The Heart of Betrayal (The Remnant Chronicles 2)

I thought about the card game and the blood I had sweat watching her play. Yes, thank the gods and her brothers, she is good.

“Jeb used patties to cover the rope up in the bottom of his cart and sneak it out to Tavish.” Sven held his hands closer to the flames and asked me about the Sanctum routines.

I told him more of what I had learned in these past weeks—what times the guards changed at the entrances, how many could be found in hallways at any given moment, when Lia was most likely not to be missed, the governors who were more amiable than others, those who tipped their mugs heavily, the Rahtan and chievdars he didn’t dare turn his back on, and where I had hidden weapons—three swords, four daggers, and a poleaxe.

“You pilfered weapons right under their noses? A poleaxe?”

“It just takes patience.”

“You? Patience?” Sven grunted.

I couldn’t blame him for his cynicism. I was the one who rode off with only a half-assed plan to guide us. I thought about the last several days and all the times I’d had to restrain my natural impulses, the agonizing waiting when all I wanted to do was act, weighing the satisfaction of a victorious moment against a lifetime with Lia, calculating every move and word to make sure it gave her and us the best possible chance. If there was a torture in hell crafted specifically for me, this was it.

“Yes, patience,” I said. It was a scar as painfully won as any in battle. I told him that Calantha and Ulrix were my primary guards and that Calantha missed nothing, so I had little opportunity around her, but after laying me flat several times and finding that I offered only a weak fight, Ulrix had grown satisfied that the emissary was not one to waste much worry over. Opportunities arose, and slowly I slipped one mislaid weapon after another into dark forgotten corners, to be retrieved and moved to another dark corner until I had them where I was sure no one would find them.

“No one missed them? Not even the poleaxe?”

“There are always a few swords set aside during late nights and card games in the Sanctum. When losers get nervous, they drink, and when they drink, they forget things. In the morning, servants return mislaid weapons to the armory. The poleaxe was luck. I saw it propped up against the sow pen for the better part of a day. When no one seemed to miss it, I tossed it behind the woodpile.”

Sven nodded with approval as if I were still his charge in training. “What about last night? Have you gotten any whiff of suspicions about the sword fight?”

“I fumbled. I lost. My shoulder drew first blood. By now that’s all they remember. Any skill with the sword is lost in the shadow of Kaden’s victory.”

We saw Orrin on the other side of the fire signaling us that someone was approaching, and we stopped talking.

“Morning, Governor Obraun. Feeding mice to the falcons?”

We turned. It was Griz. He spoke in Morrighese, which he had claimed he didn’t know. I looked at Sven, but he wasn’t responding. Instead the old curd had paled.

Orrin and I both knew something was wrong. Orrin began to draw his sword, but I waved him back. Griz wore two short swords, and his hands gripped the hilts of both. He stood too close to Sven for us to make a move. Griz grinned, soaking in Sven’s reaction. “After twenty-five years and that trophy crossing your face, I didn’t recognize you right off. It was your voice that gave you away.”

“Falgriz,” Sven said at last, as if he were looking at a ghost. “Looks like you’ve gained an ugly trophy up top too. And a sizable gut down below.”

“Flattery won’t get you out of this.”

“It did the last time.”

A smile creased the giant’s eyes in spite of the scowl that crossed his scarred brow.

“He’s the one who lied to the Komizar for me,” I said.

Griz whipped his gaze at me. “I didn’t lie for you, twinkle toes. Let’s get that straight right now. I lied for her.”

“You’re a spy for her kingdom?” I asked.

His lips curled back in disgust. “I’m a spy for you, you blasted fool.”

Sven’s eyebrows shot up. This was obviously a new development for him too.

Griz jerked his head toward Sven. “All those years stuck with this lout gave me a little knowledge about courts, and a lot of knowledge about languages. I’m no traitor to my own kind, if that’s what you’re thinking, but I meet with your scouts. I carry useless information from one enemy kingdom to another. If royals want to throw their money away for the tracking of troops, I’m happy to oblige. It keeps my kinfolk from starving.”

I looked at Sven. “This is who you were stuck with in the mines?”

“For two very long years. Griz saved my life,” he answered.

“Get it right,” Griz snarled. “You saved my neck, and we both know it.”

Orrin and I exchanged a glance. Neither one seemed pleased about his spared life or in agreement over who saved whom.