Rakos was right, impossible as it is.
Dragons roost in the distance, sunning themselves on the highest peaks. Bellamy counts at least five, including a dark blue one winging south overhead. When he turns to exclaim, he catches the utter yearning in Rakos’s eyes.
“Do you see Sarka?” Bellamy asks.
Rakos shakes himself, the moment of melancholy gone. He points. “She roosts farther north. The other side of that cliff.”
“You’ll see her soon.” Bellamy reaches his hand out between their horses.
Rakos shifts his reins to one hand and covers Bellamy’s hand in his. “Soon. So, this is Parsk. What’s the plan?”
Bellamy is surprised. “What do you mean? You’re the military expert.”
Rakos rolls his neck. “My military expertise focuses on blasting things from the sky. You’ve probably noticed discreet infiltration isn’t my strong suit. Though, if your idea sounds stupid… Well, just try not to have a stupid plan, because I’ll probably go along with it anyway.”
“Ringing endorsement. Love it.” Bellamy contemplates the city before him and the man beside him. Rakos’s brown hair won’t be a sufficient disguise this close to the dragonroost, so choosing which of them will venture into the city is easy. “All right, I’ll need you to babysit Bastard…”
***
Walking into Parsk alone is nothing like walking into Orthin alone. Bellamy feels far more confident on unfamiliar streets when he knows Rakos is waiting for him. Plus, he has Rakos’s knife strapped to his belt.
Bellamy’s agenda is simple. He’s already sold the horses and wyrm claws, garnering more than the minimum amount Rakos told him to settle for. Next, he needs to rent a room at the inn Rakos told him about. Rakos seems confident about sneaking in later as long as he doesn’t have to talk to anyone who might recognize him.
Following Rakos’s directions, Bellamy heads west past the marketplace. Parsk’s streets were clearly planned, wide and even. Old scorch marks paint the buildings in certain quarters but haven’t ruined the construction. The air is dry and cold. Thinner than Bellamy is used to.
He pays careful attention to his surroundings, wary of getting lost or kidnapped. Black-uniformed drasgard are everywhere in the city, but Bellamy doesn’t make a particular effort to avoid them. That would be too suspicious. Bellamy blends in well enough in the long wyrmskin coat that’s slowly starting to feel like his own.
The correct tavern sign appears around the correct corner, and Bellamy’s shoulders sag with relief. So far, so good.
“Excuse me, could I have a word?” asks a quiet voice behind him.
Bellamy whirls, hand at his knife. “Now’s not a good time,” he snaps, heart pounding. He hadn’t heard anyone approaching at all.
The young man in front of him raises his hands as if to demonstrate that he’s unarmed. He’s about an inch shorter than Bellamy, around the same age, with messy blond hair and bruise-purple eyes. Clearly a Draskoran native.
“I apologize for startling you,” the stranger says. “But I need to speak with you alone.”
Bellamy isn’t falling for this again. He doesn’t even need directions to an inn this time. “Sorry, you must have mistaken me for an idiot.”
“You’re cautious. That’s good.” The stranger lowers his hands. “I have a message from Julien.”
“Julien?” Bellamy almost drops his knife. “I mean, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I really do admire your caution, but we should get out of the street,” the stranger says. “How about that tavern?”
Bellamy backs away, wary of the drasgard on duty just half a block away. He doesn’t want to draw attention with a conflict, and the worst homesick part of him wants to believe this stranger. He wants news from home. So instead of stabbing the man, Bellamy asks, “How am I supposed to believe you?”
“His Highness gave me a message as proof.” The stranger’s smile is perfectly polite, like he’s catching up with an acquaintance. Maybe he doesn’t want to draw attention either. “He said to remind you of the time you two replaced Prince Audric’s homework with erotic literature, which he unknowingly handed in to your tutor.”
Bellamy blinks, stunned.
Nobodyknows he was involved in that. Julien was the obvious culprit, and neither their mothers nor their tutors ever suspected Bellamy was an accomplice. Fourteen-year-old Julien honorably kept his mouth shut and took the full blame.
“Well, in that case, lead the way,” Bellamy says.
The stranger gestures at a tavern across the street. “This way? The bartender is a friend of a friend.”
Inside the tavern, the blond orders drinks in seamless Draskoran, then leads Bellamy to an out-of-the-way table. He slides a tankard of mead to Bellamy.
