Page 16 of The King's Man 4

I focus on the winding canal, and then the approaching makeshift sanctuary. Bordered by the water, the back of Thinking Hall, cobbled streets, and a weathered luminarium is a large grassy area filled with patchwork tents and quickly constructed shelters. Bright fabrics are layered over the tents along with banners from refugee villages.

We rope the boat and step into the sanctuary. I was expecting to see a similar scene to yesterday—groups of people huddledtogether, sharing their stories over eager mouthfuls of porridge. Instead, moans grow louder as we near the centre, each one twisting tighter in my chest. The air is heavy with the scent of unwashed bodies and bile. A child cries nearby, clutching at his mother’s sleeve as she slumps against a tent post.

Quin’s cane hits the ground with a sharp tap, but his usual air of command is muted. He rests on his cane and observes the scene, frowning.

Something’s not right.

Ahead, in the shadows of Thinking Hall, Quin’s allies are sharing worried looks as they speak in hushed tones. They’re interrupted by a deep cry from a nearby tent. They race towards it, asking if anyone needs help, and a young man emerges carrying an elderly woman.

He drops to his knees and cries over her body.

I’m frozen a few tents away, a knot lodged in my throat.

If I’d done more yesterday... would Nannan still be alive?

I force myself to look away, but his grief is seared into my mind. Is this... my fault?

Iglance at Quin, horrified, and he quietly wraps an arm around me, pulling me behind one of the tents.

Best he not see you and lay unfair blame.

Unfair? Would it be?

With a tight lump in my throat, I observe the man crying for his nannan while Quin’s allies bow their heads in silence.

“This is your fault,” he yells at them. “Your porridge took her life!”

Porridge? Quin and I share a sharp frown.

One of Quin’s supporters tries to calm him, but he is lost in his grief; other refugees are crawling out of their tents and hobbling over, moaning and clutching their stomachs.

“Look,” he says, jerking his finger around. “I thought you represented King Constantinos, thought he cared.”

Quin grinds his teeth and white-knuckles his cane. I stiffen.I’dtold them the porridge was the king’s caring deed. “Quin—”

“This is not your fault.”

Before us, Quin’s nobles defend the king. “He’d be devasted to learn of this.”

The young man shakes his head. Others shout for answers. Healers. They’re sick, weakening by the hour.

“We’ve sent for constables and vitalians,” a noble says. “They’ll be here soon; they’ll investigate the source of this.”

I glance at Quin. “Are they expecting you?”

“Perhaps they think they’ve sent for me. But I won’t receive that message. Others will come—” He gestures towards two constables marching from the street towards the commotion, Eparch Valerius in his official uniform close behind.

At the sight of the eparch, Quin pulls his hat further down, casting more of his face in shadow.

Fair. Not only would his cover be blown, there’d be more commotion and unrest among the sick. We remain veiled by tents and banners, peeking through gaps.

“What’s all this?” Eparch Valerius says, face pinched in concern as he takes in the moaning refugees around him.

Fingers point at the nobles, along with more murmurs of accusation.

The eparch grimaces and raises his hands, calling for quiet. He commiserates with the refugees and promises to send the vitalians due at Thinking Hall to them. “In the meantime, until we’ve determined the cause, I’ll have food brought here from my manor and cooked under redcloak supervision.”

The crowd is a collective sigh of relief and gratitude, and the young man, cradling his dead nannan, pleads for investigation, retribution.

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