9
“Admit it.” The prince nudges me. “We look good. I made good choices with the jewelry.”
I follow his gaze, glimpsing a reflection of us in a shop window. “We do look good.”
“Of course, I’d look better if I could reveal my beautiful face.
As it is, all I can do is show my eyes, which have terrible bags underneath them because I slept so poorly last night.
Someone was tossing and turning for hours, getting up and down, opening and closing the door, checking the window... ”
“Sorry,” I mutter. “I was anxious. Couldn’t sleep.”
“You should have gone and asked the innkeeper for a drink. Or you could have released your tension another way. If you have a similar struggle tonight, then I, as your pretend fiancé, would be more than happy to assist you in any way that I can.”
“I’m sure you would.” My steps slow as we round the corner.
The hazy streetlamps and the faint pre-dawn glow of the sky illuminate the plaza in front of the Rauveron Guild headquarters, a magnificent building of red stone.
A line of people weaves back and forth like a snake among the statues of fashion icons.
“Shit,” I hiss. “We should have come earlier. There are dozens waiting already.”
“As long as we’re among the first hundred, we’re sure to get samples,” Vawn assures me.
Wrapped in our cloaks, we settle down at the end of the line on the cold paving stones. With every passing minute, more people arrive, until the queue fills the entire courtyard and disappears down a neighboring street.
Vawn isn’t the only person in line who’s concealing their face.
There are a few Xarsians with head coverings, and many people are wearing hoods, helmets or masks.
It makes sense that those who manage to score such a high-value item might want to conceal their identity so they can’t be targeted by thieves.
As the hours pass, the unfairness of it all becomes more obvious.
A few of the more frail individuals can’t endure and leave the line.
A woman shits herself rather than lose her spot, and the smell pervades the air until the people around her start to yell about it.
Eventually, two guards come and drag her out of the line.
I try not to look at the brown smear on the back of her skirt, but I can’t avoid hearing her sobs.
Around noon, new people begin to show up—people dressed in bold, revealing styles, covered in sharp studs, black chains, and silver jewelry, with jewel-encrusted shoes and elaborate nails.
They don’t go to the end of the line. They approach those who are already waiting, offering them large quantities of money for their places in line.
Many of the less fortunate folk who have been waiting since dawn yield their spots, desperate for the money.
They could get more if they waited for the paint drop, but I suppose they’d rather have the certainty of what’s offered.
I’ve had to pee for an hour, and the pressure in my bladder is rapidly becoming too intense to ignore. I only allowed myself two sips of water before we got in line, hoping to avoid this exact situation, but apparently I didn’t dehydrate myself enough.
With the sun beating down on my skin and the wind rushing through the plaza in unpredictable swirls, I’m also parched. Even though it’s spring in the mountains, the rays are still intense. My head is beginning to ache from both the sun exposure and the lack of water.
To distract myself, I take a closer look at our neighbors in line.
The woman next to me was wearing gloves earlier, but she has taken them off now, revealing a single endurance glyph on the first finger of her left hand.
There’s a double curl on the third downstroke, so it’s a fairly powerful glyph, giving her a burst of physical stamina.
But its intensity means that it will also spend faster than a weaker glyph would.
She’ll reach the desiccation point quickly and have to deactivate.
For a situation like this, I would have chosen a glyph with a less noticeable effect that could stay operational over a longer period.
But not everyone does extensive research into glyph mechanics and function before obtaining them.
Some people simply trust the recommendation of the artificient and hope for the best.
Movement draws my gaze to the mouth of one of the streets that empties into the Rauveron Guild plaza.
Soldiers in heavy purple uniforms adorned with silver chains, wearing crystal-studded helmets, march into the square, keeping step with each other.
Six rows of three abreast—eighteen soldiers in total.
Shit.
They’re here for Vawn. They must be. The wyvern rider at the edge of the forest probably reported back to his superiors, and they figured out where we were headed.
My first instinct is to leap up and run with the prince.
Get out of the square, hope that we can lose ourselves in the winding streets of Zeletas.
But the soldiers are marching along the edge of the plaza, not even turning to look at the switchback lines of people waiting for the drop.
They’re headed straight for the front entrance of the Rauveron Guild.
“What do we do?” whispers Vawn from beneath his covering.
“Wait.”
The soldiers halt before the Guild’s entrance. One of them steps from the middle of the first row and hammers on the door. After a few moments, the soldiers are admitted. Half of them disappear inside, while the remaining nine take up positions along the front side of the building.
Chatter rises around us—terse words, worried comments, and theories about who the soldiers are and why they’re here. Half a dozen people abandon their places in line, and the rest shift forward, eager to fill the gaps.
An hour later, two of the purple soldiers re-emerge from the Guild, flanking a thin, nervous-looking man in a ruffled black shirt. We’re close enough that I can see smudges on his throat. Bruises, maybe?
The two soldiers standing with him exude threat, their shoulders squared and their boots braced apart.
They carry no weapons, but they keep their hands crossed in front of them, fingers extended.
Their nails are exceedingly long, painted with two glyphs each, like the ones I saw at the Lyre she was always taking us into the streets of nearby towns and cities.
Once she even took us to a sheep farm and made us stand for hours, observing the movements of the animals with and without the influence of the sheepdog.
All those hours of observation surge to the forefront of my mind, and suddenly I perceive, with frightening clarity, what’s about to happen.
A mob will form. They’ll rush the Guild entrance. The uniformed soldiers will retaliate. Bloodshed will ensue.
The last remaining prince of the ruling family, the heir to the throne, cannot remain anywhere near this place. And yet we desperately need the glyph paint.
Maybe I should have brought the carpet with us. I could fly up to one of the windows of the Guild, get inside, maybe steal a vial or two.
Or I’d get shot down in the attempt and potentially draw too much attention to my companion with his shrouded face.
“Come with me,” I whisper to Vawn as the outrage from the crowd around us grows louder. We slip out of the line, heading away from the Guild along a side street—but the second we’re far enough from the plaza, I cut down an alley.
“What’s the plan?” Vawn asks.
“There is no plan,” I reply. “But there must be a back door, a side entrance, something.” We pass a deep recess in the wall, and I hesitate. “If I asked you to wait in that hollow while I commit thievery, would you do it?”
“And miss the chance to commit thievery with you?”
“I’m faster and more agile. It will be easier if I just do this myself.”
“Maybe, or maybe not. Do you have any idea how much security this place has, darling? How many locks, both traditional and magical, seal their vaults?”
“We need the paint,” I tell him. “We need it desperately. Without it, we won’t make it to Anyssir Castle.”
Vawn is about to answer, but his gaze moves past me, to something in the alley. I turn and spot a short man in a hooded cape walking swiftly toward us. His hurried steps and the nervous glances over his shoulder raises an immediate suspicion in my mind.
He’s coming from the Guild.
The man falters when he spots us, but he makes an effort to appear nonchalant as he continues along the alley. Despite his heavy clothing, I discern the audible clink of glass as he moves.
He’s nearly past us when I dart in front of him, twirling my knives casually.
“Good morning, sir.” I grin at him, and he gives me a watery attempt at an answering smile. “Where are you coming from?”
“Nowhere,” he says.
“The Guild, possibly? Bit of trouble that way, from what we saw. Isn’t that right?” I look past the man at Vawn, who’s closing in behind him.
“An uproar, one might say,” Vawn adds smoothly.
“That’s right. Terrible for business.”
“I’m just a clerk.” The man’s voice trembles. “Whatever you’re looking for, I don’t have it.”