Royal Spy (Fate of Eyrinthia Book 2)

by Heather Frost

  “He’s being cared for now, and he will be fully avenged.” Zadir’s head tipped to the side, a man evaluating a puzzle. “Your concern for him is touching.”

  “I didn’t realize the infamous Syed Zadir recruited such young boys to fight his battles.”

  “I don’t.” Zadir leaned back in his chair. “I have boys in every port. They keep an ear out, let me know what’s going on. I reward them with gold and protection, and the possibility of one day joining my crew. Ori was a little too ambitious and involved himself in things he shouldn’t have. He thought he was doing me favors.” His dark brows lowered. “He wasn’t.”

  “What will you do with him?”

  Zadir chuckled. “I’m not a murderer. A killer, yes, but only when the occasion calls for it. There is never an occasion to kill a child, so Ori is safe.”

  “And what about us?” Karim asked, his voice low and dangerous.

  The pirate waved a hand. “I don’t kill important people, either. Too many repercussions. So I’ll be letting you go. First, I wanted to explain something so you don’t get the wrong impression. I was only at that warehouse tonight to rescue Ori. I heard he’d stuck his neck out for me, chasing some ridiculous rumors that I’m involved in the drug trade. I’m not. It’s a nasty business full of double-crossers, and it hurts more people than it helps.”

  That actually tracked with what Desfan knew of the pirate, but he kept that to himself. “I will get to the bottom of this,” he said. “If you are involved, I’ll figure it out.”

  Zadir snorted. “Not if you continue like you are. From what I can see, you’re making a clumsy mess of your so-called investigation. Fang is still alive, angrier than ever now that he’s lost all his prisoners—not to mention the olcain. Word will spread that talking to you is a bad idea. You won’t learn anything else from your contacts.”

  Unfortunately, that was probably true.

  Zadir flicked his fingers and one of his men stepped forward, drawing a dagger.

  Karim snapped to his feet, ready to protect Desfan even with his hands bound.

  “Relax,” Zadir drawled. “He’s only cutting you free.”

  Karim did not relax, but he held out his tied wrists. The pirate swiped the blade and the ropes fell. Karim flipped over a hand, his jaw set. “Knife.”

  The pirate frowned, glancing back at his captain.

  Zadir’s voice was amused. “I already said I don’t kill important people. The serjah is safe from us.”

  Karim’s stance didn’t falter. “That dagger doesn’t get any closer to him unless I’m holding it.”

  There was a short pause, then Zadir lifted his chin. “Give him the knife, Whistler.”

  The pirate passed the blade to Karim, who cut Desfan free while keeping a wary eye on the pirates.

  “Will I get the knife back?” Whistler asked.

  “Probably not,” Zadir said, studying Karim’s hard profile. “I’ll replace it.”

  Whistler nodded his thanks.

  Desfan could feel Karim’s silent command for him to stand, but he remained seated, gently rubbing his wrists as he eyed Zadir. “You say you’re not involved in the olcain deal, but Fang mentioned your name.”

  “A lie,” the man said smoothly. “Ori was chasing the same rumor. He wanted to find out who was using my name, and he put his nose where it shouldn’t have been and got caught.” A furrow appeared between his black eyebrows. “He mentioned you saved his life during that raid, and you were clearly trying to help him tonight. Thank you.”

  Desfan tipped his head, acknowledging the words. “I would like to talk to Ori.”

  “No. The boy has no further information for you. All he learned was that Fang was storing the shipment.”

  It was nice to know, but that wasn’t his primary reason for asking. “I want to offer the boy a job.”

  Zadir cocked an eyebrow. “Excuse me?”

  Desfan gestured around them. “Clearly this isn’t a safe place for him. I can give him a position at the palace.”

  “Kind of you to be concerned, but I must decline the offer on his behalf. He enjoys working for me.” Zadir slapped his hands on his thighs and pushed to his feet. “Now, I think it’s time for us to go our separate ways.”

  Desfan didn’t move to stand. “I’m not ready to leave yet.”

