All The King's-Men (The Yellow Hoods, #3)

by Adam Dreece

  Bakon examined his fists, which he’d nearly broken punching a tree the night before. He’d swung at everything he could, except the horse, fighting through all of his mixed emotions until he’d finally collapsed on the ground at the side of the road and fallen asleep.

  He’d decided to head for Relna, figuring if he’d never heard of the Piemans before, then they were likely not Frelish. His plan was simple: get there and keep asking about the Piemans until someone made him stop, one way or the other.

  A woman’s scream slapped him back to attention. Looking up ahead, he saw a riderless horse trotting up towards him around a bend in the forest road.

  Bakon nudged his horse to speed up. “I hope that lady has some people I can mess with. I need a distraction.”

  As he came around the bend, he saw a bald man unconscious on the ground, and three thugs; one of whom was chasing a dark-haired woman around a toppled fruit cart.

  “Hey, guys,” yelled Bakon.

  The Chaser froze and stared at Bakon. He was a wiry man, and Bakon knew the type well. Likely he was the kick-puppy of the Ringleader, and probably the one who did most of the work. He had noticeably bad teeth and bags under his eyes. His clothes were haphazard, not unlike Bakon’s had been until very recently.

  “Hey, yourself,” snapped the Ringleader, taking a step forward. He looked scruffy and like he’d slept in his unwashed clothes for weeks. His long beard and wrinkled, boyish face made him look more comical than threatening.

  Bakon scrutinized the third man, who reminded him of his brother, Bore. He was at least six-foot-six, with badly cut hair and stubble. He frowned at Bakon and kept glancing at the other two for direction.

  “This should be fun,” said Bakon to himself, smiling. Dismounting, he chewed his lip, trying to figure how he was going to play this out. Recently, Captain Archambault had been sharing some new ways he could deal with things if he found himself alone; ways that, honestly, he’d never have considered as they didn’t involve punching someone.

  Bakon walked over to the side of the road and picked up a good and sturdy stick. He smiled at the trio of thugs. He noticed they were all wet, but the ground and stick were dry. He looked up at the sky and saw dark clouds heading away from them.

  “What are you doing?” asked the Chaser.

  “I needed a stick,” said Bakon as if there was nothing going on. “I found one. Do you need one?” he asked, offering his. “There are more.”

  “Um, no,” said the Chaser, bewildered.

  Bakon shrugged. “Suit yourself.” He started walking towards the woman and the fruit cart.

  “You don’t want to do that, mate. You just want to leave,” said the Ringleader, his hand on a flintlock pistol in his pants.

  “Is that so?” said Bakon, acting a touch surprised. “I’m really hungry, and there’s fruit right there. Now, I was planning on paying for it, but I don’t have any coins.” He patted himself down. “Hey, do you accept sticks as currency? It’s a really good one.” He waved his stick about for all to see.

  The Chaser shifted his gaze between his buddies and then to the woman, who shrugged at him, having no idea what was really going on. “We’re… ah, stealing this stuff,” he said, pointing to the cart. “So we’re not interested in selling nothing.”

  Bakon smiled to himself as he thought of what Isabella Klaus would have said if he’d used a double negative like that.

  The Ringleader pulled out his pistol.

  Bakon recognized the make. He had one at home.

  “Get out of here,” said the Ringleader. “This is none of your business. We’re doing some stealing, and you don’t need to be part of this. Just… just go away.”

  Bakon nodded in understanding, rubbing his chin. He rolled his shoulders and thought. He imagined Gabriel describing the situation, and asking him questions as to what he should do next. As much as part of him was itching for an out-and-out brawl, he was curious to see if leveraging his charisma could really work.

  “Careful there, buddy,” he said seriously. “I’m armed with a stick.” The Chaser started to laugh, but Bakon’s expression made him stop and look at the Ringleader, even more confused than before. Bakon noticed that the big guy was reacting about five seconds after everyone else. “This is my business. See, that lady’s my sister.” Bakon took a few slow steps towards the Ringleader.

  “No, she’s not,” said the head thug. “Nice try.”

