The Heart of Betrayal (The Remnant Chronicles 2) - Page 86

“Still working out the details of the raft. He’s acquiring the barrels to tether together.”

Barrels. In a split-second passing today, Jeb had briefly whispered the escape would be by raft, but I’d hoped I had heard him wrong. I shook my head. “There has to be another way.”

“If there is, you tell us what it is,” Sven said. He told me they had already looked at other options and confirmed the bridge was definitely not one of them. It required too many men to raise and drew too much attention. Traveling on land for hundreds of miles to the lower river wasn’t an option either. We’d be hunted down before we reached the calm waters, and there were beasts in that part of the river that did their own kind of hunting. Orrin had already gotten a taste of that. His calf had been shredded before Jeb and Tavish managed to kill the monster that had latched on to his leg.

They insisted a raft was the only option. Tavish had studied the river. He said it would work. Though the drop and rushing waters sent up a powerful mist, that same mist provided concealment, and there were slower eddies on the western bank. The raft just had to be maneuvered into one at just the right point. It was possible. The other advantage to the river was that it would sweep us out of Vendan reach so swiftly, we’d be miles away before they even managed to get the bridge raised to try to follow, and then they’d have no idea where w

e had exited the river. Orrin said they had left their horses and some of the Vendan horses we had captured roped off in a hidden pasture some twenty miles downriver. It was the perfect plan. So they said. If the horses were still there. If a hundred other things didn’t go wrong. I tried to remind myself that Tavish had always been the architect of details. I had to trust him, but I’d have felt better if I could see the certainty in his eyes for myself. I didn’t know if Lia even knew how to swim.

“How’s your leg?” I asked Orrin.

“Tavish sewed me up. I’ll live.”

“But it needs a dressing too,” Sven said firmly.

Orrin lifted his pant leg and shrugged. The dozens of stitched lines showing above the top of his boot were red and festering, which explained his slight limp. But it had given Governor Obraun and his injured guard a good excuse to join me here. Sven had told Calantha his guard had been attacked by a panther while hunting and was in need of a poultice too.

While we were whispering, Jeb snuck in from another door. “Anyone here need a crap cake?”

I smiled, surveying him head to foot. He was the only one among us who cared about the season’s latest fashion and whether his buttons were polished. Now he was dressed in rags, his hair filthy, and he fully looked the role of a patty clapper. “How’d you get stuck with that job?” I asked.

“Everyone’s happy to open the door for a patty clapper making a delivery. Happy at least for a few seconds.” He made a clicking sound out the side of his mouth, like the snapping of a neck. “We may need to take a few out quietly in their rooms before we make our move.”

“And he speaks Vendan like a native,” Sven added.

Jeb was like Lia, gifted at languages. He seemed to enjoy their exotic feel on his tongue as much as exotic fabrics on his back. But Sven had learned Vendan the hard way—a few years into his service, he was imprisoned, along with two Vendans, in a Lesser Kingdom. They were captured for slave service, as he called it, working for two years in their mines until he and the Vendans finally hatched an escape.

“I gathered that you’re somewhat conversant now too?”

“I get by,” I said. “I don’t speak it well, but I can understand a fair amount. As you saw, the Komizar and some of the Council speak Morrighese, and Lia helped me with some phrases.”

Jeb stepped forward, cracking his knuckles. “I talked to her,” he said.

He had our undivided attention now, including Orrin, who looked back at us over his shoulder. Jeb said he saw her just before the evening meal in Sanctum Hall. He’d managed to make a delivery to her room. “She knows we’re here now.”

“All four of you?” I said. “She wasn’t impressed by our numbers when I told her.”

“Can you blame her? I’m not impressed either,” Jeb answered.

Orrin snorted. “It only takes one person to skewer—”

“The Assassin’s mine,” I reminded him. “Don’t forget that.”

“She gave me useful information,” Jeb continued, “especially about paths in the Sanctum. The place is crawling with them, but some are dead ends. I’ve already been stuck in a few and almost fell down one. She also gave me her winnings from a card game for supplies.”

“That’s what she called it? Winnings?” I said. “More like what she swindled. I lost five pounds of sweat that night.”

Sven rolled his eyes. “So she’s good at cards and tearing off faces.”

“Certain faces.” I looked back at Jeb. “Did she say anything else?”

He hesitated for a moment, rubbing the back of his neck. “She said your mother was dead.”

The words hit me again. My mother was dead. I told them what the Komizar had said, and his claim that the funeral pyre had been witnessed by Vendan riders. Sven balked, saying that was impossible, that the queen was hearty and wouldn’t succumb so easily or quickly, but the truth was we had all been away for so long we had no idea what was happening at home, and a new wave of guilt hit me. They all refuted the story, saying it was only a Vendan lie to torment me, and I let them hold on to that thought—maybe I wanted to hold on to it too—but I knew the Komizar had no reason to lie. He didn’t know she was my mother, only my queen, and telling me had helped strengthen my claim.

“One other thing,” Jeb said, then shook his head as if thinking better of it.

“Go ahead. Say it,” I said.

Tags: Mary E. Pearson The Remnant Chronicles Fantasy
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