The Prince's Bargain

by K. M. Shea

  “I told you to drop the titles,” Grygg said.

  “And there’s no need to throw us scraps, Myth,” Wilford gloomily added. “Thad reminds us often of our singleness.”

  “You are both still valiant and diligent,” Myth said. “Sir Arion believes so as well, or he would not have assigned you to His Royal Highness.”

  Wilford sniffed. “Aww, thank you!”

  “Yes, thank you, Myth. You have a heart, unlike some people.” Grygg glared at Thad, who shrugged. “And to assure you we’re not unsavory, we like you just fine. We just had different…hopes seeing how we were told you were single.”

  “Then we saw you with His Royal Highness,” Wilford helpfully added. “And that hope flew the coop, screaming like an eagle.”

  Myth paused in the middle of adjusting the lapels of her jacket. “What do you mean by that?”

  “Oh!” Grygg had to roll himself upright, but due to his enlarged girth he almost tipped over again. “That reminds us! Since we’re friends now, do you have any friends you could introduce us to?”

  “Single, female friends,” Wilford said.

  Myth tilted her head in thought. “I suppose so?”

  The two men brightened, but before they could say anything more the carriage rolled to a stop.

  “It appears that we’re here,” Thad said.

  There was an instant change over the lighthearted trio.

  Gone were their sly prods and informal jokes.

  Wilford hunched over, slightly curving his shoulders; Grygg lost his huge smile and instead put on a pinched expression with his eyebrows wrinkled and his nose drawn up; and Thad popped a wad of what looked like tree resin in his mouth and started chewing loudly.

  By the time the carriage door swung open and a servant had lowered the steps, the trio looked believably like ancient scholars.

  Myth peered through the window, studying the town house—which was narrow but deep, and shoved tightly between its neighboring homes. An iron fence marked off the front yard, and already Myth could see glimpses of where the Fultons’ illegal profits had been put to use if the elven silk draperies that hung across the front windows were any indicator.

  Wilford led the charge and went down the carriage steps, a believable wheeze escaping through his lips. When he reached the ground, he leaned heavily on his walking stick and peered up at the sky. “This really the place?”

  “Out of the way, you old coot!” Grygg had to waddle down the stairs with his extra padding, and he almost knocked into Wilford.

  “Who are you calling old coot?” Wilford demanded.

  “Obviously you’re so old you can’t even recognize we’ve come to the wrong address,” Grygg heaved his belly up and started tottering up the sidewalk, heading for the neighboring house.

  “Wrong way, man,” Wilford called. “You’re blind as a bat. You don’t know what you’re talking about!”

  “What did you say?” Thad poked his head out of the carriage, a leather satchel dangling from his gloved hands.

  Wilford peered back at him through the thick lenses of his glasses. “I said he’s blind as a bat.”

  “Eh?”

  “Blind as a bat!”

  “No thank you, I’m full.” Thad stumbled down the stairs, his legs visibly shaking. When he reached the bottom stair, he chewed loudly and stared at the footman hurrying forward to help them. “This isn’t my house.”

  “We’re not visiting your house, sir.” Myth, joining in the charade, spoke in a very loud and firm voice as she—agile in her translator pants and jacket—jumped the steps and rushed to steady Wilford before he almost tripped on the curb and fell down. “His Royal Highness Crown Prince Arvel sent us to retrieve some documents, remember?”

  “Eh?” Thad said.

  Grygg was still making a break for the next-door neighbor’s house, so the footman hurried after him and got him turned around just as Lord Julyan emerged from his house.

  “Welcome…representatives…?” he trailed off as the footman dragged a complaining Grygg back to their group, and Thad took tiny, shaky steps, bumping into Wilford, who querulously grunted and elbowed him.

  “I say, watch where you’re going,” Wilford said.

  “What?” Thad chewed his tree resin and squinted at Wilford.

  “Ho, ho, I’ve found the right house!” Grygg said. “Sharp as a tack I am—nothing gets past me.” He walked straight into the fence, backed up with a great harrumph, then marched forward when the footman flipped the latch and opened the gate for him.

