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)
It’s an effort to get him back to his residence. Petros takes the load off me the moment we enter the gates, hoisting Nicostratus onto his back with practiced ease. “Not my first time.”
“He gets like this often?”
“Not him.” Petros hesitates, his voice quieter. “My brother’s legs gave out years ago. Back’s used to the weight.”
We get him into bed, and I thank Petros, telling him I’ll keep watch overnight. When he’s gone, Nicostratus grabs my hand and tugs me to his side, his eyes glazed, or maybe weepy.
I wake to Nicostratus watching me sleep against the side of his bed. I hurry to my feet and wipe my mouth. “Are you alright?”
“My uncle must know I helped Quin. He’s sending a message. If I support the true king, I’m his enemy and will be treated as such.”
“What will you do?”
His jaw tightens, but only for a moment. “Get you to that last healer. But first, breakfast.”
I barely choke down some bread. Nicostratus gives up halfway through his own meal and rises, chuckling. “Come, then. Let’s go.”
I race outside into thick mist that immediately clings to my face. If this healer can fix me, I’ll give up five years of my life. Ten.
The gates open, and no sooner have Nicostratus and I stepped out than we’re met with a tight-jawed constable. He addresses Nicostratus carefully, but his voice nevertheless holds a note of authority. “Your highness, I’m Constable Michealios. I have a written order requiring you to accompany me to the constabulary.”
Nicostratus’s expression flickers, as perplexed as I feel. “What’s going on?” I ask.
The constable turns rigidly to address me. “The affair will be discussed at the constabulary.”
Is this Quin’s doing? A way to meet his brother? Not the most subtle approach.
My nape prickles; I position myself in front of Nicostratus. “What magistrate has the power to take him into the constabulary?”
Constable Michealios holds out a letter.
Something’s wrong. I don’t like it. “I’m coming with you.”
“Suit yourself,” the constable says.
We follow him through dewy streets to a sturdy stone structure with iron-clad gates. Chills scuttle over me as we step into the courtyard.
To the left, a half-dozen yards away, uniformed men are positioning three narrow carts, each holding a sheet-covered body.
A stray breeze peels off one of the sheets, and a knot tightens in my gut. I recognise that face, I saw it last night. But he’s no longer dressed in black. He’s wearing military uniform.
Killing on-duty redcloaks is treason. A crime of rebellion against the kingdom. A capital crime.
Even royalty can be convicted of this.
Horror has my step faltering. I’m about to come to a standstill when I catch sight of Quin, in constabulary uniform, seated on a nearby bench doling out firm instructions to aklos. He glances my way with an almost imperceptible shake of the head. I know instinctively he’s telling me to swallow my shock. No matter what happens in the next minutes, I must be calm.
I keep my face impassive, and only stop walking when the constable does.
Constable Michealios faces us and watches our reactions closely as he gestures towards the bodies. “These redcloaks were found at dawn, near the perimeter of their outpost. On them was evidence suggesting an alarming connection to your highness.”
Nicostratus keeps his voice steady. “What kind of connection?”
The constable orders an underling to bring him the letter, which is then handed to Nicostratus.
Nicostratus’s brow crunches a fraction. He folds the paper and returns it. “This hardly qualifies as a connection.”
“It instructs them to watch you for crimes against the regent and country. The very next morning, they’re found dead. It all feels rather convenient.”
“Doesn’t it. But convenience is not evidence.”
Constable Michealios has us follow him to the bodies as someone else is escorted into the yard—the innkeeper from last night, swinging a finger to Nicostratus and me. “They were in my inn last night. That man was drugged.” When the sheets are pulled back, his eyes grow big, afraid. “D-did he kill these men?”
“Redcloak witnesses said one of these men visited your inn. Can you identify which one?”
The keeper jerks his finger. “That one. That man was there. He disappeared—”
“Thank you, that will be all for now.”
My stomach has dropped into my feet.
I glance once more towards Quin, struggling to keep my composure. This accusation could kill Nicostratus. From all I’ve seen of this world, justice—true justice—is hard to come by. Instead, suspicion, intrigue, or someone more powerful determines guilt. Nicostratus was afraid of falling into his uncle’s trap last night. Has he fallen into it anyway?
Quin meets my gaze, unwaveringly confident, and that . . . comforts me. I give the smallest nod back.
“First inspection indicates the soldiers were poisoned.” The constable is grim faced. “Possibly echowisp, which is only found in West Wind fields outside Hinsard. We’ll investigate whether you’d have had access to it.”