Page 78 of The King's Man 4

“When did you get this?” I ask Hakon. “Where?”

“My girl. During the farewell a month ago.”

A month ago. “Did anyone else get one?”

Kjartan speaks, “The farewell festival is at the start of the season, before we take to the sea. For those leaving their loved ones on extended journeys. There would’ve been many setting out; most probably got dromveskes.”

“Are they handmade by the giver, or—”

“She bought it for me, at a stall in Portael.”

“How is this relevant?” Kjartan asks.

I pull off my kerchief. “This isn’t the poxies.” I gesture to the spilled flowers. “It’s thistleweed. It looks very similar to strawberry vine. Contact with the skin causes harmless boils.”

Hakon feels his face. “Boils?”

A lookalike symptom.

Like mine, Kjartan’s expression pinches. “How long will it take for the boils to disappear?”

If we had bittertree balm and magic, this could be cured immediately. With neither, I can only grind up some frostbloom in oil. “By tonight.”

The captain curses and slams a hand against the wall.

“At least it’s not the poxies. Send a message and—”

He hauls me away from Hakon into the hall outside the brig and throws me against the wall. “Ignorant fool,” he snarls under his breath. “Why would they believe us?”

“If they gave us time, they’d see for themselves.”

“They won’t give us time.”

“Why not?”

He lowers his voice further. “This may be worse than if it were the poxies.”

I start to protest, but he shuts me up with a scowl.

“If all this resulted from dromveskes, they’ve taken innocent lives for nothing.” Kjartan slams his palm against the wall beside my head. “They’ll cover this up. For the sake of peace.”

“What peace?”

Serious eyes bore into mine. “A mistake of this magnitude? Their authority will be undermined. Those grieving their loved ones are holding themselves together, believing their children’s deaths were meaningful. Sacrifices to protect the people of Iskaldir. But a bad batch of dromveskes? They’ll rise up.”

I swallow hard.I understand.They would rather burn our ship, all ships, until that batch of bad dromveskes disappears. Then they can claim the poxies have been eradicated. Praise to those who sacrificed their lives.

“They’re coming.”

“Worse,” Megaera says, stepping out of the shadows where she must have hidden to listen in. “They’re already here.”

“Don’t tell anyone it’s not what it looks like,” Kjartan warns, sending Megaera off with a flick of his hand. When she’s gone, he leans in close, whispering his plan in my ear. It’s risky, and I know that best, but it’s our only chance.

I agree, but then I whisper another thought. His brow furrows, lips pursed, before he nods and strides away, leaving me to hurriedly prepare herbs and oil.

Hakon watches with wide, fearful eyes as I get him to slather the mixture on his face and chew on ignisfern to lessen the inflammation. The boils will take until nightfall to fade, but I look him in the eye, my voice firm. “You mustn’t leave the brig until an hour after your face has healed. No matter what happens above.”

I hand him a bronze plate to check his reflection, carefully removing the incriminating dried flowers from the dromveske before I release Rurik from quarantine with a message from his captain. Then I race through the hallways, up the stairs, and out onto the deck.

---