  “Come along, sir.” Myth took Wilford’s arm. “Your services are needed inside.”

  “Of course!” Wilford tried to draw himself up straight, but his shoulders were so hunched, he only succeeded in nearly losing his walking stick.

  Lord Julyan, dressed in a rich, green silken tunic, seemed puzzled by the general pandemonium, though after watching it for a few moments a smug smile twitched across his lips.

  Excellent. He’s taken the bait. I was concerned we were overdoing it, but Arvel said we had to make it obvious.

  “Good afternoon, Lord Julyan.” Myth bowed once the three “aides” had been corralled to the tiled patio just in front of the house’s main entrance. “I am here on behalf of His Royal Highness Crown Prince Arvel to collect some documents on logs. My companions are three of His Majesty, King Petyrr’s, most trusted and senior aides.”

  “King Petyrr, long may he live!” Wilford declared.

  “What?” Thad asked.

  Myth patted Wilford’s arm in a soothing gesture, then returned her attention to Lord Julyan. “I am—”

  “Translator Mythlan, Arvel’s personal translator.” Lord Julyan’s smile seemed slick like snail ooze. “I recall the pleasure of meeting you and am honored you—one of my nephew’s close companions—have come on his behalf. He said you’d be coming today.”

  “The honor is all mine, sir.” Myth bowed again. “I hope we do not take up too much of your time.”

  Lord Julyan’s posture took on an arrogant slant, his shoulders rolled back and his chin tilted up. “Nonsense. As always, I live to serve His Majesty King Petyrr, and little Arvel of course. Please, come in. Everything is in my personal study. We may retrieve it together.”

  “Thank you.” Myth gently led Thad, Wilford, and Grygg inside.

  The small and narrow entryway opened up into a windowless chamber that sported a large staircase. A set of rooms were perched at the front of the building, taking advantage of the sunlight and street view, and a long hallway split off from the chamber, stretching deeper into the town house.

  “No, no, not up the stairs, sirs. This way,” Myth called in a coaxing voice as Wilford made for the staircase, Grygg on his heels.

  “Nonsense, Translator Mythlan. We know where we’re going—oof.” Grygg smacked into a support pillar, backed up, and patted it. “Well. This house is clearly poorly designed.”

  “Sir, sir, this way.” A footman got in front of Wilford and forcibly herded him back to Myth, all while Thad chewed his tree resin annoyingly loudly and peered around.

  “The décor here leaves something to be desired,” Thad said.

  “Perhaps His Majesty’s aides should remain outside the study?” Lord Julyan opened a door to one of the front rooms—which had two windows and a view of the street. “I rather like my study, and—”

  There was a metallic clunk as Grygg almost knocked over a suit of armor—by accident, Myth was fairly certain, based on his sheepish expression. He grabbed his own belly and suspiciously peered around. “It’s so dark in here, a man can hardly see!”

  Wilford chortled, then broke off in a wheezing gasp, nearly falling on the ground until the footman rushed to steady him.

  “Perhaps…” Myth furrowed her forehead in falsified concern. “But their presence is necessary to confirm we receive everything His Royal Highness has requested. I have a list, but I—”

  “Yes, I recall that you are a mere apprentice and cannot w
rite or read in Calnoric,” Lord Julyan said in a tone so smothering and smug, Myth wondered how he didn’t choke himself. “Fear not, I can confirm for you myself.”

  “Very well then.” Myth slowly turned around to Wilford, Thad, and Grygg, trying to convey reluctance. “I’ll be right back with the records.”

  Thad swung his leather satchel a bit. “What?”

  “She’ll be right back!” Wilford shouted.

  “Of course she’ll be right back,” Thad said. “We’ll soon be late—they’re expecting us at the Fulton town house to pick up those documents!”

  Lord Julyan shut the door, muffling the trio’s shouted conversation. “Here, Translator Mythlan. Have a seat.” He motioned to the two empty chairs placed in front of his desk.

  Like Arvel’s office, Lord Julyan’s bookshelves were deplorably bare of actual books, but that was where the resemblance ended, for although Arvel’s shelves were bare, Lord Julyan’s were stuffed with things—small sculptures carved from shiny stone, an elven-made vase barren of flowers, an egg-sized jewel, and—perhaps most surprising—a High Elf sword was displayed above the fireplace.

