by K. M. Shea
Myth did her best to blend in with the wall as she stared unseeingly at the crowd of party attenders. He reminds me of pond slime, slick and oozing everywhere. What a fiend.
“Now it is you who are thoughtful, Uncle Julyan. But I’m afraid I must insist on the investigation and clearing the Fultons. This is my first investigation as the Chief Liaison of Elven Trade. I’m grateful that my first case is against such an honest family—so I can be prepared for future cases.”
Lord Julyan opened his mouth—to disagree, likely—but Arvel continued.
“Because there will be future cases. I am the Crown Prince of Calnor, after all,” Arvel said. “And it would be dangerous for Calnor if I were to become a monarch with absolute power and no experience. I might be forced to come down harder on any possible wrongdoing just to establish my reign.”
Myth bit her tongue to keep from hooting in laughter.
And with that line, Arvel just effectively threatened Lord Julyan that if he wriggles out of this, Arvel will come for him when he’s king.
Lord Julyan studied Arvel for a few prolonged moments. “You are young and green,” he said abruptly. “I suppose you would need the practice. All the book-reading in the world won’t do anything for you if you don’t learn. I just hope it isn’t too much for you.”
Although Myth was forced to admit that Lord Julyan appeared to be reacting better to the investigation than Queen Luciee—he didn’t seem like he was a hair’s width away from screaming at Arvel—there was something about his stiff smile and subtle jabs that almost seemed worse.
Queen Luciee wasn’t subtle. She operated openly. Lord Julyan felt more shadowy, which was unsettling as it meant Myth couldn’t guess what the man would do in retribution.
But he is the queen’s brother. If he’s anything like her, he will attempt retribution of some sort.
Myth shifted when Lord Julyan’s eyes unexpectedly slid past Arvel to look at her. “And this must be your new translator I’ve heard of?”
Arvel stiffened.
Lord Julyan waited for a moment, then said, “Well? Aren’t you going to introduce me?”
Arvel angled himself so he was no longer blocking Myth, but they were closer together. “Mythlan, my uncle, Lord Julyan Fulton. Uncle, Translator Mythlan.”
“A pleasure to meet you, Mythlan,” Lord Julyan said. “I apologize on behalf of my nephew’s poor social skills that kept us from meeting sooner.”
Yep. He feels like a snake. Myth could almost feel the invisible coils tightening around her. “It’s Translator Mythlan,” she said in a professionally neutral voice.
“Apologies, Translator Mythlan.” Lord Julyan bowed slightly. “How are you enjoying your new post? Is it different from your schooling?”
Although Arvel seemed unbothered, when he leaned just the tiniest bit closer so their shoulders brushed, Myth knew he was worried.
Lord Julyan was digging for information. But why?
“Given that I was trained to be a trade translator, yes. The social setting is very different from what I was taught,” Myth blandly said.
“You’re a trade translator? Then are you helping Arvel in his little investigation?” Lord Julyan asked.
Arvel’s touch moved from a subtle brush to something closer to a bump, but Myth didn’t know what he wanted her to say, when anyone checking on his schedule would be able to learn the truth of it.
Myth slightly bowed her head. “I aid with some of the trade logs that are written in Elvish.”
“You record them into Calnoric for him?”
“No. Given my position it is not allowed by the regulations of the trade department because I am not skilled in the writing or reading forms of Calnoric,” Myth said.
“You aren’t?” Lord Julyan’s smile grew for the barest moment, and the careful casualness of his gaze intensified like a predator sighting prey.
For the life of her, Myth didn’t understand why. Nor did she get why Arvel bumped her again—hadn’t either of the men heard the elven platitude of humility before? No, they must have.
It would be dreadfully unfair if I had to study up on all of these complicated, wretched titles and subtle power play techniques of Calnor, only for them to be ignorant of even the most basic elven manners.
“I suppose, you only are an apprentice—didn’t you say so, Arvel?” Lord Julyan lowered his eyes to half-mast.
