Page 4

I shut my eyes and give up my feeble resistance. The winds are strong, but at least they’re whipping out the worst of the rainwater from my clothes. Once we’re in the boat, Quin releases his magical hold on me and steers us along the water in silence.

He takes us to a small inn, close to the constabulary. It’s a robust, cozy place filled with soft chatter. The moment Quin appears in his uniform, snapping his cane, the innkeeper welcomes him back, asking if he had a busy day. Quin barks out a bitter laugh and requests extra blankets and clothing to be brought to his rooms. He leads me through a humming dining area, where the warmth from a fire briefly warms my damp clothes.

“Come along.” We head outside and cross a yard to a small communal bathing area, the pool overwhelmingly scented with rose and lavender.

The relaxing herb has no effect on Quin. He spares a tight look at aklos pouring buckets of heated water into the bath; they and a nearby guest scurry away, leaving us alone in the dimly lit room.

A few fine strings knot low in my stomach and I cast my head down.

Quin steps close with an exclamatory snap of his cane. He reaches out and yanks open the knot holding my cloak. It puddles to the floor, and he pushes me to the single bench in the room. I fall back onto it, and my boots are being pulled off. When I’m plucked to my undergarments, he grabs me by the scruff and steers me to the bath. I land inside with a splash and a sputter, scented water stinging my eyes.

When I’ve finally cleared them, Quin is at the other end of the bath. He rests his head back against the edge and closes his eyes.

“What are you doing?” I cough out.

“You were shivering. Warm up.”

“Why are you in here?”

He keeps his eyes closed. “Making sure you don’t drown in self pity.”

I scowl. So much for his promise only to share his bath with the person he gave his lovelight to. “You’re angry with me. Let it out.”

“I watched you refusing to help the sick.”

I stare at lavender heads and rose petals floating in the water.

“This is not the Cael I know.”

I swallow. “You’ve seen me hesitate before.”

Quin wades along the side of the bath and stops beside me. His thin undershirt clings translucently to his chest. Seeing the outline of the flutette has my stomach knotting tighter. “Before, you hesitated for your family’s safety.” He lifts my chin to meet his eye. “Why didn’t you help today?”

“I can’t .”

“ Nonsense .”

My breath catches in my throat. I jerk my chin from his grasp and stare across the bath.

“You can diagnose by observation and pulse reading. You know which foods can aid health. You’ve helped those allergic to magic. You understand the healing properties of a thousand plants. The application might differ, but you have enough knowledge to give more than basic aid.”

My stomach churns, and I step back from the intensity of Quin’s observation.

“I don’t want to see you go against your principles.”

The lump in my throat is impossible to swallow.

“Y-you’re disappointed in me.”

Quin’s lips flatten, and a sudden surge of heat rushes to my eyes. I grit my teeth against it, but it’s too powerful. I twist my back to him, in time for the tear to land on the water’s surface.

I croak, “I... don’t know myself right now, either.” My stomach feels like it’s suffering a series of punches. “I don’t know .”

Quin’s arms come around my shaking body and he pulls me against his chest, holding tight. My tears fall thick and heavy, splashing onto his arms.

His cheek presses against the side of my head. “No matter if you are a vitalian or a healer by crude methods, as long as it’s your dream to heal, I’ll support you.”

“By being blunt?” I choke out.

“When you need it.” His arms shift slightly around me.

I clutch his forearms tightly and the punches in my stomach rise to my chest. I shove his arms open and step away, turning in his direction, my gaze cast low. He waits, unmoving.

My voice is lost somewhere in my throat, and all I can do is nod while I find it again. “You didn’t need to take me away.”

He’s quiet a moment, then he wades back to his end of the bath and resumes lounging with his head cast towards the ceiling. “Tomorrow we’ll help refugees move into huts near Thinking Hall.”

“That’s what you were organising when I tried to ‘destroy the royal seal’?”

Quin’s lips curve slightly. He knows he twisted the truth out of proportion.

I flick the surface of the water, spraying his grin.

He raises an eyebrow and sends a wave of water across the surface until it breaks over me.

I splutter, gulp in air, wipe at the drenched hair over my face, and climb out of the bath glaring daggers at his shut-eyed amusement.

Quin seats himself in the small dawn-soaked boat, and I clamber in across from him. He moves an oar out of my way, and winces. When he sets it down, he rolls his shoulder.

I recall his three bullseye shots yesterday. “You overdid it.”

“I did what I needed to.” He says it as a matter of fact, and my next breath slides along knotted threads in my stomach.