  “You’re right, she’s not,” replied Bakon, smiling sheepishly and taking two more steps. “She’s my wife.”

  “She’s not your wife,” said the hyena-like Chaser.

  Bakon winked at him. “Got me again.” He took another step towards the Ringleader.

  The Ringleader shook his old firearm at Bakon. “Just go away!”

  “Hey,” said Bakon calmly. “Tell you what. How about I drop this stick, and you point the gun at the ground?”

  The Chaser caught wind of something and yelled, “Shoot him. I don’t like him.”

  “He can’t. It’s wet,” said Bakon, pointing at the flintlock pistol. “I can fix it though, for some fruit.”

  “What?” said the Ringleader. “It’s not wet.”

  Bakon frowned at him. “Look, I’m hungry. I don’t care what else you’re doing, just give me some food, and I’m on my way. Everybody wins—”

  “I don’t,” grumbled the woman.

  “Fair point, but close enough,” said Bakon. He pointed at the pistol again, now only three feet away. “See the shine on the top there? That means the chamber’s wet. Even if it does fire, it’ll blow up in your face.”

  The Ringleader stared at the firearm for a moment. “It’s fine,” he insisted.

  Bakon shook his head, his expression annoyed. “Hey, guy, you’re embarrassing yourself. I know you’re a professional highwayman, and I’m just a country ruffian, but let’s be honest with each other. That pistol’s useless if you don’t let me fix it.”

  The Ringleader frowned at his pistol. There was something about the way Bakon was talking that made the Ringleader feel that he genuinely had the thug’s best interest at heart.

  “I’ll prove it to you,” said Bakon. “Lady, come here.” He stepped forward and snatched the pistol right out of the Ringleader’s hands and handed it to the lady.

  Everyone stared at Bakon in disbelief.

  “Did he just do that?” asked the Chaser.

  “Trust me,” said Bakon, waving for them to calm down. He didn’t know if they had another weapon, but he was certain that the pistol had at most one shot.

  The woman stared at Bakon, confused. “Help me out, lady. Now, please try and shoot him.”

  “Um, where?” said the woman, waving the pistol around.

  Bakon glanced at the man. “The foot’s good.”

  “Are you sure about this?” asked the Ringleader.

  “Positive,” said Bakon, giving him an okay gesture. “Mademoiselle.”

  The gun fired. The Chaser, Ringleader, and woman all screamed.

  “My foot!” yelled the Ringleader. “You flipping pargo! I told you it worked fine!”

  Bakon snatched the pistol from the woman’s hand, opened it up, took out the spent bullet, and closed it back up just in time to point it squarely at the face of the third big man, who was now just inches away.

  The big man and Bakon stood there, gesturing at each other for a minute, until finally the big man nodded and went to collect his wounded friend.

  “What were you doing?” asked the woman.

  “He’s deaf. My brother Bore has a friend just like him. The guy lives seconds behind everyone else. Bore taught me some of the simple gestures. Honestly, I’m surprised I remembered them - haven’t used them in a while.” Bakon paused, briefly wondering about how his brothers were doing. “These guys will be leaving now. The big guy knows I’ll shoot them if they don’t,” whispered Bakon, keeping his pistol pointed at the trio of thugs.

  “I can’t believe you were able to r
eload it that quickly,” said the woman, watching in disbelief as the men left.

  A sheepish smiled appeared on Bakon’s face. “Well, to be perfectly honest,” he whispered, “I didn’t. I don’t have any bullets on me.”

  “So it’s not loaded?” asked the woman.

  “No.”

  She covered her eyes. “I can’t believe I was just saved by an idiot.”

  “Some people are never happy,” said Bakon, putting his gun arm down as the thugs started off. He peeked over his shoulder at the bald man, who was still unconscious on the ground. “He with you?”

  The woman laughed. “Dad’s fine. He fainted. Too much excitement and it’s like someone doused his lamp—out he goes. Loud noises do it to him, too. He’ll be up soon.”

  “If you don’t mind sharing some of your fruit, we can hook your hand-cart up to my horse.”

  The woman nodded. “Sounds fair.”