“No, I didn’t.” Arvel’s voice was an octave lower than usual, and even though his expression was still polite, Myth felt his tension in the bunched muscles of his arm that he pressed into hers.
“Is that so? I must have heard it from your mother, then.” Lord Julyan turned away from them and peered around the Celebration Hall. “If you will excuse me, I believe I ought to find your mother and pay my compliments to her. The both of you enjoy playing with your little investigation. Be careful, though. It’d be terrible if either of you got hurt in your exuberance.” He carelessly waved to them and stalked off.
Before Myth could even sigh in relief, Arvel took her hand in his and pulled her outside the Celebration Hall.
That got her heartbeat spiking. She scurried along at his side, trying to catch a glimpse of his face to make certain the Prince of Seduction hadn’t surfaced, but the torchlight was sputtering at best, and it wasn’t until they were outside in one of the open-air corridors that Arvel finally slowed down.
“That was dangerous,” Arvel grimly said. “I was hoping you would avoid his attention. Why did you tell him you helped me?”
“Because I’m not stupid,” Myth said bluntly. “He would have figured it out—perhaps even in the next few minutes if he asked King Petyrr or Queen Luciee. And then he would have been more on his guard if he thought I would openly lie to him. Also, it is not an elf’s nature to tell lies.”
Arvel sighed deeply and squeezed her hand. “You’re right, of course. It’s just…I don’t want you to be put in harm’s way.”
“Is he really that cold blooded—and arrogant—that he’d try to hurt you, his nephew and the crown prince?” Myth tugged her hand from Arvel’s grasp. He let go, and she felt oddly cold without his hand gripping hers.
“I don’t know.” Together they strolled along the corridor. Myth didn’t know quite where they were going, but she figured the farther they were from the Celebration Hall—and Arvel’s horrid uncle—the better. “In the past Father put limits on the Fultons so they wouldn’t get too out of hand, but he never provoked them the way that I am. Of course, they weren’t quite so bad as this back in the day. Maybe it’s because Uncle Julyan took over. He seems to be more power-hungry, whereas Grandfather was always just concerned with maximum profits.”
Myth’s throat twisted at this very unloving portrait of the Fultons. Slowly, she reached out and touched Arvel’s forearm. “Are you all right?”
“Hm?” Arvel blinked. “Of course. Why wouldn’t I be?”
“That sounds very hard to live with.”
Arvel paused mid step and turned toward Myth.
She couldn’t tell if he was staring at her, or out into the gardens just past her because they were in a shadowy part of the corridor. Suspicious, she slightly narrowed her eyes. “Arvel.”
Arvel grabbed her by the shoulders and pushed her behind him.
11
“What is—” Myth broke off when she stabilized herself on the stone wall and looked up. Three men stepped out of the shadows of the gardens. Black fabric covered the lower halves of their faces, and their gray, hooded cloaks obscured the definition of their bodies, but their bared weapons gleamed in the moonlight.
Arvel pulled daggers out of his jacket, slipping them between his fingers as he stepped between the men and Myth.
Myth looked from the attackers’ swords to Arvel’s daggers, disbelieving of what she was witnessing because of the sheer impossibility of it.
No…there’s no way any ruffian could be casually skulking around the palace like this. And any fiend smart enough to get past the
Honor Guards wouldn’t be dumb enough to attack the crown prince! Humans are foolish, but surely not that stupid!
It seemed, however, that they were.
The nearest man rushed Arvel, stabbing his short sword at Arvel’s chest.
Arvel, moving like lightning, stepped to the side and casually thrust his right arm out, catching the attacker on the right wrist so his blade bit through the man’s black clothing.
The man grunted in pain, and Arvel hooked his dagger around the attacker’s wrist and yanked it down, then forced it up behind his back with a swift shove that made the man shout and drop to his knees.
That display was enough to convince Myth she wasn’t hallucinating.
