Royal Spy (Fate of Eyrinthia Book 2)

by Heather Frost

  Fang’s eyes narrowed. “I’ve already got another throat to slit tonight. Yours will be no issue for me. Now, tell me where you got this.”

  Karim shifted in his chair. It looked like uneasiness, but Desfan assumed it was a way to work free one of his hidden knives. Desfan forced his body to relax, to be prepared for the inevitable fight.

  “I may have lifted it,” Karim said.

  Fang glanced at one of his guards. “Why don’t you tell them what we heard?”

  The guard eyed them. “There was a raid on a warehouse, maybe ten days ago. Many things were taken. Including olcain, packaged just like this.”

  “Oh.” Karim blinked. “I see.”

  “Good.” Fang smiled a little, and it was the most unpleasant thing Desfan had probably ever seen. “Tell me where the rest of it is.”

  “Well, that’s the trick of it. I have another partner, and he hid it—”

  A knife slammed into the table, a breath away from Karim’s fingers. It was a testament to Karim’s control that he did not even twitch. “Enough lies,” Fang snarled. “That olcain was seized by the serjah himself. So, you are not the quick-finger you’d have me believe. You’re a soldier. City guard, I assume. You’re trying to sniff out who it belongs to.” Fang bared that horrible smile once more. “Too bad you’ll never live to tell your kiv about this conversation.”

  Fang lifted a single finger and half the tavern rose, weapons drawn.

  The pipe music stopped. Several men and women darted for the door, fleeing to the streets.

  Desfan eased closer to the table and lifted the edge of his hood so Fang could see his face.

  It took a moment for the drug master to see the truth, but it was clear the moment he did. His eyes widened.

  “Call them off,” Desfan murmured.

  For a horrible moment, nothing happened. Then Fang lifted his hand and the room settled back to normal; the games restarted, the music began again.

  “Serjah,” Fang muttered, an edge to his low tone. “What a displeasure to see you again. It’s been a few years.”

  “Indeed.”

  Karim stood and Desfan took the seat. He flashed a smile at the drug master. “How is your daughter?”

  Fang growled low in his throat. “If not for her pleas, I would have killed you that night.”

  “The arrival of the royal guard may have also played a part in you backing off.”

  Fang bared his teeth in a grim smile. “Oh, perhaps they helped save you in that moment. But I’m lithe as a serpent. I could have reached you easily enough in the palace.”

  Desfan tipped his head. “So we understand one another.”

  Fang eyed the door. “I assume your men are outside.”

  “Yes.”

  “And you know that I can kill you later if I like.”

  “Yes.”

  “Then, yes, we understand each other.”

  “Perfect.” Desfan leaned in. “You have all but admitted that the olcain belongs to you.”

  “Those words did not leave my mouth. And it was my guard who shared the rumor about a warehouse. Rumors cannot always be believed.”

  “You’re right, of course. But I heard a rumor that the olcain belongs to you. Who were you selling it to?”

  “You must think me a fool.”

  “No, I just think you like your head where it’s at.”

  Fang chuckled, the sound cold. “You have grown, but you haven’t changed.”

  “Who was the buyer?”

  “I wouldn’t know; I’m not involved in this.”

  Desfan settled against the back of his chair. “Give me something and I’ll keep your name out of this. For your daughter’s sake.”

  “Mention her again, and I’ll filet you.”

  “Noted. A name, Fang.”

  He pondered this a moment, glancing again at the doorway. “I don’t know anything but rumors, you understand? But word is, someone in the palace promised protection for the safe delivery of the olcain.”

  “Who?”

  “Don’t know any names. But it must be someone with some kind of power or influence. They said they would make sure nothing went wrong. It may have been one of the nobles in residence, a kiv in the guard, or even someone from the council.”

  “And this someone paid you for the olcain?”

  “That’s not how the rumor went. My understanding is that someone in the palace would get a cut of profits as long as things went smoothly with the delivery. Which it didn’t. Now, I don’t own the powder, and I don’t know who does. But rumor has it, whoever the palace contact is, he’s a dead man.”