  After attaching his horse and making sure that the old man was steady enough to walk, Bakon walked over to the fruit. Suddenly, the woman screamed and the old man passed out again.

  Bakon rolled his eyes. “What now?” he asked, trying to find the imminent danger.

  The woman pointed at an arm that was sticking straight up into the air from the side of the road some fifty yards away.

  “I think it’s a zombie,” whispered the woman, crouching down as if the ground would somehow give her protection.

  Bakon walked over to it, putting the spent pistol in his pants. “Can’t you see that the fingers are moving? Why does everyone want to believe in magic?” he muttered to himself.

  Arriving at the arm, Bakon turned back to the woman. “Hey, lady?” he asked. “Did you lose another guy? There’s one here attached to the arm.”

  “That one’s not mine,” she replied.

  “Huh,” said Bakon, studying the rousing man. “Are you okay?” He helped the shaggy man carefully to his feet.

  The man had a strange look in his eyes. “I was trying to help… someone. I heard a scream,” he said, gazing about, confused. “How did I get here?”

  “Did you happen to lose a horse?” asked Bakon. “One trotted past me earlier.”

  The man scratched his beard. “I don’t think so. I seem to remember talking to my brother, though.” He turned about, taking in where he was. “I’m guessing it was a hallucination.”

  Bakon sighed and shook his head. He’d run into this type before as well.

  As they climbed out of the ditch and onto the road, Bakon got a good look at the man. He had a scruffy beard, sunken brown eyes, and clearly hadn’t eaten well in a long time. He was Bakon’s height, and dressed in tatters. Oddly, there was something familiar about him.

  “What’s your name?” asked Bakon as they walked towards the horse and cart.

  “My name”—the man rubbed his head—“is Abeland.” He stopped and studied Bakon’s face. “You’re… wait… you?… you’re not, are you?”

  “Pardon?” asked Bakon.

  Abeland rubbed his head again and the strange look drifted from behind his eyes. “Sorry. I was given some bad medicine and it’s still messing with my mind. I thought you were my brother for a moment.”

  “Oh,” replied Bakon. “Do you know where you are?”

  Abeland studied the forest road. “I came from that direction. I was trying to go home,” he said, finally orienting himself. “Do you know where this road leads?”

  The woman, who had been slowly approaching, interjected, “To Evana, and then on to Relna.”

  “Relna? So I’m in Belnia… they moved me that far?” muttered Abeland to himself. He scanned the trees and landscape again to confirm. “Belnia…” He squinted at Bakon, thinking. “I need to get to Relna. I have a house outside of there. If you’ll take me, I’ll pay you handsomely for your help.”

  At first pass, the man appeared to be a crazed beggar, but there was something about his clear, crisp speech and the way he was standing that told Bakon he was far more than he seemed.

  “Okay. My name is Bakon.”

  Abeland paused for a second. “Bakon?” There was something disturbingly familiar about that name.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  What a Sharp Mind You Have

  LeLoup was enjoying his day in the Frelish capital city. He’d picked up a custom leather holster for the Liar, allowing it to rest comfortably on his right thigh. He’d also managed to squeeze a finished long coat and pants out of Pascal early.

  He paused and appreciated his own reflection in a shop’s window. “I really am ruggedly handsome, aren’t I?” he smiled.

  Seeing a crowd, LeLoup made his way over to find a street gambler at the heart of it. He had a makeshift table made with some crates and a piece of wood. On top of it were nine cards in a square, face down.

  Small piles of notes and coins were on the table, and everyone was eager for the street gambler to flip two cards. After the first card, the crowd took an anxious breath, and with the second came the grand disappointment to most and celebration by a few. The street gambler smiled as he took his winnings and handed out what he owed.

  LeLoup leaned against a brick wall, listening to the smooth pitch of the street gambler. It sounded so innocent, so inviting, so alluring, that people couldn’t resist putting their money on the table and trying their hands at the game.

  A blond-haired teenage boy came and stood beside LeLoup, watching the street gambler do his magic. “He’s a good one,” said the boy. “He isn’t cheating. Most of them cheat, but this one is just very good at what he does. I’ve been watching him for a while.”

