Page 76 of The King's Man 3

“What about a messenger? Or an aklo? Say you work for Veronica’s father.”

“I need more status for my purposes.”

“Suppose that rules out jester.” I sigh, smiling. “Pity. You’re spectacular dolled up, playing my wife. Speaking of, how exactly did you get my golden feather back? Even saving his life didn’t compel him to give it to me...”

“I visited him.”

“As . . . my wife?”

“As his king. Some buried wine the vespertines discovered that morning gave me the idea. I had someone leave a pot where our dear farmer would find it. When he did, I was informed and made my way to a few houses along the street thanking the people for their trust.”

I smirk. He clears his throat and continues, “When it came to thanking him, of course he flurried about to offer me the best of what he had. I noticed the wine, gushed about the quality, and we got to drinking.”

“You drank him under the table andstolethe feather?”

“What kind of king would do something so underhand?”

“Yes, since everything else was above board.”

Quin leans forward and I jerk myself away before he can land a flick. “I steered our conversation until he brought out the golden feather for me to admire. At that point, I declared I must have it.”

“Hegaveit to you?”

“As you said, he wouldn’t even give it to his saviour.” Quin grimaces. “I bought it off him.”

I feel my inner cloak for the money Megaera returned—the only money we have. “How did you get your hands on it? How much did you spend?”

Quin stares at me, and then, “Does it matter?”

I start counting our money. “We need this to reach Hinsard.”

“It’s supposed to be your priceless love token.”

I pause, stiffen, and stuff the money away. I watch the water flowing past us, rippling through the calm. “How much did you spend?”

He shakes his head. “I didn’t take the money I gave you. I paid him with a certified and sealed exemption from a year of taxes.”

I glide my hand into the water again. “The kingcanbe useful.”

This time his flick gets me smack in the middle of my forehead; I rub it, scowling at him while trying not to grin.

The boat groans as we round a bend in the canal, and we’re quiet for a stretch. I pluck a few bundles of herbs from the passing banks, and Quin stares ahead, not to the view of the woods, but into a middle distance, where he gathers his thoughts; makes plans.

After a day’s journeying, we reach a small inn nestled among trees. Smoke curls languidly from the chimney, and the sound of rustic music along with the scent of cooking stew promises sanctuary. We’re finishing a hearty meal near the hearth when a group of redcloaks enters, requesting meals and spaces to sleep.

I duck my head and quietly observe the soldiers from behind my cup.

“Where are the others?” one barks. “They should’ve been here hours ago.”

“Do you think . . .?” A gulp.

A fist bangs on the table. “If crusaders think they can take down all of us, they’ve another thing coming.”

“They captured twelve at once. They’re at least that capable.”

“Those were non-linea new recruits, only fit for delivering food relief. True soldiers would fight them to their demise.”

Quin shifts sharply. My stomach tightens too.

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