  Desfan considered this. “So even though you won’t admit it, you own the olcain and you’re telling me that someone at the palace promised safe delivery. Who is the buyer? Or were you going to distribute it yourself?”

  His eyes narrowed. “For the last time, it’s not mine. Now, there are rumors that I may have agreed for a cut of some powder in exchange for lending the use of a distant relation’s warehouse for temporary storage, but that’s clearly false. My bet? The seller is from Zennor. It’s the buyer I would focus on.”

  “Do you know anything about the ship it came in on?” From Arcas’s report, it wasn’t a registered ship. Probably stolen, and a dead end.

  “Rumor has it the ship belongs to Rahim Nassar,” Fang said, clearly feeling no loyalty.

  Desfan frowned. “That name is familiar.”

  “Should be,” Fang snorted. “The Nassars have been merchants in Duvan for generations, and smugglers for even longer. They’re good, though. Nothing is ever proven. Their profits are never too good. But word is, Nassar has run drugs out of Zennor before.”

  “Olcain?”

  He shrugged. “Don’t know. Could be.”

  “I’ll be sure to pay him a visit. What do you know of the buyer?”

  “Nothing. But rumor has it Zadir is involved.”

  Syed Zadir was more legend than man at this point, and though Desfan had spent time at sea chasing the infamous pirate, he’d never gotten close to catching him. He was almost a ghost.

  Zadir’s involvement in this olcain mess could be real, but it was also possible Fang was just using his name to send Desfan on a worthless chase. Frankly, Fang himself might be the buyer—unless he was just taking a small cut for the use of his relation’s warehouse.

  Regardless, Desfan was out of time. Much longer, and the men Fang had no doubt silently signaled to search the perimeter of the tavern would report back that there were no royal guards stationed outside.

  At which point Desfan and Karim would both be slaughtered.

  Desfan pushed up from his chair, nodding to the pouch. “Keep it. As a thank you.”

  “You are a very interesting serjah.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I’m not sure that was a compliment,” Karim muttered.

  Fang chuckled, a hard edge in the sound. “Indeed.”

  Desfan stepped away from the table and Karim was right beside him.

  They were nearly to the door when two men stepped in front of it, blocking the way.

  “A question for you,” Fang called out, still seated at his table, admiring the rings on his left hand. “How many men do you have outside?”

  Desfan twisted to face the drug master, trusting Karim to guard his back. “Enough.”

  The corner of Fang’s mouth twitched up. “A serjah’s ransom is surely enough to see me into a comfortable retirement.”

  Who would pay it? Desfan nearly shot back. Serai Yahri would probably receive the notice, and since she wanted him off the throne anyway, it wouldn’t be insane to think she’d ignore it.

  Once again, everything in the tavern stopped as men rose from the tables and drew weapons.

  Karim sighed. “Des? Someday I’ll kill you.”

  Desfan eyed the men closing in on all sides and snorted. “I think you’ll have to get in line.”

  Chapter 17

  Desfan

  The ai
r around Desfan’s face was hot in the burlap sack that had been thrown over his head. He was sitting on a dirt floor, his arms secured around a wooden post at his back. His shoulders strained after being in the painful position for what had to have been close to an hour, and the rope around his wrists chafed his skin as he carefully sawed the rope against the sharp corner of the wooden beam.

  “You know,” he said conversationally. “We could view tonight as a success. At least we know Fang is involved.”

  “You’re lucky Fang decided to ransom you, rather than slit your throat,” Karim snapped somewhere across from him, his voice muffled by the bag over his own head.

  “Quiet,” their guard ordered. It sounded like the criminal was several paces away, angled toward them. Desfan had heard him alternately drink and sharpen a blade—and bark at them to keep quiet or stop moving.

  Desfan pushed back against the post, trying to ease the ache in his arms and back. His breathing was loud in his ears, every exhale trapped in the bag around his head. “Do you think Fang has already sent the ransom note?” he asked.

  No response—from Karim, or the guard.

