by M. L. Greye
“If our trifolds happened to be found within their favorite tea rooms or exclusive pubs, their eyes would find them,” Greggin remarked.
Emry nodded. “I like it. But do we know anyone who could write it?”
Greggin frowned. “I could help, probably.”
Levric leaned forward in his chair, resting his hands on his knees. “We can be partners.”
“You’ll have to finish before you return to Anexia,” Emry replied. He planned on leaving in two days.
“Yes.” He nodded and rubbed at the corner of his eyes. The motion reminded her so much of her dream Declan, she winced and looked away.
Fortunately, Greggin’s attention was on Levric and hadn’t noticed her reaction. “If we work on it today, we can have a first draft drawn up by sunset.”
“Great. I’ll leave you to it, then.” Emry drew back the shadows from her blades, returning them to empty hilts.
Greggin raised a brow. “You don’t wish to oversee what we come up with?”
“I have many talents, Greggin, but creating political exposés is not one of them. Besides,” she glanced at one of the seven clocks on his wall, “I have a dinner with an Earl to get cleaned up for.”
“Sinking to dining with lower nobles?” Greggin chuckled.
She snorted, hooking the empty hilts onto her wide belt. “I won’t be the only one in attendance.”
Levric waved a hand at her. “Go. You can read what we’ve done in the morning.”
Emry grinned at his command. The informality between them was delightful. “Thank you, Ric.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Pritchl really wasn’t that bad of a city. It just wasn’t. The problem was that Emry felt as though she were biding her time here – suffering through her Midlands visit until she went back home for Citrine’s Trials.
It might just have been that Emry was anticipating the outcome of The Trials – was anxious for them. She’d been plotting for them. Or maybe it was that, compared to the Glavs, the Mid nobles she spent her evenings with felt a bit stuffy. Glavs in their huts were more casual. Either way, Emry was enduring her Midlands trip. She felt like her people were in motion, and she was at a standstill.
Her people. Emry smiled to herself at the thought. She had people now. People loyal to her – to The Mistress.
Only Levric and Greggin knew both her titles at the moment, but thanks to Greggin, she’d gained a few more willing followers who oversaw the Rioters in Glavenryl. The merchant really was a brilliant, charismatic man. His suggestion to write the pamphlet, over three weeks ago, had been a brilliant one.
It was being distributed among the regions – for the commoners who didn’t understand why the Rioters existed and for the Royals to acknowledge the rift within their country. It told the story of the Rioters, showing they were more than disgruntled peasants.
At each and every soiree she attended, she kept an ear out for news of the pamphlets but had yet to hear anything. It was making her agitated. At least someone should have brought it up by now.
Emry knew she was glaring out over the rim of her glass, but she couldn’t find the energy to rein in her irritation. Even though it was barely spring, the Mids were socializing outside – this time in the expansive front yard of Lord Hickleford, a Baron.
It was much the same as always – poles with ribbons and hanging lanterns, tables with refreshments and seating along the outskirts, a wood plank dancefloor. And thick green carpets everywhere – a new addition. Because it was still basically winter, the yard would have resembled churned mud beneath everyone’s feet, so carpets had been laid down like pretend grass. Hired Grays also lined the perimeter for climate control. The night should have been brisk and bordering on frigid, but thanks to the Grays, it was comfortable. It was picturesque, pleasant, and somehow still elegant.
Yet, Emry wanted to fade into the shadows and run back to her townhouse. She was edgy and would have liked nothing more than to clobber one of these sycophants with a staff, blade, even her own fists. But she couldn’t. Because here she had another persona to maintain. Very different from The Mistress.
Emry forced her glare to lighten, and her mouth to smooth into a pleasant, content smile. She’d refreshed herself long enough. It was time to rejoin the dancers.
Lowering her glass, she placed it on the low table in front of her for a servant to gather later, and wandered toward the dancefloor, greeting all those she passed with a smile. She was almost to it when she heard someone clear his throat behind her.
