The Fire Prince (The Cursed Kingdoms Trilogy Book 2) (28 page)

Innis looked at him curiously. “Did you ever think of overthrowing them? The king and your brother?”

“It did cross my mind. But rebellions and coups, civil wars...” He shook his head. “I don’t want to destroy Osgaard; I want to remake it.” He glanced at Innis, and away. How much should he tell her? “It had occurred to me...” He plucked a few blades of grass from the lawn.

“What?”

“If my father and Jaegar died, there wouldn’t have to be a coup. I could just... take power.”

Innis was silent for a moment. He didn’t dare look at her. “You planned to kill them?” Her voice was neutral.

“Plan? No.” Harkeld pulled up more tufts of grass. “But maybe one day I’d have grown frustrated enough to... maybe... I don’t know.” To gain the throne by murdering his father and brother? “That’s one good thing, I suppose, about all this. I don’t ever have to make that decision. Be that person.”

And Osgaard would continue on its path, a kingdom ruled by greed and cruelty.

“Did you ever talk to King Magnas about your plans for Osgaard?”

Harkeld shook his head. “Those sorts of conversations are too dangerous. But... I went back twice to Lundegaard, when I was older. Magnas and I talked obliquely. I posed hypothetical questions; he answered. How does one hand back an annexed territory without plunging it into lawless chaos? How does one set taxation at levels that don’t cripple the peasants? I’m sure he guessed my reasons for asking.” He threw away the blades of grass.

“I’m sorry you can’t be the king who changes Osgaard.”

Harkeld shrugged her sympathy aside. “I probably never could have been. It was all a dream.” As this was. The water lily pond, the blue sky, the witch he was talking to.

“If you can’t be a king... why not be a Sentinel?”

He cast her an exasperated glance. “Innis—”

“No, listen to me. Sentinels do good things! Not on the scale of kings, but we
do
protect people and we
do
change people’s lives. We’re sworn to stop abuses of power. Doesn’t that sound like something you could do?”

When she put it like that...

“No,” Harkeld said firmly.

“You could be a good Sentinel.”

“No, Innis.”

She frowned at him in vexation. “You’re a very stubborn man.”

“I know.” He pulled her close enough to kiss. “It’s one of my many faults.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

A
T A CAMP
in the woodlands of Roubos, Bennick told him which sapling to cut and how to harden the peeled wood at the fire. Jaumé shaped his bow—a flattened shaft, narrow ends, notches for the bowstring—and shaved his arrows with his knife, fletched them with goose feathers, and Bennick gave him three iron heads and showed him how to fit them.

“Why did you use arrows, not Stars, against the hillmen?” Jaumé asked, when Nolt couldn’t hear.

“Stars aren’t for scum like that.”

Jaumé practiced with the bow each night after he finished his work about the camp. He could hit a tree at twenty paces. And he could make a blade-throw with his knife. But all the while he was watchful, he carried out his tasks with great care and as quickly as he could. He made sure not to show he was pleased with himself. The mark Nolt had scored against him was still there, he felt it like a smear of soot on his forehead—and knew he must never get another one.

“Did you ever have a mark against you?” he asked Bennick.

“No,” Bennick said. And Jaumé wondered if his mark was somehow a mark against Bennick too.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

A
T FIRST GLANCE
, Lvotnic was indistinguishable from Gdelsk—the wooden palisade, the log buildings, the mud. At second glance, Harkeld discovered a difference; Lvotnic was dirtier.

Rand had ridden ahead to book them on a river ferry. He met them at the gate, his headshake telling them they’d not cross the river that day.

“How long?” Cora raised her voice to be heard above the rain.

“Noon tomorrow.”

This time there was no debate about whether to take rooms in an inn. They followed Rand through streets that were ankle-deep in mud. A stench pushed its way into Harkeld’s mouth and nose. The residents of Lvotnic threw their refuse out their doors and left it to rot. And their shit, too.

The inn was older, bigger, and dirtier than the one they’d stayed at in Gdelsk. “It’s the best I could find. The only half-decent one is full, and the others are worse than this.”

Cora shrugged. “It’s only for one night.”

The stables were slovenly, but there was plenty of feed for the horses. They followed Rand to a taproom unpleasantly thick with smells. Woodsmoke was dominant, and beneath that were stale cooking odors, a whiff of urine, sweat, mildew. The tables hadn’t been wiped down; ale lay where it had been spilled. Rotting straw covered the floor.

Justen caught his eye and pulled a face.

Rand had reserved five bedchambers. He led them upstairs. “It’s less easy to defend than the inn in Gdelsk,” he said, once they were all crowded into the narrow corridor. “That door at the far end leads down to the stables.”

“Flin, you and Justen take the room in the middle,” Cora said.

The chamber looked as if it hadn’t been cleaned for some time. There were cobwebs in the corners, dust on the floor, but the beds were a pleasant surprise. They were much larger than the ones in Gdelsk.

Harkeld crossed the room to look out the window. “Squalid little cesspit.”

Justen grunted agreement.