  “He’s probably waiting,” Desfan mused. “He’ll want to make sure everything is carefully arranged.” Ransoms were risky to carry out, especially with royalty involved. Of course, that was assuming anyone at the palace valued him enough to pay for his release.

  He could only imagine how that council meeting would go. If Yahri even bothered to put it to a vote.

  Silence reigned in the warehouse, and Desfan sighed. “Karim, are you asleep?”

  “If you must know,” Karim said, his deep voice flat, “I’m counting all the times you’ve nearly gotten us killed.”

  He snorted softly. “That will be a large number.”

  “It is. And I’m not nearly done.”

  “Stop talking,” the guard said, sounding almost bored.

  Desfan flexed his hands, grimacing as the rope cut into his skin. “When we get out of this, we can look into Nassar and Zadir, and obviously we can arrest Fang.”

  “If we get out of this,” Karim clipped, “Fang is going to flee the country with his gold and you’ll never see him again.”

  Desfan opened his mouth, but before he could speak, a low groan rose from somewhere nearby.

  Desfan tensed. Fang had mentioned he had a throat to slit tonight. Was this other prisoner the one he’d meant? “Hello?” he called out.

  “I said be quiet,” their guard rumbled.

  Footsteps approached, and one of Fang’s men spoke to their guard, speaking too low for Desfan to make out any of the words.

  Wood creaked as their guard presumably stood from a chair or crate. “I’m not going far,” the man told them, warning in his tone. “You’ll still be in my sights, so don’t try anything.”

  Two sets of footsteps drifted away, and Desfan turned his head in the opposite direction, the sounds of groaning and strained breathing reaching him. “Hello?” he tried again. A prisoner of Fang’s might know something about the olcain.

  The shallow breathing hitched. “H-hello?”

  The voice was pained and young. Desfan frowned. “Ori?”

  A pause, then, “How do you know my name? Are you from the crew?”

  The last part was spoken with a hint of hope.

  He hated to dash it, but he told the truth. “No. I’m Serjah Desfan. I saved your life during a raid. Do you remember?”

  A longer pause. “I threw a knife at you.” He sounded a little terrified.

  “You aren’t the first to do that,” Desfan quickly assured him.

  Karim grunted. “Won’t be the last, either.”

  Desfan ignored that. “Ori, are you tied up?”

  “Yes. To a post.”

  “Are you hurt?”

  “. . . A little.”

  Disgust for Fang doubled in an instant. He grit his teeth. “Ori, I need to know everything you know about the olcain and Fang. All of it.”

  Silence.

  Desfan eased his head back against the post behind him, the burlap sack itching his face. “Ori, I want to help you. We’re both prisoners right now, but I swear I can help you once we get out of this. Just tell me what you know.”

  The silence stretched.

  Desfan sighed. “I know you’re part of a gang. That tattoo on your wrist? It’s a mark of your membership. Can you tell me about them?”

  Nothing.

  “Are you—”

  Glass shattered on the far side of the warehouse. Men roared, and blades rasped from their sheaths and then clashed, ringing sharply in the cavernous room.

  Desfan swore and shoved to his feet, his back and arms scraping up the wooden post. He dropped his head, shaking until the bag fell—thank the fates it hadn’t been tied around his neck. He blinked as light from a nearby lamp pierced his eyes, and he struggled to focus on Karim.

  His bodyguard had also pushed to his feet and dislodged the burlap sack, but he had made it a step further—he was slamming a booted heel against a nearby crate, attempting to break a piece off.

  Desfan did the same, cursing the fact that his hands were tied behind him; it made everything more awkward. Finally, a piece of the crate snapped off. Desfan toed it closer, then twisted his body around the post so his back was to Karim. He dropped to a crouch, ignoring the burn as the wooden post scraped his spine. His bound hands snatched the broken piece of the crate, his fingers blindly finding the small nail buried in the wood. He concentrated his efforts with the nail on the weakened part of the rope, which was frayed due to the last hour of careful sawing. The nail was small but sharp, the metal tearing into the worn rope.

