He was out behind Mercie’s house this afternoon. There had been a lot of activity on the roads earlier, and Flick suspected something had happened in the city. Mercie had gone in to hear the news, and Flick watched the road, eager to know what had occurred.
But there was that thing that kept moving in his periphery. He supposed he should have been more nervous, but he suspected he knew what it was. Or rather, who it was. Finally, his curiosity got the better of him. “Is anyone there?” he called.
Adele stepped out. Flick grinned. “I’m glad to see you.”
She smiled serenely in return, her amber eyes sparkling against her pale skin. That was a first. He couldn’t remember her giving him a full smile before.
“Are you well?” she asked.
“I am. Thank you.”
They stood looking at each other for a few moments. Finally, Flick gestured to the forest. “I was just taking a walk. Would you like to join me?”
“To see Kyra?”
“No, just watching the road. But there’s no reason I must do it alone.”
Her eyes brightened at this, and she fell in step beside him. They strolled just inside the line of the forest so Flick could catch glimpses of the road. It was his fourth time meeting Adele now, yet he still felt off balance around her. He’d had his share of sweethearts in the past. Flick never had trouble talking to girls or making them laugh. But then, none of girls he flirted with back in the city had been capable of turning into giant beasts. Not that he thought he was flirting with Adele. Who knew what these people’s customs were? It was enough of a triumph that he hadn’t yet been mauled to death. But something about this lass fascinated him. Her quick eye and curiosity, her uninhibited openness in expressing her opinion, her never-ending stream of questions for him.
Speaking of which, she was about to ask him another one. He could tell. Flick interrupted her. “You’re always asking me about me and my people,” he said. “I think it’s my turn, don’t you?”
A few meetings ago, this sort of question might have made her jump back in alarm. But this time, she simply tilted her head, then nodded. “What would you like to know?”
“Well…” Flick paused. He hardly knew where to start. “What do you do most days?”
“Nights,” she corrected. “I hunt at night, and I wander the forest. Sometimes I gather with the others.”
“What do you do with them?”
“Talk, tell stories, sing.” She reached out and touched a tree branch with her finger as they walked past.
Sing? The idea of Adele as a songbird piqued his interest. “Will you sing something for me?”
He thought he’d have to coax her further, but she launched right into a quick song. Her voice was high and steady. The melody itself was unusual. It went up and down in finer increments than the songs he was used to hearing. It almost reminded Flick of Minadan pipe tunes, the ones said to lull a sleeper into strange and curious dreams, but Adele’s tune was livelier and happier.
“You sing beautifully,” he said when she finished. “Can you teach me this song?”
She sang a phrase for him to repeat, then covered a smile at his attempt.
“No good?”
“Your pronunciation is not the best,” she said gently.
He tried several more times until she deemed his performance satisfactory enough to move on. They continued like this, phrase by phrase, laughing at his mistakes and sending wayward phrases into the trees. He’d almost made it through what he thought was the first stanza when Adele stopped him with a touch to the elbow. She was looking into the forest again.
“Some of your kin?” he asked, suddenly tense. Adele, he was always happy to see. But the others…
She stared in that direction, then shook her head. “It’s Kyra. And someone else.”
Kyra came into view a few moments later. Her face was smudged with dirt, and she moved like it hurt to do so. And was that blood seeping through her tunic?
“Kyra, what happened?” Then he saw Tristam a few steps behind her, looking equally beat-up and still wearing his Red Shield livery.
Kyra looked between Flick and Adele, confused for a moment, and then seemed to put the matter out of her mind. “Have you had news from the city?” she asked.
“Not today. But Mercie went in to find out what the excitement was.”
Kyra lowered her eyes. Flick could tell from the way her brows knitted together that the news was big, that it had to do with her, and that he wasn’t going to be pleased.
“Out with it,” he said.
She spread her hands apologetically. “Things have happened,” she said. “And we need your help.”
