The Duchess Quest (Jordinia Book 1)

by C. K. Brooke

  “Still.” Macmillan shuddered. “Let’s move on. We can reach the Knights’ Forest by nightfall if we make haste.”

  “Not if I have anything to say about it.”

  Macmillan was suddenly captured at the wrists, a long sword pointed at his throat by a stranger hooded in black. Bos sucked in a startled breath, as Cosmith slowly lifted his hands in surrender.

  The stranger’s voice issued again in a toad-like croak. “I’ll give you one last warning. Turn around and end your search, and we can forget any of this ever happened.

  “Or,” he cocked his hooded head to the side, bringing his sword more tightly against Macmillan’s throat, “defy me, and the freckled chap gets an incision to the jugular. So, comrades? What’ll it be?”

  Macmillan froze, not daring to move, feeling his eyes bulge with fear.

  Accompanied by the sound of rustling leaves, Jon Cosmith vanished.

  “You coward,” Bos roared after him, extracting his dagger from his belt.

  “Ah, well.” The hooded man grunted. “Shows the integrity of that one.” He gazed in Bos’s direction. “As for you, surrender, or your friend’s life is forfeit.”

  Bos held fast to his dagger.

  The hooded man chuckled, and Macmillan gasped as the gloved grip upon his wrists tightened. “Seen your brother lately, Boslon?”

  The giant flinched, shock registering upon his face. “I have no brother.”

  “Anton warned me you were stubborn. Too loyal for your own good.” The attacker nodded, as though finding the assessment to be true. “He had a hunch you’d join the search party. Your stature was a dead giveaway.”

  “My brother is dead to me.” Macmillan watched as Bos raised his dagger, looking unsettled. “Why do you speak of him?”

  The attacker exhaled with relish. “Don’t tell me you don’t know. Anton Visidair is one of the Republic’s most esteemed spies. Although, perhaps you don’t recognize the new surname he took on?”

  “Being a Visigoth wasn’t good enough for him?” growled Bos.

  “A loyal citizen of the Republic, your brother opted for a name that wouldn’t confuse him for one of those treacherous royalists up north.”

  “He is the traitor. Not I.” Bos’s nostrils flared. “Who are you?”

  “I’ve been hired to stop you.” Macmillan squirmed, but the assasin’s grip was unyielding. “What’s left of your group will come to an end, today.”

  “Did you set fire to the forest?” Macmillan’s voice was tight behind the hit man’s blade. “Did you murder all of those innocent men?”

  “Quiet,” snarled the hit man, pressing his sword harder against Macmillan’s throat, and Macmillan gasped. “Enough. Drop your knife, Visigoth, or the boy dies.”

  “Fine. Fine.” Carefully, Bos lowered his dagger to the ground. “For the love of the Eternal God, no more killing.”

  “I’m afraid I cannot promise you that, Bos.”

  Before Macmillan could register who’d spoken, a pair of legs flung down from the tree in front of them, boots first, nearly missing his own face. They collided with the attacker’s wrists, knocking the sword clean from his grip.

  The instant he was freed, Macmillan grabbed hold of the assassin, locking his hooded head in the crook of his arm.

  They looked up to see Cosmith wielding Bos’s dagger.

  “Remove his hood,” commanded Cosmith. Macmillan pulled it back, revealing a man of middle age with curly graying hair. Cosmith drew in an audible breath.

  Macmillan comprehended the look of recognition passing between their faces. “You know this man, Jon?”

  Cosmith’s eyes flashed. “Quixheto,” he said with a smirk, “the formidable Jordinian assassin.” He clicked his tongue. “What a predicament you’re in now, comrade. Could it be that you’re beginning to lose your touch, old man?”

  “How’s the life of a free agent suiting you, Cosmith?” gurgled Quixheto, the lines on his face becoming more pronounced with Macmillan’s tightening grip. “You had so much potential. But you threw it all away to become a mere pick-pocket. Or so I’ve heard.”

  “I’ve been taking care of myself, thanks.” Cosmith brought the dagger to Quixheto’s nose. “I’d no need to continue a life of subservience to a government that wished to control my every move.”

