Page 67 of The Turncoat King

“Be warned, no talking about column business. Assume every word you speak will end up in a Kassian ear, and conduct yourselves accordingly.” The officer commanding the escort unit had already said it once before, but Ava didn’t mind him repeating it.

What he said was true.

They reached the caravan after twenty minutes, and Ava thought the whole caravan looked nervous.

Perhaps that was natural when faced with a massive army intent on the overthrow of the ruling order.

Ava slid off her horse and tied it to the cart before she followed Carys to where the caravan had set up tables in readiness to barter and sell.

Most of the tables were shaded by canopies extended from covered carts, and the traders sat in deep shadow.

Carys got straight into conversation with the first trader they came to, a woman selling shoes, and Ava drifted on, looking over tables of food and drink, and with more interest, wool and fabric.

A stack of thin boxes caught her eye and she froze. Then slowly walked toward the table.

Her boxes. For sale here, to anyone who had the coin.

Her revenge, being squandered.

She moved her gaze from the stack to the man standing behind the table. “What’s in those?” she asked.

The boxes were all tied with twine, as they had been when she had given them to Velda, with a short description of the design written on the side. All except the one on top. The twine had been cut on that one.

“Shirts,” the man said. “The most amazing embroidery you will ever see.”

“Is that so?” Her fury climbed higher. So high, her hands shook as she pulled a scrap of fabric and her needle and thread from her pocket. “Where did you get them?”

For a moment he hesitated, shifting a little under her gaze. “From a source in Grimwalt.”

“Fine embroidery isn’t a high priority in a marching army.” She kept her voice neutral.

He twitched again, peering at her out of the shadows created by the canopy. “I was going to sell them in Fernwell, but if someone here wants to buy one . . .” He shrugged. “A sale’s a sale."

“A sale’s a sale,” Ava repeated as she bowed her head over the fabric, working in quick, sure movements. “Can I see the work? I’m a fair hand at embroidery myself.”

He seemed reluctant, suddenly. “Well, don’t touch, mind. The fabric is very fine, and I need to keep it clean.”

If anyone had touched those shirts . . . Ava had to breathe in deeply. They would be ensnared.

But she would first have to be sure.

The trader picked up the top box and lifted the lid, and there was her final work. The piece meant for her cousin. The shirt of blue and green feathers, thickly embroidered at the cuffs and hem, becoming less dense toward the top, with just one, single feather embroidered into the left shoulder.

“See?” The trader held the box in both arms and shuffled back so she couldn’t touch. “The artisan who created these is in a league beyond any I have ever seen, so if you are able to match—” He peered at the scrap of fabric she held out to him, and closed the lid with a snap, put it back on the pile, and snatched the fabric from her.

She held her breath.

She never knew how her spell casting would work, although she had twice worked something similar to this. Once in the dungeons of the fortress where she’d been kept, and once when she had needed to rescue Luc while they were on the run.

It had worked both times, but this was more ambitious than those had been.

“This is good, especially in the time it took . . .” He looked up at her, eyes suddenly a little unfocused.

“I am very happy to help you take these boxes back into your cart.” Ava gathered as many as she could into her arms. “It wouldn’t do to have stock meant for Fernwell out when you don’t intend to sell it to the Rising Wave.”

The trader blinked. “Thank you, you’re right.”

He took the last few boxes and Ava followed him around the back of the cart, and then climbed in after him.

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