Flick knew that the Palace compound had two main gates, one in the north, and one on the south wall. These were the only ones opened on a regular basis. What he hadn’t noticed until tonight was the presence of smaller gates. According to Kyra, these were usually double-locked and guarded, although select noblemen living within those walls had keys. A few hours past midnight, a man had entered through one such gate, and now Flick waited in a nearby alleyway for him to leave.
He heard a faint metallic creak, followed by quick footsteps that echoed down the empty street. Flick ducked deeper into the alley as the man walked past. A few moments later, a shadow passed overhead—Kyra was trailing him on the rooftops. Flick pulled his cloak tighter and settled down to wait.
Kyra dropped off the roof a short while later, landing softly in front of him. Though Flick could not see her face clearly in the darkness, he could hear her panting from exertion. Kyra was dressed for work in a dark tunic and trousers, with her hair tied back in her characteristic ponytail. He’d seen her like this hundreds of times, and after all the craziness of the past few weeks, it was nice to see her back to form.
Flick had been…less than pleased to learn what had happened at James’s execution. But somehow, after berating Kyra for her harebrained, risky scheme, he’d immediately agreed to help her with another one. Kyra had argued that this new mission was important, and this time, Flick agreed. If there was any way to stop Willem’s Demon Rider offensive, they had to try. Flick’s conversations with Adele had convinced him that peace with the Makvani was possible, but only if Forge didn’t embark on such a disastrous attack.
Kyra dusted off her hands. “The messenger’s staying at an inn called The Drowned Cat,” she said. “Not the most auspicious name for an inn, is it?”
“Mayhap it refers to the contents of their stew,” said Flick.
Kyra stifled a giggle as they made their way to the inn. The windows were dark, and the road was completely silent. They slipped into an alleyway across the street, where Tristam was already waiting.
“I’m guessing he’ll leave tomorrow morning to blend in with the other travelers,” Tristam said.
Flick handed Kyra a large bag. “If he breaks his fast in the inn’s dining room, I’ll flip his purse then. And you, my delightful assistant, will need these.”
Kyra reached into the bag and fished out a long black wig, a trader’s tunic, and a pair of shoes, examining each in turn. Flick grinned when he saw Tristam eyeing the props with curiosity. The wallhugger would be getting quite the education in undercity tactics today.
Kyra rounded the corner with the props. When she came back, she looked taller, thanks to the shoes’ well-concealed heels, and she boasted a head of luxurious ebony curls instead of her usual brown ponytail. In the darkness, Flick could barely make out the intricately patterned leather knots decorating her tunic in the style of the southern traders. Trader women were some of the few who might actually eat or stay at an inn. It wasn’t the best disguise, but it was the best Mercie had. Flick didn’t bother with a costume himself, thinking instead to blend in among the countless tavern-going men. Though he’d grown out his beard since he fled the city. It always made him look quite a bit older.
They took turns watching the inn until light started to shine on the horizon and the city started to stir. When th
e innkeeper came out to sweep the doorstep, Kyra looked to Flick. “Better if you’re already in the dining room when he comes in. Remember what he looks like?”
“Black hair down to his shoulder, a few years older than me. Small eyes. Mustache.” Flick wiped the dust off his cloak. “You’re paying for my drink, right?”
Kyra rolled her eyes and handed Flick a few coppers.
“The messenger came in late last night, and he might not be up for a while,” said Tristam. “Do you think it’ll be suspicious for Flick to be in there so long?”
Flick and Kyra exchanged a glance, and Kyra’s lips twitched. “Flick always thinks up something to do.” She turned to Flick. “Just, uh, try not to attract too much attention, all right?” The last time Flick had done a day-long stint at an inn, he’d invented a drinking game where each drinker had to be at a higher physical location than the last. The fallout had involved a crowd of people on the roof, multiple bruises, one broken limb (not Flick’s), and a warning never to step foot in The Bow-Legged Canary again.
Flick grinned. “Who, me?” And he sauntered off.
