Page 26 of A Court of Masks and Roses (Royal Scout #1)

KALI

I have little more to say to Trace, not after his training-yard declarations.

From the sulky silence with which Trace now tolerates Kal’s presence on Prince Wil’s guard duty, it seems Trace is of a similar mind.

Since we aren’t speaking, I feel no need to ask Trace why he goes out to sweep the wilderness every evening.

Nor do I feel obligated to tell him that Princess Raza waits for him every night on the opposite side of the palace grounds.

“If I didn’t know better,” Luca drawls three days into our new wordless routine, “I’d say you two are quarreling over a girl. And that she probably isn’t worth the headache.” The man divides a sardonic look between Trace and me.

Trace snorts, following quietly in Wil’s wake as the prince strides past the stables, the mess hall, and the rest of his usual haunts for the third time since we started the outing an hour ago.

A wind that’s chilly for Delta ruffles the grass, the blades bending beneath its force.

It’s unusual for Wil to meander about, but today he seems in no more mood for conversation than Trace is.

I glance at Luca. “How do you know we aren’t?”

Luca tips his head back and laughs. “Because the only girl who would be interested in both of you is a whore, and she’d have found a way to make coin long ago.” He nudges Wil’s shoulder. “Wouldn’t you agree, Your Highness?”

Wil nods absently, his eyes on the ground as he turns our procession to skirt around the palace.

Luca frowns. “Where are we going exactly?”

Wil’s eyes trail the ground. “It’s just around the corner now,” he says, his face pale and his fingers gripping the sides of his long, formal coat in a white-knuckle hold.

“Around that corner?” Luca’s brows climb. “But those are...”

“The dungeons,” Wil mutters in affirmation.

“Why under the bloody stars do you want to go to the dungeons?” I ask.

After the evening at the Wandering Dog, I’m little worried about propriety, and Wil seems to be taking the directness in stride.

Unlike Trace, who tightens his jaw at the familiarity.

Because pawing a foreign princess is exponentially better than speaking plainly to your own prince.

“‘Want’ isn’t the word I’d choose,” Wil says with a sigh. “The prisoner who attacked Princess Raza is awake. My father has charged me with his...” He fumbles, shaking his head like a dog. “Interview.”

I exchange a glance with Luca. I’m all for a bit of responsibility, but this?

“In that case, feel free to take another turn around the palace,” Luca mutters. “Or five more.”

Wil gives Luca a ghost of a smile and, squaring his shoulders, heads for a heavy door at the base of the round tower. A row of lanterns thoughtfully hangs on hooks outside the entrance and we each take a light before going inside. It takes Trace two tries to light his.

Many of the scars I’ve seen on his flesh are the kind you get in a place like this, not a field of battle. I wonder how many nightmares this walk down the stairs will cost him.

The yellow light cocoons our small group in imagined warmth as we make our way down the spiraling steps into the belly of the underground.

The stench greets us before the sight, a putrid mix of shit and vomit, urine and blood, terror and agony.

A pleading scream rips through the air and Wil stumbles, bracing his hand against the wall for balance.

“We should have left a guard outside,” I say, catching Trace’s eye. The first words I’ve uttered to him directly in days. “The bloody staircase is too cramped as it is.”

A bead of sweat creeps down the guardsman’s temple despite the underground chill. “You can go up,” he says evenly.

“I’m not the one who takes up all the space,” I say, adding the lifeline he just threw back in my face to the list of reasons I hate Trace.

At the end of the passage, Wil raises his chin and strides to the guard on duty. “Good afternoon,” he says with a gracious nod of his head. Apparently the boy can be princely when he needs to. “Might I speak with Questioner Calvin?”

The guard touches a fist to his chest, little surprised at Wil’s appearance in his lair. “Of course, Your Highness. This way, please.”

We follow the guard to a dusty room, where mismatched wooden benches surround a low table. A shelf on the wall holds ledgers, ink, jugs of water and wine, and, of all things, a teapot. With a set of painted porcelain cups beside it.

