Page 75 of The King's Man 4

It’s those on board.

“Are they... spies?” My stomach sinks. “Lumins? Is this warfare?”

“They’ve all been Skeldars.”

“They’re burning their own?”

“Only those ships with no signs of sickness are allowed through.”

The flames dim as the ship sinks into the water. “Signs...” I snap my head to the captain, sucking in a sharp breath.

“Poxies. A single man with rashy cheeks or sores, and all on board go down with him.”

“They don’t distinguish between the healthy and the sick?”

“They won’t risk it coming ashore.”

It spreads too easily. My stomach clenches as the boat dips suddenly. Nausea races up my throat.

“In the name of Vaesen, god of balance and harmony and the natural order. Their lives are a sacrifice for our beloved land.”

I laugh dryly, then wretch. “Not all of them would die.”

“Do you think the command of our king is cruel?” He pounds my back. “I don’t. A few burning ships are nothing compared to towns full of pus-pocked victims, piles of decaying bodies on street corners, and the neverending wails of families losing their loved ones.” He pauses. “The squawk of a crow in an empty town square. A fox curled atop a dirt mound, under it your sister, your brother.”

I push myself upright, my arms trembling.

“I won’t let it aboard this ship,” he murmurs. “No matter how many tricks you have, you won’t beat this.”

I shudder. He’s right.

My grandfather died trying to create wards against it—his most important work, for the most dangerous disease. But Lumin wouldn’t allow it, too afraid of what it might do. Too afraid of worsening the spread.

Iskaldir is also afraid.

The plague is the most devastating sickness to have ever ravaged the kingdoms. It terrifies me most as a healer. That it will come at all. That if it does, I won’t be able to cure it.

For an ugly second, I understand why the redcloaks imprisoned Kastoria during its outbreak.

For an uglier second, I accept the flames.

There’s a tautness in the air at breakfast. Men scrutinise their comrades’ faces, laughing weakly when suspicious gazes connect.

There’s an almost collective sigh of relief when it’s clear no one here is showing symptoms. Shoulders drop, conversation eases.

At the table behind me, a Skeldar shivers in the chilly air. “Snowing early this year.”

“Shaman predicted a cold so brutal, not only Iskaldir will see an early ice-over, but half of Lumin too.”

I grip my spoon hard.

Quin had hoped to make it into the mountains and back to the capital before winter. An early cold means... He’ll be stuck on Mount Lysippos for months. Travelling would be too dangerous. Using magic to clear a path would drain him and Nicostratus too quickly. Even with a dozen linea clearing the way, it would be agonisingly slow. And worse: far too conspicuous.

The regent’s men are set on killing him, after all.

No, the royal brothers have to arrive stealthily, with the surviving witnesses. But being stuck on a mountain would make it easier to corner him. They’d only need to set traps at the base and wait for spring...

“Has that spoon offended you in some way?” Megaera slips onto the bench beside me, elegantly kicks her foot into Lykos’s shins across from us, and smiles daintily.

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