After a night out in the cold, the warm air of the inn’s dining room felt lovely, and the smell of freshly baked bread wafting out from the kitchen made Flick’s stomach growl. The room was about half full as the earlier-rising patrons broke their fast, and Flick settled near a window. The serving girl was a friendly lass with dimpled cheeks who laughed at his jokes. She brought him a plate of sausages, and he tucked into the meal.
He’d just about finished his sausages when he saw his mark. The messenger entered alone and sat down with the bristly body language of someone who didn’t want company. Flick washed down his last bite of breakfast with ale, then put a little unsteadiness in his stride and strolled to the messenger’s table.
“Fine morning, in’t it?” said Flick, sinking onto a stool next to him. The messenger didn’t so much as glance at him. Flick had been about to recite some platitudes about delicious food and beautiful serving girls but changed his mind when he saw the man’s scowl. “Of course, can’t quite enjoy it in this type of establishment. Second-rate food and lazy serving lasses.” Flick sent a mental apology to the nice serving girl, grateful she was out of earshot.
Flick studied the man with a careful eye. The messenger was grumpy and standoffish. His clothes were unremarkable in style and color, but his tunic was of surprisingly thick and soft wool, and he wore a finely crafted ring. Flick also noticed that the man’s hair and mustache were meticulously trimmed. Most importantly, he carried a small leather bag across his shoulder. That was likely where his message would be.
“That’s a fine ring you’ve got there,” Flick said. “Impressive detailing. Must have been made by a master.”
The man straightened just the tiniest bit.
“What’s the design? Looks like one of the newer fashions out of Parna.”
It was just an educated guess, since everything seemed to come from Parna these days. But the messenger regarded him with new consideration. “That’s right.”
Flick smiled and extended a hand. “I’m Taylon of Forge.”
“Robert,” said the messenger. No city, no house. Still being careful.
The door opened, and Flick saw Kyra come in and sit at a back table. He averted his eyes and launched into an elaborate story about getting cheated by a trader over a fake silver brooch. Robert’s lips curled slightly as the story progressed—the messenger didn’t have a high opinion of Flick’s eye for goods—but Flick knew he had him. Robert was listening intently, and he’d forgotten all about his earlier attempts to stay aloof.
Flick patted Robert on the shoulder. “I’ll wager someone like you wouldn’t be fooled by such a simple trick.” The pat was a little rougher than it needed to be, and Robert scowled at Flick’s drunken clumsiness. As the messenger pulled away, Flick undid the clasp on Robert’s bag, looking out the window as he did so. “You’ve far to travel today?”
Robert followed Flick’s gaze. They always did, if he led confidently. “Not too far,” the messenger said, oblivious to the fact that Flick had just lifted a piece of parchment from his purse.
Flick tucked the parchment up his sleeve and continued to chatter on. Someone brushed past him—Kyra’s scratchy wig tickled the back of his neck. Her fingers skimmed his palm, and he let the parchment drop into her hand.
He spoke to the man a while longer and then pushed back from the table. “Pity that ale never stays with us very long,” he said with an embarrassed grin. He made a show of asking for the privy before he went out the door.
Flick found Kyra and Tristam crouched in the alley behind a stack of crates. Kyra had already opened the parchment, and Flick noticed with pride that she’d managed to keep half the seal intact, though the other half had broken into pieces.
“Find anything?” he asked, bending down to join them.
Tristam handed him the opened note. The message inside was written in neat, elegant script.
All our soldiers are in position and ready for the forest offensive, though the Council is volatile and our plans are far from secure. I need more funds to gain the cooperation of Palace scribes, as well as key members of the defense forces. The more of our own that we have within the Palace, the safer our position will be.
“That’s Willem’s handwriting,” said Tristam.
Flick read it over one more time, then returned it to Tristam. “Certainly seems underhanded, but what’s it mean? Care to enlighten us on the ways of the court?”
Tristam rubbed his temples. “Willem’s trying to ensure the success of the Demon Rider offensive—that’s clear enough. And looks like he’s using bribes to do it. The Council members look to the scribes and army leaders for advice. If Willem controls what they hear, he controls what they think.”