  Zadir smiled wryly. “Thinking of joining my crew, Serjah?”

  The pirates laughed.

  Desfan smiled a little. “What do you plan to do about the lies being spread about you?”

  Zadir frowned. “I don’t see how that’s any concern of yours.”

  “It doesn’t concern me. But I think it should concern you.”

  The pirate folded his arms over his chest. “That sounds mildly threatening, Serjah.”

  Karim shot Desfan a hard look, which he ignored. “I think we could be allies, Zadir. I want to find out who is involved in the olcain deal, and you want to find whoever is throwing around your name. Our goals align.”

  “They really don’t,” Zadir said. “You want to make arrests. I just want to kill whoever is spreading lies about me.” He nodded to the door. “Please go.”

  Desfan settled back in his chair. “You said it yourself, Zadir. What happened with Fang tonight will spread, and none of my contacts will talk to me. The city guard can conduct raids, inspections, and interrogations, but this requires a subtler approach. That’s why I involved myself in the first place.” Well, that and life at the palace had been strangling him. But Zadir didn’t need to know that.

  Zadir’s forehead creased. “Your city guard must feel left out, with you doing their jobs.”

  Desfan ignored that. “I want to hire you.”

  The pirate shook his head. “I work better on a ship.”

  The corner of Desfan’s mouth lifted. “So do I.”

  Zadir’s lips twitched. He hadn’t given an outright no.

  Beside him, Karim was rigid. Oh, Desfan would be lectured for this later.

  There was a beat of silence, then Zadir leaned forward. “I like you, Serjah. You gained quite a reputation on the sea, and I’m pleased to know the rumors are true. You’re tenacious. Fair. Reckless. All things I admire.” He threw a glance at his men, then focused back on Desfan. “As you said, I’ve got a personal interest in this mess, so I planned to look into things. I don’t like people using my name for their personal gain, and I could share what I learn. For a price.”

  “Name it.”

  “Oh, I will.” Zadir flashed a grin. “Give me five days, and I might have something to share. I might be at Four Winds for a drink after dinner, as long as you come alone. Do you know the place?”

  “Yes.” Desfan rose and clapped a hand on Karim’s tense shoulder. “He’ll be with me, though.”

  “Well, then I might see you both.” Zadir pointed to the door. “Now, please go before I have to call the city guard and complain about your trespassing.”

  Chapter 18

  Clare

  Clare stood before the tall mirror inside her bedroom, taking in her appearance for the Paltrow’s ball. She looked nothing like herself in the lilac-colored gown, the voluminous skirt so long that it brushed the floor. The sleeves were tight against her arms and silver gloves hid her hands. The neckline was square-cut and revealed her sharp collarbones. Vera had applied makeup over her freckles and her hair had been left down in large curls, falling just beneath her shoulders. A silver band—the delicate crown of a princess—encircled her head, resting high on her forehead, and matched the intricate silver needlework on the fitted bodice of the dress.

  “You look beautiful.”

  She spun to face Bennick, who stood in the doorway. “How long have you been there?”

  The corner of his mouth twitched. “Just since Vera left.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “That’s been minutes.”

  “Has it really?” He stepped into the bedroom and her stomach flipped as he stopped in front of her, only a thin space between them. His v
oice lowered. “As beautiful as you are like this, I have to admit I prefer how you look when we spar.”

  Her chest swelled at the compliment, but she noted the serious edge in his eyes. “Has something happened?”

  He sighed. “I received word from my father.”

  Her lungs tightened. “Any news of Eliot?”

  “Not really.” His jacket strained over his shoulder as he shoved a hand through his hair. “My father questioned everyone in Eliot’s barracks. Michael Byers was said to be Eliot’s best friend and was with him on patrol the night they disappeared—two days after we left Iden. There was no sign of a struggle—no sign of them at all.”

  “Fates,” she breathed, dread slithering through her. There had been a small hope that somehow it had all been an awful trick. That Eliot would be safe at his barracks. Now, that hope was dashed. He really was a prisoner of the rebels. And as for Michael . . . He was either a prisoner as well, or dead. She had only met her brother’s friend once, but she felt horrible about his fate.

