take that side of the street. Ture and I’ll take this side. Don’t draw attention to yourselves. Ask a few questions, keep your eyes open. If there are Fithians here, we don’t want to alert them.”
He pulled Gunvald aside for a brief word. “Stay close to the prince. If we run into Fithians, keep him safe.”
“Yes, sir.”
Karel watched the two men go. Prince Tomas already bore the scars of an assassin’s throwing star—the red slash across his cheek, the missing right ear. What if I get him killed?
But Tomas had begged his father to come on this mission, and the king had known the risks. Whose life was more important? Princess Brigitta’s, or Tomas’s?
Neither. Harkeld is the most important. And after him, Brigitta, because she was the bait to catch him.
Karel took a deep breath. “Let’s go,” he told Ture.
They took the left side of the street, strolling, pausing to talk with the people they passed—shopkeepers sweeping scraps into the muddy gutter, beggars crouched in alleyways, toothless old men smoking pipes on doorsteps. The town felt a long way from Osgaard. The buildings were wooden, crowded together like crooked teeth in a mouth, their upper galleries jutting over the street on stilts. Warm, thick air moved sluggishly in the street. Sweat trickled down the back of Karel’s neck.
“Sir?”
Sir. He still hadn’t got used to being called Sir, and, even less, to being called Sir by men who were older than him, and far more well-born. Both Gunvald and Ture were the sons of noblemen. And I am the son of slaves . But Lundegaard set less store in a man’s birth than Osgaard did. King Magnas had shaken his hand, as if they were equals.
“Gunvald’s waving at us, sir.”
Karel glanced across the street, saw the armsman beckon, saw Prince Tomas grinning fiercely. His heartbeat quickened. He threaded his way through the oxcarts and wagons, Ture at his heels.
A young girl stood with Prince Tomas and Gunvald. Karel examined her as he approached. Perhaps ten years old, perhaps twelve. Long, dirty, tangled hair. Thin, smudged face. Threadbare boy’s clothing too large for her. Bare feet. A street child. The girl’s arms were crossed over her chest, her chin boldly lifted, but her feet were braced to run. Brash façade, but wary .
Karel ratcheted back his urgency. He slowed to a stroll, waved Ture back with one hand— Don’t crowd her —made himself smile, ask casually, “What is it?”
“This is Goszia,” Prince Tomas said. He rested his hand on the girl’s shoulder. The girl stiffened slightly, as if hiding a flinch. “She saw half a dozen men carrying someone wrapped in a cloak.”
“Did you, Goszia?” Karel tried to look relaxed and non-threatening. He hunkered down so that his eyes were level with the girl’s. “When was this?”
Prince Tomas answered for her: “Yesterday morning, not long after dawn.”
“How big was the person they were carrying?”
“Bigger’n me,” the girl said.
“Did you see where they went?” Karel smiled encouragingly.
Goszia nodded, and glanced at Prince Tomas.
“The old one-handed merchant’s house,” Tomas said.
Karel blinked. “One-handed merchant?”
“Old, scary , one-handed merchant.” Tomas’s eyes met his for a moment. Karel understood the silent message. Ex-Fithian. Possibly.
Karel straightened to his full height. “Can you show us where his house is, Goszia?”
The girl nodded again.
T HEY FOLLOWED G OSZIA down an alley, up a broad, busy thoroughfare, and along another alleyway, emerging into a street that ran down to the wharves. It was narrower and quieter than the one they’d started on. The girl halted. “Up there.”
Karel crouched alongside her. “Which one, Goszia?”
“That one.” Goszia pointed with her chin. Her bare feet shifted nervously. Her face was pinched, edgy, afraid. She didn’t want to be here.
“What did the men look like?”
She lifted one shoulder in a tense shrug. “Like
He pulled Gunvald aside for a brief word. “Stay close to the prince. If we run into Fithians, keep him safe.”
“Yes, sir.”
