Page 100 of The Prince and His Stolen Throne

“Orcs are warriors,” the captain said. His grimace faded away into a weary sort of acceptance. “As soon as we can stand, we learn to wield a sword. Most orcs kill someone before their tenth birthday. We’ve been chased out of every home by knights and angry townspeople. They call us much worse things than ‘evil.’”

Angelica fell quiet as she considered this conundrum. How many people—human or otherwise—had been exiled from the Desolated Lands because of the defense spell? Could any of them be invited back in?Possibly if they proved their innocence and good intentions, but these orcs worked as minions for an evil mage, so they would automatically be rejected. Even if she tried to bribe the captain with a little shop somewhere in Calamity, a secure future, it would be an empty promise.

“You aren’t evil,” she said, confident in her assessment.

He arched a thick black eyebrow at her. “I work for an evil mage.”

“Yes, but you and the others have treated me kindly. No one truly evil would do that.”

“They gave you a few pillows!”

“And candles.”

He stared at her for a long moment, then shook his head in disbelief. Crossing his arms again, he leaned one shoulder against the cell door. The keys at his hips jangled as they struck the metal bars. “Anyone ever tell you you’re unbelievable?”

She stood and sauntered toward him, grabbing one bar with her left hand. “Only as a compliment.”

The captain stayed perfectly still, his eyes never leaving her face. “No more luxuries or friendly visits. From now on, I’m ordering the others to stand guard at the end of the hall, so you can’t corrupt them with—”

“Yes, yes, my feminine wiles.”

He grunted, then turned to walk down the hall.

“Wait!”

He paused.

“What’s your name?”

Quietly, like he was giving her a personal gift, he said, “Fyodor.” Then he stomped down the hall before she could say anything else.

Once he was out of sight, Angelica held her prize up to the light: a full ring of keys.

There were no minions guarding the second-story entrance into city hall. There were also no stairs. A vine-covered steel balcony hovered several feet above Fitz and Delilah’s heads. More vines spilled out of a hole in the middle. Once, there might have been a ladder, but either time or the evil mage had removed it.

Fitz sighed. “We’ll have to find another way—”

A clawedhand on his shoulder cut off his whispered words. “I can get up there,” Delilah insisted. “If you give me a boost.”

Fitz looked between Delilah—barely taller than five feet—and the steel balcony—at least ten feet above them. “Absolutely not. You’ll fall and break your neck. Possiblybothof our necks.”

“I’m a cat, I always land on my feet.” Ignoring his sputtered indignation, she pressed down on his shoulder and ordered, “Crouch down.”

“If you get us killed,” he muttered, but obediently crouched to offer her his back.

Instead of climbing on, she backed up several feet.

“What are you—” Fitz looked over his shoulder, his eyes widening when she suddenly sprinted toward him.

One of Delilah’s feet planted firmly into his back, using him as a springboard to launch herself at the wall. The weight and force of her step sent Fitz sprawling forward across the ground. His glasses came loose and slid even farther, out of his reach and sight.

Without them, the world was a blurry mess. All he could see was the vague outline of a determined figure clinging to the ivy attached to the wall. She stayed there for a moment, testing to see if the plants would hold her.

Fitz fumbled around on the ground until he found his glasses—unbent and only slightly smudged—and stuffed them back onto his face. One arm missed his ear, but he left it for now, wanting both of his hands free to catch Delilah when she inevitably fell.

Except she wasn’t falling, she wasclimbing. After the initial pause, she’d found her footing and was rapidly crawling up the wall. Her problem now was that the hole was in the center of the balcony, at least three feet away from the wall.

This couldn’t possibly end well.