Harkeld turned and surveyed the room, his gaze coming to rest on the beds. “Beds this big beg to be put to good use.”

Justen’s expression became disapproving.

Harkeld shrugged out of his sodden cloak. “You’re a prude, Justen.” He’d meant it as a joke, but irritation edged his voice.

Justen stripped off his own cloak and shook it, drops spattering the floor. He hung the cloak on a nail sticking out of the wall, his mouth tight.

Harkeld sighed inwardly.
I’ve offended him
. He drew breath to apologize.

Justen swung to face him. “What if she’s pregnant? That serving maid you tupped in Gdelsk.
Your
child. Did you think of that?”

“What? Don’t be ridiculous. She’s not pregnant by me.”

“Any time you tup a woman it can happen.” Justen crossed to the packsaddle and wrenched the buckles open.

“No, it can’t,” Harkeld said to his armsman’s back, growing angry. “Because any woman with a grain of sense uses a sea sponge.”

“Did you ask her if she was?”

No. He hadn’t asked. He’d been too busy undressing her. “It’s none of your business.”

Justen snorted. He went through the contents of the packsaddle, pulling out clothes.

Harkeld gritted his teeth. He hadn’t done anything wrong. The maidservant had been an adult, and she’d been willing. He wasn’t going to let Justen make him feel guilty.

“You were hired to protect my body, not my seed.” He spoke coldly. His palace voice. “If I choose to bed a woman tonight, it’s none of your business.”

Justen straightened and turned to look at him.

“This isn’t a conversation I expect to have with you again, armsman. Ever.”

All expression was gone from Justen’s face. He looked as if he’d been carved out of wax.

Rut it. Now he’d
really
offended him.

Harkeld felt a rush of guilt, and then a surge of annoyance. “Oh, for pity’s sake, Justen!” he half-yelled. “I have a bounty on my head! People are trying to
kill
me. I’m going to cursed-well take enjoyment where I can, regardless of whether you
or
the witches approve!”

Justen lost his frigid blankness. He looked down at the floor. “I beg your pardon. You’re right. It’s none of my business.”

Harkeld’s irritation drained away. “Forget it,” he said. “Don’t let’s argue.” And then, after a beat, “I’m sorry I spoke to you like that.” Not the yelling, but the cold, haughty tone, as if the armsman was nothing more than a servant.

Justen was his only friend here.
Without him on this journey, I’d go insane
.

T
HE INN DIDN’T
have a bathtub, or a razor for guests. Two buckets of lukewarm water and a rusting basin were all they could provide. Harkeld stood in the basin and sponged himself clean. Then he borrowed Ebril’s razor and scraped the stubble from his face. He left Justen in possession of the razor, the basin, and one of the buckets of water, and went down to the taproom with Frane and Petrus, Hew trotting at their heels as a dog. Rand, Gerit, and Katlen were already at a table in the far corner. Someone had wiped it clean.

Cora and Innis joined them, wearing ankle-length skirts. Harkeld’s gaze slid to Innis. She looked feminine, attractive. He remembered the dreams, the sweetness of her kisses. But the dream-Innis was a figment of his imagination. She wasn’t the real Innis.

A slatternly serving maid brought nine tankards of ale. Harkeld took a cautious sip, lifted his eyebrows in surprise, and drank more deeply.

Justen slid onto the bench opposite him with a cheerful grin. “That tankard for me?”

“You or Ebril,” Harkeld said, hooking the last tankard and passing it to Justen, relieved the armsman wasn’t bearing a grudge. “It’s actually quite good.”

“Mine, then. Ebril’s guarding.”

The food, when it came, wasn’t as good as the ale. Harkeld chewed stoically, examining the serving maids. Unfortunately, they were as unappetizing as the food. Willing, certainly, to spread their legs for a few pennies—one of them had gone upstairs with a bearded woodcutter and returned fifteen minutes later refastening her gown—but none of them looked as if they understood the concept of bathing.

He pushed his plate away and drained his tankard. “Another ale,” he said to a passing maid.

“Me, too,” Justen said, his mouth full.

The maid returned, slopped ale on the table, departed.

Harkeld slouched back against the wall. He sipped his ale and scanned the taproom. Despite the squalor, the room was almost cheerful, a large fire burning in the hearth, the noise level rising as a group of men entered, shaking out wet cloaks and calling for ale. He scrutinized their faces. They looked like woodcutters—rough, bearded, none too clean. None of them so much as glanced at their table.

Justen beckoned over a serving maid and asked her a question. Two minutes later she returned with a board painted with black and red squares and a grubby cloth bag. “You know how to play Jumping Dames?” the armsman asked, opening the bag and shaking out several dozen wooden discs painted red or black.

“I know how to play King’s Leap,” Harkeld said. “If that’s the same thing?”

Justen shrugged. “Ach, let’s find out.”

It was the same game. The only difference was the names the pieces were called once they reached the end of the board and were crowned. Justen emphatically won the first round. Harkeld put down his tankard and concentrated. He won the second round.