Elf Defence (Adventures in Aguillon #2) - Lisa Henry Page 0,55
hand into Calarian’s and smiled shyly, and Calarian wondered if it was wrong that he wanted to kiss him right now.
Evidently not, because Lars leaned in and kissed him first, a barely-there brush of lips on lips, soft and sweet and perfect. “For luck,” he said softly.
Calarian returned the kiss with one of his own that lasted slightly longer. “For luck, and for Benji,” he said.
Lars smiled. “We’ll be sure to give him plenty of kisses when we rescue him.”
“All the kisses,” Calarian agreed, his lips quirking up. It was kind of adorable how much of a sucker for kisses Benji was, now that he’d discovered them.
They were interrupted by the thunder of approaching hooves, and the shout of the troll alerting them that there was another visitor. Calarian let out an irritated huff—for a deserted hut, there were certainly plenty of visitors. He peered out the door, his annoyance giving way to dread when he saw Hannah galloping frantically towards them, urging her horse forward, eyes wide and desperate and lips moving as she shouted whatever it was she was trying to tell them.
He tilted his head to hear better, but she was too far away even for his keen hearing, and with the sound of hoofbeats ringing loud in his ears he could only catch every other word. “—need Gretchen! —not having—Gunther’s going to—him!”
“What?”
She kept riding towards them, pigtails flying as her horse covered the ground in long, loping strides. The desperation and fear in her voice echoed through the hills, and once she got closer Calarian’s face drained of colour when he heard what she was actually saying.
“Gunther’s gone mad! He’s trying to hang Benji!”
Chapter Fourteen
Benji kicked listlessly at the wall of his cell, in case it somehow miraculously turned out to be shoddily made and crumbled in a heap at his touch. It didn’t of course—like all the buildings in Tournel it was lovingly and carefully constructed—and he sighed and kicked the wall again, just to hear his shackles clink. He was bored.
He’d often imagined what it would be like to be imprisoned for the cause, and in his dreams it had featured a lot more of him giving stirring speeches and rabble-rousing, and a lot less of him sitting alone in a cell that still smelled slightly of vinegar.
“Hey!” he called.
Moments later, an eager face appeared at the small barred window of his cell door. “Did you need me?” his guard asked. “Would you like afternoon tea? Some beer? Wine? A snack? How about some gingerbread?”
“Ooh, yes please!” said Benji, before remembering why he’d called the guard. “Actually, maybe later. I really just called to tell you that you’re a tool of the oppressive upper classes, and you make me sick!” He spat on the floor for emphasis. It was very dramatic, if he said so himself.
The guard’s face creased in confusion. “Am I?”
“Yes,” Benji said.
“Is this about your manifesto again?” the guard asked suspiciously. It wasn’t the first time Benji had tried to engage him in a heated political debate. Jakob had so far proved impervious to Benji’s arguments.
“It might be,” Benji said.
“Because I’ve been thinking about that,” Jakob said. “And here in Tournel we have free healthcare and education and housing and everything, right?”
“Right,” Benji agreed.
“And you’re an enemy of the state,” Jakob said. “But we’re a good state, aren’t we? We’re your utopia. So actually I’m not a tool of the oppressors at all. You are, because you’re trying to overthrow our functioning quasi-socialist system just for the sake of civil unrest, and that, my friend, makes you an enemy not only of the state, but of the common man. You’re not a revolutionary in this scenario. You’re a counter-revolutionary.”
Benji gasped.
“Well, that’s what the wife says, anyway,” Jakob continued in a friendly manner. “We had a chat about it over my lunch break.” He pointed to where Benji had spat. “Did you want me to clean that up?”
“No, I’ll do it,” Benji said, still in shock.
“Thanks. Camels spit, that’s what my mum always said. I’m not sure how she knew that, and I’m not certain what a camel even is, but apparently they spit. Do you have camels where you come from?”
“No, I’m a lowland elf. Not big on camels,” Benji said, as he tried to figure out where, exactly, he’d lost control of the conversation.
“Shame. I imagine they’re something like a big dog,” Jakob said. “Now, did you want some gingerbread and a nice glass of beer?”