“I need to report to the king,” Jev said. “He sent me on a mission, and I have the results. He’ll want them before he goes to see the elves.”
The guards looked at each other, neither moving from in front of the door.
“He said he wasn’t to be disturbed, that he was in a hurry,” the more talkative one said. “If you wish to wait—” he gestured to a table and a couple of chairs in an alcove a short ways down the hall, “—I’m certain you can speak to him when he comes out.”
Jev frowned and looked at Zenia. Would he ask her to manipulate the guards into letting him in? She had used her dragon tear to do that once before and hadn’t felt comfortable about it then or now. Since this dragon tear was so powerful, it was a little too tempting to use it to wave away problems. An image of Heber Dharrow popped into her mind, reminding her of one of the problems she wanted to wave away—or manipulate into getting out of the way.
“Fine,” Jev said, stepping toward the chairs. “We’ll wait—”
The door opened, and Targyon came out in socks and trousers with his shirt half-buttoned. He waved a silk cravat in one hand and a jacket in the other. They were of slightly different shades of green.
“Marea,” he called down the hallway, not seeming to notice Zenia and Jev. “Marea, I need more color options. Do you know where the cravats are?” He noticed Jev, and his cheeks colored for some reason. “There has to be more contrast. Or no contrast. These are too similar. But not similar enough.” He stared down at the items, then rushed inside.
One of the guards scratched his head. He’d stepped aside when Targyon burst out, leaving the doorway somewhat accessible.
Jev headed for it. The guard lifted his hand.
“He invited me in,” Jev said.
“What? He called for the maid.”
“In what was a clear cry for fashion help.” Jev pushed the hand away. “This is a job for a zyndar.”
The guard wasn’t determined enough, and Jev pushed past. Zenia slipped through after him.
“Aren’t you colorblind?” she whispered.
“Yes, so?”
“How are you going to help him pick a cravat?”
“I’m not. I’m going to tell him to relax and put on something regal.”
Targyon, who had disappeared into his bedroom, rushed back out again, heading toward the parlor, as if he’d left something in there, or was simply looking all over in a mad dash.
Jev stepped forward to intercept him, gripping him by the shoulders. “Sire.”
“Jev!” Targyon said. Zenia expected to hear exasperation in his voice or maybe even a threat, but Targyon gripped him back. “She’s here. She came back!”
“Uh, who did?” Jev asked.
“Yesleva. The elven princess.”
“The one who came for the…” Jev glanced at the door and lowered his voice. “The Eye of Truth?”
“Yes. I don’t know what she wants yet, but what if she’s the new diplomat? I suppose that’s unlikely given her societal rank and importance to her people, but what if she is? Did you know she’s an artist? I asked to see her work someday. Maybe she brought some pieces along. She’s a scholar, too, you know. She can read all four of the First Races’ ancient languages.”
“You can, too, can’t you?” Jev released Targyon, looking like he might also want to scratch his head.
Zenia found herself less puzzled.
“Yes, but she’s a woman,” Targyon said.
A plump gray-haired maid rushed in with no fewer than eight cravats, all in shades of green.
“Marea,” Targyon blurted, abandoning Jev. “That’s perfect. Will you help me choose one?”
“Of course, Sire.”
“I’m confused,” Jev murmured to Zenia.
“His Majesty has a crush on the elven princess,” she responded equally quietly.
“Oh.” Jev brought his fingers to his mouth. “Oh dear.”
Zenia only nodded. It seemed to be the month of marriages—or desires for marriages—that society, or parents, would never allow to happen.
“Is the tower all right, Jev?” Targyon selected an attractive pale-green cravat. “Did you get any information you needed out? I ordered a cleaning team to be sent down right away.”
“Ah.” Jev lowered his hand. “I’m afraid you’ll need to send a construction crew.”
“What happened?”
“It was already in some disarray…” Jev looked to Zenia, as if for confirmation.
“Broken vases on the floor and a dagger in a pillow qualify as disarray, yes,” she said.