I focus on the winding canal, and then the approaching makeshift sanctuary. Bordered by the water, the back of Thinking Hall, cobbled streets, and a weathered luminarium is a large grassy area filled with patchwork tents and quickly constructed shelters. Bright fabrics are layered over the tents along with banners from refugee villages.

We rope the boat and step into the sanctuary. I was expecting to see a similar scene to yesterday—groups of people huddled together, sharing their stories over eager mouthfuls of porridge. Instead, moans grow louder as we near the centre, each one twisting tighter in my chest. The air is heavy with the scent of unwashed bodies and bile. A child cries nearby, clutching at his mother’s sleeve as she slumps against a tent post.

Quin’s cane hits the ground with a sharp tap, but his usual air of command is muted. He rests on his cane and observes the scene, frowning.

Something’s not right.

Ahead, in the shadows of Thinking Hall, Quin’s allies are sharing worried looks as they speak in hushed tones. They’re interrupted by a deep cry from a nearby tent. They race towards it, asking if anyone needs help, and a young man emerges carrying an elderly woman.

He drops to his knees and cries over her body.

I’m frozen a few tents away, a knot lodged in my throat.

If I’d done more yesterday... would Nannan still be alive?

I force myself to look away, but his grief is seared into my mind. Is this... my fault?

I glance at Quin, horrified, and he quietly wraps an arm around me, pulling me behind one of the tents.

Best he not see you and lay unfair blame.

Unfair? Would it be?

With a tight lump in my throat, I observe the man crying for his nannan while Quin’s allies bow their heads in silence.

“This is your fault,” he yells at them. “Your porridge took her life!”

Porridge? Quin and I share a sharp frown.

One of Quin’s supporters tries to calm him, but he is lost in his grief; other refugees are crawling out of their tents and hobbling over, moaning and clutching their stomachs.

“Look,” he says, jerking his finger around. “I thought you represented King Constantinos, thought he cared.”

Quin grinds his teeth and white-knuckles his cane. I stiffen. I’d told them the porridge was the king’s caring deed. “Quin—”

“This is not your fault.”

Before us, Quin’s nobles defend the king. “He’d be devasted to learn of this.”

The young man shakes his head. Others shout for answers. Healers. They’re sick, weakening by the hour.

“We’ve sent for constables and vitalians,” a noble says. “They’ll be here soon; they’ll investigate the source of this.”

I glance at Quin. “Are they expecting you?”

“Perhaps they think they’ve sent for me. But I won’t receive that message. Others will come—” He gestures towards two constables marching from the street towards the commotion, Eparch Valerius in his official uniform close behind.

At the sight of the eparch, Quin pulls his hat further down, casting more of his face in shadow.

Fair. Not only would his cover be blown, there’d be more commotion and unrest among the sick. We remain veiled by tents and banners, peeking through gaps.

“What’s all this?” Eparch Valerius says, face pinched in concern as he takes in the moaning refugees around him.

Fingers point at the nobles, along with more murmurs of accusation.

The eparch grimaces and raises his hands, calling for quiet. He commiserates with the refugees and promises to send the vitalians due at Thinking Hall to them. “In the meantime, until we’ve determined the cause, I’ll have food brought here from my manor and cooked under redcloak supervision.”

The crowd is a collective sigh of relief and gratitude, and the young man, cradling his dead nannan, pleads for investigation, retribution.

Eparch Valerius casts the nobles a sympathetic look. “I’m sure these men will cooperate with the constables?”

Quin sets his lips in a grim line as his allies allow themselves to be led away for questioning. The remaining constable calls for someone to gather yesterday’s leftover food for inspection, and for a stretcher. He insists the nannan’s body be handed over for an autopsy, and the young man begrudgingly accepts.

“You volunteered yesterday,” Quin whispers. “Best you avoid the constabulary.”

I think it through, and nod. Soon they’ll look for those who handled the porridge—my connection with Nicostratus, already under suspicion for murder... I’d be thrown into prison. Interrogated.

It’d definitely worsen things for the prince.

“Let’s figure out what’s going on,” I say. Clear Quin’s supporters—and myself—of any doubt.

“Careful. I must speak to my men.”

We slink off in different directions.

Healers swarm into the sanctuary, and I follow the scent of steaming herbal teas towards the cooking area.

A swish of white hits the corner of my eye. I glance towards it, but only a pale yellow banner flaps in the breeze. Seeing things.

An akla from yesterday, scrubbing large pots, spots me. I raise a finger to my lips so she doesn’t call out, and shuffle to her. “Do you have any leftover oats from yesterday?”

