I stamped my foot, then smoothed the wax and wrote again. All the while I could feel his eyes tracking me, crinkling with restrained amusement.“Lord Quinn, I command you to take me to Caermont.”
I wasn’t sure I had the proper authority to do so, but I had to try.
This time I shoved the tablet toward him. Quinn stepped back to read the message. With a quiet snort, he rolled his eyes and placed both hands on his hips.
“Ah, hells,” he muttered. “Go on and change into something suitable for riding.”
In my surprise, I forgot to maintain my frown.
I hurried into my room again, changing into the plainest dress I could find, then put on a wool cloak and trousers for warmth. A pair of leather boots finished the less-than-regal attire. I waited justoutside for the viscount to catch up, the wax tablet safely stored within my father’s gifted satchel.
Quinn emerged from his quarters in a brown leather doublet, his ornamental sword replaced with a simple blade. Gone were the royal colors that marked him as nobility; he looked the part of a traveling merchant’s guard, and nothing more.
“This way,” he murmured, gesturing away from the main corridor with a roll of the neck. “The servants’ stairs will draw the least attention to us. We’ll take my horse, Niro. He could use the exercise.”
I hesitated, then followed him down a narrow passage I’d never seen before, our footsteps muffled by worn stone. The walls here were plain, functional…a glimpse beneath the glamor of Castle Altaigne. Quinn moved with quiet purpose, pausing at each turn to listen for approaching footsteps. He seemed comfortable sneaking around, begging the question of just how many times he’d gone through these forbidden passageways.
We slipped through a side door into the courtyard. I pulled my hood up in hopes that no one would spot me wandering with the viscount. In the distance, servants called to each other, wheels turned on cobblestone, and life continued as if Percy Montfort had never existed at all.
Quinn’s hand appeared at my elbow, steadying but not presumptuous. He guided me toward the stables with the quiet efficiency of a man who knew when not to ask questions. I’d never liked him more.
For the second time, I rode through the streets of Caermont. This time there were no windows to block out the smells that assaulted my senses. Human waste was far from the only unpleasantness; there was a press of unwashed bodies, a sour wine smell from cheap drinks poured out onto the cobblestone. Street vendors boasted medicines and remedies that were dubious at best, an acrid herbal smoke lingering about their stalls. Vinegar, sweat, and tallow created the foulest of perfumes that hung like fog around the lower district.
How was it that the main entrance and exit for the city cut straight through this impoverished district, which seemed to be arecipe for robberies and attacks? These people would have needed a great deal of fear to keep them in line, and laws to invoke it.
Still, they didn’t seem entirely miserable. There was music in the distance, and children ran about with no mind for reprimand. Even the drunks were contented with their ale, smiling with missing teeth at us as we passed. The lively song grew louder, accompanied by unseen applause.
I touched Quinn’s knee, giving it a light squeeze.
“What is it?” he asked, slowing his horse. I withdrew the tablet and scribbled quickly, small enough to leave room for future messages.
“I want to hear the music up close, if we may.”
Quinn clicked his tongue thoughtfully. “As you wish. I’ll need to find some place suitable to leave Niro. I believe the ostler at the Hart’s Content knows his business.”
Rather than taking the gates that led to the more affluent parts of the city, we continued straight, eventually reaching a drawbridge that led out to a wide field. A single inn stood in the distance, smoke billowing from the chimney.
When we reached it, Quinn sought out the innkeeper and exchanged concise, polite greetings before paying him off. Then he helped me down, giving Niro to the ostler.
There was no telling when the performance might end. I took his hands and pulled with urgency, gesturing for him to hurry along. Quinn stiffened, then quickly laughed it off.
“You want to run?” he asked, flashing his teeth with a sidelong smile. “Very well. Try to keep up.”
He took off toward the drawbridge, scattering late-season dandelions beneath him when he veered from the narrow footpath. I grinned, hurrying to catch up.
I was a practiced runner. I might never match the viscount, as his legs were longer and certainly more muscular, but I made a good enough effort of it that his eyes widened when he turned to check on me.
The race ended when we reached the lower district. Gods forbid we trip over a sleeping beggar or an errant pile of questionable materials. I bumped him, scooping my arm into his, and we followed the sound of the fiddle through winding, narrow alleys. “Where on earth did you learn to run like that?” Quinn asked, composed despite the slight exertion. “I can’t help but imagine you running through the woods, barefooted and knocking arrows to take out your supper.”
I gave him a quizzical smirk, huffing. He could imagine what he wished; it was more entertaining than the boring truth: I ran for perfectly ordinary reasons, whether it meant I was being chased by bees or if I’d gone too far into the woods and found myself caught out at sunset. Most of the time, I ran for the simple pleasure of it.
We came into an opening, and at last the commotion made itself apparent. This was no concert, but a variety of street performances from music to acrobatics. The square was adorned with small, colorful flags, perhaps signifying some kind of celebration.
One man twisted himself into a pretzel, tucking himself away into an impossibly small box. Another rode about on a unicycle, juggling balls in the air and singing vulgar rhymes that delighted the older children in the crowd. There were dancers, puppeteers, and even a sword-swallower. I watched it all with mute fascination, my jaw hanging open at most of the displays.
“Buskers,” Quinn explained, standing beside me as I gawked at a woman who danced with fire. His arms crossed. “A step above beggars.”
My jaw snapped shut and I turned toward him, retrieving the tablet.“Don’t be unkind. They’re artists.”
