Yarif clutched the ink well. A little victory. Not much, but he’d take any win at all. Was he about to be attacked? Was Commander Draylon about to teach him a lesson? Use his strength to strike fear into the heart of the traitor’s son?
Yarif removed the pin from his hair in a casual gesture, palming the makeshift weapon as his braid fell over his shoulder. He surveyed the room with dismay. What did those wretches think they were doing? Only one he saw even knew Renvallian, in which most papers were written.
They’d taken them out of order, spreading documents on the desk and floor—the floor!—in some haphazard pattern.
Commander Draylon spoke in Yarif’s native tongue again. “Emperor Soland sent them to find any documents pertaining to Delletina.”
“Delletina? Why Delletina.” A pool of dread settled in Yarif’s stomach.
“Your father planned to wrest Renvalle from the empire. Delletina is also not part of the empire and they’re Renvalle’s closest neighbor. We’ll also want mentions of Craice and other of the empire’s enemies.”
Yarif huffed, stalking across the floor to open an ornate cabinet. He pulled out a bundle of papers. “Here they are, filed under ‘D’ for Delletina. Or does Delletina start with another letter in Cormiran?”
Commander Draylon’s brows wrinkled. “You openly maintain files on Delletina? You admit to being treasonous like your father?”
“Theyareour closest neighbor to the north, as you pointed out. Occasionally shepherds cross the border looking for the odd lost sheep or two. We currently have around one hundred and fifty citizens who came here to escape the drought seven years ago. Because of their secrecy, we have little information on Craice.”
“Do the Delletinians bear tattoos?”
Yarif snorted. He’d heard that anyone not born on Cormiran soil, of parents born on Cormiran soil, was considered a risk and identified on arrival by a tattoo. A perfect way to ensure anyone so marked would never succeed in business, as they were avoided by other citizens concerned with being labeled guilty by association. “That’s your barbaric custom, not ours. Someone native-born is just as likely to turn traitor as someone from another nation. Should we tattoo all citizens? Defeats the purpose, don’t you think?”
He didn’t mention the distinctive tattoo on Captain Rufe’s wrist.
Commander Draylon remained quiet, studying the mess, then knelt, extending a hand toward the papers.
“Don’t!” Yarif snapped. “I’ll take care of these. Your people have done enough damage already.”
“Where is your secretary? Shouldn’t they be overseeing the office?”
“This ismyoffice. I served as secretary to my brother. In the future, if the emperor needs information, ask first. Not all records on Delletina have to refer to treason, do they?” Yarif hated nothing more than wasting time redoing completed tasks. The current grain inventory lay on his desk. No telling where the other inventories were. He’d been working on those two days ago when an arrow flying through his window announced the army's arrival.
Granted, he only had access to matters Baro handled. The dratted commander could ransack Father’s office all he wanted—probably already had.
Even relaxing his rigid stance didn’t make Commander Draylon any less terrifying. “While I understand your wishes, the emperor insists on a full accounting. I’ll allow you to remain here and appoint a secretary to oversee the work. Is that agreeable?”
Agreeable or not, what choice was there? “I suppose.”
Commander Draylon saluted with an arm over his chest, a mocking gesture when aimed at a civilian. “I’ll send in a guard to stay with you until I select a suitable secretary.”
“At the moment, I outrank you. Now, begone with you and let me work.” Yarif could take little more of this infuriating man.
Commander Draylon stuck his head out the door and murmured in low tones. When he returned, he said, “Someone is fetching the secretary. He is to be present whenever you’re in this room. Guards will remain outside the door.”
“Are they guarding me? Or are they guarding everyone else from me? Because after such a display of utter disrespect, I won’t be kind to anyone approaching my door.” Even armed with only a thin blade fashioned as a hairpin, much carnage could be wrought.
“A bit of both, I think.” The corner of the commander’s lips tilted upward, then was quickly schooled into a hard line.
A knock sounded on the door, and Commander Draylon opened the wooden panel. An older man with a well-trimmed white beard and hair entered, his dark brows a startling contrast.
The commander beckoned the man forward. “Prince Yarif. This is K’yel, one of the emperor’s secretaries. He’ll remain with you. I understand your mother was from Draige. Do you understand the language?”
“Yes,” Yarif grudgingly admitted. It wasn't lost on him that Commander Draylon said prince and not king.
K’yel’s face lit. “I am pleased to make your acquaintance,” he said in Dragan. At least he didn’t appear to be undereducated. Please let him have earned his position through hard work and skill, not through favoritism.
“If you’ll excuse us, commander, I have work to do,” Yarif snipped.
Commander Draylon scowled before leaving and closed the door firmly behind him.
