The King's Spy (The Augur's Eye Book 2)

by Guy Antibes

“These won’t fit,” Razz said.

  “Dig deeper,” Whit said, pulling out a top in the royal colors. “We’ll just wear these.”

  Razz held his out. “Should work,” he said, holding the pullover tunic against him.

  He spotted the team milling about two older pixie males. Whit and Razz walked over to them.

  “I’m the coach,” one of the two men said. Neither wore the team’s colors. All the other teams’ coaches did.

  “I’m Whit and this is Razz,” Whit said. “We are here to help.”

  The coach grunted without introducing himself. “I have been given a royal decree that both of you will play the entire match. Are you up to it?” the coach said, barely making eye contact.

  “We may need breathers from time to time, but I think we are,” Whit said.

  “Don’t worry about us.” Razz put his arm around Whit. “We’ve played together before. Whit is a scout and I’m a soldier.”

  “Take center positions. If you are going to make fools of yourselves you can do it in the middle of the field in front of everybody,” the coach said. The disgust oozed from his voice.

  “We will,” Whit said.

  Razz and Whit were ignored by the rest of the team while they warmed up and talked about how they would play. The pair only had a small zone where they could work together, but that was where the message tubes would be exchanged when they went from defense to offense. Both of them agreed that sacrifices would be the issue for both of them.

  The game was about to begin. There weren’t events between battles, and Whit would have liked the extra break time. He knew they would be tested.

  Whit told the coach what Razz and he were going to do.

  “You really think you are that good?” the coach asked.

  “We may not win a battle, but at least we will try,” Razz said. “If a person plays hard they respect the game.”

  The coach straightened up. “Is that an insult?”

  “Only if you don’t play hard,” Whit said.

  The horn blew, and the next blast would start the battle. The teams flew onto the field. When Whit and Razz took their positions, the buzz of the crowd increased. Whit heard the call to start, and he let Razz take the message tube behind the center line, and then Razz, playing as a soldier, tossed the message to Whit.

  The pixie soldiers and scouts who played the center, milled around, not quite knowing how to react to such a big scout. Whit gave them an idea of what to expect when he flew in a high arc and dropped the message into the home tube.

  “You two aren’t bad,” one of the lackadaisical royal players said.

  “Then show us what you’ve got, and we will include you in our play,” Whit said.

  “Maybe,” the player said.

  The horn sounded to resume play, and this time, getting the message delivered was tougher. It didn’t take long for the opposing team to realize that the path to home was through the royal pixie players away from the elves. The other team easily scored.

  Whit could see the reason why the royal players rarely scored. He wondered, yet again, why King Quiller allowed such a lousy team to represent him.

  On the next message, now that Whit started with the message tube, the opposing soldiers flew higher to stop Whit, and play went back and forth for a bit, while Whit dodged soldiers wanting to sacrifice. A path to the goal finally appeared, and the score was two to one in favor of the royal team.

  They traded goals for a while until the player who said Whit and Razz weren’t bad played soldier and began to play harder. Razz barely made it to a pixie scout and was able to pull him down to the turf, wrestling for the message tube, and tossed it to the newly energized player who made it up field to a waiting Whit, and the royal team had a two-score lead.

  Multiple players came at Whit when he was close to the middle, fighting to rip the message from Whit’s hands. While struggling, Whit dropped low enough that a foot dragged on the turf, and he was out of play until the next message. The royal’s advantage quickly dissipated while Whit was taken out of play. There were enough opposing teammates to allow them to score and score some more until the royal team lost the first battle.

  The team came in during the break.

  “I could use some help,” Whit said. “Either we try harder when we have huge advantages with half the opposing team dragging me down, or we are at our opponents’ mercy. Every team in the tournament will employ the same strategy.”

  “So?” one of the players said.

  “Don’t you want to win?” Razz asked.

  A few of the players and the coach shrugged. “We play, we get paid.”