“And then there were two elven wardens there, who conjured up a shadow golem to try to kill us. While taking swings at us with glowing magical swords.” Jev rubbed his shoulder. “We did find out that the ambassador wrote a letter to tell his king that Lornysh was here in the city. He didn’t send it, but… it does seem that his people are aiming for Lornysh. And these elven wardens could be trouble for more than just him. They threatened us simply because we showed up at the tower.”
Targyon, busy buttoning his shirt, didn’t look up. “I can ask her if she knows anything about it. She’s on her way up. I wish I’d had more notice. Do you think she’ll like a feast of human food? I’m having the chef cook gort three ways. Elves like greens, right? And berries. We’re doing a berry compote for dessert. Am I forgetting anything?”
Targyon looked earnestly at Jev, frowned, then turned his earnest expression on Zenia. Craving a woman’s opinion? Marea had, perhaps wisely, fled after delivering the clothing accessories.
Zenia stood taller and tried to appear worldly about such matters. “I know little of elven culinary preferences, I’m afraid, but perhaps a gift would impress her with your thoughtfulness?”
“A gift.” Targyon whirled and peered around his suite. “Of course. I should have thought of that. What would she like? I have… a castle. Do you think there’s anything good enough in it for an elven princess?”
“Maybe some flowers from the garden?” Zenia had been touched when Jev picked flowers for her.
“Elves consider it gauche to cut plants if it’s not for medicine or sustenance,” Targyon said.
“Didn’t you write some poems when we were in the field?” Jev asked.
Targyon frowned. “The stuff I wrote during the war was moribund and overly flowery and verbose.”
“Perfect.”
Zenia couldn’t tell if he was teasing Targyon. She hoped not.
“Have a scribe copy one for her,” Jev said, sounding sincere in his suggestion. “In pretty letters and on nice paper.”
“A scribe? I’ll do it myself. You two—” Targyon waved at Zenia and Jev, “—had a big battle, you said? Take the rest of the day off. I’ll let you know if she needs anything from my agents. Thanks for the help!” Targyon sprinted out of the room.
Zenia wondered if she should have pointed out that he was only wearing socks on his feet.
Jev stared at the empty doorway. “I didn’t mean for him to leave. Or dismiss us. You’d think he would want one of his spy captains with him at a dinner with a foreign dignitary.”
“Perhaps not if he plans to read poetry to a lady.”
A lady who was probably a couple of hundred years older than Targyon. Zenia feared nothing would come of their king’s infatuation.
“I had intended to make a more thorough report,” Jev said.
“Maybe it would be within the realm of our duties to arrange a construction crew so Targyon doesn’t have to worry about it?” Zenia suggested.
“And send him the bill afterward?”
“There may be skilled laborers here who are already on the payroll and can do the job.” Zenia had seen workmen on scaffolding around the castle a couple of times since she’d started her job.
“I’ll check into it,” Jev said. “You should obey our monarch and take the rest of the day off.”
“What would I do? It’s not even dark yet.”
“Relax. R
ead a book. A book of poems, perhaps. Though I can’t recommend elven poetry. Or you could come with me to look for Lornysh if you’re bored. We could get dinner somewhere in town on the way. But…” Jev shifted his focus from the doorway to her. “I suppose someone might misconstrue that as a date if they saw us. I hate that I have to care about what people think. I will talk to my father tomorrow. And put an end to his meddling.”
Zenia didn’t think that would be as easy as Jev thought, but she tried to give him an encouraging smile. She would have loved to go with him to find his friend—and enjoy a dinner. It was the time of year when people ate on the patios outdoors, enjoying the sea breeze and the view of the harbor. And holding hands as they walked along the boardwalk afterward, the sun burnishing the waves as it set.
But not Zenia and Jev. Not tonight.
“Go find Lornysh,” she said. “I’ll figure out how to send a construction crew to the tower.”
Jev hesitated. “I don’t want you stuck with all the grunt work while I wander around the city.”