She frowns, shakes her head, and gestures to three large sacks behind her. “All those were donated this morning.”

“By who?”

“Most come from the nobles you met yesterday.”

“What about the rest?”

“The entire kitchen—dishtowels, pots, food, fuel—comes from people’s goodwill.”

“Whose goodwill? Who else donated yesterday?”

Akla scrubs hard at a pot. “Oh, a really tall aklo dropped a sack of oats off on behalf of the prince. Another was from that redcloak. What’s his name... Commander Thalassios.”

The prince donating oats made sense. He and his brother worked together for the good of the people. The commander, though... “He came personally?”

She nods and throws her wet cloth over the rim of the pot. “Need more water.” When she’s gone, I pry open the sacks and sift handfuls of oats through my fingers. They look untampered with; smell right, too. I taste a few flakes from each sack. All decent quality.

There are four empty sacks rolled up beside them, and I inspect them too, then I run a finger around the inner surface of the pots. Sand is being used to scrub them, the texture gritty under my fingertips. I stare at my fingers and back at the pots. The sand from one of the pots is slightly filmy, like it’s covered in a stubborn grease. I sniff, and frown. I can’t quite place it. It’s a subtle scent...

Maybe I’m imagining it.

I take a cleaning cloth, wipe some sand into it and tuck it into my cloak. Approaching footsteps have me slipping out of sight; I peek back to see a constable similarly inspecting the cooking area for anything abnormal.

With the cloth damp against my chest, I sneak back through the city to the constabulary. I head in with my hood pulled low, hide in corners and slink through shadows until I spy Quin coming out of the cells. I catch his attention, and his posture tightens. He moves to the back of the building, and I meet him there.

“I told you not to come here,” he says in hushed tones.

“Could you get me inside to check her body?”

“Vitalian checked already; looks like liver failure, acerbated by severe food poisoning.”

“What kind?”

“That remains uncertain.”

I take out the cleaning cloth and hand it to him. “There’s something here... I want to see if it’s on her too.”

He sniffs, and his lips flatten gravely. He doesn’t recognise the scent, but like me finds something off about it. He ushers me secretly through the precinct to a basement room, where the nannan rests on a white-clothed table. “Quick, you only have a few minutes before lunch is over. They’ve sent constables to find all those who handled food yesterday.”

“I never properly introduced myself to the aklos and aklas, or any of the refugees.”

“That gives you time but it also makes you more suspicious. By tomorrow, they’ll have your likeness plastered throughout the city.” Wanted for questioning.

“What about Commander Thalassios?” I ask. “He donated some of yesterday’s oats.”

Quin squares his jaw. “I’ll see to it I get the chance to question him.” At the sound of a distant door squealing, we share a sharp look and scan the room for a space to hide.

Only one option. I gesture Quin towards the examination table and he holds up a corner of the long cloth for me to sneak through. When I’m crouched in the whiteish glow, he drops the cloth—but not before I notice my soldad swaying from his belt. What—

I force the query away for another time. Through the gap at the floor, I see Quin’s boots and the end of his cane.

A second pair of boots, more rugged, comes into the room. “Gah. You gave me a fright.”

“Apologies.”

“No harm, no harm. Constables usually avoid coming down here, is all. Think they’ll be affected by restless spirits.” A pause. “But you transfers are less superstitious. Better heads on shoulders, I say. Why are you here?”

“I need help identifying this scent.”

Rugged boots stop close to Quin.

“Have you discovered this anywhere on or in the victim’s body?” Quin asks.

A hum. “Peculiar. Can’t quite make it out. Let’s take a look at her.”

Rugged boots move around the table across from Quin’s. Magic glows, illuminating the white cloth, and stops after a few minutes. “Don’t detect anything.”

“Thank you for your time,” Quin says, and his boot stretches under the table to nudge me. “Could I bother you to take a look at my leg?”

“Of course, of course.”

“May I sit somewhere?”

“Come with me through here...” Their boots move into an adjacent room, and I silently scurry out from under the table. I should dash out the door, but... one cursory look.

Gently, I angle her head and check her mouth with a silk handkerchief around my finger. The spell the vitalian used didn’t detect anything, and yet... I check the silk. It’s ever-so-slightly filmy.

I sniff. Faint, but I’m sure it’s the same scent I collected from the pot at the sanctuary. I check her neck. More traces, as if she’s sweated out some of this mystery concoction.

At Quin clearing his throat in the next room, I hurriedly tuck the handkerchief away and slip out.