“I will tell Questioner Calvin you are here,” the guard says, touching his fist to his chest again before disappearing .

Wil, Luca, and I sit. Trace chooses to stand. Ten minutes pass. Fifteen. Half an hour. I’m beginning to wonder if Firehorn has specifically ordered Calvin to keep Wil waiting all day when the door to our room opens and a middle-aged man glides inside.

“I’m Calvin, Your Highness,” the man says with a half bow. Loosely tied-back graying hair and manicured fingers complement the soft, confident timbre of his voice. “Chief questioner.”

Wil rises to his feet. “Thank you.” He pauses as if searching for words and, upon finding none, points to us. “My guards. Kal, Trace, and Luca.”

Calvin greets each of us in turn. My gaze brushes past his thoughtful eyes and clean clothes to his blood-spattered shoes.

He smiles wryly. “Ah, well. I imagine you’re quite familiar with what happens here, no matter how benignly I dress.

Tea?” Without waiting for a reply, the questioner takes the teapot and fills five delicate cups with steaming liquid.

“Were we waiting for the tea to steep?” I hear myself ask.

Calvin smiles and places a cup in my hands. At once, the strong aroma of the brew overpowers the other smells assaulting my senses. A veil of pretense that we are somewhere other than a torture chamber, speaking with its master-in-chief.

“Well then, Prince William,” says Calvin, inclining his head respectfully. “I understand that His Majesty has placed you in charge of obtaining intelligence from a certain prisoner. Do you wish to question the man yourself, or shall I tell you what I’ve learned thus far?”

Wil places his untouched teacup back on the table. “I’m to do it myself,” he says quietly.

“Of course.” Calvin sets his own cup down and holds open the corridor door, sending a shiver of dread through me. “This way.”

We follow Calvin past cells of misery to an isolated corridor. An alcove with a bench and some water jugs opens unexpectedly and quickly disappears behind a sharp corner as we reach our target.

My stomach turns as I behold the man in the cell. Despite the bars, the man is also chained to the back wall, with manacles on his wrists and ankles. He snarls at us.

The hate and rage are the only recognizable remains of the rebel Trace and I brought down a week ago.

Bile rises in my throat as I see slivers of abused flesh peeking out from beneath the rags passing for clothing.

Even with everything Lord Gapral put me through under his tutelage, he never made me question a prisoner.

I don’t know whether the other scouts’ training was similarly shaped, but it’s a kindness the depths of which I’m only now appreciating.

A wave of dizziness slams into me and I jam my hands into my pockets, focusing on the nails digging into my palms. Feeling a solid warmth beside me, I realize Trace has stepped forward. Our shoulders touch.

The prisoner’s eyes focus on Wil’s pale face, like a predator scenting blood. “Princeling.”

“Hello,” says Wil. The man growls and struggles against his chains, stopping abruptly when Calvin steps from the shadows.

Calvin nods to Wil. “Your guards and I will wait for you around the corner there, Your Highness. The man’s chain will stop him short of the bars. Please call if you require anything.”

I glance at Luca. Are we really leaving him alone?

“The king’s orders,” says Calvin quietly. “This particular corridor ends in a stone wall. I assure you that the prince’s safety will be little compromised by you taking the twenty-five steps to the alcove.”

I turn my face. A preplanned game, that’s what this was.

Following silently in Calvin’s wake, I claim a space on the stone bench and search for some place free of the questioner’s tools to look at.

The crack on the far side of the floor is the winner until I realize it comes equipped with three fat cockroaches.

Crossing his arms, Luca leans against the wall beside me.

Trace stands statue straight, his fingers gripping his sword tightly when a moan ripples through the air.

Calvin’s eyes dart to him lazily. “If you are going to be sick, there is a bucket in the corner.”

“Tell me, questioner,” Trace says with deathly quiet. “Which part of your job do you enjoy the most? The screams or the blood?”

