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)
“No need,” Nicostratus says. “I’m sure the inn I stayed at is on those fields. But I didn’t kill these men.”
Quin snaps his cane towards us and bows shallowly to the head constable, not once looking our way. “If you’ll give me permission, I’ll look over this again. See if we missed anything.”
Investigating something like this must be time consuming and tedious; Michealios looks relieved he has someone willing to do the job for him. He orders his men to escort the prince back to his manor. “You understand that for the duration of our investigation, you’ll be under house arrest.”
Two armed men flank Nicostratus. He accepts their escort docilely, but his gaze flickers when he turns to me with a calming smile. He wants me to find Quin.
I swallow and curl my hand.
The outpost is perched on a rocky hill that stands between the city of Hinsard and any threat coming from the open plains and canals to the south. I pay the driver who carted me to the base of the hill and climb the last stretch, passing the odd clump of hardy shrubbery as I head towards sturdy stone walls, an impressive watchtower, and hopefully, Constable Quin.
I glimpse him leaning on his cane at a gate, stoic-faced redcloaks lining either side, and hurry my step. If I don’t catch him before he goes in, I’ll be stuck out here until he’s done. My stomach can’t handle the unease.
“Constable!” I yell, once, twice, three times before Quin turns his head.
The last dozen yards, I’m hyper aware of the soldiers and their hands at the ready. I slow my step, eyes darting between them and dark-eyed Quin, who is turning towards an approaching decorated redcloak.
“You’ve permission to enter,” the redcloak says to him, flicking a frown my way.
“Ah,” Quin says, not missing a beat, “this is my assistant.” He glances at me. “Took your time getting here.”
I bow my head. “Forgive me.”
“Come on then, before these clouds open and we lose any missed evidence.”
I remain at Quin’s heels as he snaps his way inside.
We pass simple barracks and a mess hall that swells with the rowdy laughter of off-duty comrades. In a small picket-fenced herb garden beside the hall, my gaze hitches on a patch of recently upturned soil . . .
“Keep up,” Quin says, and I hurry after him.
A commanding figure emerges from the largest hut; the redcloak leading us stops with a bow and addresses him. Commander Thalassios.
My head whips to Quin, eyes widening. This is the man he came south to find.
Quin keeps his gaze ahead, his face impassive.
“Your superior was here this morning,” the commander says, eyeing Quin shrewdly.
Quin inclines his head respectfully, playing up his comparatively insignificant status. “We want to be sure we haven’t overlooked anything.”
Over the commander’s shoulder, in the gap of his open door, I glimpse a swish of white lace and blink. The gap is dark once more.
Commander Thalassios’s fist curls. “Be thorough this time.”
He waves us off, grim faced.
To me, Quin murmurs, “He wants control over this, but his unit moved here less than a month ago. By law that gives the city jurisdiction.”
A redcloak conducts us to the place where the bodies were found, and keeps watch as we look around.
Quin’s eyes are observant, keen beneath his constable hat. He wades through the grass and stops where it’s flattened. His hand runs through the blades, jaw flexing with determination to bring his brother justice. I pull my gaze off him to study the area too. A subtle, out-of-place scent catches my attention; I pluck some of the disturbed grass and sniff.
“They said echowisp . . .”
“What do you think?”
“There’s another scent that doesn’t belong here. I can’t quite make it out.”
Quin passes me paper, and I fold the grass into it.
I pause as we pass the herb garden. I don’t believe I’ll find anything with the same scent—in fact, I’m sure it’s a concoction of some sort—but I want to double check . . . It’d leave a bluish trace to the soil . . .
“What are you up to?” booms a stout man who’s barging into the garden, wiping his hands on his cook’s apron and responding to the redcloak’s efforts to calm him with a disgruntled hmpf. If anyone was to know if echowisp’s grown here, it would be the cook.
“Not worth the risk, even if the seeds increase strength and stamina. Some of these ‘cloaks haven’t a clue about plants, what parts are edible and what not. Anything like that in the garden and the helpers could poison the entire unit.”
Risky, indeed. “What was here?” I gesture at the upturned dirt.
“False buttonweed. The stuff’s obnoxious, keeps growing back no matter how many times I pull it up.” He finds another clump of it and rips it out. He shakes the nest of intricate, shallow roots at me. “If you’re after echowisp, try the gardens outside the city.”