COMMAND THE TIDES - Wren Handman Page 0,29

her?” he asked. His voice was calm but there was deadly iron behind it, and Grayson quivered back a step.

“I didn’t, though! I mean, I did, but I didn’t. I tied her up, and I left her on my saddle, and Mik said you gotta come and help, you know, so I left her there on the saddle, but she was tied really well, sir, she was, and we went to burn the house like you said, sir, we sprayed it down like you said, but then she started to set up a holler, sir. I think she was only faking—”

“Are you both half-wits, or just my dullard son?” Mendaci snarled. He slammed the candle off his table in a rage, and then snarled again as he had to stamp out a burning ember. The last thing he needed was burn the inn down around his ears—there had been quite enough arson for one night. “And where is the lack-wit? Too scared to face his father after he made such an Oblivion-cursed mess of the whole affair?”

“Beggin’ pardon, sir, but he couldn’t come, see. He tried to grab the girl like you said, sir, an’ he woulda been sure to get her, sir, only someone threw a knife at him, sir. And, well, it hit him sir and he’s alive, but we took off after that; there were more knives coming, I think it was the Mask of Retribution, I know some people say he isn’t real but I swear you’ve never seen a throw like that in all your life, sir! And he chased us, and us on horses and him on foot but he was on our tail for a good long while, sir. We lost him on the straight stretch but Mik was doing, sorry, beg your pardon sir, Lord Mendaci the junior was doing pretty badly, sir, so I left him at Ashua’s Green Arbor to get stitched up and then came straight here to tell you…what happened. Sir.”

Lord Mendaci felt his anger deflating, replaced by a dull sense of embarrassment. This could not have gone worse if he had sent his infant son to do the job rather than the fully-grown one. He picked up the letter, mechanically, and began to shred it. What would he write in its place? How could he face his liege with this level of failure?

“Go saddle my horse. I should check on my useless son. His mother will be upset if I bring him home in a box.” He used the harsh words to cover his concern. Mik was a good lad. He’d brought him not only out of family duty, but because he genuinely trusted him to see the job done. If he had failed, it was because the deck was stacked rather differently than they had assumed. That assassin would be a problem, and no doubt the other guards Darren had collected were higher caliber than they had given them credit for. He would need something more on his side than half-trained noble boys.

“And me, sir?” Grayson asked.

“Hire some big strong men for the night, and go get that girl. I want collateral. But if she’s well-guarded leave off; I don’t want the city guards getting their hands in this. And while you’re hunting some strong arms, find out which mercenary companies are in the city. These rebels are a tiny force, and if we can use the girl to lure them out, we’ll do best in a frontal assault. The Mask of Retribution won’t be any help in an all-out war.”

The fire brigade had given up trying to save her home, and instead was simply ensuring the fire didn’t spread to the neighboring houses, wetting their walls and rousing their residents. There was no sign of Darren and his would-be revolutionaries; she supposed that now that they had become separated, it would be too dangerous for them to return here. Likely the house was being watched—perhaps she would never see them again. Perhaps someday she would hear the criers in the square announcing the crowning of a new king, and she would know that he had won…and that this was the last of her part in his story.

A child tugged impatiently on the back of her shirt, and as she turned the world took a sideways jaunt before righting itself. She needed sleep, needed a quiet, safe place where she could let herself break down and mourn her losses.

“Miss? Miss? This miss house?” the child asked.

“Yes,