The Fire Prince (The Cursed Kingdoms Trilogy Book 2) (26 page)

He moved forward, finding his way into the shed by touch, knocking the trunk with his boots. There was the top of the second trunk, nestled inside the first, and there were the rope handles...

Karel heaved the smaller trunk out and backed from the shed. Rain pattered down.

They unpacked the trunk swiftly, stripped off their palace clothes, dressed in the ones he’d purchased. Karel buckled on the new sword belt, unwrapped the sword and dagger and slid them into their sheaths. He tucked the fake throwing star inside his cloak.

“Give me your tunic,” the princess whispered.

His and Yasma’s bloody clothes went into the trunk first, then the folded blankets, and then both children, the princess’s clothes tucked around them. He heard the rattle of wagon wheels on the nearby street, the patter of rain, the sound of their breathing, but other than those sounds, the night was silent.

Karel bundled the food into the leather rucksack—strings of dried sausages, cheese, hardbread, apples. They still needed cider, though. “Highness, can you get me out a groat? And a half-penny.”

After a moment, she tucked the coins into his hand.

Karel piled the bulging pillowcase into the rucksack. “That should be everything. Feel on the ground.”

“Just two padlocks,” Yasma said. “And Britta’s and my shoes.”

“Shoes in the trunk,” he said. “Tuck them down the end. Yasma, take the big padlock and fasten the trunk in the shed. The key on the cord fits it. Check inside the trunk first. You should feel a roll of fabric, nothing else. Then spray inside the shed, close the door, and spray outside too.” He heard faint noises as Yasma obeyed.

He felt inside the boys’ trunk one last time. The young princes were deeply asleep. Clothes wedged their bodies firmly. Their faces were clear of smothering fabric.
I should have drilled air holes in the trunk.
It was too late for that now. He checked their faces one more time.
Keep breathing
.

Yasma returned, pressed the key into his hand.

“The second padlock?” Karel asked.

The princess handed it to him.

Karel closed the trunk and locked it. He strung the key on the cord by touch, knotting it tightly. “Put this around your neck,” he told the princess. The two keys clinked as he handed them to her. He stood and settled the rucksack over his shoulders. “You girls take one handle, I’ll take the other. It’ll be heavy, but it’s only half a mile to the market square. We’ll get a handcart there.”

“Do we put our masks on now?” the princess asked.

“At the wharves. I’ll tell you when. Until then, keep your hoods well forward.”

T
HERE WAS AN
element of nightmare to their journey—a sense of frantic haste, knowledge that something terrible was at their heels, a feeling of endlessness, that she’d be forever hurrying through darkness and rain, half-blind, never able to see more than the next torch flickering ahead. The rope handle bit into her hand, her fingers were painfully squeezed alongside Yasma’s, her boots skidded on wet cobblestones, and always, always, she strained to hear past their panted breaths, past their footfalls, past the drizzling rain. When would the bells signaling their escape start ringing?

At the end of the street were firelight and voices.

“The market square,” Karel said.

They halted. The square was large, filled with people singing, shouting. A bonfire burned in the middle. Light and shadows flickered over people’s faces, making their eyes gleam blackly and their mouths gape like dark holes.

“Celebrating the coronation,” Karel said, lowering the trunk to the ground. “Wait here, I’ll get a handcart.”

He vanished into the crush of people.

Britta flexed her fingers. Ridges were imprinted across her palm.

Yasma pressed close to her. Britta took the maid’s hand, trying to project a confidence she didn’t feel. She scanned the crowd. Which hooded head was Karel’s?

He returned, striding around the outside of the square, towing a handcart. His rucksack and six full bladders lay in it.

“Hold the cart steady.” He crouched and hefted the trunk up.

They circled the market square and headed down the cobbled streets to the harbor, trundling the cart.

“Masks on,” Karel said.

Britta took the strip of black silk from her pocket, tied it over her face, pulled her hood up again.

“From now on, not a word. Unless it’s life or death. I want them to think you’re lads.”

Britta glanced at Yasma. Cloaked and hooded, wearing trews and boots, she looked like a boy.

“When we get on board, bar the cabin door. It’s the
first
thing you must do. And don’t let anyone in but me. I’ll call myself Eliam.”

A
FEW TORCHES
lit the wharf. Britta was aware of openness to her right, and black water stretching out of sight. Pyres burned distantly, marking the gap in the breakwater. She saw the flickering lights of ships in the harbor. On board one were Fithian assassins.

She shivered and pulled the cloak more tightly around her.

They strode along the slick stones for a hundred yards, the handcart rattling, then Karel halted. “Hold this.”

She and Yasma took the shafts.

Karel walked to the edge of the wharf, looked over. “Ho,
Sea Eagle
.”

Voices rose in answer.

Sailors climbed up onto the wharf, two of them, and roped the trunk and lowered it into a rowboat. Britta scrambled down iron pegs set into the wharf, trying to move like a boy, confident, unafraid, swinging down into the boat. Yasma followed, then Karel.

The sailors pushed off.

Britta crouched alongside the trunk. Wild, painful hope swelled in her chest.
We’re going to make it
.

