A little less than an hour later, sixty young men stood in stiff ranks in the training gymnasium. Zarael had selected twenty men from each of the three battalions stationed in the Toragon area, and they had all passed Thierry’s initial three-day inspection.
Only one of the sixty was not thrilled and honored to be standing in that gym, the one who stood more rigidly than anyone else, jaw and fists clenched, eyes hard and emotionless as a wolf’s, ignoring the titters around him. Thierry wasn’t there yet. Torrin Lafayette looked unusually worried as whispers spread that, for some reason, the one-legged wonder was there. Heaven knew why he’d been chosen for an elite force training, that incompetent crank. The snickers were getting louder. Tariq was well-known, but not well-liked. To be fair, he’d never encouraged anyone to like him.
Someone made an audible comment about a particularly mean cat missing a leg. More snickers. Tariq tensed up even more. Torrin, next to him, could see his muscles bunched up and quivering under his shirt. The anger was not in his stoic eyes; he’d channeled it into every vein and sinew standing out from his skin.
The door banged open and Captain Thierry raged in like a thunderstorm. The laughter abruptly stopped. Tariq didn’t relax. Thierry stomped up to the front of the gym and glowered at the soldiers. One of them, deep in the ranks, couldn’t hold his laughter and snorted. Thierry’s scowl deepened as he scanned the rows of studiously impassive faces.
“I hope you know you’re not lucky to be chosen,” he snapped. “You’ll wish you hadn’t been, if you even manage to pass my tests, which I expect most of you won’t.”
A few faces sobered, but most of them didn’t buy it.
“Fifty laps around the gym. The first ten done don’t have to do a hundred push-ups after that. Go.”
The men stood blinking for a couple seconds, then bolted off with a chorus of yells both horrified and enthusiastic.
They’d only run a few laps when Zarael slipped in. He watched the boys, grinning, then went over to Thierry.
“Getting off to a good start, I see?”
“They’re too excited,” Thierry grumbled. “They need to burn off the energy. Stupid kids.”
Zarael laughed.
“The kid can run,” Thierry said, surprising him.
“What?”
“That boy you’re so excited about. You know how you told me he custom-made that prosthetic for himself? He’s enough in sync with it that he can run, and pretty damn fast too. That’s not easy.”
“No, it’s not. He’s a remarkable boy.”
“Does he get along well with the others?”
Zarael frowned. “No. He doesn’t even seem to want to.”
“Well now, that’s a problem.”
“He’s put up walls around himself. I’ve tried to befriend him, but I can’t get through to him. And I haven’t seen him let down his guard around anyone else, either.” He smiled. “Maybe you’ll have better luck.”
Thierry laughed humorlessly. “With respect, sir, I’m not the type.”
“He isn’t either, I suppose.”
Thierry looked over at him to see Zarael scowling at the ground in such an uncharacteristic way that the captain was almost alarmed. But he dismissed it. The soldiers came pounding by like a herd of animals, panting and sweating and pushing to get ahead, and the brief conversation was forgotten.
~
“Chief Investigator Sir Beaufoy to see you, Your Majesty.”
King Cillian unbent from where he’d sat hunched over his desk. He wasn’t a very tidy person. Documents, empty inkpots, and knick-knacks he’d collected were scattered around him. He seemed more tired and frazzled than usual, but he smiled at the attendant.
“Ah! Thank you. Bring him in, please.”
The attendant bowed and left. A moment later, the chief investigator of the capital stood framed in the door, smiling respectfully. He bowed low.
“My king. You summoned me?”
“Yes, Beaufoy, and thank you for your promptness. Have a seat?”
The tall, serious officer lowered himself into a chair, which creaked under his weight. “I am at your service, my king.”
“Now, I know things are busy for you and your men now, but I need you to open a special investigation for me. I received a tip from a trustworthy source that Prime Minister Clade may be embezzling the funds that Minister Jordan noticed were missing a few months ago. I’d like you to look into him, please, discreetly.”
Beaufoy bent his head, trying to hide his surprise. “Y-yes, my king.”
Cillian scrutinized him for a minute, pen poised over the fresh sheet of paper he’d pulled out, ink slowly dripping onto the page.
“Beaufoy, you’re afraid.”
“I am at your service,” the man stammered.
“You can be honest with me.”
Beaufoy closed his eyes. “Lord Clade is a dangerous man, my king. He has enough loyal men at his back to defy me.”
“He won’t defy me, Beaufoy.” Cillian lowered the pen to the paper and scribbled a few pointed words. He sanded the paper to dry the ink and handed it to Beaufoy. “Here’s a search warrant for his mansion. If he gives you trouble, I’ll be happy to enforce house arrest on him until further evidence surfaces.”
Beaufoy took the warrant, still hesitant. Cillian stared him down.
“Sir Investigator, this is a very important matter, to me and the nation. The people are suffering from those missing funds. I can’t tax them if they don’t see any giveback.”
“Of course, my king. I understand.”
“I hope you’ll take this as seriously as I do.”
“Yes, my king.” Though physically much larger than the king, the chief investigator felt small in front of him. He bowed his head, trembling slightly.
Cillian sat back. “Thank you, Beaufoy. Begin as soon as possible. You’re dismissed.”
“My king.” Beaufoy stood up and bowed low, slightly awed, before he left. It had been a while since he’d seen his king on the verge of anger, and it frightened him.
He bumped shoulders on the way out with a lanky, handsome young man headed into the king’s study. Startled, he bowed, and the young man grinned at him, murmuring a greeting as they went their separate ways.
The young man slipped in, bowed, and dropped into the chair that Beaufoy had vacated, his long legs splayed in front of him, un-princely. Cillian looked up from under the hand he’d anxiously worked into his hair to smile at his older son.
Where Cassander was like his mother, all daintiness and beauty and sophistication, Hilary took after the king. He was tall, gangly, dark, a bit socially awkward, with a sort of inelegant grace to the way he spoke and moved and smiled, rather like a giraffe—gawky yet dignified. He slumped in the chair, twirling a strand of his straight black hair with one finger, grinning shyly at his father.
“I’m back, Papa. Did Cass already leave for the fall term?”
“Yes, you only missed him by a day.”
“Shame. I wanted to see him off. I’ll write him. Or visit or something.”
The king sat up, smoothing down the hair he’d tousled. “Don’t worry. Yule will be here before you know it and he’ll be back to celebrate with us. I’m glad you’re home, Hilary. Enjoy yourself?”
“Yes. Thank you for assigning me to the new railroad. I’m returning in a few days to continue overseeing construction. I’m excited about this project. I think it will benefit everyone.” He grinned wider, a little sheepish, like a little boy. “And I do love those new steam engines. So—powerful, and beautiful.”
“Dangerous, though.” All new projects were a gamble; this had been one the king and council had been willing to take. “Be careful, Hilary. I heard you work with the men. I admire you, but remember you’re the heir to the throne.”
“I do, Father.”
Cillian smiled. “I know. Good of you to visit, boy.”
“Thanks.” Hilary wriggled further down in his chair happily. “What was Beaufoy doing in here? He looked like he’d seen a ghost.”
The king sobered. “You should know. You heard about the missing taxes? I had Cassander look into it. He came to me just before he left.”
Hilary sat up, his smile disappearing. “Tell me?”
“It’s not good news. A more personal matter than we expected. You know Cass is so close with Clade’s boy, Phineas.”
“Yes,” Hilary whispered, dread seeping through him. “It wasn’t him, was it? Heaven forbid—”
“No.”
“Thank God.”
“Worse. His father.”
“No . . .”
~
Happy New Year and thanks for reading!