Princess of Thieves

by Bella Beaumont

  “Good, because you have a very unmemorable face.”

  Stecker smirked. “I’ll be sure to remember that, sire.”

  “Yes, well,” Carterus drawled, pulling at his thick beard.

  “I’ve come not because I’m important, my lord, but because I have something that is important to you. To all of you.”

  Yira made an angry sound in her throat, her eyebrows arching downward. Through gritted teeth, she said, “The insolence of this boy already drains me. Speak plainly, fool.”

  “Very well, Your Highness.” Stecker bowed again. In that moment when his head was ducked, Ocena’s eyes widened as he stole a glance in her direction, but seemed to do it in a way that no one else recognized it.

  W-What does it mean? Ocena thought. Does he . . . compare me to my sister? By the gods, who is this man?

  It’s like one single glance and he . . . knows!

  “My people have Princess Catera, and she is safe.”

  Yira gasped.

  “Who are your ‘people,’ boy?” Cartherus asked.

  “Irrelevant.”

  “I beg to differ,” Cartherus snarled, sitting up in his chair and leaning forward. He bared his teeth at the young man, but still Stecker did not waver or crumble under the pressure.

  “Unfortunately, you’re in no place to bargain at the moment, King Sefyr,” Stecker said wistfully, flashing a smile.

  Cartherus’ knuckles cracked as he tightened his hands into fists. The anger was so apparent on his face, it seemed he’d explode in a ball of fire at any moment. He punched the arm of his golden chair and thrust a finger in Stecker’s direction. “Guards, arrest this insolent cur!”

  The two guards at the base of the steps began to ascend, their armor clinking as they moved.

  Stecker raised a finger into the air. “Ah ah, my lord. I wouldn’t do that. If I’m not returned to my people expeditiously, the princess dies. If I’m returned missing any of my limbs, or my faculties, Catera dies—”

  “Don’t you speak her name, you mongrel!” Yira screamed, “Or I’ll kill you myself!”

  Cartherus raised a flat hand, stilling the guards’ movements when they were halfway up the stairs. His hand stretched out to bar Yira any lateral movement, though it was clear she was not actually going to jump at Stecker.

  The tension in the room was stuffy and enveloping. Rink relished in it, licking his lips over and over, his big watery eyes darting from speaker to speaker.

  “Am I understood, my lord?” Stecker asked once everything had come to a standstill and quiet reigned.

  The briefest of nods from the king. “Whoever your people are, they must be good, to break into the castle like you did, without a trace.”

  Stecker furrowed his brow. He couldn’t help but stick the knife a little deeper. “Without a trace, my lord? Why, we left two dead bodies in our wake, and one with a severe headache, did we not?”

  Cartherus sighed raggedly, eyes never leaving Stecker. He could see now that this young fool was trying to goad him into utter rage—but he would not be duped. “Unremarkable face or not, boy . . . I swear I will remember it once you are gone from here.”

  “I have no doubt,” Stecker said with a humble nod of his head.

  “Now, I grow tired of your antics. Tell me the ransom demand.”

  “Sixty thousands Royal Sterlings, my lord.”

  Yira gasped, Ocena clasped a hand over her own gaping maw, and Cartherus was stock-still. A second later, he broke into a deep belly-rumble of laughter, throwing his head back.

  “That’s quite rich, Stecker. Quite rich.” Even Rink was snickering from behind the young man, trying to match his king’s emotions at any given moment.

  “A severe amount, I know,” Stecker said, once the group had finished their laughter and surprise. “But it is the demand.”

  Cartherus narrowed his eyes. “You would try to bankrupt me.”

  Stecker shrugged.

  “And a number like that. Hm, I assume there are six of you, so that each member of your little contingent would walk away with ten thousand Sterlings a piece. Or perhaps twelve, and you each get half that. How close am I so far?”

  For the first time, a flicker of doubt showed on Stecker’s fair face, followed by . . . fear. But he masked it quickly enough. “Pretty close.”

