The Prince's Bargain - K.M. Shea Page 0,65

to be meek in this.” Arion’s fingers tightened around the hilt of his sword. “It’s more likely he’ll purposely put the records out—or at least a few papers out—to feed his superiority complex that he so carefully grows.”

“You say that so surely,” Arvel said.

Sir Arion shrugged. “I’ve dealt with many humans. There are certain patterns and tendencies you start to recognize once seen enough.”

“Then it’s settled,” Myth said. “I will be the one to retrieve the records—and hopefully take some additional information.”

“Not so fast.” Arvel nudged her slightly on her back. “If you’re the one going in, I want even more guards with you.”

“If you send too many it might make Lord Julyan suspicious,” Myth said.

“I don’t care. Your safety is more important.”

“Rather than sending a regular guard with her, what if I send Captain Thad, Captain Wilford, and Captain Grygg?” Sir Arion asked. “They are more skilled and better trained than their men.”

Arvel scratched his cheek. “You’re that certain in their abilities?”

“Indeed. They are Gwendafyn’s frequent practice partners. It seems that amongst all the regular beatings she delivers them, they’ve learned additional skills,” Sir Arion dryly said.

“Yes, I imagine so.” Arvel glanced at Myth. “Would you feel safe enough with just the three of them?”

“Certainly, but they should wear a regular Honor Guard uniform—the lack of numbers won’t mean much if the three of them stride around with their red cloaks and armor.” Myth shifted the tiniest bit, more aware of Arvel’s arm resting on her shoulders than she should be.

“Ah—I’ll do one better than that!” Arvel leaned forward, removing his arm from her back so he could plant both his hands on the table. “We’ll send them in disguise! The Fultons will never guess who travels with you, and Uncle Julyan will remain as superior-feeling as ever.”

Sir Arion looked intrigued. “What sort of disguise would accomplish that?”

14

“You rotten kids—watch where you’re running!” Grygg shouted as he half dangled out of the carriage window. “When I was your age, horses ran free in the streets, and they’d trample any tyke who wasn’t fast enough to avoid them!”

Wilford rapped Grygg on the back of the head with a walking stick. “Careful there, or you’ll fall out and crack your silly nob open. You’re not as young as you used to be, you know!” He stroked the thick white beard the Department of Investigation had pasted to his face. His mouth wasn’t visible, and the grizzled hair puffed up to his cheeks, screening all but his eyes—which were partially hidden by tinted glasses.

Grygg leaned back into the carriage, taking up half of the bench he sat on. His hair was powdered white, and he was wearing spectacles so thick they enlarged his eyes, making him nearly unrecognizable between that and the scribe uniform the Department of Investigation had stuffed him in and thoroughly padded, ballooning his girth to at least triple its true size. “I can hardly see in these things,” he grumbled.

Wilford dropped his walking stick so he could shove at some of Grygg’s excess padding. “That’s the point. The Commander said this way we won’t move like soldiers—by the way, did anyone realize that implied Sir Arion thinks we move like soldiers? I think that’s the nicest thing he’s ever said to us.”

“No, no, there was that time he told us our uniforms looked decent.” Grygg brandished a finger at his friend, almost poking him in the face in the process.

Thad had his glasses—tiny and rectangular, which distorted his eye shape—pushed up on top of his head, nestled into his powdered-white hair as he reviewed the list of files Myth would be looking for. “…All of these dating back from the last five years—is that correct, Myth?”

“Yes,” Myth confirmed.

It seemed Thad was the unofficial leader of the trio—though it was Grygg who had insisted she stop using their titles and had wrestled Myth’s nickname from her.

Thad nodded and passed the list back over to Myth, which was how he noticed the shoving match between Wilford and Grygg as Grygg attempted to smother Wilford with his rolls of padding. “You two need to stop that and get into character—we’re almost at the Fultons’ town house,” he said.

“It’ll be easy,” Grygg said. He was half-sitting on top of Wilford—who was struggling to push the padding up. “We’re posing as the king’s most trusted—and oldest—aides. All we have to do is act like our grandfathers and pretend we’re helping Myth when we actually appear to hinder her. Isn’t that right, Lady Translator?”

“Indeed.”