  “My father didn’t have a lot of information on the Rose, either. Basically everything we already know—which isn’t much.” His shoulders stiffened. “He also let me know that my mother’s health has worsened.”

  “Oh, Bennick, I’m so sorry.” She didn’t hesitate to wrap her arms around him. She knew all too well the pain of losing a parent.

  He returned her embrace, tugging her body close against his chest. “I wish I could be with her. I hate that she only has him.”

  She brushed a quick kiss against the rough stubble of his cheek. “I wish you could be with her, too. But she knows you love her.”

  “I know.” He eased back, his hands skimming down to rest against her waist. His thumbs pressed gently against her stomach. His head was ducked, his voice low. “I’m not like him, Clare. I will never be like him.”

  His father had betrayed Bennick’s mother in the most despicable way, with many different women. Bennick had learned the truth, and Clare knew he still carried guilt over telling his mother. Her health had plummeted, and his relationship with his father was practically non-existent.

  Clare cupped his jaw, gently forcing his head to lift so their eyes could meet. “I know that, Bennick. You’re nothing like him.”

  His throat flexed as he swallowed, but before he could respond, the main suite door opened loudly and Imara’s voice reached them in the bedroom. “Are you ready yet? The guests are arriving!”

  Bennick and Clare broke apart, her cheeks hot as Imara stepped into the room. The Zennorian princess brushed her hands over her long white skirt, which was accented with swirling turquoise beadwork. Her dark hair was piled into an elaborate knot atop her head, which she lifted, her eyes darting between Clare and Bennick, who stood at strict attention.

  A small smile teased the corner of Imara’s mouth. “I’m sorry, did I interrupt something?”

  “No.” Clare stepped forward, linking her arm through Imara’s and steering her for the door.

  A knowing look crept into Imara’s eyes. “I can come back later.”

  Even Clare’s ears were burning. “No, we don’t want to be late.”

  “If you insist,” Imara said.

  Fates, they needed to be more careful.

  Flutes and violins twisted melodies together to create music just loud enough to be heard over the murmuring voices of the crowd, the swishing skirts, the tittering laughter, and the footsteps of the couples spinning over the polished wood floor. The ballroom was brightly lit by iron chandeliers loaded with flickering candles spaced along the high ceiling and sconces set along the walls between the tall windows. Glasses chinked together as the nobles drank to the coming alliance. The room was warmer than Clare had anticipated and her palms were sweating in her gloves as she danced with Lord Tripp.

  The nobleman was an elegant dancer with near-flawless form. Unfortunately, that was the only compliment Clare could give the man. She had made his acquaintance yesterday at a garden party hosted by Lord and Lady Gates, another prominent family in Lindon. His clothes were bright, his smile too even, and his blond hair perfectly combed. His favorite topic was himself, and he had a rare ability to always bring the conversation back to him.

  “The ball is quite lovely, don’t you think? Of course, dancing has always been a talent of mine. One of my dance instructors said I could have a career in it, though such a thing would not be seemly. The Tripps are a family of leisure, that’s something my father taught me . . .”

  Clare nodded occasionally, even made a few non-committal sounds, but Lord Tripp hardly needed the encouragement to keep talking. He told her how he had designed his clothes, and his tailor wanted to hire him to make more designs, but, of course, he couldn’t . . .

  Her attention wandered to the room at large. There were perhaps a hundred people present, and each one was anxious to have a moment of her attention. She had quickly learned there were two types of people, and she could determine them by their questions.

  The first group wanted their curiosity satisfied. What has been your favorite stop so far? Are you excited to marry Serjah Desfan? Is it true the Rose has targeted you? How terrifying!

  The second wanted to poise themselves to get more out of the coming alliance. Do you know the king’s plan for the Mortisian trade tax? My lands have the best orchards in Devendra; do you think there’s a market for apples in Mortise? We’ll be attending your wedding—do you know which Mortisian merchants will be invited?

  Her answers had become rote, her smile inflexible. She supposed she should thank Lord Tripp for changing things up.

