Page 38 of The King's Man 3

“Seen what, exactly?”

“The forest is filled with a poisonous miasma. Most of the rare herbs we make a living on are gathered from the caves in there. Since we can’t get the goods, the kingdom has a shortage. We have less valuable crops we grow in the meadow but they’re needed for taxes now.” She gestures to the store. “As you can see, it leaves little to none for our townspeople.”

I recall the inn we stayed in a day out of the capital; the locals there had been vocal about the lack of help from the royal city. “This has been going on since the earthshakes?”

“Every month. You saw the troop in the square? They’re here to collect again.”

“You’re right to keep the people here hopeful.”

“Not sure how much longer I can. We don’t get vitalians here anymore. A few of us have been south and know crude medicine, but the only other healers we see are the troop vitalians that come with the redcloaks. You, being here, at a time like this... Fate has you here to help us, and if you’re here to help, you need to know the truth. My name’s Olyn.”

I pause, and look at her. Her big eyes hold mine so tight a lump forms in my throat. “Cael. Take me to these crops.”

She leads me through the square. Once, it felt bustling; now, I notice the difference—many move with bowed heads, hurrying past or buying only essentials. Stalls are barely glanced at, even with their slashed prices.

Only one seems to have a decent line... I peek towards the table and halt. Seated there—hunched over, hood drawn over his eyes—is Quin. He’s rolling dice and speaking to a couple seated across from him.

What in all the kingdoms . . .

“Are you coming?” Olyn asks, and I snap my gaze forward once more.

We carry on to the east, where streets turn to tree-lined roads, and from there we follow the canal in the shadow of the town wall, to fields of herbs drying on woven mats in the sun.

We tuck ourselves behind a tree and observe the scene. Labourers filling sacks; redcloaks snatching them up to load onto their carts.

When the carts are full, the redcloak captain eyes what remains and tells the farmers they’ll be back tomorrow for the rest.

The men look back at the captain with despair in their eyes. One presses shaking hands together. “My mother and daughterare sick. There are more ill every day...” He bows his head. “Have mercy.”

“These are the quota for the capital.” The captain waves a hand toward the tree-covered mountains. “You have an entire forest. I’m stationing men here to make sure nothing gets taken.”

When the farmers try pressing their case with the two redcloaks left behind, swords are unsheathed. One of them laughs coldly about needing practice with a blade.

I stiffen, gripping the trunk of the tree so tightly bits of bark weasel their way into the parts of my hands my gloves leave uncovered. Olyn swears under her breath and shifts beside me. I don’t see her move. But almost instantly, the redcloaks flinch and lower their swords.

As the farmers scurry away, I turn to look at her. There’s a leather strip unfurled in her hand, thin needles lined up neatly along it. And four are missing.

She walks calmly over to the still-frozen men and retrieves two—one from the back of the neck and another from the shoulder—of each, sliding them back into their places as she returns. Not long after, the soldiers stir, rubbing at their sore spots and complaining of wasps.

We retreat silently into the trees, Olyn gripping her needle case tightly.

“The people here need those herbs,” she hisses.

I snap my gaze to hers.

She holds up the needles. “I’m the best this side of the mountains. I won’t let myself get caught.” Her pleading eyes bore into mine. “If you had those herbs, could you help the sick here?”

“Of course,” I say, squeezing my fists as we pass back through the gate into the town. “But regardless how skilled you are with needles, they’re redcloaks. I can’t let you do it alone. And weneed a better plan than ‘take the herbs.’ Even if we can do that without getting caught, they’ll be gone when the rest of the troop returns to collect—”

I turn to look at Olyn, to face this problem together, but all I see of her is a retreating back as a frantic-looking older woman pulls her away. She frowns at the news being delivered, and then returns hastily to tell me to meet her in an hour at the dispensary.

I watch her leave. Perplexed, I swivel on my heel toward Quin’s still-thriving stall and wait in line. I frown over how we could possibly steal those herbs without the consequences landing on us, or the already beleaguered residents of this place, while the line shuffles forward by slow degrees. The solution doesn’t magically reveal itself though, and at Quin’s “next” I push those thoughts momentarily aside.

I sling myself onto the stool in front of him, and the moment I rest my hands on the table, Quin pauses. He doesn’t lift his head; his hood casts the top half of his face in shadow.

“Work, family, or relationships?” he asks.

Readings, Quin? Really?

---