  LeLoup turned his gaze to the boy for a moment, before returning it to the crowd. “Now how would a boy such as yourself know anything about a game like that, unless you’re a street gambler yourself?”

  The boy pushed off of the wall and then rocked back. “I lost a bunch of money to one months ago. Even when I won, I lost. It didn’t matter that I was smarter than everyone in that stupid town.”

  LeLoup nodded knowingly. “Some larger men helped you with the burden of your winnings, I take it?”

  The boy nodded, scowling.

  As the crowd erupted with yells and cheers, the boy nodded to himself.

  “Predicted that one?” asked LeLoup.

  The boy confirmed it with a quick glance.

  LeLoup stroked the underpart of his chin. There was something about this boy. He was confident, and clearly following every detail of what was going on. “Isn’t it always the way? When the genius creates something, thuggery and ignorance try to bring it down?”

  The boy turned to LeLoup, annoyed. “It shouldn’t be that way. And even among the geniuses, there are liars and scoundrels.”

  “True,” said LeLoup, scrutinizing the boy a bit more. His eyes were sharp, the wheels clearly turning inside.

  LeLoup observed the crowd. No one seemed to be paying any attention to the boy. “Where are your parents?” he asked casually.

  The boy shook his head. “I’m here with friends. We’re traveling to Costello. They’re back at the inn, though. I’m here alone.”

  Smiling to himself, LeLoup replied, “Costello is very nice this time of year.”

  Sounds of anticipation emanated from the crowd.

  “Before he flips it over,” said LeLoup, nudging the boy.

  “Bottom left card and the middle top card,” said the boy.

  They watched as the street gambler flipped them over and held them high for everyone to see. The crowd once again exclaimed, mostly in disappointment, but with a few cheers.

  LeLoup nodded. “Very well done.”

  The boy shrugged. “It’s simple, really.”

  “There are many things in life that look simple,” said LeLoup. “Why are you going to Costello?”

  The boy moved his head away from LeLoup.

  “Sorry. I’m being too nosey,” said LeLoup apologetically.

  “Speaking of Costello, I’ve met the Abbott once. Painful fellow, m
ade me want to give him what for. Thick like a brick,” said the boy, making them both chuckle.

  LeLoup stared at the boy. “You know, it’s one thing to see what should be done from the sidelines, but can you see things in the heat of the moment?”

  The boy rolled his eyes, not dignifying LeLoup’s question with an answer.

  “I have some powerful friends—friends who would appreciate someone with your insight and abilities,” said LeLoup, stroking the boy’s ego. He could see the boy straighten up with a touch of pride. “But first, a test.”

  “Name it,” said the boy.

  “Let’s see if we can win three times in a row.” He walked over to the gambler and glanced back at the boy by the wall. “Are you going to change your life, or are you going to stand there in the shadows?” LeLoup grinned from ear to ear when he saw the spark in the boy’s eyes as he approached.

  “We’re in,” said LeLoup to the street gambler.

  “Place your bet,” said the street gambler, offering a charming smile.

  LeLoup reached into his wallet and took out a thousand coin note. His piercing green eyes caught the nervous movements of the gambler’s gaze and the bead of sweat starting to form on his temples. “Is this too rich for you?” LeLoup asked coyly. The gambler followed LeLoup’s glance to the Liar strapped to his thigh. “I’d hate to have to collect in other ways.”

  The street gambler smiled at the intimidating pistol, and then at LeLoup, and said, “We’re good.”

  The crowd was gossiping about the amount and what would happen.

  “Wonderful,” LeLoup said to the street gambler. “Let’s see if my young colleague is as brilliant as I suspect he might be.”

  A minute later, the crowd erupted, and the boy and LeLoup exchanged nods at having won. LeLoup glared at the street gambler and asked him, “You’re good for the money, aren’t you?”

  The man sweated a little and glanced at the crowd. “Everything’s good. We’re all good here, sir. Everyone, place your bets.”

  “No, not everyone, just me,” said LeLoup.