Elf Defence (Adventures in Aguillon #2) - Lisa Henry Page 0,69

arsing around, and swept his legs out from under him in retaliation. Calarian landed with a shout of outrage in the water and had no choice but to bring Benji down with him. By the time the horses drew into the square and their riders dismounted, Calarian and Benji were both flat on their backs in the fountain pond, spluttering for breath.

“You owe me a gold coin,” King Quinn said, peering down at them. “You said they would have killed each other by now.”

“Give them a minute,” King Loth said. “They look pretty close to it.”

Quinn snorted, and held a hand down to help pull Calarian to his feet, and then Benji.

Quinn was a handsome young man with red hair that shone like burnished copper in the sunlight. Loth was a little older, though no less handsome, with hair a shade of red that existed nowhere in nature. They were both kings of Aguillon, though Calarian was one of the few people who could say with any certainty that it was Quinn who had been born with royal blood, and Loth that had married into it. At first the confusion had been intentional, but now, a few months into their joint reign, Calarian had the impression that nobody really cared anymore.

Loth looked them both up and down, then narrowed his gaze at Calarian. “Nice shorts.”

Calarian twisted water out of his hair. “What are you doing here?”

Loth raised his eyebrows. “Dave got back to Callier with a very interesting story about how one of our royal envoys ended up on a gallows after—what was it? The pair of you installing a fake duke in Tournel?”

“To be fair,” Calarian said, “they needed a duke. And there was nothing in our instructions that said we shouldn’t.”

Benji nodded, a drop of water falling from his nose.

“I mean, some things should be able to go unsaid, right?” Quinn asked, his brow creasing. He looked to Loth. “Shouldn’t they?”

Loth spread his arms and shrugged.

Calarian stepped out of the pond and dripped on the cobblestones of the square. Benji waded back towards the plinth of the fountain and leaned against it. He folded his arms over his chest and glared. He was possibly trying to look intimidating, but it was difficult considering he looked like a drowned rat, and his shirt was clinging to him in particularly distracting ways. Loth and Quinn looked between them, eyebrows raised like twins.

“Well,” Calarian said, “we also completed the quest by sorting out the mountain troll thing. And we exposed gross misconduct and theft, and we’re in the process of establishing a representative democracy under a constitutional duchy, and it’s going really well.” He puffed his chest out. “That part was Benji’s idea.”

“Of course it was,” Quinn said, deadpan.

“So who’s actually in charge now?” Loth asked, looking around the square. “Because shouldn’t there be a feast or something when kings come to town? We haven’t eaten since breakfast, and I’m hungry.”

“Well, nobody’s exactly in charge yet,” Calarian said. He peeled a hank of wet hair off his face. “But the election is next week and since Gretchen is the only candidate nominated, she’s already started handling stuff.” He followed Loth’s gaze toward the castle. “Oh, no, she’ll still be at the smithy at this time of day. She still has her day job as the blacksmith. She’s making safety rails for the tower.”

“She’s amazing,” Benji said with a sigh and that dreamy look he always got when he thought about Gretchen. Calarian wasn’t immune himself.

“We can go and see her if you want,” he said. “And then we’ll visit her wife at the bakery. It’s Friday, so we can get a dick loaf.”

“Just point us in the right direction,” Quinn said. “You two look like you’re in the middle of something important.”

“Oh, I’m sure we can take a break,” Calarian said, just as the guards ran in back across the town square, fleeing the enraged goose that was flapping and honking for all it was worth.

Loth raised his eyebrows and the corners of his mouth quirked up. “Did I just see— please, somebody tell me I really just saw the guard being chased by a wild goose?

Gretchen strode into the square, tall and imposing and magnificent, sleeves rolled up showing off her muscles and tattoos, cheeks rosy from the heat of the forge, blonde plait trailing over one shoulder. “Technically, the goose isn’t wild. It’s just an absolute arsehole. I’m Gretchen,” she said, extending a hand to the kings. “Your Highnesses,