Red Heir - Lisa Henry Page 0,54

was a man of middle years. He had stubble that was almost a beard, a scar that bisected his cheek, and a very angry scowl as he finally woke up and discovered he was tied to a tree. He struggled, tugging at the ropes and kicking his legs out, but Calarian, who had admitted quietly that he’d once been a Junior Wood Scout, had tied the ropes securely.

“Aw,” Ada had said. “Did you wear a little hat with a feather in it and everything?”

Calarian hadn’t answered, but he’d blushed bright pink.

Not that there was any hint of the little apple-cheeked Junior Wood Scout in him now. Now, Calarian stood over the bandit, pointing his bow at the centre of the man’s chest. There was an arrow nocked and ready to loose. Calarian’s stare was icy.

Quinn’s was just as cold and proud, and how had Loth ever doubted he was a prince? He had no doubt at all that Quinn could order the death of a man with just the nod of his head, and watch impassively while it happened, and was it wrong that Loth was insanely turned on by that?

No, of course it wasn’t wrong. It felt too good to be wrong.

Loth struggled to drag his mind out of the gutter—well, bedroom—and Quinn asked the man, “Who sent you?”

The bandit scowled, and for a moment Loth wondered if the man would keep his silence, but then he eyed Dave, the arrow, and Ada’s clenched fists, and said, “I don’t know.”

“You must know,” Ada insisted. She thumped him, Loth suspected, just on principle.

The man groaned and shook his head. “I don’t, I swear. We got given a bag of coin and told there was a party on the road with an orc, a dwarf, a pointy-eared bastard, and a human, and that they had the prince. We were meant to grab him, take him the next town over, then kill him where they’d be sure to find his body. Nobody mentioned two princes.” He glared at Loth and Quinn like they’d personally offended him.

“Pointy-eared bastard?” Calarian hissed. “I’m an elf!”

The man gave a sort of shrug in his ropes. “It’s all the same to me. We were just meant to kill you all and grab the prince. They said it would be money for jam, that the leader was an idiot and the rest of you were hopeless.”

“I like jam,” Dave said. “And mustard.”

“Yes, well. Obviously we’re not hopeless,” Loth said, “although Scott is an idiot.” He thought for a moment. “Who delivered the coin?”

The man shrugged again. “Dunno. Some guy dressed in black.” Calarian nudged him with the tip of the arrow and the man stiffened. “I really don’t!” he insisted. “Please, you’ve got to let me go! I’ve got a little girl, she’s sick! I’m only doing this for the money!”

Loth and Quinn exchanged a look, and Loth knew Quinn was thinking the same thing he was. Every single beggar I’ve met in every single town has either got a grandparent at death’s door, or some other sob story about a sick puppy to make you feel sorry for them. It’s the oldest trick in the book.

Calarian made an impatient noise. “He doesn’t know anything. Can I shoot him?”

Loth opened his mouth to answer but was interrupted by the clatter of hooves. A man on horseback swept into the field.

“I’ll take care of him,” said Ser Greylord.

Loth groaned. “You again?” He glared at Calarian. “And no warning from you?”

The elf shrugged.

“The speed you’re going, I was bound to catch up,” Ser Greylord said. “What are you doing, walking? Picking the flowers along the way?” He swung a leg over his saddle and dismounted, walking over and prodding the tied bandit with his foot. “I’ll take him and his friends to the nearest town, lock them up for highway robbery.”

Well. That would certainly be handy.

“What will you tell Doom about your search, though?” Loth asked. “Aren’t you meant to be pursuing the escaped prince?”

“Didn’t see another soul,” Greylord said, expressionless. “The escapees must have gone back into the Swamp of Death. There’s a monster, I hear.”

“Benji!” Dave said happily, before looking more closely at Ser Greylord and turning to Loth with a frown. “Do we know him? Or should I hit him?”

“No, Dave,” Quinn said gently. “He’s on our side.”

Greylord gave them a smile—a small, brittle thing—and Loth realised that Greylord wore an expression he’d seen before, although it normally graced the faces of peasants and whores in the