  His thighs began to burn from his squatted position, and sweat slicked his fingers and forehead. The sounds of fighting continued unbroken, but a wall of crates blocked his view. It wouldn’t be a rescue; guards would have announced themselves by now, called out for him or at least ordered Fang’s men to surrender. No, the attackers were probably enemies of Fang’s, and Desfan didn’t want to stick around long enough to become their prisoner.

  The rope snapped. His arms were nothing more than dead weights as they swung forward, the sudden lack of tension pitching Desfan forward. He managed to keep from landing flat on his face and pivoted in time to see Karim climb to his feet, his arms swinging uselessly at his sides, his eyes darkly focused. “Go. I’ll get Ori.”

  “No.” Desfan darted in the direction Ori’s voice had come from, quickly rounding a mountain of crates. He winced as sensation rushed back through his deadened arms, but he tried to ignore that as he wiggled his fingers, willing all feeling to come back.

  Ori was tied to a post, just as they had been. Unlike them, no sack covered his face, and it was clear he had been beaten. The young boy’s face was a swollen, bloody, and bruised mess. Fury ripped through Desfan. No one should hurt a child. Ever.

  He dropped behind Ori, tearing at the knots that bound him. He hadn’t bothered to bring the small nail—his fingers had learned a wide variety of knots during his time at sea.

  While Desfan freed Ori, Karim searched for a weapon. Throwing crates aside, he finally found an iron bar. It was used for prying open crates, but it would work in a fight. He gave it an experimental swing, but it was clear from the sagging arc and the grimace on his face that his arms were still recovering from being bound.

  The rope loosened and Ori’s arms fell uselessly to the ground. He hissed in pain, one eye swollen shut as he eyed Desfan. “Are you arresting me because I tried to kill you?”

  “No, I’m saving you.” Desfan hauled the boy to his feet, but Ori’s legs buckled.

  Fates, how long had he been bound?

  Desfan grit his teeth and threw the boy over his shoulder; he didn’t trust his still-tingling arms to carry the waif.

  Karim led the way as they bolted away from the fight. There was always a back door, they just had to find it. Then maybe they could find a city guard patrol, and get reinforcements back here before the
fight was over. Desfan would love to arrest all of them.

  Regardless, getting to safety was the priority. And questioning Ori, once the boy was seen by a physician. Whether or not the boy helped him, Desfan was determined to get Ori into a safer life. He was only nine or ten years old. He deserved so much better than this.

  They rounded a tower of crates, and there was the back door.

  Karim rushed for it, Desfan right behind him with Ori still slumped over his shoulder. Karim yanked open the door and drew up short.

  Several armed men stood outside, blocking the way with their curved swords.

  Desfan froze. Karim’s shoulders tensed.

  One of the men grinned, a menacing edge to it. “Drop the boy.”

  Desfan eased Ori to the ground, keeping a protective and supporting arm around him. “Let him go. He has nothing to do with this.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong,” the man said, his gaze drifting to Ori. “He’s the reason we’re here.”

  Karim’s grip on the iron bar shifted. “You touch him, I kill you.”

  “Oh, I don’t think the dramatics are necessary,” a new voice said. The wall of men parted to reveal a man in his forties. He was large without being overweight, and he had a black beard and black eyes. A sword hung at his side and his hands were braced on his hips. Desfan had never seen him before, but he knew him at once—even if the drawings had failed to capture the full height and breadth of him.

  Pirate captain Syed Zadir smiled. “Serjah Desfan Cassian. What an unexpected pleasure.”

  Ori glanced up at Desfan, the corner of his swollen mouth lifting a bit smugly. “I don’t belong to a gang, Serjah. I’m part of a crew.”

  Desfan and Karim were tied up again, though this time their hands were bound in front of them. His shoulders appreciated the change. They were also in a different warehouse, locked in one of the small offices, sitting across from Syed Zadir. A wall of men stood behind him, arms crossed and eyes narrowed.

  “Well,” Zadir said, eyes sparking with amusement as he studied Desfan. “This night has taken an interesting turn.”

  “Is Ori all right?” Desfan asked.