“Might I have the next dance, dearest princess?”
Plastering on her friendliest smile, Emry turned. Her smile nearly slipped. It was the man from Pragge. “Mr. Warks, how pleasant to see you again.”
“You needn’t lie,” he said with a frown. Still, he held out his gloved hand.
Right. He had that strange ability. She had no desire to dance with him, but people were watching. She gritted her teeth and took his hand. His grip was firm, vice-like. She suppressed a grimace as he led her out with the other dancers.
They’d barely taken three steps when he asked, “Have you heard of The Mistress?”
It took all her years of etiquette lessons that had been drilled into her for her not to stumble – to not whip her head around. She had to answer truthfully, though. He would know otherwise. So, she said nonchalantly, “Of course. She’s all the Kruths talk about.”
He quirked an eyebrow as they joined the other couples on the wood floor. “You do not fear her?”
A bit of a rude, blunt question. Emry furrowed her own eyebrows. “Why should I?”
“She’s uniting the Rioters – those who oppose the Jewels,” he replied. “What will she do when every Rioter follows her? What sort of threat will she pose to your family?”
No noble would have dared ask her such questions. Only a commoner made wealthy enough to brush elbows with the lower nobility. The last time Emry was in Pritchl she would have loved to have a conversation like this. If only she’d met Eddvert Warks at another time. Too bad Emry now had an image to uphold – a docile and pleasant image.
She frowned at him and said, “Until my father is concerned over a mere girl, I won’t be either.”
A knowing smile spread slowly across his face, as if she’d loosed some great secret. Emry wasn’t very fond of her dance partner. It took a great deal of effort not to sear him with her eyes. Warks spun her twice as the steps demanded before he remarked casually, “Did you know this Mistress is a Silver like yourself?”
Emry’s blood went cold. Slowly, ever so slowly, she turned her head to meet his eyes. “Is that so?”
“She is.” He held her gaze. “A Silver with ash blonde hair. Hard to come by, Silvers. So few of you now.”
He knew.
He’d seen her with blonde hair back in Pragge. He knew she’d been asking for shadow blades. A princess of Enlennd shouldn’t have need for such things. It was why Princess Knights were hired. Well, one of the reasons.
What did Warks want? If he was bringing this up here, if front of the nobility of the Midlands, he had to want something of her. Panic rose up in her throat, making her heart pound. No, she couldn’t be revealed here. Not when she finally had a path. Not when she was finally making a name for herself. Unbidden, helpless blinding panic enveloped her.
No. She wasn’t helpless. Not anymore. Warks had no evidence – other than his own speculation. Emry breathed in deeply through her nose, calming her heart, clearing her head.
Words were just another form of sparring. Not all battles involve steel. Just like she’d told Declan in her dream.
Emry pulled up one side of her mouth in a half smile and kept her eyes locked on Warks’s. “I’ve met a few in my life.”
He chuckled and spun her around again in perfect synchronization with the others on the floor. “I for one would like to meet this Mistress.”
“Oh?” She raised her brows.
“I think I would offer her my services,” he
replied.
Dangerous ground, Emry realized. Dangerous for him to admit such a thing, especially to her, especially here surrounded by the nobility – the Royals. She could see him arrested or even put to death for such words.
It was a risk on his part. He must really trust whatever that ability of his told him. He was watching her – his gaze intense.
She simply tilted her head and asked, “Why?”
“Because I think she has hope in a better Enlennd,” he answered softly. “A better future. How could I not respect her for that?”
Their dance came to a close. Warks extended his elbow and led her off the dance floor. She smiled at those she passed, but to Warks she said, keeping her voice low, “And what could you offer her? What services would you be willing to give?”
“I could help her avoid detection,” he told her.
“Like a Brown?” She already had a Brown.
He shook his head. “I mean from society. I could plant rumors in the ears of nobles, diverting their attention away from her. I could give evidence she was in one region when actuality she was in another. Also, I can gain information with ease.”