  Not for long, thought Whit.

  “Just a little more effort?” Whit asked.

  “I’ll try,” another player said. Whit guessed a few more gave an indication that they might indeed try.

  The second battle was a little better than the first, and the royal team worked together enough to win the battle ten to nine. However, during the third battle, Razz and Whit, without much help, had done so much constant flying that they couldn’t fly as fast as they had at the beginning of the match, and the royals lost.

  The team flew off the field to the coach.

  “I just received a notice,” the coach waved a paper at them. “No foreigners allowed in any more games in the tournament.” The smile on the coach’s face was too smug for Whit.

  The team had only one more match to play to be eliminated, but Whit and Razz wouldn’t be playing. The pair was dejected as they found their clothes and walked out of the stadium. They found a carriage to take them back to the inn, where they drank a few tankards of ale to cool down their frustrations.

  “The king!” someone yelled from the front of the inn, and King Quiller and four guards walked up to Whit and Razz.

  “Have some ale, your majesty. It is awfully good, here,” Razz said.

  The king looked at a nervous server. “Ale, please. These men are paying.”

  Whit laughed. “We would be happy to.”

  “What about my team? I heard they almost won,” King Quiller said.

  “No. It was mostly Whit and me. We won the middle battle, but the other team came alive, a little, in the third battle, but Razz and I were too tired, and the other team won.”

  “What will I have to do to have a winning team?” the king asked.

  “Find another team, from top to bottom,” Razz said. “There isn’t a real competitor on the entire squad. How did you find the coach?”

  “A cousin’s husband. She badgered me into retaining him. He’s been the royal coach for as long as I’ve been king.”

  “He is worse than the players, since he doesn’t do anything other than tell the team to get out on the field and come in. There are no strategies, no performance rewards, or anything. The worst team that I ever played with could beat them,” Whit said.

  “I agree,” Razz said, nodded, and took another swig from his tankard.

  “Then what should I do?”

  “Hire a team from Hammer,” Whit said. “Find an entire team. You should be able to hire a good one. Fire everyone on the royal squad, even your cousin’s husband. If you don’t, the results won’t change. The royal team reflects badly on your reputation, your majesty.”

  “It is that bad?” King Quiller asked.

  “Doesn’t anyone tell you that it is?” Razz asked.

  The king gave Razz a dirty look, making Razz blink with alarm.

  “Some say it doesn’t matter at all since I am king, and others say the people laugh behind my back,” Quiller said.

  “Unfortunately, I’m with the laughers. They are that bad,” Whit said. In his mind, he’d at least toss the coach in some dungeon for a few years, but he couldn’t tell the king that. “If you watched them play, you’d understand.”

  “I do watch them play, but they always try hard when I watch them,” Quiller said.

  “Then don’t watch them as king,” Whit said. Bring along a few guards dres
sed to watch scout, and Razz and I will accompany you. The spectators will be watching us, not you.”

  King Quiller thought for a moment. “I will pick you up in a plain carriage tomorrow morning for their next game. It’s not that I don’t believe you, but I want to see their play for myself.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  ~

  P in was surprised that the king agreed to attend the scout tournament in disguise, but it made sense if the king was coming out of his long isolation. Pin said Quiller hadn’t been out among the people in more than two years.

  “Mind if I observe? I won’t go with you. I’m not sure the king would be happy about that, but I’ll stay close,” Pin asked.

  “Bring Yetti, but the others should stay behind,” Whit said. “The king’s attention needs to be on his scout team, not on foreign adventurers.”

  Pin nodded. “Suit yourself. It’s your play, not mine.

  In the morning the carriage showed up. It was a well-used conveyance, and King Quiller didn’t disembark while the coach was at the inn. They mostly looked out through closed curtains; there were two pixie guards with them inside. Whit guessed the two drivers would be joining them on the field as well.

  They arrived at the stadium, and the two drivers joined them in line. Whit paid for their tickets, and they joined the crowds.