Seemed a roundabout way of pulling strings, but Flick supposed everything in the Palace was roundabout. “Who do you think is providing this coin?”
“Hard to tell. My best guess would be some of the minor families outside the city. They’d have the most to gain from an offensive against the Demon Riders.”
They were silent for a moment, then Kyra spoke. “If the Council’s decision to attack the Demon Riders was influenced by bribery, would that be enough reason to stop the offensive?”
“It might be enough to delay while they investigate further,” said Tristam, “and it might be the first step we need to discredit Willem himself. But I’m not sure we have enough proof. This is only one letter, and it’s not even signed. Willem’s handwriting could easily be faked. And we don’t even know who his co-conspirators are.”
Flick drummed his fingers against his thigh. “What if you had the testimony of the messenger? He’ll find his purse empty soon enough and come looking for me. Might there be some way to, ah…persuade him to cooperate?” He almost felt guilty for suggesting it. Though really, Robert was a rather unpleasant fellow….
Tristam squinted in the direction of the street. “Depends on how his loyalty measures up to his self-preservation. But we’d need someplace to keep him. We can’t exactly interrogate him here.”
“I could guard him at my cave,” said Kyra.
“It’d be better if you had help,” said Flick. An idea came to him, and he made a quick decision. Why should Kyra be the only one to come up with harebrained schemes? “I might have friends who could keep an eye on him.”
“Are these friends trustworthy?” asked Tristam.
“They’ve no love for Willem. I’ll introduce you and you can decide for yourself.”
Tristam looked to Kyra. “What do you think?”
She stared at the parchment. “We’ve only seven days until the offensive starts. Think we can get the messenger to crack that quickly?”
“Can you think of a better way?” said Tristam.
A vendor on the street outside hawked his hotcakes as the three of them thought this over. Kyra gave a decisive nod. “Let’s do it.”
They sketche
d out a quick plan, then Flick returned to the inn, bypassing the dining room this time for the living quarters in back. He climbed the stairs in a rush, as if he were making a hasty exit. No one stopped him, so he ran through the hallways several more times, wondering how long he could keep this up. Finally, Robert stepped around the corner. The man grabbed Flick’s collar and forced him against the wall.
Flick raised his hands. “Whoa there, friend.” One of the doors in the corridor opened, and a bewildered lodger peered out, only to duck back into his room when Robert glared at him.
The messenger bent his face close to Flick’s. “Where is it?”
“Where’s what?”
Flick felt the sharp point of a dagger against his side. “The parchment,” said Robert.
“I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.” Flick bit back a curse as cloth ripped and the dagger skimmed his skin. He was pretty sure Robert had drawn blood. “Search me if you want,” he said through gritted teeth. “I’ve nothing on me.” You owe me, Kyra.
Flick stayed absolutely still as Robert patted him down. Robert searched him twice, then narrowed his eyes. “It was in my purse when I stepped into the dining room, and gone after you left. No one else came near me except for you.” Robert raised the dagger to Flick’s throat.
“All right, all right, I took it.” Flick didn’t have to work hard to sound convincingly panicked. “It’s outside. I can give it back. Just—keep that dagger to yourself.”
The messenger spun Flick roughly around so they were facing the same direction. A moment later, the knife reappeared at his back. “Slowly,” said Robert. “If I suspect anything, your life is forfeit.”
They walked in lockstep down the stairs. The lodgers they passed didn’t even notice anything was amiss. Once out the door, Flick headed for the alley, and Robert tightened his grip. “Don’t try anything.”
“Do you want the parchment or not?” said Flick under his breath.
Flick felt a layer of sweat forming over his skin as they stepped into the alley. There was no sign of Tristam or Kyra as they walked past the stack of crates, and he dearly hoped that nothing had gone awry. Flick’s gaze settled on a pile of rocks next to the wall. “There, under the rocks.”
Daughter of Dusk Page 22