The Prince's Bargain - K.M. Shea Page 0,63

faster just by copying it yourself,” Arvel groaned.

“In everyday situations, perhaps. But for things like the night we spent fixing the trade logbooks or all the research we’ve put into the Fulton investigation, it wouldn’t pass,” Myth said. “I’m not sanctioned for official trade translations without a senior translator present to oversee me, which would cast doubt on anything we completed.”

“I suppose that’s true.”

“Indeed.”

“Still, I’ll keep your talent in mind in the future.” Arvel grinned at her.

“I wish you wouldn’t,” Myth dryly said. “As I said, it won’t be any use for anything official.”

“We’ll see.” Arvel shifted his attention back to the studiously disinterested captains. “Have you any other news to report?”

“No, Your Highness,” the captains chorused.

“Very well. Thank you for your diligence, we look forward to your report tomorrow.”

“Yes, Your Highness.”

“Good day to you, Captain Wilford, Captain Thad, Captain Grygg.” Myth took their cookie plates and delicately stacked them on the tea tray.

“To you as well, Translator Mythlan!” Grygg and Wilford smiled at her, whereas Thad gave her a more serious bow, and then the trio was out the door faster than Myth could respond.

They are a friendly bunch, Myth thought approvingly as she took her cup of tea—copying the captains in the way she very studiously avoided looking at Arvel. I can’t help but wish that they weren’t quite so formal—they seem like they’d be fun. But, I suppose, this is what it is like for Arvel…

Two days later, Myth was finishing making a copy of an elven trade log Arvel needed for his ongoing investigation against the Fultons. Once she finished the last line and put her copy aside to dry, she glanced at Arvel and Sir Arion, who were discussing the next leg of the investigation.

Feeling contemplative, she peered up through the magnificent skylights in the library ceiling, admiring the way rain tapped the glass as thunder rumbled. It was only mid-morning, but the sky was swollen with dark, angry clouds. She stretched her fingers out and rubbed her wrists as she took measure of the stack of logs Arvel had left piled up at his work station on the opposite side of the small table she had claimed.

I don’t know what other logs Arvel needs copies of and which ones the trade translators working with him already finished. He appears to be too deeply entrenched in his conversation with Sir Arion to interrupt…perhaps I could find one of the High Elf magic books and look through it for a few minutes?

Myth pushed her chair back and was about to slink off in search of the book, when Arvel seemed to sense she was finished and slowly wandered back in her direction.

“For the next portion we’ll have to audit the Fultons’ family-kept records,” he told Arion in a hushed tone. “I’ll send one of my aides to pick the records up, but I want you to send a few Honor Guards—perhaps even a squad—with them.”

Both of Arion’s black eyebrows rose. “You think they would abuse your aide?”

“No. If they did, we could properly nail them for misconduct. But that doesn’t mean Uncle Julyan won’t be nasty or petty—or arrange for an “accident” or two if he doesn’t have the incentive to leave my workers alone.” Arvel’s frown was creased with worry, but he shifted to a smile when he and Arion reached her table. “Everything all right?”

“Yes.” Myth glanced from the logs to the shelves ringed around the open table area. “But is it really safe to discuss the investigation here?”

“It’s one of the safest places in the palace, actually,” Arvel said. “The second floor has been cleared for our use—except for the librarians who come up to retrieve books for other patrons—and the library itself has been spelled enough so we can’t be overheard magically. Of course, the Department of Investigation is spelled similarly, but while the Fultons wouldn’t know what happens in the department rooms, they’d see everyone I brought in and out. It’s why I wanted to meet with Arion here, because it leaves the Fultons deaf and blind since they won’t think to watch the library.”

“I see,” Myth said.

Arvel smiled and plopped down in the chair next to Myth’s. Sir Arion, however, remained standing.

“Can you truly expect to find anything useful in whatever records the Fultons give you?” the taciturn man asked.

“Nope—at least not much.” Arvel shrugged. “They’ve undoubtedly been scrambling to adjust their records to support any claims they’ve made since I announced the investigation. But if we’re lucky, in their