by K. M. Shea
“But…the reports are written in Calnoric,” Arvel said.
“Yes,” Myth confirmed.
His eyebrows dropped, as if Arvel was struggling with a particularly difficult to grasp concept. “I thought you couldn’t read or write in Calnoric?”
“I am not skilled at it,” Myth said.
Arvel opened his mouth once, closed it, paused, then opened it again. “Could you please define what you mean by ‘not skilled’?”
“I am not to the level of finishing that the Translators’ Circle would require for me to be made into a full translator.”
“Obviously,” Arvel said. “You’re only an apprentice translator!”
“Yes,” Myth agreed. “But in order for me to be good enough to claim the skill I ought to be near perfect.”
“Is saying you aren’t skilled a requirement from the Translators’ Circle?” Arvel asked.
“I don’t rightly know,” Myth confessed. “They just tell us we’re not sanctioned until we can take a fluency test. Saying that one is not skilled is just how it’s done.”
“No, it’s not,” Arvel said.
“It is in Lessa—it’s a very common saying among elves,” Myth said. “It is better to be humble and claim a lower level of abilities than to be prideful and overreach yourself.”
“You’re actually quite good at reading and writing in Calnoric?”
“Well…I haven’t been—”
“Yes, I know you haven’t been sanctioned for translations! But you can read it and write it without too much difficulty?” Arvel asked.
“To a certain extent, yes,” Myth said. “I can read books, reports, and logs as long as they aren’t too detailed or possess highly complex words.”
Arvel leaned back in his chair. “I thought it was odd that you could pick through High Elvish but couldn’t read Calnoric. I know you—I should have known better.” Ruefully, he shook his head at Myth. “I’m sorry for not believing in you.”
“It doesn’t really have anything to do with believing in me, though?” Myth said, more than a little confused. She glanced at the captains, hoping to use their reactions to gauge why Arvel was apologizing.
The trio were all industriously at work eating their cookies, their eyes on their plates as they ignored Myth and Arvel’s conversation with what looked like years of practice.
“But to think, all this time I read out loud anything I needed you to translate into Elvish, when you could have finished so much faster just by copying it yourself,” Arvel groaned.
“In everyday situations, perhaps. But for things like the night we spent fixing the trade logbooks or all the research we’ve put into the Fulton investigation, it wouldn’t pass,” Myth said. “I’m not sanctioned for official trade translations without a senior translator present to oversee me, which would cast doubt on anything we completed.”
“I suppose that’s true.”
“Indeed.”
“Still, I’ll keep your talent in mind in the future.” Arvel grinned at her.
“I wish you wouldn’t,” Myth dryly said. “As I said, it won’t be any use for anything official.”
“We’ll see.” Arvel shifted his attention back to the studiously disinterested captains. “Have you any other news to report?”
“No, Your Highness,” the captains chorused.
“Very well. Thank you for your diligence, we look forward to your report tomorrow.”
“Yes, Your Highness.”
“Good day to you, Captain Wilford, Captain Thad, Captain Grygg.” Myth took their cookie plates and delicately stacked them on the tea tray.
“To you as well, Translator Mythlan!” Grygg and Wilford smiled at her, whereas Thad gave her a more serious bow, and then the trio was out the door faster than Myth could respond.
They are a friendly bunch, Myth thought approvingly as she took her cup of tea—copying the captains in the way she very studiously avoided looking at Arvel. I can’t help but wish that they weren’t quite so formal—they seem like they’d be fun. But, I suppose, this is what it is like for Arvel…
Two days later, Myth was finishing making a copy of an elven trade log Arvel needed for his ongoing investigation against the Fultons. Once she finished the last line and put her copy aside to dry, she glanced at Arvel and Sir Arion, who were discussing the next leg of the investigation.
Feeling contemplative, she peered up through the magnificent skylights in the library ceiling, admiring the way rain tapped the glass as thunder rumbled. It was only mid-morning, but the sky was swollen with dark, angry clouds. She stretched her fingers out and rubbed her wrists as she took measure of the stack of logs Arvel had left piled up at his work station on the opposite side of the small table she had claimed.