“Like a spymaster.” Emry blinked. She didn’t have one of those.
Was Warks a good match for her, though? She didn’t doubt his proficiency to gain information and spread rumors. Not with that unique ability of his. She just doubted if she could trust him. In reality, she hardly knew anything about the man beside her.
“I suppose.” He dipped his head in greeting to a couple as they walked by.
“You’ve given me something to think about,” she said after a moment.
“You don’t trust me.” He halted and turned to face her.
“Not yet,” she answered honestly.
He nodded. “Understandable. How might I be able to prove myself?”
A good question.
She turned, her gaze drifting over the pretty paper lanterns and stars high above. At the elegantly dressed men and women. She frowned. “How long will you be in Pritchl?”
“Until my Mistress sends me away,” he replied quietly.
She loosed a short laugh and faced him again. “Very well. I’ll give you a week. A week to show me you’re capable and dedicated enough to your rumors that even I begin to start believing them.”
His brow raised – the only hint of emotion. “That is your request?”
“You don’t know very much about me, Warks.” She arranged her face into a sweet, polite smile. A little too sweet. “I’m not very gullible, nor am I easily surprised. I hope you manage to make me both by the end of this week.”
Warks took her hand from the crook of his arm and bowed, kissing the air above her fingers. “Challenge accepted.”
“Thank you for the dance,” she replied. “Perhaps our paths will cross again before your return to Pragge.”
He smiled, a mischievous glint in his eyes that was almost boyish. “Until the next, dearest princess.”
:::::
Spring had finally popped its head out from beneath the blanket of winter, and Declan would be forever grateful. Even beneath his fur-lined leather armor that now made up his daily wardrobe, the cold of the Kruth Mountains in winter still managed to stab him down to the bone. The Stolen hadn’t fared well, losing at least a third of them to some form of hypothermia over the course of the winter.
According to Rand, that was how it was every year. It was why the Back Rubes brought in so many during the summer and fall – most died off in the winter. They didn’t mind the deaths – to them it was thinning the herd, ridding the camp of the useless weaklings the king of Quirl had no use for. Declan personally found it tragic.
Semrez hadn’t survived the winter. Neither had the girl he’d been skinned over. Genne had. She’d become a permanent.
Declan didn’t see much of her anymore. Her A-frame was on the opposite side of the camp from his and Rand’s. Simon hadn’t claimed her, either. Her new Main had her tormenting in different circles than Declan – or rather, on different rounds. But at least she was alive. Another fellow Anexian. From his own garrison. For some foolish, crazy reason, that made Declan proud.
Rand’s snarl and subsequent string of curses brought Declan’s attention away from the round Genne was on in the distance. Rand was cradling his left wrist with his right hand – his staff now held between his legs. Fiona was leaning on her own staff a few feet from Rand, a hand on her hip. She quipped something in Heerth that had Rand glare at her in return.
Declan grinned. “Did she break your wrist, Rand?” He called out.
The Gray’s head swiveled towards him. “She cheats!”
“He’s slow. Not paying attention.” She smirked.
Rand swore again. “I swear, you broke it.”
“Go see a Ruby, then.” Fiona retorted. She waved a hand at Declan. “Come. Your turn.”
He laughed and pushed himself to his feet. Even though he had no intention of sparring with Fiona for the second time that day, he knew he’d rested long enough. He didn’t want some Back Rube to notice him and force him to play with their weaker slave. That had happened to him more than once.
As he stepped onto the round, he held out his hand for Rand’s staff, which Rand relinquished with his good hand. “I didn’t realize you gave up so easily.”
“This isn’t a duel,” Rand snapped back.
Fiona’s smile slipped. “Go see a Ruby.”
He glanced back at her and held her gaze a moment too long. “Fine.”
As Rand stomped off toward the infirmary, Declan shifted, watching him go. Fiona did the same. “It pained me,” she said softly, as if admitting something just to him.
Declan turned. “What did?”