  “I bought standing tickets since they are more humble,” Whit said.

  “I’ve learned to stand during my life, so that will be acceptable,” the king said.

  “Would you mind if I called you ‘Quill’ while we are at the stadium?” Whit said. “Is that more common than your given name?”

  “It is,” one of the guards said. “I think it a good idea, your majesty,” he said to the king.

  “Very well, Whit.” Quiller smiled. “Where do we go?”

  “I suggest to the other side of the field than the royal team,” the guard said, “for a few reasons.”

  “I can even think of a few,” the king said, and they moved to the far side where the visitors warmed up.

  The royal scout team milled around on the field.

  “My team isn’t doing anything!” The king complained about the inaction, but Whit could hear others mocking the royal scout team.

  The play began, and being consistent, the first battle didn’t take much time since the king’s team glided around the field barely working up a sweat as they played. Razz and a guard purchased waxed cardboard tankards of ale.

  “The king must be embarrassed,” Quiller said. He glanced across the field. “The coach isn’t even talking to the players.”

  “Just as I predicted,” Whit said.

  The second battle wasn’t much better. The royal team did deliver one message, but Whit surmised that the other team let them get past them.

  “Rotten to the core,” King Quiller said, watching a glum betting agent walk by. “And the odds are so bad, no one is even betting.”

  The third battle was a replay of the first two. Midway through, Whit spotted Jonny Evia walk past. “Be prepared,” he said.

  Whit nodded and warned the king and the guards that something might happen. Almost at the end, a group of pixies pushed their way through the crowd. Whit spotted Pin’s face aghast at the attackers. “Get out of here,” Whit said.

  Ritta Misennia was being pushed toward them. He could see the fear on her face. Not wanting to wait for the others to confront the king, Whit attacked. The assassins brandished knives and used them as wands, projecting a sheet of electrical energy toward the king. The guards lined up to protect King Quiller. Whit put up a barrier of water, but he only had time to protect the king and himself.

  Two of the guards went down as the crowd began to fly up into the air. That made the situation worse. Whit didn’t have the time to keep track of all the assailants. While distracted, Ritta was thrown against him as another sheet of lightning was thrown out. Whit barely had the time to get his arms around Ritta and projected another wall of water toward the assassins.

  The water hit the attackers while the lightning was still being projected, and the magicians went down while everyone still around them were drenched. With so much water, the remaining assassins went after Whit with their knives.

  Whit’s long hours of training in Gambol’s early morning classes gave him the reflexes he needed to fight the pixies. The guards joined in, and even Ritta bent down to grab a fallen knife and began to fight off those who pushed her into danger. In a few moments, Pin led a squad of constables that converged on the fight, and the assassination attempt was thwarted.

  King Quiller was unhurt with Razz protecting the monarch’s back during the fray.

  “You should leave now,” Pin said, “unless there are others in the crowd.”

  “For once I agree with your advice,” the king said and all of them, now protected by a cocoon of constables walked across the field of the stopped match.

  The coach’s and players’ eyes grew wide as they recognized the king as the king’s entourage walked past them. “We usually play better,” the coach said.

  King Quiller shot the cousin a withering glance, and soon, the king boarded his carriage and left the scene. Ritta, Pin, Razz, and Whit had been left behind. Jonny Evia walked up.

  “Someone close to the king tipped off the assassins,” Jonny said. “It must have been one of the guards.”

  “Then the king could still be in danger!” Whit said. “I’ll meet you back at the inn.”

  He took off and flew as fast as he could, reaching the carriage stalled in the midst of traffic leaving the stadium. He landed on the roof and told the two constables driving the carriage that the king was still exposed.

  He leaned over, the railing on the roof bit into his stomach, but he ignored the pain and looked inside. Jonny was right about the guard. One pixie was bleeding on the front seat, and the king was struggling with the remaining guard in the back. It was too close for lightning spells, but Whit had to stop the fight.