The journey to the
Sea Eagle
took several minutes. The boat rocked through the water. Britta listened to the slap of waves and creak of rowlocks, watched the slowly shrinking lights of the town.

One sailor pulled in his oar. A ship loomed out of the darkness. The rowboat swung around, bumped lightly against its side.

Britta gazed up through the drizzle, her heart loud in her chest, her mouth dry with nervousness. The
Sea Eagle
.

Lamps glowed. A rope ladder dangled over the side. She saw people peering down at them. Sailors. The men Karel didn’t trust.

A rope was lowered for the trunk. Karel double-checked the knots, settled the rucksack on his back again, and climbed the rope ladder. His voice floated down to them. She heard the words
careful
and
fragile
.

The trunk swung upward. Britta watched in paralyzing terror.
Don’t drop it!
Her imagination gave her a picture of the padlocked trunk plunging into the sea. The boys would drown, locked in darkness.

Men grabbed the trunk, swung it out of sight.

Britta scrambled up the rope ladder.

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

K
AREL FELT HIS
hackles rise. The captain had greeted him affably, and the first mate too, but something in their smiles reminded him of Jaegar. He glanced around, counting the watching sailors. Six, and two more in the rowboat.

Yasma climbed onto the deck and came to stand beside the princess.

“Put the trunk and our belongings in the cabin, then I’ll pay you,” Karel told the captain. “You’re ready to sail, I trust? Harbor fees paid?”

“Of course,” the captain said, smiling.

Sailors hurried to pick up the trunk.

Karel crossed the deck, Yasma and Princess Brigitta at his heels. The door to the cabin stood open, lamplight shining inside. It looked safe, warm, inviting. He glanced inside, making sure no one lurked there, and slung the rucksack in. “In with you,” he told the girls brusquely.

They filed silently past him.

He stood to one side of the door, his hood pushed back, scanning the deck, while the trunk and the bladders of cider were carried into the cabin.

A sailor hurried up with the last bladder. The princess took it and closed the door.

Karel turned to the captain. “Payment,” he said. “And some instructions for our voyage. In your cabin.”

The captain smiled, his eyes gleaming in the lamplight. “Of course.” He glanced to the right, lifted his chin in a short jerk, turned towards his cabin.

The prickling on the back of Karel’s neck grew as he followed the captain across the deck. He didn’t like the
follow-me
head jerk the man had given to someone, and even more, he didn’t like his swagger. That cocky, confident strut said the captain knew something he didn’t. The first mate walked at Karel’s side, swaggering too, smiling above his pointed beard.

The northerly blustered, throwing rain in his face. Karel didn’t pull his hood up. He was aware of men walking behind him, several steps back. Two sailors.

The prickling at the back of his neck increased, climbing up onto his scalp. He knew—he
knew
—that he was about to be attacked.

The captain opened his cabin door and entered.

The first mate entered.

The two sailors closed in behind him, little more than an arm’s reach away. Tension coiled in Karel’s muscles. This was like a bout in the training arena, when everything narrowed to who moved fastest, struck hardest.

Except this time I kill.

Karel stepped through the door and moved sideways, keeping his back to the wall, unsheathing his dagger beneath his cloak, taking the cabin in with a glance—table, bed, the captain behind his desk.

The two sailors crowded into the cabin, slamming the door. Knives gleamed in their hands.

Karel found the same bright, fierce clarity that he did when he fought in the training arena. He grabbed the nearest sailor’s wrist, yanked him closer and buried his blade high under the man’s ribcage, angling for the heart.
One second
. He thrust the man away and lunged for the second sailor, avoiding his clumsy blow.
Two seconds
. Another upward stab and the man was dead.
Three seconds
.

Karel whirled to face the first mate.

The man was charging, mouth open in a roar, knife in hand.

Kill him? Or spare him?

Karel released his dagger. He met the man’s charge, grabbed his upraised wrist with both hands, kicked his legs from under him, using the man’s momentum to twist him as he fell.

The first mate screamed as his arm broke. The knife tumbled from his grip.

Karel dug a knee into the man’s abdomen, winding him. He snatched up his bloodied dagger and spun to face the captain, crouching low.

The man had scrambled out from behind his desk and was coming at him, sword raised.

Karel took the fake throwing star out from under his cloak, displaying it.

The captain recoiled.

Karel straightened to his full height. “We had an agreement,” he said softly.

The captain’s mouth opened and closed. He looked as winded as his first mate. He backed away, his eyes fixed on the throwing star.

“You wish to renege?” Karel smiled a sharp, Jaegar-like smile. “That’s the only way I can interpret this attack.”

The captain shook his head. He dropped his sword with a clatter, held his hands palm out in a gesture of surrender. “No, no, no.”

Karel took a step towards the desk. “I would advise against it. The Brotherhood knows which ship I’m on and when it’s due in Lundegaard.” Behind him, the first mate wheezed, groaned, struggled to sit up.

“A mistake,” the captain said, raising his hands higher. “We didn’t know—we won’t—I give my word of honor you’ll reach Lundegaard!”

“For your sake, I hope we do. You’ll find the Brotherhood has a long memory.” He emphasised the word
long
.

“Yes, yes, yes,” the captain said, nodding, sweat standing out on his face.