  Despite herself, Myth’s gaze lingered on the sword. Wing-like adornments ornamented the hilt, and Elvish script and High Elf runes decorated the blade.

  Myth recognized the runes as High Elf magic, and clenched her jaw.

  Lesser Elves did not easily part with High Elf weapons, particularly any that were enchanted. They’d been given to a select few who would recognize the worth of the weapons and never part with them, and Myth was almost certain that Lord Julyan was not included among that elite group.

  Aware that Lord Julyan was watching her, Myth forcibly turned away from the weapon and cast an “admiring eye” around the study.

  While Arvel’s office was bright in sunlight and color due to its garden view, Lord Julyan’s was dark in all of its luxuriousness, with the elven silk draperies blocking a great deal of the light, and a paint screen covering the fireplace.

  Things covered every surface—even elven rugs were spread over the floor—almost suffocating Myth in the choking display of luxuries.

  It seems to me a good amount of the Fultons’ “misplaced goods” end up as decorations for their own house. And that doesn’t even address the matter of that sword…

  Lord Julyan sat behind his desk—the only unembellished thing in the room, except for the small stack of logbooks piled on it. “I have them stacked up here, but—since you are concerned—I can read off what they are for you.”

  “I have a list.” Myth glanced at the stack as she passed the paper over—the same one Thad had been going over in the carriage. “And it seems like some are missing, for His Highness wishes for twenty different logs, and you only have fifteen here.”

  “Is that so? My nephew must have added some in from the initial list he sent me—considering how detail orientated he is, he is frightfully bad at remembering to inform a body when he needs something.” Lord Julyan laughed.

  “It was rather last minute in this case,” Myth agreed.

  Arvel had purposely increased the number of records he needed, hoping to lure Lord Julyan into flaunting his superiority in “outwitting” him, and hopefully drawing him to reveal the real logbooks.

  As Lord Julyan unlocked a drawer in his desk, Myth made it a point to let her gaze slide uncomprehendingly across the prepared logs, and instead studied the room’s decorations.

  “You have a great many beautiful things,” she said.

  Lord Julyan removed a stack of leather-bound logs and records from the drawer and put them on his desk, his smile crumpling into an ugly smirk. “Thank you.” He started sifting through the logs, making a show of checking the engraved titles.

  Myth sat straight in her chair, her hands folded as she adopted the quiet mannerisms she used when listening to lectures at the Translators’ Circle, hopefully appearing attentive but not particularly focused on a specific thing as she cast her gaze around the office again.

  Faintly, she heard Thad’s, Wilford’s, and Grygg’s muffled voices grow louder—though not at all clearer.

  There was a metallic clang, followed by the shatter of something that was likely expensive. Then the footman screamed.

  Lord Julyan, in the middle of “checking” a logbook, set it on the stack to take, looked up and frowned.

  Yes, that’s it. Be concerned about your wretched luxuries, and go check it out.

  Myth turned in her chair. “Do you think everything is all right out there? His Majesty’s aides can be…enthusiastic at times.”

  “I’m sure it’s fine,” Lord Julyan said.

  There was a clatter, then the footman’s shouts were so loud they were audible through the closed door. “No! Not the elven halberd!”

  Lord Julyan stood abruptly, his smirk fading into a frown of displeasure.

  “Are these the logs here on the desk?” Myth asked, gesturing vaguely to the big pile—including the ones Lord Julyan had not separated out.

  “Hm? Yes…” Lord Julyan stalked across his study. “If you’ll excuse me one moment.” He opened the door and snarled, “What is going on!?”

  “Sir,” the footman said feebly. “The aides are—no, no, you must put that down carefully, sir!”

  “What?” Thad yelled.

  Myth’s heart pounded in her throat as she heard Lord Julyan stalk away from the door. “Don’t just stand there—stop them!”

