The Prince's Bargain - K.M. Shea Page 0,69

screamed.

Lord Julyan, in the middle of “checking” a logbook, set it on the stack to take, looked up and frowned.

Yes, that’s it. Be concerned about your wretched luxuries, and go check it out.

Myth turned in her chair. “Do you think everything is all right out there? His Majesty’s aides can be…enthusiastic at times.”

“I’m sure it’s fine,” Lord Julyan said.

There was a clatter, then the footman’s shouts were so loud they were audible through the closed door. “No! Not the elven halberd!”

Lord Julyan stood abruptly, his smirk fading into a frown of displeasure.

“Are these the logs here on the desk?” Myth asked, gesturing vaguely to the big pile—including the ones Lord Julyan had not separated out.

“Hm? Yes…” Lord Julyan stalked across his study. “If you’ll excuse me one moment.” He opened the door and snarled, “What is going on!?”

“Sir,” the footman said feebly. “The aides are—no, no, you must put that down carefully, sir!”

“What?” Thad yelled.

Myth’s heart pounded in her throat as she heard Lord Julyan stalk away from the door. “Don’t just stand there—stop them!”

She had started studying the engraved titles on the logbooks the moment Lord Julyan put his back to her. When she glanced behind her, confirming he had slipped through the cracked door and run out to shout at his servants’ attempts to contain the three captains, she lunged for his desk, hurriedly flipping through the bared records.

15

In preparation for this play, she had memorized pages of the Fultons’ reported earnings from the past five years. Given that she was well schooled in the Elvish and Calnoric method of record keeping, it was easy for Myth to flip through the dizzying numbers.

Shortly, she found what had to be the real records for the past two years. Lord Julyan had chosen to follow cliché tradition and had written his private records in two books bound in black leather.

Such a surprise he didn’t go for red ink as well. But two years will do. With this, Arvel should be able to get permission from King Petyrr to search the house.

Myth’s fingers shook as she mixed up the logbooks and took his prepared pile of falsified records, as well as the lord’s private record books. Carrying them so their pages faced out and their bindings were tucked against her waist, Myth made herself slowly walk to the door and nudge it all the way open.

“Oh my,” she said.

Wilford, Grygg, and Thad had played their roles beautifully.

Based on the shattered remains of an elven vase, a tipped over grandfather clock, and a crack in a large, ornate mirror, Wilford had completed his mission of breaking things to upset the staff. At the moment he was being bodily restrained by two footmen.

Grygg was standing near him, blustering as he shouted in the wrong direction, and Thad—as previously arranged—stood farther back, his face scrunched up.

“Who raised a racket?” Thad demanded as Myth came up from behind. “It’s been as silent as a church in here!” he bellowed.

“It’s okay, sir.” Myth patted his shoulder as she took the satchel from his limp fingers and carefully packed the books inside. “It seems that we should leave.” She glanced at Wilford and Grygg and tried to make her forehead wrinkle with worry, but her skin was feeling a little numb as her heart threatened to leap out of her chest.

Easy, easy, she told herself. We’ll get through this.

Myth took Thad gingerly by the hand and led him closer to Wilford, who was loudly complaining about being restrained, and Grygg, who was cackling. “Lord Julyan,” she called, “it appears that perhaps we should leave.”

“I must disagree,” Lord Julyan sneered, the wrinkles of his face tight with anger. “Your compatriots have wreaked havoc on my home. This is unacceptable!”

“We!” Wilford tried to draw himself up while still restrained. “Are His Majesty’s trusted aides. How dare you!” He tried to raise his walking stick—as if to poke the angry lord.

Myth jolted forward, almost toppling Thad, and grabbed the stick before he could get it too close to Lord Julyan. “I apologize, sir. They are brilliant, but it seems that removing them from their usual comforts in the palace has upset them.”

“Who’s upset?” Grygg demanded. “Not me! I can copy a thousand records right now!”

“You can’t see to copy them, you old fool!” Wilford laughed.

“Come, sirs, let us depart.” Myth tried to herd them toward the doors.

To continue the illusion, the trio protested—Grygg especially so, even though it took two footmen to frog march him out.

“I am so sorry for