Karel watched the two men go. Prince Tomas already bore the scars of an assassin’s throwing star—the red slash across his cheek, the missing right ear. What if I get him killed?
But Tomas had begged his father to come on this mission, and the king had known the risks. Whose life was more important? Princess Brigitta’s, or Tomas’s?
Neither. Harkeld is the most important. And after him, Brigitta, because she was the bait to catch him.
Karel took a deep breath. “Let’s go,” he told Ture.
They took the left side of the street, strolling, pausing to talk with the people they passed—shopkeepers sweeping scraps into the muddy gutter, beggars crouched in alleyways, toothless old men smoking pipes on doorsteps. The town felt a long way from Osgaard. The buildings were wooden, crowded together like crooked teeth in a mouth, their upper galleries jutting over the street on stilts. Warm, thick air moved sluggishly in the street. Sweat trickled down the back of Karel’s neck.
“Sir?”
Sir. He still hadn’t got used to being called Sir, and, even less, to being called Sir by men who were older than him, and far more well-born. Both Gunvald and Ture were the sons of noblemen. And I am the son of slaves . But Lundegaard set less store in a man’s birth than Osgaard did. King Magnas had shaken his hand, as if they were equals.
“Gunvald’s waving at us, sir.”
Karel glanced across the street, saw the armsman beckon, saw Prince Tomas grinning fiercely. His heartbeat quickened. He threaded his way through the oxcarts and wagons, Ture at his heels.
A young girl stood with Prince Tomas and Gunvald. Karel examined her as he approached. Perhaps ten years old, perhaps twelve. Long, dirty, tangled hair. Thin, smudged face. Threadbare boy’s clothing too large for her. Bare feet. A street child. The girl’s arms were crossed over her chest, her chin boldly lifted, but her feet were braced to run. Brash façade, but wary .
Karel ratcheted back his urgency. He slowed to a stroll, waved Ture back with one hand— Don’t crowd her —made himself smile, ask casually, “What is it?”
“This is Goszia,” Prince Tomas said. He rested his hand on the girl’s shoulder. The girl stiffened slightly, as if hiding a flinch. “She saw half a dozen men carrying someone wrapped in a cloak.”
“Did you, Goszia?” Karel tried to look relaxed and non-threatening. He hunkered down so that his eyes were level with the girl’s. “When was this?”
Prince Tomas answered for her: “Yesterday morning, not long after dawn.”
“How big was the person they were carrying?”
“Bigger’n me,” the girl said.
“Did you see where they went?” Karel smiled encouragingly.
Goszia nodded, and glanced at Prince Tomas.
“The old one-handed merchant’s house,” Tomas said.
Karel blinked. “One-handed merchant?”
“Old, scary , one-handed merchant.” Tomas’s eyes met his for a moment. Karel understood the silent message. Ex-Fithian. Possibly.
Karel straightened to his full height. “Can you show us where his house is, Goszia?”
The girl nodded again.
T HEY FOLLOWED G OSZIA down an alley, up a broad, busy thoroughfare, and along another alleyway, emerging into a street that ran down to the wharves. It was narrower and quieter than the one they’d started on. The girl halted. “Up there.”
Karel crouched alongside her. “Which one, Goszia?”
“That one.” Goszia pointed with her chin. Her bare feet shifted nervously. Her face was pinched, edgy, afraid. She didn’t want to be here.
“What did the men look like?”
She lifted one shoulder in a tense shrug. “Like
Similar Books
One Great Year
Tamara Veitch, Rene DeFazio
Like Sheep Gone Astray
Lesile J. Sherrod
Always and Forever, Lara Jean
Jenny Han
Six Seconds
Rick Mofina
Powder and Patch
Georgette Heyer
Venice Vampyr
Tina Folsom
When the War Was Over
Elizabeth Becker
Key West
Lacey Alexander
Of Eternal Life
Micah Persell