  He filled the carriage with water, drenching the two fighters as he climbed through the window, getting drenched from the water rushing out. The ploy had paused the fight, but murder was still in the guard’s eyes. Whit’s training came into play again, and the guard, not knowing how to defend from the gnomish fighting techniques, was soon out cold, but not before Whit had a bleeding gash on his forearm.

  The carriage had stopped.

  “I’ve been stabbed!” King Quiller said, grimacing, holding his stomach with blood seeping through his fingers.

  “That makes two of us,” Whit said.

  Whit called up to the constables. “Take care of the two guards. The bleeding one is loyal, and the one unconscious is an assassin.”

  He helped the king to the ground and looked around. He was in a rougher part of Garri, but he had been here before.

  “I’m going to take us to a healer,” Whit said. He picked up the king, surprised at how light the pixie felt and rose into the air. In moments, he landed in front of Fanni’s clinic a block or so away from Cornno’s pub.

  “I have an injured man!” Whit said as he entered the clinic.

  He took the king to the same room where he had been treated and found a folded bandage to staunch the bleeding on his forearm.

  Fanni rushed in. “You’ll have to wait. Just because I’ve healed you before doesn’t give you advantages. Take him out.”

  “It’s a matter of life or death,” Whit said. “Treat him. Jonny can vouch for me.”

  “Jonny vouches for everyone here,” she said, but despite her objection, she rushed to the king’s side.

  “He was stabbed at the pub?” she said, but her furrowed eyebrows indicated she didn’t think the victim was.

  “At the scout tournament. He was heading home when we were attacked by assassins,” Whit said.”

  The king was conscious but the pain from his wound kept his responses to mostly moaning and grunting. Whit took his hand.

  “Fanni healed me from a wound,
once before,” Whit said. “You are in as good a pair of hands as there are in Garri.”

  “I am taking your word for it,” Quiller said through clenched teeth as Fanni probed the wound.

  Fanni looked at Whit. “Can I borrow some of your power?”

  “You can do that?” Whit asked.

  “I understand you can do pixie magic,” she said.

  “Maybe, but I’ll try anything to help Quill,” he said wincing at the use of the nickname he had given the king.

  “Please,” the king said.

  “What do I do?” Whit asked.

  “First let me work on your arm. It won’t take long.” She wiped off the blood, and Whit withstood a flush of heat. When he looked down, the wound looked like it was a few weeks old.

  “Hold onto my wrist,” Fanni said.

  Whit did as he was asked, but he didn’t know what else to do. Suddenly he felt a flow of feeling running from his body out his hand. He didn’t know how Fanni did it, but she put her hands on the king’s wound and hummed. Whit felt the healer’s arm get warm, but then the flow stopped.

  “I can’t give you anymore.”

  Fanni laughed. “I stopped taking it. You are a powerful elf. Your friend’s wound is mostly healed. I never fully heal, as I told you before. You can help him out of my clinic. Go through the same back door you used before.”

  She tossed a white apron to Whit. “Put that over his wound.”

  “Thank you,” the king said hoarsely. “I will reward you.”

  Fanni laughed. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll make Jonny pay,” she said smiling. Fanni looked at Whit. “How is your wound?”

  Whit’s arm felt almost normal. He peeled back the bandage to reveal a healed arm.

  “Amazing! The magic transfer finished my job,” Fanni said. ‘Now leave.”

  Whit and the king stepped out into the back of the clinic.

  “Are you feeling better, your majesty?”

  King Quiller gave Whit a weak smile. “I might have died had we taken the time to ride to the palace.”

  Whit nodded. “That was a possibility. Hang on, for you’ll get a second chance to die if I drop you.”

  The king reached up and put his arms around Whit’s neck, while Whit bent down and lifted Quiller up. In less time than it would take to hail a hired carriage, they set down in a secluded garden on the palace grounds.