  “Admit it. Everything you learned, you opted to use for your own means, rather than in service to your nation.” Quixheto broke into a gray-toothed grin. “You did not pay your dues, Cosmith. You went away without leave. You are a wanted man.” He laughed. “I ought to escort you straight to DuBerre.”

  “Well, good luck trying.” Cosmith nodded to Macmillan, who lifted the man’s chin, exposing his throat. “Flammable chemicals….” Cosmith tsked, raising the dagger. “I should’ve known it was you. You always did possess a penchant for the laboratory.”

  “Do it, I dare you,” hissed Quixheto. “If you spare my life, I promise I’ll not spare yours.”

  “That’s my dagger, Cosmith.” Bos wrested back his weapon, looking fierce. “It is not for you to shed human blood with. And as I recall, you were not to take anything else from us without permission.”

  “Sorry, Bos.” Cosmith shrugged with a handsome grin. “Old habits….”

  “Die hard,” finished Macmillan, as Cosmith plunged his fist against Quixheto’s skull. The hit man went limp, and Macmillan released his hold.

  “Is he dead?” asked Macmillan uncertainly.

  Bos felt for his pulse, glaring between them. “He lives. He’s only unconscious.”

  “We should kill him,” said Cosmith, glancing over at the assassin’s fallen sword.

  “No.” Bos snatched the sword before he could reach it.

  “Why the bloody deuce not?” Cosmith was incredulous. “When he comes to, he’ll be on our tail again!”

  Speechless, Macmillan watched as the giant swung the weapon over his shoulder and hurled it into the field behind them.

  “What are you doing?” Cosmith confronted him. “We should keep that for ourselves!”

  “I am not a murderer.” Bos glared at him. “Or a thief.”

  Macmillan stepped in. “Bos, Jon’s right. We can’t leave him alive. He’ll only come after us again.”

  “Killing him solves nothing. The Republic will only send more just like him. All that matters,” growled the giant, “is that we find the duchess and bring her to Gatspierre, honorably.” He stalked off, his long legs creating considerable strides. “Are you coming or not?” he called over his broad shoulder.

  Macmillan glanced at Cosmith, but his friend was busy gazing greedily at the sword glimmering in the field behind them.

  DAINY STOOD BY THE FRY pan, stirring another spoonful of honey into the sauce. With a wooden spatula, she overturned the hen breasts as they sizzled, their sweet glaze glistening temptingly in the firelight. Her stomach groaned audibly. She had gone without lunch again that day to save on supplies, and dinner couldn’t come soon enough.

  The front door rolled open, but she didn’t have to turn to recognize Aunt Paxi’s sigh. “My word, it’s hot out there.” The woman slipped off her worn sandals. “But sure smells good in here.” Paxi’s hair was swirled into a bun, sweat shining on her face. “Been raking dirt all day.” She frowned. “The inn’s been lookin’ ramshackle lately. Not good for business.”

  “We’ll be fine,” Dainy assured her, with what she hoped was an encouraging grin.

  Paxi didn’t look convinced. She took the ends of Dainy’s hair between her fingertips. It was beginning to curl inward, behind her earlobes. “It’s grown some,” she remarked. She met Dainy’s eyes. “Don’t you ever sell any part of yourself again, you hear?”

  Dainy could see the sorrow on her face, and realized what her aunt must’ve been thinking. “It was just hair, Aunt Pax,” she said, surprised. “Shees
h,” she tried to tease her, “what do you take me for?”

  “A princess,” replied the woman with conviction, and Dainy eyed her strangely. Paxi appeared as though she wanted to say more, but the front door opened, interrupting them.

  Pascale and Priya entered the bungalow together, laughing.

  Priya’s bronze face flushed beautifully as she caught Dainy and Paxi watching her. Clearing his throat, Pascale suddenly became fascinated with the straps of his sandals, and he made a noticeably slow effort of removing them.

  “And where’ve you two been all day, I wonder?” said Paxi through a barely-concealed grin.

  “Pascale took me for a sail,” replied Priya breathlessly. Dainy had never seen her eyes shine so brightly. She looked a decade younger.

  “Mm-hmm.” Paxi smirked. “You two were gone an awful long time. You sure all you did was sail on that boat?”

