Total pages in book: 63
Estimated words: 59565 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 298(@200wpm)___ 238(@250wpm)___ 199(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 59565 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 298(@200wpm)___ 238(@250wpm)___ 199(@300wpm)
Quin grinds his teeth and white-knuckles his cane. I stiffen. I’d told them the porridge was the king’s caring deed. “Quin—”
“This is not your fault.”
Before us, Quin’s nobles defend the king. “He’d be devasted to learn of this.”
The young man shakes his head. Others shout for answers. Healers. They’re sick, weakening by the hour.
“We’ve sent for constables and vitalians,” a noble says. “They’ll be here soon; they’ll investigate the source of this.”
I glance at Quin. “Are they expecting you?”
“Perhaps they think they’ve sent for me. But I won’t receive that message. Others will come—” He gestures towards two constables marching from the street towards the commotion, Eparch Valerius in his official uniform close behind.
At the sight of the eparch, Quin pulls his hat further down, casting more of his face in shadow.
Fair. Not only would his cover be blown, there’d be more commotion and unrest among the sick. We remain veiled by tents and banners, peeking through gaps.
“What’s all this?” Eparch Valerius says, face pinched in concern as he takes in the moaning refugees around him.
Fingers point at the nobles, along with more murmurs of accusation.
The eparch grimaces and raises his hands, calling for quiet. He commiserates with the refugees and promises to send the vitalians due at Thinking Hall to them. “In the meantime, until we’ve determined the cause, I’ll have food brought here from my manor and cooked under redcloak supervision.”
The crowd is a collective sigh of relief and gratitude, and the young man, cradling his dead nannan, pleads for investigation, retribution.
Eparch Valerius casts the nobles a sympathetic look. “I’m sure these men will cooperate with the constables?”
Quin sets his lips in a grim line as his allies allow themselves to be led away for questioning. The remaining constable calls for someone to gather yesterday’s leftover food for inspection, and for a stretcher. He insists the nannan’s body be handed over for an autopsy, and the young man begrudgingly accepts.
“You volunteered yesterday,” Quin whispers. “Best you avoid the constabulary.”
I think it through, and nod. Soon they’ll look for those who handled the porridge—my connection with Nicostratus, already under suspicion for murder . . . I’d be thrown into prison. Interrogated.
It’d definitely worsen things for the prince.
“Let’s figure out what’s going on,” I say. Clear Quin’s supporters—and myself—of any doubt.
“Careful. I must speak to my men.”
We slink off in different directions.
Healers swarm into the sanctuary, and I follow the scent of steaming herbal teas towards the cooking area.
A swish of white hits the corner of my eye. I glance towards it, but only a pale yellow banner flaps in the breeze. Seeing things.
An akla from yesterday, scrubbing large pots, spots me. I raise a finger to my lips so she doesn’t call out, and shuffle to her. “Do you have any leftover oats from yesterday?”
She frowns, shakes her head, and gestures to three large sacks behind her. “All those were donated this morning.”
“By who?”
“Most come from the nobles you met yesterday.”
“What about the rest?”
“The entire kitchen—dishtowels, pots, food, fuel—comes from people’s goodwill.”
“Whose goodwill? Who else donated yesterday?”
Akla scrubs hard at a pot. “Oh, a really tall aklo dropped a sack of oats off on behalf of the prince. Another was from that redcloak. What’s his name . . . Commander Thalassios.”
The prince donating oats made sense. He and his brother worked together for the good of the people. The commander, though . . . “He came personally?”
She nods and throws her wet cloth over the rim of the pot. “Need more water.” When she’s gone, I pry open the sacks and sift handfuls of oats through my fingers. They look untampered with; smell right, too. I taste a few flakes from each sack. All decent quality.
There are four empty sacks rolled up beside them, and I inspect them too, then I run a finger around the inner surface of the pots. Sand is being used to scrub them, the texture gritty under my fingertips. I stare at my fingers and back at the pots. The sand from one of the pots is slightly filmy, like it’s covered in a stubborn grease. I sniff, and frown. I can’t quite place it. It’s a subtle scent . . .
Maybe I’m imagining it.
I take a cleaning cloth, wipe some sand into it and tuck it into my cloak. Approaching footsteps have me slipping out of sight; I peek back to see a constable similarly inspecting the cooking area for anything abnormal.
With the cloth damp against my chest, I sneak back through the city to the constabulary. I head in with my hood pulled low, hide in corners and slink through shadows until I spy Quin coming out of the cells. I catch his attention, and his posture tightens. He moves to the back of the building, and I meet him there.
“I told you not to come here,” he says in hushed tones.