She sucked in as much air as she could get, then shouted in Calnoric, “The crown prince is under attack! In the corridors by the Rosewood Park! Three armed men!” She took another deep breath, then screamed in Elvish, “Three armed ruffians are attacking the crown prince! Just outside Rosewood Park.”
She kept the shouts up, even as the attacks continued.
The second and third man reached Arvel simultaneously.
One of them, who bore a large dagger, swiped at Arvel, attempting to gut him.
Arvel twirled his dagger in his left hand so the blade was parallel to the side of his hand. Similar to his first attack, he slid his hand under this man’s wrist. Unfortunately, the man must have been wearing wrist guards, because he didn’t shout when Arvel leaned in and forced his arm up, his dagger biting at the man’s wrists.
The attacker did scream, though, when Arvel shifted from a lean to a lunge and used his right hand and dagger to stab the man in the quad and savagely ripped the dagger out, attempting to inflict maximum pain.
The last attacker carried a long sword, which he whirled around him in a show of skill.
With the longer blade he was able to keep Arvel at bay, pushing him back as he swept his sword in a vertical slash and then thrust it down with a cutting movement.
Arvel barely dodged, the tip of the sword passing so close to him, it cut through the shoulder of his jacket.
No—Arvel!
Myth’s heart thudded painfully in her chest, but she made herself keep shouting as she helplessly watched.
As he gained confidence, the attacker made bigger cuts and thrusts. Arvel, to Myth’s untrained eyes, scarcely kept up. His jacket was sliced several more times, and the way he jolted twice made Myth suspect at least one or two of the cuts managed to graze him. Eventually, Arvel was driven so far back he was only a foot or two away from Myth.
The sword wielder snickered at Arvel’s retreat and made another diagonal slash.
This time, Arvel moved much faster, dodging with a slight step back. When the sword passed him, arcing wide, Arvel darted forward and slammed his shoulder into the sword wielder’s stomach.
The attacker staggered, his air leaving him with a wheeze.
Moving almost faster than Myth could track, Arvel straightened and grabbed the man by the back of the neck, swinging his head down so he could ram his skull with his knee.
The man collapsed in a heap with a gurgle.
Myth wildly peered up and down the corridor, trying to get a location marker of any kind to shout a more precise location.
Ah forget it. As long as I can keep screaming, they’ll follow my voice.
“Three armed men, attacking Prince Arvel!” Myth kept rotating languages, even though her throat painfully squeezed from the shouting. She pressed herself against the wall—staying out of Arvel’s way and the armed men’s reach.
In the time it took Arvel to deal with the last attacker, the first two men stood again, keeping a wary distance as they circled him.
Distantly, the pure tones of an Honor Guard whistle echoed across the gardens.
Help was on the way…if they could hold out long enough.
Myth plunged her hands into the biggest interior pocket of her translator jacket. She grabbed the book she had stowed there for reference—A Social Translator’s Pocket Guide to Interpreting—and yanked it out.
One of the men tried to circle back behind Arvel and attack him in his blind spot. He also aimed a kick at Myth—who hadn’t stopped shouting—but she edged down the wall in time, evading it.
The man growled and refocused on Arvel as Myth adjusted her grasp on her book.
I am not at all physically trained, so I need to make sure I hit a weak spot.
Myth ruthlessly rotated the book so its pointed corners faced out, then she slammed the book into the attacker’s temple, aiming to jab him in the eye.
She missed the eyeball, but she still hit him with enough force in the eye socket to make him topple backwards and shout expletives Myth only recognized from Blaise’s mumbles during her worst magic explosions.
The whistle blew again; this time it was so close Myth could hear the rasp to the whistle’s shrill tones.
“Yes, this way!” she shouted first in Elvish then in Calnoric.
“They’re here—split off!” growled the attacker whose arm Arvel had wrenched.
The man with the newly rattled head managed to stand. He and the one with the wrenched arm split off in different directions just as guards poured out of the garden.
The one Myth had attempted to blind with her book staggered a few steps—his leg already weakened by the thigh wound Arvel had landed on him—then took off after one of his comrades.
