The Prince's Bargain - K.M. Shea Page 0,47

and clearing the Fultons. This is my first investigation as the Chief Liaison of Elven Trade. I’m grateful that my first case is against such an honest family—so I can be prepared for future cases.”

Lord Julyan opened his mouth—to disagree, likely—but Arvel continued.

“Because there will be future cases. I am the Crown Prince of Calnor, after all,” Arvel said. “And it would be dangerous for Calnor if I were to become a monarch with absolute power and no experience. I might be forced to come down harder on any possible wrongdoing just to establish my reign.”

Myth bit her tongue to keep from hooting in laughter.

And with that line, Arvel just effectively threatened Lord Julyan that if he wriggles out of this, Arvel will come for him when he’s king.

Lord Julyan studied Arvel for a few prolonged moments. “You are young and green,” he said abruptly. “I suppose you would need the practice. All the book-reading in the world won’t do anything for you if you don’t learn. I just hope it isn’t too much for you.”

Although Myth was forced to admit that Lord Julyan appeared to be reacting better to the investigation than Queen Luciee—he didn’t seem like he was a hair’s width away from screaming at Arvel—there was something about his stiff smile and subtle jabs that almost seemed worse.

Queen Luciee wasn’t subtle. She operated openly. Lord Julyan felt more shadowy, which was unsettling as it meant Myth couldn’t guess what the man would do in retribution.

But he is the queen’s brother. If he’s anything like her, he will attempt retribution of some sort.

Myth shifted when Lord Julyan’s eyes unexpectedly slid past Arvel to look at her. “And this must be your new translator I’ve heard of?”

Arvel stiffened.

Lord Julyan waited for a moment, then said, “Well? Aren’t you going to introduce me?”

Arvel angled himself so he was no longer blocking Myth, but they were closer together. “Mythlan, my uncle, Lord Julyan Fulton. Uncle, Translator Mythlan.”

“A pleasure to meet you, Mythlan,” Lord Julyan said. “I apologize on behalf of my nephew’s poor social skills that kept us from meeting sooner.”

Yep. He feels like a snake. Myth could almost feel the invisible coils tightening around her. “It’s Translator Mythlan,” she said in a professionally neutral voice.

“Apologies, Translator Mythlan.” Lord Julyan bowed slightly. “How are you enjoying your new post? Is it different from your schooling?”

Although Arvel seemed unbothered, when he leaned just the tiniest bit closer so their shoulders brushed, Myth knew he was worried.

Lord Julyan was digging for information. But why?

“Given that I was trained to be a trade translator, yes. The social setting is very different from what I was taught,” Myth blandly said.

“You’re a trade translator? Then are you helping Arvel in his little investigation?” Lord Julyan asked.

Arvel’s touch moved from a subtle brush to something closer to a bump, but Myth didn’t know what he wanted her to say, when anyone checking on his schedule would be able to learn the truth of it.

Myth slightly bowed her head. “I aid with some of the trade logs that are written in Elvish.”

“You record them into Calnoric for him?”

“No. Given my position it is not allowed by the regulations of the trade department because I am not skilled in the writing or reading forms of Calnoric,” Myth said.

“You aren’t?” Lord Julyan’s smile grew for the barest moment, and the careful casualness of his gaze intensified like a predator sighting prey.

For the life of her, Myth didn’t understand why. Nor did she get why Arvel bumped her again—hadn’t either of the men heard the elven platitude of humility before? No, they must have.

It would be dreadfully unfair if I had to study up on all of these complicated, wretched titles and subtle power play techniques of Calnor, only for them to be ignorant of even the most basic elven manners.

“I suppose, you only are an apprentice—didn’t you say so, Arvel?” Lord Julyan lowered his eyes to half-mast.

“No, I didn’t.” Arvel’s voice was an octave lower than usual, and even though his expression was still polite, Myth felt his tension in the bunched muscles of his arm that he pressed into hers.

“Is that so? I must have heard it from your mother, then.” Lord Julyan turned away from them and peered around the Celebration Hall. “If you will excuse me, I believe I ought to find your mother and pay my compliments to her. The both of you enjoy playing with your little investigation. Be careful, though. It’d be terrible if