I don’t know what other logs Arvel needs copies of and which ones the trade translators working with him already finished. He appears to be too deeply entrenched in his conversation with Sir Arion to interrupt…perhaps I could find one of the High Elf magic books and look through it for a few minutes?
Myth pushed her chair back and was about to slink off in search of the book, when Arvel seemed to sense she was finished and slowly wandered back in her direction.
“For the next portion we’ll have to audit the Fultons’ family-kept records,” he told Arion in a hushed tone. “I’ll send one of my aides to pick the records up, but I want you to send a few Honor Guards—perhaps even a squad—with them.”
Both of Arion’s black eyebrows rose. “You think they would abuse your aide?”
“No. If they did, we could properly nail them for misconduct. But that doesn’t mean Uncle Julyan won’t be nasty or petty—or arrange for an “accident” or two if he doesn’t have the incentive to leave my workers alone.” Arvel’s frown was creased with worry, but he shifted to a smile when he and Arion reached her table. “Everything all right?”
“Yes.” Myth glanced from the logs to the shelves ringed around the open table area. “But is it really safe to discuss the investigation here?”
“It’s one of the safest places in the palace, actually,” Arvel said. “The second floor has been cleared for our use—except for the librarians who come up to retrieve books for other patrons—and the library itself has been spelled enough so we can’t be overheard magically. Of course, the Department of Investigation is spelled similarly, but while the Fultons wouldn’t know what happens in the department rooms, they’d see everyone I brought in and out. It’s why I wanted to meet with Arion here, because it leaves the Fultons deaf and blind since they won’t think to watch the library.”
“I see,” Myth said.
Arvel smiled and plopped down in the chair next to Myth’s. Sir Arion, however, remained standing.
“Can you truly expect to find anything useful in whatever records the Fultons give you?” the taciturn man asked.
“Nope—at least not much.” Arvel shrugged. “They’ve undoubtedly been scrambling to adjust their records to support any claims they’ve made since I announced the investigation. But if we’re lucky, in their rush they’ll make a mistake. We’ll cross-reference their records with the trade records we have and compare them to their tax reports. Already I’ve found enough inconsistencies between those two records that we have enough to hit them with a painful fine. But if we can use any of their records as our proof, it will be far more incriminating, and Father will reasonably be able to come down harder on them.”
Sir Arion nodded, and for a moment his endless diligence abandoned him, and he rubbed the back of his neck. “Perhaps you could send someone who could trick the Fultons into lowering their guard. If they can pull it off well enough, they might be able to liberate additional information.”
“If I illegally obtain information it won’t be permissible in court,” Arvel sighed. “If we can find enough evidence in all of this, then Father would be within his rights to send in the Department of Investigation to take whatever information they can find. But given that Mother is a Fulton, we
can’t throw around our royal power, or the Fultons will cry off to whatever countries they’re illegally selling their goods to, and it will become an international mess.” For all of his disgust, he casually—and smoothly—managed to rest his arm on the back of Myth’s chair.
Myth didn’t react—this contact was nothing compared to the Prince of Seduction. “Could you use information taken from the Fultons if it was taken by accident?” she asked.
Arvel and Sir Arion swiveled their attention to her. “What do you mean, Myth?” Arvel asked.
Myth took a moment to select her words. “If, perchance, you sent someone the Fultons so underestimated that they didn’t hide as much information. Could the person—in their so-called ignorance—happen to take it?”
Sir Arion blinked. “I apologize, Translator Mythlan, but I am unable to follow your line of reasoning.”
Oh, blast this!