  “Quite the operation you rebels have,” Cartherus said. “I won’t delve into your motive, other than greed and money itself. It doesn’t seem deeper than that—alas, you don’t seem smart enough to think past your own avarice.”

  “The same could be said of you, King Sefyr.”

  “Watch yourself, boy. I may let you leave here yet, but that doesn’t mean I have to let you leave here with your tongue still attached.” He cleared his throat, then leaned even further on the throne, pulling at his beard as he thought and shook his head.

  Finally, he said, “You are clearly an expendable member of your company, or else you wouldn’t be here, boy. And you overvalue your worth, obviously, because you think I will believe that your death will lead to my stepdaughter’s death. Well, your lives are not equal. How could they be? You are a pitiful vagabond, she is the heir to the Sefyr throne.”

  Stecker frowned. A moment passed that seemed like an eon.

  “This negotiation is over,” the king said with a sweep of his hand. “Guards, arrest this man.”

  Stecker’s frown remained. Quickly, he blinked, and when his eyes opened they stared at Princess Ocena for a split second, standing over the king’s shoulder.

  Ocena’s eyes flashed with worry. What is this foolish young rogue trying to tell me?! Why does he look at me? Does he expect me to . . . help him somehow?

  Rink stepped aside as the guards reached the top of the stairs, their clinking armor and footfalls a constant reminder of their large size.

  Two gauntleted hands roughly grabbed Stecker’s skinny arms, and he didn’t resist.

  “W-Wait, my lord!” Ocena blurted out, her heart pounding in her ears.

  The king turned to her with a furrowed brow. “What is it, Stepdaughter?”

  The guards instinctively stopped moving, holding Stecker in place.

  “This man—this vagabond,” she continued. “I . . . I believe you are underestimating him.”

  As she spoke, drawing out the length of the silence, Ocena finally realized what it was that she had originally seen in Stecker’s eyes.

  Caring . . . Caring for my elder sister. Tenderness for Catera. I don’t believe it was planned in his abduction—and he couldn’t have known it would happen—but along the way . . . this man has fallen in love with her.

  And in so short a time.

  But . . . has she fallen for him, too?

  “What is it, Ocena? Speak, girl,” Yira urged.

  “Yes, I grow weary of this entire debacle,” Cartherus added.

  The princess stepped forward, past her father’s throne. Her eyes shrank as she stared at Stecker. “What if he is telling the truth, my king? What if his disappearance does mean we’ll never see Catera again?”

  Cartherus sighed heavily. “Though I doubt it, girl, it is a chance we’ll have to live with.”

  Yira’s eyes bulged at that statement. “What?”

  “It can’t be!” Ocena growled, her voice rising in volume. She spun around, tears nicking the corners of her eyes. “Don’t you see? You can do what you want with me, Stepfather, as I know you will—”

  “Cena, stop this . . .” Yira moaned, a palm flying to her forehead.

  “No, Mother, it must be said!” Somehow, this man had awoken something within her. Ocena had never had this kind of confidence before, and she wasn’t going to let it go to waste.

  No, she would use it, in this moment.

  Thrusting a finger in the king’s direction, she continued. “I am unimportant, I know—not a Queen-in-Waiting. But Catera is important, Stepfather. To you, and to the city itself. To the kingdom. She is your heir, whether you like it or not—”

&
nbsp; “Well—” Cartherus attempted to say, but was cut off.

  “—and you will face the unending wrath of countless peasants if you let the heir to the throne die under your watch. A wave of rebellions will arise like nothing you’ve seen before, I promise you that.” Ocena sniffled, letting the anger flow from her eyes. “And while your kingdom is at war, my lord? Can you . . . can you really afford a civil war while you’re engaged with the Gereads already?”

  Her words were like a hammer. When she said the words “civil war,” she noticed a visible flinch and grimace from the king’s face. He sat back on his throne and seemed to deflate into it, to melt into the gold. Both arms stretched out on the armrests, he stared at his young stepdaughter.

  There was a hungry look in his eyes, and the mound rising between his pants was proof of his arousal at her sudden fire. He had never seen Ocena so adamant before.

