I couldn’t ask them to risk their lives if I’m not willing to risk my own.
The wagon rattles along as a darkening gray sky spits rain down at us. The roads are crawling with citizens, but few people even glance our way. I’m tense under my cloak anyway. No one will recognize me as the king, but that doesn’t mean we won’t be stopped or questioned. It’s unlikely, but not impossible. Saeth still has bruising along the side of his face and a split in his lip from his fight last night. To the night patrol, it would look suspicious.
I should be worrying about everything we’re doing here. Once we approach Sommer and Reed, there’s a high possibility their homes are being watched—if they’re there at all. But if we succeed here, I’ll need a better plan of what to do next. A successful missiontonightwon’t leave anyone content to sit idle. Victory breeds hope, and there’s precious little of that. I need to nurture it, not squash it.
But I’m not pondering all that, because I can’t stop thinking about that stupid list of dates in Quint’s little book.
What could it be? Why wouldn’t he tell me?
Instead of going back to sleep last night, I laid in bed and stared at the ceiling and wondered about it for an hour. If it were innocuous palace nonsense, like the dates when a tailor was to arrive or when the stationer requested a fresh supply of paper, there’d be no reason for him to keep from telling me. Andnoneof those things would require adding a date to the list after our conversation.
Something to do with the revolt or the rebellion against the palace, then? My heart went cold when I considered that angle. But . . . ? I couldn’t make that work in my head. Quint is part of the revolutionnow. He was in danger from it before. If he were workingagainstme somehow, there’d be absolutely no advantage to staying by my side. He could hand me over to Allisander Sallister and be done with it.
Besides, I can’t figure out why a list of dates with no other information wouldmatter. What good is it? What could he possibly need it for?
Honestly, that’s why I should stop thinking about it.
But I can’t.
The night was so quiet, the light from the lantern spinning his red hair into gold.
Are we going to argue over semantics again, Quint?
If it pleases you.
He’s infuriating. I’m glad he remained behind.
Alone.
A little spike of fear pokes at my heart. He stood in the doorway, blocking Francis and the other men when they came after me with axes and hammers. I have half a dozen of those men with me now, but there are plenty left to harass Quint if they were so inclined.
To say nothing of the patrolmen who fought with Saeth last night.
They were miles away. Saeth said he crossed the stream a dozen times. They won’t be able to find his tracks or follow. Quint is safe. Surely.
He can sit in the house and write notes in his little book.
“Up here,” one of the men says, jarring me from my reverie. “Let me down by the bakery.”
Thorin nods and draws the horses to a slow walk, and the man leaps down from the wagon.
“Thank you kindly for the passage, gentlemen,” the man calls, all part of the act. “I can make it home from here.”
The others shout back to him cheerfully, but my tongue is tied up in knots. Beside me, Thorin clucks to the horses, and they trot on.
I glance at my guard. “They’re all so calm,” I say under my breath.
“They haven’t done anything yet.” He casts a look at me. “And no one wants them dead.”
I suppose that’s true.
Another two drop off the wagon by a bowyer’s narrow shop: a young man named Nook, who can’t be more than sixteen, and his father. Another man jumps down by a butcher’s stall that has dogs lounging on the bricks out front. They’ll all follow the wagon, but quietly. Secretly.
“You know the route?” I murmur to Thorin once most of the others have all dropped off the wagon. Now it’s just me, my guards, and Francis.
Thorin nods. “I know this part of the sector.”
I’m glad one of us does.
