CHAPTER 12 #2
“Gort was a battle sergeant. He marched on foot with the bladesmen and spearmen. I am a knight. I rode a horse.”
He had a point.
“Come to think of it, where is Striver?” Reynald and his stallion were inseparable.
“He died.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
Was Striver supposed to be dead during this time?
I didn’t know. The book started with Reynald riding on Striver into Kair Toren expecting a happy reunion and instead finding out that his wife had died and his son had been kidnapped.
Striver was in numerous flashbacks but there was no mention of him in the main plot after that opening.
We stared at each other some more.
“Would it help if I grew a beard?” he asked. “It might make me look older.”
Now who was being ridiculous. “No.”
“We must resolve this now, because I need you to trust me, Maggie. There might be times when I tell you to do something for your safety and you must do it without hesitation.”
Another good point.
“I asked you to stop the civil war and save my son. You asked me to wait for your plan and to help you acquire manpower. I’m doing both.”
Also a good point.
“Would you like to see my papers?”
A better person would’ve said no. I wasn’t that person. “Yes.”
He turned around and walked into the house.
I sat at my table. The sun was shining. Fat happy bees bumped into the wine tree flowers and crawled around the plump red petals.
The door swung open and Reynald emerged. He walked up to the table and placed a folded piece of paper in front of me. I opened it.
The Grant of Green Purse to Reynald Etir Karis . . .
“Does this help?”
It still nagged at me, but it was here, written in beautiful calligraphy and sealed with the stamp of the Scribe Chamber.
“Yes,” I said.
He picked up the paper, folded it, and slid it into his tunic. “We know who I am. Who are you, Maggie? Where do you come from?”
“Somewhere else.”
“Where would that be?”
I didn’t answer.
He leaned closer. It was an annoying habit that made him very difficult to ignore. I braced myself.
His voice was quiet, almost intimate.
“Do you have any papers to show me, Maggie?”
“No.”
“Then we must remedy that. The sooner the better because no one in the kingdom can escape the Seventh Chamber.”
He said the Seventh Chamber in a way most people would say the Spanish Inquisition—when they weren’t being funny about it.
Rellas had seven chambers of government.
The Justice Chamber oversaw the criminal justice system, the War Chamber dealt with the military, and so on.
“The Seventh Chamber” was the common people’s code for the Treasury.
It collected taxes. No force in Rellas was more feared.
“At the end of the summer, after Derog fails to report his yields, the Treasury will come knocking,” Reynald said. “We have three months to procure an identity for you, forge a deed of sale for this house, and account for every noma in your purse.”
I blinked at him.
“I leave you to contemplate how we can accomplish that,” he said. “I’m sure you will come up with something.”
He turned around and walked away.
Had I hurt his feelings?
He had trusted me, he had put himself in harm’s way for my sake, and I had demanded to see his papers.
When we were in Derog’s horrible basement, instead of looking for the best position, he’d blocked the way to me and the kids, making sure nothing would get past him and hurt us.
That told me everything I needed to know about who he was.
If I screamed right now, he would come running and he would kill all threats he found.
Because he had decided to protect me, and he kept his word.
You don’t look thirty-eight . . . Ugh.
The Book-Reynald was a man of few words and lots of thinking, and all of that thinking was laid out in detail on the page. I’d spent so much time in his head, our interactions should’ve been easy. It should’ve been like hanging out with an old friend.
Interacting with the real Reynald was anything but easy. It was tense. So much was riding on him having faith in me and I kept blundering about.
There had to have been a more diplomatic way to go about that conversation. I felt so uneasy about it.
Too late now. Besides, what would I have said? In my world, you’re a character in a book and you were described as older and more beat down, so I’m trying to suss out the reason for the discrepancy before something I can’t predict bites us in the butt? Yeah. That would go over well.
I sighed. I needed to strike the first blow against Hreban and make it count. If I pulled it off, Reynald would trust me. The problem was, my plan was risky, expensive, and came with a massive moral dilemma attached.
Setting that aside, Reynald was right—I needed an identity.
My original plan would have been to establish greater ties with the Shears and ask them to make me some fake papers.
That could still work, but it required Solentine to trust me, and that twisted bastard rationed trust like it was water in the Sahara.
Trust, the bane of my existence.
We required more money as well. We’d just doubled our forces. We would need to feed, clothe, and arm everyone. Buying the boat had taken a big chunk out of our budget. Solentine’s money would float us for a while; however, that money would run out.
Trading in secrets was lucrative but doing it too often would alter the chain of events beyond recognition. I had to be picky. I knew what I wanted to offer to Solentine next, but the timing wasn’t right for it.
Money, money, money . . . Where could I get some?
I had to find a source of legitimate income that could cover our collective butts when I presented it to the government. It was time to invent popcorn or something. A farm, a shop . . . If only I had some kind of marketable skill that would apply to this world.
A bee landed on my sleeve, its fuzzy fur red from the wine tree’s flower pollen. I sat very still. Bees were delicate and precious, as our world had found out.
The bee crawled across the fabric, leaving a little trail of vermillion, buzzed, and took off slowly. I brushed at the smudge of red.
I wonder if this pollen will wash out.
Oh.
Right. Why hadn’t I thought of this sooner?