  Ocena’s eyes darted to that growing bulge, then looked away ashamedly, her freckled face blushing. She knew she was in for a world of hurt this night . . . but she hoped it would be worth it for her sister.

  All at once, the fight seemed to go out of her.

  But so too did it go out of the king.

  Cartherus waved off the guards holding Stecker. The young man shrugged them away, then flattened his dirty clothes.

  “Tell your people,” Cartherus muttered, “that sixty thousand Sterlings is too much. I will offer you . . .” he grunted in anger. “Thirty thousand. Bring that to your leader.”

  Stecker bowed low. “I will tell my liege of your counteroffer, sire. Shall I return in, say, a week’s time?”

  Cartherus grunted. “Too long. No, this can’t go on longer than it must. Be back here in two days with the princess, and I will have the money ready.”

  Stecker shook his head. “Impossible, sire. What is to stop you from closing those huge doors behind us and killing us all once you’ve sighted the princess? No, we must decide on a third-party location for the transaction.”

  “Very well. Have one of your men approach Rink here, if you see it fit.” Cartherus’ voice was much lower and gravelly than it had been when he’d been full of piss and vinegar.

  He truly did sound defeated.

  But Stecker didn’t believe it for a moment. Nonetheless, he vowed once more for the king, then turned and began to leave the throne room.

  As he reached halfway down the steps, he spun on his heels, a single finger raised. “One last thing, my lord.”

  Cartherus raised a brow.

  “If I am followed—which, believe me, I’ll know . . . it’s my job to know—if that is the case, then instead of receiving the princess in two days time, you will receive her hand . . . and nothing else. Yes? Or, perhaps her breasts in a box.” He shrugged nonchalantly. “It’s not my decision, you see?”

  Cartherus bared his teeth, knotting fists once more, then gave Stecker a quick nod.

  And so Stecker left, his mind whirling as he stepped through those double-doors. The moment he was outside of the throne room, his hands began trembling. He tucked them away in his tunic, but he couldn’t shake away the fear, and the crash of emotions cycling through his head.

  He had noticed something important during that meeting.

  The Princess Ocena . . . not only helped me, without knowing me, but she was also out of her mind.

  Her face glowed when I stepped into that room—so similar in structure to Catera’s, but with something else going on . . .

  He grunted to himself. Princess Ocena is pregnant.

  And that little conclusion gave Stecker a theory that he wanted to relay to Princess Catera . . .

  BACK IN THE THRONE room, Yira was crumbling under the pressure, yelling and throwing a fit with spittle flying from her mouth. She couldn’t believe the insolence, the nerve of the young knave . . . and the weakness of her own husband.

  But King Cartherus Sefyr stayed quiet through her tirade, and Ocena did too, her eyes locked on the king and his strange, despondent behavior.

  Finally, Yira started settling, her shrieks turning into sobs, as she was positive her eldest daughter was lost to her forever, and her evil husband just didn’t care.

  But a few minutes after the vagabond had left the room, a large bearded man crept onto the red carpet leading up those stairs, from behind a thick marble column, as if appearing from the shadows like an apparition. He had his hands clasped behind his back.

  “Well?” Cartherus called down to the man.

  Bino nodded grimly. “Aye, my lord, there is no need to follow the rebel to his hideaway. I already know precisely where it is . . .”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Princess Ocena paced in her room, fidgeting much like her older sister often did. That benign memory of Catera brought a sad smile to her face.

  The young woman wondered what she could do to help Catera stay hidden, for she knew there had to be a greater purpose to Catera’s leaving than simply wanting to flee King Sefyr. Ocena had the nagging feeling that it had to do with her, in some way.

  Before long, the princess stopped pacing. She ran to her small desk and quickly penned a short letter with pen and quill. Folding the small piece of paper, she tucked it away in her nightgown, between her bosom, where she hoped it would stay a secret.

  The words on that letter were treasonous and deadly words, and she knew if they got in the wrong hands, her punishment would be severe . . . more severe than she was regularly punished at night.