Calvin purses his lips in thought, taking the question seriously. “Understanding how people work is most enjoyable. Finding each person’s strengths and vulnerabilities. Learning how to exploit each to its full benefit.” A thin smile. “No two people are alike, you know.”

Trace’s teeth flash. “We all bleed the same.”

“Do we?” Calvin cocks his head. “You, guardsman, I could break without touching a lash.”

Faster than I can blink, Trace grabs the front of Calvin’s tunic and slams the man hard against the stone wall. Luca and I are on him in an instant, our combined strength doing nothing to shift Trace’s hands. His lip curls, white teeth snapping in the dim light.

Calvin winces and, despite his feet dangling in the air, takes a moment to probe the back of his head. He clicks his tongue at the smidge of blood that comes away on his finger. “Ah, here you are, proving me right.” Trace drops the questioner like a poisonous snake. Calvin smiles .

I’m unsure which of them I want to strangle more.

Trace’s chest heaves. Once, twice. On the third inhale, he turns on his heels and storms toward the exit.

The echo of his footsteps still sounding in my chest, I glance at Luca and nod at the question I knew was in his eyes before I even looked.

Yes, I’ll be all right alone. Go on after him.

Peeling away from the wall, Luca leaves too.

With the two guards gone, Calvin picks himself up off the floor.

After expertly regrouping his mussed hair, the questioner straightens his tunic, running his fingers over the edge of the collar until it lies flat against his shirt.

I give him a stare. “Why?”

“That boy had no business being down here,” says Calvin, turning his attention to his cufflinks.

I’ve never imagined someone daring to call Trace a boy, but Calvin is comfortable with the word.

He pulls his sleeves down straight. “Not with—excuse me, Kal,” he cuts off as Wil stalks around the corner, his face flushed with fury.

“You’ll talk to me,” the prince hollers over his shoulder, ignoring Calvin and me. “You hear me?” Laughter answers him from the cell. Wil slams his palm against the stone and grabs a long-tailed whip from its bracket. With a snap of his wrist, the leather cracks the air.

Blood drains from my face as Wil turns on his heels to return to the cell. Before he makes it two steps, Calvin’s hand clamps over the boy’s wrist. “What seems to be the problem, Your Highness?”

Wil whirls on him, his chest heaving. “That bloody bastard thinks this is a jest.”

“I see.” Still holding Wil’s wrist with one hand, Calvin taps the fingers of his free hand against his thigh. “And you believe this tool will convince him otherwise?”

“That’s what it’s here for, isn’t it?” Wil bites back, his breaking voice a sharp contrast to Calvin’s eerie calm .

“Sometimes.” Calvin gently plucks the lash from Wil’s fingers.

“But I’ve some doubt that it will serve your goals just now.

Let me fetch you something more effective.

” Returning the whip to its rack, the questioner picks up a water bucket and fills two wooden mugs.

He drinks one, refills it, and hands both to the prince, handle first.

“What do I do with this?” Wil asks. “Throw it at him?”

“Share it with him,” suggests Calvin, motioning the prince back toward the cell. I wait until the prince has disappeared around the corner before raising an eyebrow at the questioner.

Calvin raises one shoulder. “Did you truly believe it would be wise to leave the questioning of a vital prisoner to an untried boy, whatever his bloodlines? The prisoner was ready to talk before you lot stepped foot down here. A bit of kindness and dignity is what’s needed now to loosen his tongue.

” He smiles without humor. “The games we play here can shatter a man’s soul.

I believe the king’s intent was to teach young Wil, not break him into pieces. ”

I’m still mulling over Calvin’s words when Wil returns to the alcove, his face a mix of satisfied triumph and utter bewilderment.

“Princess Raza was never the intended target,” he says by way of greeting.

“The rebels mistook her initially, with the age and the escort, and it being dark and all. The girl they meant to kill was Lady Lianna.”