“If it makes you feel better, you can grunt while you wander.”
“Would you find that sexy?”
“Grunting?”
“Yes, in a manly and somewhat savage manner. It would be very un-zyndar-like.”
“Then it would have to be sexy, yes. I hope you’ll show me after you find Lornysh.” She waved for him to go.
“Zenia, I’ll—”
“Go.” She rested a hand on his chest. “Your friend needs you.”
He hesitated a little longer, then clasped her hand and kissed her on the cheek. “Thank you.”
As he jogged out of the suite, Zenia tried not to think about the tingle she’d felt at the brush of his lips and how nice it would be if they could have that dinner out together. With or without grunting.
6
Clangs emanated from Arkura Grindmor’s jewelry shop, along with a grinding noise, the sounds promising the master crafter had not gone home for the night. Jev hoped Cutter hadn’t either.
Jev hadn’t seen Lornysh since the night before, and after seeing the aftermath of the fight in the tower, he was worried. He didn’t know where to look to check up on him. Despite all his mentions of symphonies, museums, and theaters, Lornysh never spoke of going to them, only of having been. If he was smart, he was lying low, or he’d left the city altogether. The idea made Jev sad. He at least wanted a chance to say goodbye to his friend.
Hoping Cutter would know where Lornysh had gone, Jev headed into the shop.
Heat blasted his face when he opened the front door, reminding him of that smithy and being attacked by that elf. A different elf from the two who’d ambushed Jev and Zenia in the tower. How many wardens were in the city? Lornysh had said at least four.
“Jev?” The grinding stopped, and Cutter looked up from a machine in the corner of the front room. A loupe and several blue gems lay in front of him.
“Are you allowed to talk?”
Jev peered around for Master Grindmor. Every time he’d spoken with the bearded dwarf female, she had been brusque. He had no trouble envisioning her cracking a whip to keep her new apprentice at work.
“I’m a grown dwarf, Jev. I can talk whenever I want.”
“Why don’t I hear the sounds of sapphires being cut?” a bellow came through the door behind the display counter.
“And as a grown dwarf, I like to work while I talk.” Cutter turned the machine back on and held a gem attached to the end of a stick to the grinding tool.
Jev grimaced, approaching warily as blue dust flew. “Have you seen Lornysh lately? Since yesterday?”
“No, but I heard there are elf wardens all over the city like ants on a honeyed rock tart.”
“Have you ever noticed that all of your baked goods have the word rock in them?”
“Because they’re hefty. Like all good pastries are.” Cutter cut off the machine again, his face grave as he met Jev’s eyes. “They’re after Lornysh, aren’t they?”
“Yes. And they’re happy to kill any war veterans they happen to chance across on the way.” Jev touched his bruised shoulder. “One would have killed me today if Zenia and her dragon tear hadn’t been nearby to help.”
Cutter frowned. “Wanton killing isn’t very elf-like. Didn’t your people sign a treaty with the Taziir before leaving?”
“Of a sort. It was more of a promise that we were done infiltrating their continent and wouldn’t bother them again unless provoked.”
“Coming to your city and killing people isn’t provoking?”
“I don’t think they’ve killed anyone yet. Just issued threats. Painfully.” Jev thought that warden would have killed him, if he’d been able. “Zenia and I were in the elven embassy, so we were technically trespassing.”
“Hm.”
“Lornysh came to see me last night and said he might have to leave.”
Cutter’s bushy eyebrows rose. “You didn’t offer to help him with these elves?”
“I did. He said he doesn’t want us to risk our lives on his behalf.”
“What? There aren’t many elves in the world that I like. If you can’t take such risks on behalf of one who you do, what’s the point in befriending someone with pointy ears?”
“That’s what I told him. More or less.”
“Friends fight to protect friends. That’s how it works, Jev.”
“I agree. I have an errand I need to run tonight—” an errand that, if successful, might make his chat with his father easier, “—but after that, I’m going to check some of the cultural events going on in the city to see if I can find Lornysh.”
