought about it. “Okay. I’ll do it.”
From the corner of his eye, he saw Dax’s expression harden. Hunter couldn’t tell if he was angry or troubled. Maybe both.
Quinnar blinked back at him, clearly a little bewildered. He’d expected more of a fight.
Hunter understood the reaction. He was just as surprised himself he agreed to this. “I do have one more condition, though,” he added.
Quinnar stiffened. “I’m listening.”
“This is no place for a kid like Uri. He leaves this hole and lives with me.”
QUINNAR ORDERED preparations to be made, then adjourned the meeting. Hunter drifted back toward the wall as everyone shuffled out into the corridor, quietly mumbling to themselves. A few glanced Hunter’s way as they passed, but none said anything to him. Apparently, a word of thanks for what he was about to do was too much to ask. He wasn’t doing it for any of them, anyway.
As the room emptied, Hunter spotted Uri lingering outside in the corridor, likely waiting for a response from the message he’d delivered to Quinnar. Hunter moved out into the corridor to intercept him.
Uri flinched as he spotted Hunter approaching. His face contorted into a hard grimace and he
pushed his back against the wall.
“Are you okay?” Hunter said.
Uri glared up at him, his gaunt frame stiff and unyielding.
“They haven’t bothered you again, have they?”
“You shouldn’t have interfered.”
“Uri, the way they treat you—”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“It does—”
“I’m not leaving. This is my home.”
Hunter took a step closer, but Uri slid down the wall away from him. “Uri, I don’t think it’s safe for you here.”
“Leave me be,” Uri replied, and he marched off down the corridor.
“Uri,” Hunter called after, and moved to follow him, but Dax placed a hand on his forearm. Hunter hadn’t even been aware that he was still beside him. The touch was unexpectedly gentle and warm.
“Leave him for now, Hunter,” Dax said. “I will speak with him later.”
Hunter sighed. That hadn’t gone as he’d expected. Maybe it wasn’t his place to try to rescue him. Maybe he should just stay out of it.
“I’m real good at making friends, aren’t I?” Hunter said.
Dax lifted the corner of his mouth in a sad facsimile of a smile and turned to leave.
“Wait,” Hunter said. His conversation with Zinnuvial had stirred up memories that he’d wanted buried and forgotten, but now that she’d pried them loose again, they’d lodged themselves in the back of his brain like a corn kernel in his teeth. “Tell me something. You told me you spent time in the palace. Did you know my mother? Before she was sent to my world.”
Dax’s eyes crinkled at the corner as he looked at Hunter. It was not a question he expected. “I’d had audiences with her, yes.”
“What was she like? Not as queen. Just as a person.”
Dax’s lips pursed as he considered the question. “Kindhearted. Compassionate. Courteous and respectful to any and all that spoke to her, regardless of station. I was always made to feel welcome in her presence.”
None of that surprised Hunter. “Was she happy?”
Dax scratched at his jawline. “Hard to say. My only meetings with her were about official matters, and she tended wield a statelier countenance when speaking publicly. But even so, she had an easy smile that filled the room and put all at ease. So, I would say yes. She was happy.”