  “Paxiamma,” snapped Priya, and Paxi laughed heartily.

  Pascale continued to work on his sandals. Dainy studied him, realizing his cheeks were lifted into a smile. “Tomorrow morning, I leave for Hopestone Bay,” he informed them in his steady voice. “I won’t be gone long. And I will return with fresh catch for you ladies.”

  “Mm-hmm,” intoned Paxi again, winking at Dainy.

  THEY MADE CAMP A MILE from the Knights’ Forest that evening. Amidst the hooting of owls, Macmillan broke the silence that had long since befallen them. “Can we address the ornery blue at our fireside?”

  “The what?” asked Bos and Cosmith in unison.

  “It’s an expression.” Macmillan blinked. “You’ve never heard of the ornery blue?” he added at their joint nonplussed faces. “It is a bear native to my forest,” he explained, “named for its blue hue and unusually nasty temperament.”

  “Sounds fascinating.” Cosmith chucked his fish bones into the fire.

  “And what is this proverbial ornery blue that you wish to discuss, Macmillan?” grunted Bos. He appeared tired. His shoulder-length blond hair was looking particularly stringy, and his untrimmed goatee had begun to grow fairly wild.

  “Quixheto,” said Macmillan, and both he and Bos carefully turned to Cosmith. “You knew that assassin, Jon.”

  Cosmith sighed, tossing back his hair. It, too, had begun to grow unruly in the midst of their travels. “I’m not supposed to speak of it.” He shrugged theatrically. “But yes, I knew him. He was one of my superiors when….” His voice faded midsentence as he peered into the fire, its flames dancing in his pupils.

  “When?” pressed Macmillan.

  “When I worked for Jordinian Intelligence,” Cosmith mumbled into his hand.

  Bos choked on his canteen. “You what?”

  “Worked, man,” insisted Cosmith. “In the past tense. I left the service.”

  “That’s right,” said Macmillan, recalling the hit man’s words. “You went away without leave.”

  “You’re an abandoner,” accused the giant.

  Cosmith’s head shot up. “Wait just a minute, Bos,” he snapped. “If you hate the Republic so much, then why would you mind if I ditched them?”

  “Because it shows you’ve no fealty whatsoever.” Bos rose to his feet, looking angry. Macmillan was disconcerted.

  “And why should I bestow my loyalty upon the New Republic when they hoard our taxes and withhold our wages, against the very laws they claim to uphold?” Cosmith was now standing as well. “The Republic controlled my every move, with the promise that I was serving a just system. But that is bollocks, because their leaders are rolling in surpluses withheld from the citizens to which they belong. I realized, why should I cater to a brood of corrupt old crooks to my detriment?”

  “So you became a crook yourself?” asked Bos coldly.

  “At sixteen, I was recruited.” Cosmith grit his teeth. “Stealing, spying—these are the only skills I have, the only life I know. How else was I to make a living after I left, with no more salary and no family to speak of? What did you do for a living in Jordinia, anyway, Bos?”

  “What anyone does in the north,” he grunted. “Woodwork.”

  “But what does it matter anymore?” Macmillan looked between them. “You both are banished from Jordinia now, anyhow. Instead of squabbling about your pasts, should we not be discussing our future?”

  “I’ll tell you our future!” Cosmith glared at Bos. “That blasted assassin is going to kill us, all because our grand old hero did not have the nerve to off him first!”

  “Murder is cowardice.” Bos lumbered off in the opposite direction.

  “Where are you going?” demanded Cosmith.

  “To sleep.”

  When Macmillan could no longer make out Bos’s huge shadow, he turned to discern Cosmith’s face in the moonlight. “Our plan is unclear to me, Jon,” he confessed. “Are you and I not still competing against each other? At some point, shall we not part ways?”

  Cosmith snorted. “I’m not fool enough to brave the Knights’ Forest without an experienced guide. I saved your life again, from Quixheto, so do me another favor in turn.”

  Macmillan fell quiet. “Is…that the only reason you stopped Quixheto from killing me? Because you knew I could navigate the forest, and you can’t?”

  Cosmith chuckled, though his eyes shifted evasively. “Come off it, mate. You sound like some jealous mistress.”