A set of the guards from the Rosewood Park peeled off, chasing after the two attackers that fled together. The rest jumped the low barrier that divided the corridor from the garden grounds and fanned out around Myth and Arvel in a protective formation.
Myth rubbed her raw throat and coughed. “Why didn’t they head after the remaining attacker?”
Arvel was panting and his jacket was cut up, but he nodded down the corridor. “Because of that.”
A squadron of Honor Guards rushed up the corridor, their weapons unsheathed. “For Calnor!”
Arvel wiped at his forehead with the back of his hand, smudging blood there. “We’re safe now.”
“Where did they hurt you?” Myth slipped her book into her jacket pocket and moved around Arvel, checking for injuries.
“It’s just a few small cuts and some bruises.” Arvel grimaced, but he still loosely held his daggers, balancing them in his fingers with finesse. “I don’t think they were trying to kill us. Just roughen us up and scare us.”
“They attacked a prince.” Myth’s voice was cold and icy like her anger. “Scaring us couldn’t have been their main objective!”
“Hopefully we’ll clarify their goal if any of the men are caught. Regardless, there’s going to be hell to pay.” Arvel’s expression turned grim as he studied the guards.
“You intend to come down hard on them?” Myth asked.
“Of course, but that’s not what I was referring to. Sir Arion and Benjimir are going to have kittens when they find out about this.” He sighed deeply. “So much for my carefree days where I could move unseen through the palace.”
“We were just attacked, and you are mourning the loss of your anonymity?”
Arvel abruptly swung his gaze to her, his eyes sharp. “You weren’t hurt, were you?”
“No.”
“Then yes. If I’m looking at it from my perspective. Naturally I wish you hadn’t been caught up in this just because you’re my translator. Oh, but that was good thinking in shouting for help in all the different languages. Your lung capacity is quite impressive.”
“If playing cute after a traumatic experience like this is how you cope, I’m taking a set of the guards and leaving you,” Myth threatened. “You’re hurt. There’s no sense in trying to downplay it.”
“There you are, two steps ahead of me as usual.” Arvel laughed, until Myth finally zeroed in on the frayed cut on the upper left arm of his jacket and pulled the two pieces apart.
He was wounded. The injury had been hidden by his coat and dripped blood down his arm before soaking into
the fabric of his jacket.
Arvel winced when Myth moved his arm. “I can’t hide anything from you, can I?”
“No,” she agreed. She turned her attention to the elven guards. “Could someone dispatch a professional to see to Crown Prince Arvel’s wounds?”
“Don’t bother,” a man replied in Elvish.
It took a moment for Myth to recognize Prince Benjimir in the glittering light. “I sent word myself as soon as your shouts were reported. Thank you for your quick thinking.” He offered Myth a smile that Myth could see was the more serious, less boyish version of Arvel’s grin.
After she bowed to him, he turned his attention to Arvel. “Well, brother,” he said in Calnoric. “What scrape have you gotten yourself into now?”
“Quite a big one,” Arvel said cheerfully. “Based on this attack, I can safely say the Fultons must be doing many more illegal activities than we estimated.”
“You always have to stir the hornets, don’t you?” Prince Benjimir made a show of rubbing his head in exasperation, but he was inspecting Arvel with an eagle-eyed gaze. He also flicked the frayed edges of Arvel’s jacket apart to peer at the arm wound. “How bad is it?”
“Barely a graze. He had a long sword; I was trying to get him to drop his guard.”
“It seems I need to retrain you, because you are either slower than you used to be and couldn’t quite dodge fast enough, or you’ve gotten stupid and decided an injury might better make your opponent overconfident when any person with a properly working brain—including your wise translator—could have told you otherwise.”
Arvel winced. “It was an accident?”
Prince Benjimir thought for a moment. “That implies you were too slow and cutting it too close. So yes, a round of training is in order. That’s fine. Gwendafyn has been wanting to really focus on daggers since she only knows the basics. You can be her opponent.”