“I’m referring to myself,” Myth said. “If Lord Julyan incorrectly assumed—as others have—that I am unable to read or write Calnoric, he’d be more likely to leave information lying around, wouldn’t he? Given that I can read and write Calnoric—at least enough to get by—” she ignored the noise of disagreement Arvel made and forged on, “wouldn’t it stand to reason that if I can tell it’s pertinent information, I could just take it? That is, as long as Lord Julyan and any of his lackeys are distracted enough for me to attempt it. After all, it wouldn’t be wrong to assume that I was supposed to pick up anything at all related to the investigation if it was just lying around.”
Arvel and Sir Arion exchanged looks.
“She’s not wrong,” Sir Arion said.
“Maybe,” Arvel was slow to say. The furrow in his brows was so deep, his eyebrows looked like a piece of maligned crochet work. “But it puts Myth at risk.”
“I was the one who offered,” Myth said.
“I know, and I’m thankful. But conducting subterfuge is not a part of the vows you take as a translator…and it’s almost certain Uncle Julyan will try to retaliate once he realizes what happened,” Arvel said.
“I was already involved in an attack on you,” Myth said. “He can’t come after me any worse than that.”
“I will increase the patrols around the Translators’ Circle, as a precaution,” Sir Arion decided. “That is, if you think it could work.”
“There’s a strong possibility it would—especially if we tell the Fultons ahead of time,” Arvel said. “Uncle Julyan frankly asked Myth if she could read and write, and she used the ‘not skilled’ line.”
“Because it’s true,” Myth said.
Arvel moved his arm that he’d laid across the back of her chair, tilting it forward so it was draped over her instead. “He also knows I trust her, and obviously I would send someone I trust to pick up the records, or he’d try bribing them or would resort to blackmail. When I send the orders that Myth is going, I could even insinuate I chose her because she’s an elf, and I know he’ll conduct himself properly then.”
“And he won’t suspect it’s a red herring?” Sir Arion asked.
Arvel shrugged. “He believes I’m…not incompetent, but easy to fool. And Mother is scarcely better. Both of them underestimate me enough that we should be able to get this past them—though I honestly don’t know if Uncle Julyan thinks so highly of himself that he’d leave the records lying out.”
“A man who is cocky enough to smuggle assailants into the palace with the intention of attacking the crown prince is hardly going to be meek in this.” Arion’s fingers tightened around the hilt of his sword. “It’s more likely he’ll purposely put the records out—or at least a few papers out—to feed his superiority complex that he so carefully grows.”
“You say that so surely,” Arvel said.
Sir Arion shrugged. “I’ve dealt with many humans. There are certain patterns and tendencies you start to recognize once seen enough.”
“Then it’s settled,” Myth said. “I will be the one to retrieve the records—and hopefully take some additional information.”
“Not so fast.” Arvel nudged her slightly on her back. “If you’re the one going in, I want even more guards with you.”
“If you send too many it might make Lord Julyan suspicious,” Myth said.
“I don’t care. Your safety is more important.”
“Rather than sending a regular guard with her, what if I send Captain Thad, Captain Wilford, and Captain Grygg?” Sir Arion asked. “They are more skilled and better trained than their men.”
Arvel scratched his cheek. “You’re that certain in their abilities?”
“Indeed. They are Gwendafyn’s frequent practice partners. It seems that amongst all the regular beatings she delivers them, they’ve learned additional skills,” Sir Arion dryly said.
“Yes, I imagine so.” Arvel glanced at Myth. “Would you feel safe enough with just the three of them?”
“Certainly, but they should wear a regular Honor Guard uniform—the lack of numbers won’t mean much if the three of them stride around with their red cloaks and armor.” Myth shifted the tiniest bit, more aware of Arvel’s arm resting on her shoulders than she should be.
“Ah—I’ll do one better than that!” Arvel leaned forward, removing his arm from her back so he could plant both his hands on the table. “We’ll send them in disguise! The Fultons will never guess who travels with you, and Uncle Julyan will remain as superior-feeling as ever.”
Sir Arion looked intrigued. “What sort of disguise would accomplish that?”
14
“You rotten kids—watch where you’re running!” Grygg shouted as he half dangled out of the carriage window. “When I was your age, horses ran free in the streets, and they’d trample any tyke who wasn’t fast enough to avoid them!”