“Cultural events?” Cutter curled a lip.
“Do friends not go to cultural events to protect friends?”
“That’s asking a lot.”
“I can check by myself. I just came by to see… I was hoping he’d come to say goodbye to you. If he means to leave.”
Master Grindmor stomped out of the back, slapping her palms together and sending puffs of fine powder into the air.
“You.” She pointed a finger at Jev. “Should’ve known it was some chatty zyndar distracting my apprentice. He’s far too old to start training, so it’s mostly charity that I’m teaching him anything at all. He doesn’t need interruptions.”
“I was telling him about the hostile elven wardens in the city,” Jev said, not commenting on her charity—or the fact that silver dust coated her beard. “Cutter and I both fought in the war against their kind, so we’ll need to be careful.”
“More elves? They come on that sissy tree that floated into the harbor, masquerading as a ship?”
“No, they came on their own earlier in the week.” Jev wondered how long the wardens had been here looking for Lornysh and what kind of ship they’d arrived on. “I could use your apprentice’s help to make sure our friend is all right.”
“You want to be the one responsible for delaying his training?”
“It is three hours past the end of the work day,” Jev pointed out.
“The human work day. It’s shocking your kind get anything done, what with all the sleeping and playing you do. Cutter, how much does this friend mean to you?”
“A great deal, Master.”
“Fine, go help him. But I expect payment in the morning.” She rubbed her dusty fingers together and stalked toward the back room again. “And take that hammer along. You need more than a pointy hook against wardens, not that I’m suggesting you cross elves with that kind of training, mind you.”
“I will. Thank you, Master.” Cutter lifted his hook in a cheerful wave.
“You have to pay her if you take time off?”
“In pastries, yes. Now that a dwarven baker has set up in the quarry square, it’s easy to bring her quality ones.” Cutter headed for his faded tool pouch. He’d carried it all through the war, so Jev recognized it easily.
“Quality ones with rock in the name?” he asked as Cutter opened the pouch.
“A pastry is
n’t worth eating if you can’t throw it and knock someone unconscious, Jev.”
“Maybe we should get a dozen to use on the elves.”
“You couldn’t carry a dozen, but I can pick you up some in the morning.”
“Thoughtful. Thank you.”
Cutter withdrew a smithy hammer that was blunt on both ends and had the heft of the aforementioned pastries. Jev had seen it dozens of times before, and he wondered why Grindmor thought Cutter needed it against elves. As far as Jev knew, it was just a tool. Cutter had used it to repair all manner of armor and weapons the soldiers had brought to him during the war.
“Vastly improved.” Cutter smiled and brought it over, holding it reverently in his hands. “See?”
Jev was about to say he didn’t see anything, but he noticed the hammer appeared newer than he remembered, completely free of scratches and dents. And was that a faint silvery-blue sheen to it?
“She imbued it with magic,” Cutter added.
“Oh? What does it do?”
“It’s impossible to break now, and it’s attuned with the earth. Like me.”
“Does that mean it doesn’t bathe often and smells like rocks?”
“It means it’ll thwack an elf in the nose with extra oomph. Isn’t it wonderful? She did it as a reward for my adequacy.”
“Adequacy? Is that the flattering word she used?”
“It is.” Cutter beamed and held the hammer to his chest as if he planned to snuggle with it in bed. Maybe he already had.
“A minute ago, she said you were old and barely worth training.”
“She’s harsh because she wants me to work hard and live up to my potential. That’s how I knew I was doing good. When she said I was adequate.”
“You’re an odd dwarf, Cutter.”
“No, I’m an adequate one.” Cutter stuffed the hammer through his belt. “I’m going to make a special holster for it later. I can still use it as a tool, but I intend to carry it with me when I go into battle now.”
“For thwacking elven noses?”
“Precisely. Once I learn how, I’ll imbue one of your weapons with magic, so it’s better at thwacking too.”
Elven Fury (Agents of the Crown Book 4) Page 9