  She had started studying the engraved titles on the logbooks the moment Lord Julyan put his back to her. When she glanced behind her, confirming he had slipped through the cracked door and run out to shout at his servants’ attempts to contain the three captains, she lunged for his desk, hurriedly flipping through the bared records.

  15

  In preparation for this play, she had memorized pages of the Fultons’ reported earnings from the past five years. Given that she was well schooled in the Elvish and Calnoric method of record keeping, it was easy for Myth to flip through the dizzying numbers.

  Shortly, she found what had to be the real records for the past two years. Lord Julyan had chosen to follow cliché tradition and had written his private records in two books bound in black leather.

  Such a surprise he didn’t go for red ink as well. But two years will do. With this, Arvel should be able to get permission from King Petyrr to search the house.

  Myth’s fingers shook as she mixed up the logbooks and took his prepared pile of falsified records, as well as the lord’s private record books. Carrying them so their pages faced out and their bindings were tucked against her waist, Myth made herself slowly walk to the door and nudge it all the way open.

  “Oh my,” she said.

  Wilford, Grygg, and Thad had played their roles beautifully.

  Based on the shattered remains of an elven vase, a tipped over grandfather clock, and a crack in a large, ornate mirror, Wilford had completed his mission of breaking things to upset the staff. At the moment he was being bodily restrained by two footmen.

  Grygg was standing near him, blustering as he shouted in the wrong direction, and Thad—as previously arranged—stood farther back, his face scrunched up.

  “Who raised a racket?” Thad demanded as Myth came up from behind. “It’s been as silent as a church in here!” he bellowed.

  “It’s okay, sir.” Myth patted his shoulder as she took the satchel from his limp fingers and carefully packed the books inside. “It seems that we should leave.” She glanced at Wilford and Grygg and tried to make her forehead wrinkle with worry, but her skin was feeling a little numb as her heart threatened to leap out of her chest.

  Easy, easy, she told herself. We’ll get through this.

  Myth took Thad gingerly by the hand and led him closer to Wilford, who was loudly complaining about being restrained, and Grygg, who was cackling. “Lord Julyan,” she called, “it appears that perhaps we should leave.”

  “I must disagree,” Lord Julyan sneered, the wrinkles of his face t
ight with anger. “Your compatriots have wreaked havoc on my home. This is unacceptable!”

  “We!” Wilford tried to draw himself up while still restrained. “Are His Majesty’s trusted aides. How dare you!” He tried to raise his walking stick—as if to poke the angry lord.

  Myth jolted forward, almost toppling Thad, and grabbed the stick before he could get it too close to Lord Julyan. “I apologize, sir. They are brilliant, but it seems that removing them from their usual comforts in the palace has upset them.”

  “Who’s upset?” Grygg demanded. “Not me! I can copy a thousand records right now!”

  “You can’t see to copy them, you old fool!” Wilford laughed.

  “Come, sirs, let us depart.” Myth tried to herd them toward the doors.

  To continue the illusion, the trio protested—Grygg especially so, even though it took two footmen to frog march him out.

  “I am so sorry for the inconvenience, Lord Julyan.” Myth bowed to Lord Julyan and prayed he would mistake her trembling hands as fear of his anger due to the so-called aides.

  “They broke—”

  “Yes, I can see there has been some damage.” Myth glanced at the shattered remnants of a vase and cringed. “I will tell His Royal Highness to send someone to settle the bill. It is only right.”

  Lord Julyan’s fury abruptly left him, and his greed reared its ugly head instead. “It will be a weighty sum. The vase alone is worth thousands!” He speculatively rubbed his chin as he studied Myth.

  Playing her role, Myth cringed and bowed again. “I understand—” She broke off as she rushed to help Wilford, who had lost his footing near the door and grabbed a glass clock for support.

  Once she steadied him, she continued, “I assure you His Royal Highness will make things right. I took what logs you had separated out—if His Royal Highness really does need the others, I’m sure he’ll send a request with the agent he dispatches to settle this—someone who will be more suited for the task, as it would seem by my failure that I am not.” Her voice shook a little—not out of shame, but fear. The leather satchel that dangled from her fingers seemed on fire, and she feared if she didn’t get out of there fast, he’d ask to see what she had taken.