  She could feel Bennick’s eyes on her from the edge of the dance floor, and she knew Wilf and Venn had both taken positions near her as well. With Bennick’s heightened precautions, she was never far from them. Additionally, the other palace guards and the Paltrow’s guards were fully alert, placed at nearly every window around the room.

  Despite the concerns of growing unrest, the Rose, and the fact that the rebels had yet to strike, the ballroom was full of merriment. Everyone was smiling and laughing, clearly enjoying themselves. Or at least pretending to.

  The song ended on a swell of strings, and the crowd applauded the musicians while the couples bowed and curtsied to their partners.

  Clare added a polite nod to Lord Tripp, but her eyes widened when he bowed with such a large, sweeping gesture, that included both arms. The flung limbs forced a nearby lord to take a quick step back to avoid being struck.

  Lord Tripp seemed unaware of the near miss. “Princess, I am so glad we had this chance to dance.” He straightened with yet another flourish and clasped his hands behind his back. “I’ve not been able to get your radiance out of my head since yesterday.”

  She smothered a chuckle and instead forced a tame smile. “You flatter me.”

  “Excessively, I hope.” He winked. The music started up again and his smile hiked wider. “Perhaps you would care for another dance? My waltz is particularly—”

  “Princess, may I steal this dance?” a new voice asked.

  Clare turned, taking in the man beside her. He was dressed well, though not as excessively as Lord Tripp. He was also older. While Tripp was probably only a couple years Clare’s senior, this man was probably thirty. He had brown hair that curled a little over his brow and at the nape of his neck, just brushing the collar of his jacket. His stance was relaxed and a small smile curved his lips up at the corners.

  Clare spoke before Lord Tripp could. “Of course.”

  Lord Tripp’s face was frozen into a hard expression for a split second, but then he smiled tightly at the newcomer. “But of course.” He bowed with another flourish to Clare. “Until we meet again, Princess.”

  As Lord Tripp walked away, the other man took Clare’s gloved hand and pulled her easily into his arms. “My apologies if you wanted another dance with him. I thought I saw your eyes glazing, though.”

  “Oh dear, was it that obvious?”

  “Not to worry,”
he assured her, his voice deep and rich. “Anyone who has spent more than five seconds with Lord Tripp understands.”

  She chuckled. “Perhaps I was in need of rescuing.”

  His smile bent wider. “Well, I’m happy to have saved you.”

  “And you are . . .?”

  “Lord Finch.”

  “Thank you for your timely intervention, Lord Finch.”

  “I can’t take all the credit.” His chin lifted in a quick gesture toward two young ladies who stood at the edge of the dance floor, watching them. “My sisters noticed the situation and sent me to your rescue.”

  “My thanks to you all, then.”

  Lord Finch’s dancing was much smoother than Lord Tripp’s, his hand sure on her waist, the other warming her gloved fingers. “I suppose I should offer my congratulations on your betrothal,” he said. “My sisters have informed me that your love affair with Serjah Desfan is excessively romantic.”

  “Really?”

  He nodded. “Sarah deems herself an expert, actually. She and her friends have been informing us all about Desfan’s attributes, from his roguishly good looks—her words, not mine—to his many known exploits as a pirate hunter on the high seas. Apparently, you were destined by the fates to love him, and the royal wedding will be perfect.”

  “Well, I’m relieved to hear my future happiness is assured.”

  He smiled. “You’re as charming as your reputation suggested.”

  “I hate to disappoint.”

  “Never fear, Princess. You don’t disappoint me.”

  He spun her suddenly, one hand ghosting across her back as he helped her come fully around. Clare clutched his hand, feeling off-balance even though he barely let her sway.

  The spin had brought her closer to him and she took a slightly longer step back than the dance required in order to maintain a proper distance. A quick look proved that Bennick was still watching her closely from the edge of the dance floor. He was frowning, his hand resting on his sheathed sword.

  “Ah.” Lord Finch had followed her look. “I’ve made your bodyguard nervous. No more spins, I suppose.”