  After writing the letter, she left her room. Two guards were immediately by her side. She didn’t bother trying to dissuade them from following her—since Catera’s disappearance, the chances of roaming the castle halls unattended was nil.

  So, Ocena knew she had to be sneaky. She flicked her orange hair from her face and shuffled through the dark, torchlit halls, with the two armored men in step behind her.

  She made her way down to the first level of the castle, then even lower, to where the kitchens were located.

  Chef Larmel manned the kitchen nearly at all hours of the day, and it seemed he never slept. Always wandering the large cookhouse, he had a massive staff of at least twenty men and women, all dressed in white aprons and little hats. His minions worked quietly, diligently, and he’d kept the same staff for years.

  As Princess Ocena arrived at the first archway leading to the high-ceilinged main room of the kitchen, she breathed in deeply and smiled at the sweet smell of baking bread that reached her nose.

  The cookhouse never failed to smell amazing.

  As expected, the head chef was present, wearing an undersized brown apron to differentiate him from his staff and signify his importance.

  Larmel was a large, hefty man with a belly bigger than a keg, who clearly received enough food from his own stores. His saggy chins waggled as he finished cutting some potatoes with a knife, his pudgy fingers working swiftly. Then he slid the knife on his apron in deft motions and sheathed it in its scabbard.

  The cooking knife was Larmel’s weapon of choice, and he was never seen without it.

  Standing in the archway, the two guards breathing down her neck, Ocena smiled at watching the man work. He was surrounded by busy men and women wandering around, bumping into each other like so many bees in a hive. The kitchen was a region of chaos, but organized chaos suited to Larmel’s purposes—and he’d have it no other way.

  Sensing a presence watching him, Larmel turned his head to the archway. He smiled wide at the princess, then gestured for her to step inside.

  He waddled to her, the smile forming lines in his flabby neck. “Ah, my dear young princess! How many days, nay, weeks, has it been since I last saw your delightful face?”

  Ocena nodded her head, slightly blushing. “Your flatter me, Larmel. I know I don’t look delightful.”

  “Nonsense,” Larmel said with a scoff and quick flap of his hand. “You are like a daffodil in the spring. Summer? Whenever daffodils bloom—you are like them . . . then.”

  Ocena giggled. />
  Larmel’s face lit up. “And your laugh is like a healing serum for my aching soul.”

  “Why aching, Larmel?”

  “The disappearance of your sister, of course,” the cook said, scrunching his eyebrows. “My people were questioned by His Royal Highness, you see. None of them would dare participate in such an unpleasant and amoral scheme, of course.”

  “Of course,” Ocena replied with a knowing nod. She could tell that Larmel was putting on a show—not for her benefit, but for the guards behind her. Otherwise, he wouldn’t be speaking so flamboyantly, with his arms waving and his “woe is me” disposition.

  “Come, come, dear girl,” Larmel said, waving her into the room. “Would you like to see what we have cooking for the morning?”

  “Oh, I can’t stay long, I’m afraid. My stepfather will call upon me anytime now . . .”

  A quick frown, but then it was replaced by a flashing in Larmel’s eyes. “I insist, Your Highness.” Coupled with his words, Ocena knew he had something mischievous up his sleeve that begged the princess’ insight.

  She followed him in, past a few tables coated with flour and white-smudged hands kneading dough surrounding the table. The guards were quick to follow, two steps behind the princess, their armor clanking loudly.

  Larmel put his arm around Ocena’s shoulders to bring her close. But then something pointy poked the cook’s back, and he looked over his shoulder with annoyance on his face.

  “Hey, no touching,” one of the guards demanded.

  Larmel raised his hand innocently, so it was just hovering over Ocena’s shoulder. With a brisk snort, he said, “Young man, I have known the princess since she was just a knee-high lass. I’ll have you know that I mean no ill intent. Never on my life.”

  “King’s orders,” the guard grunted.

  “So be it.”

  They came to a table where numerous loaves of warm, dark bread were resting, risen high from being baked, just recently out of the oven.