“Hurting him.” She grimaced. “It caused me pain.”
“Because you care for him?” He asked, keeping his voice low as he took her staff from her. They were done for the day.
She blinked up at him. “It physically caused me pain.”
“Where?” He blurted, startled.
“I-” She tossed a glance around to make sure no one was near enough to hear. “It felt like being kicked in the stomach.”
“Oh.” Declan chuckled and moved to lay the staffs on the nearby rack. “So, you do care for him.”
“No, Declan.” Fiona gripped onto his arm with one hand, stopping him. “It wasn’t like that. I know the difference.”
He held her gaze – there was a wild, feral glint in her eyes. She was afraid of whatever it was she thought she’d felt – of what it meant to her. He frowned. “Why does that scare you?”
She released her hold on his arm, her hand dropping to her side. She glanced to where Rand had walked off. “Because I’m not sure I’m strong enough yet.”
Declan didn’t know what she meant. He opened his mouth to ask more, but two other Stolen women approached the round. “You done with the round?” One of them asked.
“Yes,” Declan nodded. “It’s all yours.”
When he turned back to Fiona, she’d already left, heading in the direction of her tent. Declan watched her go for a few seconds before heading back to his A-frame – to eat something before Simon claimed him for his evening run.
:::::
Well, he’d done it. Somehow – after only one week – Warks had made even her believe The Mistress had been spotted recruiting along the Anexia-Glavenryl border, diverting attention from Emry’s presence in the Midlands.
The icing on the cake had been when she’d received a rushed note from Greggin that morning, informing her there was an imposter running amuck with her title. He knew she was in Pritchl, so obviously it wasn’t her. Warks had even convinced a man with a militant background.
Emry was impressed. How had he even managed it? And all in a week’s span. The man was talented.
The moment Emry entered the Countess Landrea’s home, she began searching for Warks. This evening’s event was a gaming party. Small four-person tables had been laid out all throughou
t the first floor of Landrea’s home for various card games.
Upon arrival, each guest was given a bag of blue, green, or gold round little tokens to act as the money for the evening’s games. No actual money would be spent. It permitted plenty of gambling without having to dispose of one’s funds, ensuring the happiness of all the guests in attendance. Gaming parties were fairly common in both Enn and the Midlands. She’d been to her fair share of them. Honestly, she usually enjoyed them. Her competitive nature was allowed to show at such events without the risk of subjecting herself to judgment.
Tonight, though, she had a more important purpose than to destroy Lord Cebil at cards again. She needed to find the man she wished to become her newest advisor. Her choice for her spymaster.
Warks was in here somewhere. This was the party they’d agreed upon for their rendezvous. She just had to find him.
She entered the main space – a banquet room turned gaming. It was a touch stuffy. The Countess must not have been able to afford hiring on enough Grays to keep the air cool and moving. Not that Emry held it against her. At the moment, the room could have been stifling, and she would have still plunged ahead. She was on a mission.
Emry kept her eyes moving, sweeping back and forth from table to table without ceasing. Just as Levric had taught her. Pausing at a particular table or spot meant that her gaze would miss other details surrounding what drew her eye. She didn’t pause as she went through each and every table.
Warks wasn’t in this room. She wandered on – smiling and feigning interest at this table and that. But she never stopped, just kept searching.
Finally, five rooms later, she found him in a portion of the manor that looked to be more like an afterthought – a smaller parlor housing only two tables and a settee. It was much quieter over here. The players in the room weren’t chatting.
Two young women in gowns of deepest red and pewter gray sat at the table with Warks. They had to be related – both had golden blonde curls cascading down their backs. The fourth chair held a man probably in his early thirties. No gray hairs, but mature. He wore a forest green overcoat, and cream trousers tucked into shiny black boots. Warks himself wore a black jacket with ivory trousers and black boots. Black was somewhat of an odd choice, but he did pull it off. The silver streaks at his ears giving him a very settled look – like a man who’d gained the life he’d always wanted for himself.