  Macmillan ignored the jab, unable to quell his mounting disappointment. “Ah, but I understand now. I told you, the day we met, that I hailed from the Knights’ Forest. I see why you have made such efforts to preserve my life. You want me to serve as your ‘experienced guide’ when we come to my homeland, is that so?”

  “Why should it matter?” Cosmith laughed blithely. “Is it not enough that I’ve now rescued you twice?”

  “And what did you plan on doing with me after we made it through the forest?” Macmillan lifted an eyebrow. “Finish Quixheto’s job? Eliminate the last man standing in your way?”

  Cosmith smirked. “This is a competition, Mac.”

  Macmillan felt something heavy settle in the pit of his stomach. “Bos was right. You’ve no fealty or honor. You care only for yourself.”

  “You owe me a life debt, Mac,” Cosmith reminded him. “I saved your neck again, this time literally.”

  Macmillan shook his head in disbelief. “I’m not playing your little game, Cosmith. Tomorrow morning, we part ways. Good luck in the forest by yourself. But I will not be used by a false friend.”

  WHEN THE SUN ROSE THE next morning, Macmillan wasn’t entirely surprised to discover Jon Cosmith missing. The man had shown his true colors. Macmillan should have trusted his instincts from the beginning.

  And yet, in spite of himself, he couldn’t help but feel a sense of disappointment that his new friend wasn’t really a friend—and now, had really gone. Why had he been fool enough to allow Cosmith under his skin?

  Bos, however, seemed unfazed. “Never trusted that one,” he grunted, and that was all he said for the rest of the day.

  At least with Cosmith around, there had been tall tales and banter, jesting and singing to pass the time. Now, with just Bos for company, the hours passed too quietly, the only sounds being the crunching of twigs beneath their feet, distant birdcalls, and the men’s own lumbered breathing.

  Macmillan had never been to the eastern corner of the woods; he’d been raised farther west. But he was familiar with the forest, knew how to look for signs of water and game, and which of the berries were edible or poisonous.

  After days in the great forest, once the eastern coastline became visible from the peaks of the high hills, Macmillan finally spoke to his companion. “Erm, Bos?”

  The man didn’t look up. It wasn’t very encouraging, but Macmillan continued nonetheless. “We are almost to Heppestoni. Should we not consider our plan once we arrive?”

  “Plan
?”

  Macmillan hesitated. “What exactly is our strategy? I, for one, have no idea what the former duchess of Jordinia would look like.”

  “I do.” Bos seemed unconcerned. “She will have raven hair and green eyes, like her mother. I saw an etching of the royal family once, when I was a lad.”

  This did little to bolster Macmillan’s confidence.

  “And fair skin, of course,” added Bos. “Thus, Eludaine should stand out, as Heppestonians are a dark-skinned people.”

  “So I’ve heard,” said Macmillan impatiently. “But how shall we find her? It’s a large country. Who might know of a light-skinned woman residing there?”

  Bos rolled his mountainous shoulders. “The sorts of men who tell tales, perhaps. Sailors?”

  Macmillan halted, his eyes drifting to the coastline. “Why, that’s it.”

  Bos glanced at him.

  “But I cannot believe I hadn’t thought of it sooner!” Macmillan brought his hand to his brow with a smack. “We should head to port!” He nearly leapt forward in his newfound excitement, pointing at the shoreline on the horizon. “Hopestone Bay lies yonder. We can make it by nightfall. From there, we can sail south to Heppestoni. Our journey will be much swifter. And on our way, we can inquire of the local seamen if they know of a white woman in their land.”

  Bos stroked his goatee thoughtfully. “To the bay, then,” he agreed.

  Macmillan grinned and pressed ahead through a thicket of pines, energy renewed.

  JON COSMITH SELDOM REGRETTED ANYTHING in life. But the day after he’d abandoned the last two members of the search party, he found himself wishing he’d stayed. His chances of continuing the quest and gaining the coveted gold, after all, would have been greater with Marley Macmillan’s savvy of the Knights’ Forest, and under the giant’s hulking protection.

  He cursed himself for having been so careless with his words. Surely, he could have managed to weave together some story, talk himself out of the mess into which he’d invariably gotten himself.