Wilford rapped Grygg on the back of the head with a walking stick. “Careful there, or you’ll fall out and crack your silly nob open. You’re not as young as you used to be, you know!” He stroked the thick white beard the Department of Investigation had pasted to his face. His mouth wasn’t visible, and the grizzled hair puffed up to his cheeks, screening all but his eyes—which were partially hidden by tinted glasses.
Grygg leaned back into the carriage, taking up half of the bench he sat on. His hair was powdered white, and he was wearing spectacles so thick they enlarged his eyes, making him nearly unrecognizable between that and the scribe uniform the Department of Investigation had stuffed him in and thoroughly padded, ballooning his girth to at least triple its true size. “I can hardly see in these things,” he grumbled.
Wilford dropped his walking stick so he could shove at some of Grygg’s excess padding. “That’s the point. The Commander said this way we won’t move like soldiers—by the way, did anyone realize that implied Sir Arion thinks we move like soldiers? I think that’s the nicest thing he’s ever said to us.”
“No, no, there was that time he told us our uniforms looked decent.” Grygg brandished a finger at his friend, almost poking him in the face in the process.
Thad had his glasses—tiny and rectangular, which distorted his eye shape—pushed up on top of his head, nestled into his powdered-white hair as he reviewed the list of files Myth would be looking for. “…All of these dating back from the last five years—is that correct, Myth?”
“Yes,” Myth confirmed.
It seemed Thad was the unofficial leader of the trio—though it was Grygg who had insisted she stop using their titles and had wrestled Myth’s nickname from her.
Thad nodded and passed the list back over to Myth, which was how he noticed the shoving match between Wilford and Grygg as Grygg attempted to smother Wilford with his rolls of padding. “You two need to stop that and get into character—we’re almost at the Fultons’ town house,” he said.
“It’ll be easy,” Grygg said. He was half-sitting on top of Wilford—who was struggling to push the padding up. “We’re posing as the king’s most trusted—and oldest—aides. All we have to do is act like our grandfa
thers and pretend we’re helping Myth when we actually appear to hinder her. Isn’t that right, Lady Translator?”
“Indeed.” Myth reached across the carriage and handed Wilford his walking stick. “I recommend using a lever.”
Wilford made a grunting noise, but he grabbed the walking stick and used it to hoist Grygg back to his side of the bench. Then he made a show of fixing his clothes—which hung so loosely over his frame it made him appear thinner—and adjusted his glasses. “Thank you, Myth, for the assistance.”
“We can’t make a mess of this.” Thad watched the scuffle with narrowed eyes, which disappeared behind hazed glasses as he put them back into place. “Might I remind you two that I have a wife I love very much whom I wish to return home to safely this night?”
Grygg and Wilford groaned together, leaning back on their bench seat.
“No, you don’t need to remind us about Evlawyn because you speak of her every hour of every day,” Wilford groaned.
“We know she has ‘the sweetest laugh’, ‘the kindest heart’, ‘the most beautiful smile’, that she greets you every evening with a cup of stinkin’ tea, that she wears an apron embroidered with hearts when she makes you dinner…” Grygg listed, ticking each thing off on his fingers.
“There’s no need to get snippy about it.” Thad raised his chin so high it nearly sent his nose poking into the carriage roof. “It’s hardly my fault I’ve managed to find someone who makes my life a joy, fills it with color, and loves me deeply while the two of you stay alone—unmarried—and slip more and more into the darkness that is eternal bachelorhood.”
Wilford brandished his walking stick in Thad’s direction. “Enough, you! We’re happy the way we are!”
“Yeah,” Grygg chimed in. “We’re plenty happy!”
“Is that why you were both so gleeful when you learned His Royal Highness’s translator was an elf maiden?” Thad asked.
“Now you’re just making us look bad!” Wilford complained.
Myth smiled. “I think both Captain Wilford and Captain Grygg are admirable men of a high caliber.”
