Page 1 of A Court of Masks and Roses
1
KALI
“Would you like to buy a light crystal, young master?” The girl pressing the magical pebble into my hand smiles coquettishly. She wears the drab red clothing of the Children of the Goddess disciples, and she couldn’t have chosen a worse mark than me if she’d tried.
Though in truth, her taking me for a boy and a sympathizer of the hateful bigots in the Children’s following is a compliment to my skill. I am a scout. A spy trained to disguise, observe, and report. I’m also under orders not to interfere.
And that’s where the problem lies.
My marks this evening, four members of a terror-monger group calling themselves Viva Sylthia, have the look of violence about them. Waving the crystal-peddling girl away, I move around the inn’s common room for a better view. The room is full of the king’s soldiers tonight, and the stench of cheap wine and bodies ripe from long days on the road fills my nose. At least the place is warm, the fire and lanterns allburning bright to ward away the night’s darkness. The heavy wooden tables and benches are plain, but sturdy enough to stand up to rough crowds. With so few inns this far out in the Dansil countryside, one can hardly be choosy about patrons.
One of the soldiers stumbles into the largest of my marks, spilling the man’s drink all over his shirt. The soldier, apparently oblivious to the mishap, belches and lurches on.
My mark, a broad-shouldered man with a black mole breaking the line of his mustache, scowls but keeps himself in check. Not even a curse at the drunk idiot. Nothing to bring attention to himself.
With the soldier well away, Mustache starts for the door, his three companions closing rank behind him. And me, behind them.
My skin prickles, my heart pulsating against my chest. There is little left in the way of cover outside. Just night and shadows. This is where I should break off, head back to the estate to report what I’ve learned of Viva Sylthia’s plans over the course of the evening. But I’ve learned nothing and am left with only a gut feeling that the night is heading toward a poor end.
The four men pull on hoods and masks.
My chest tightens. I’d love to have been wrong, just this once.
“That’s two dozen horses,” says the youngest of them as the group approaches the barn. His voice breaks slightly. “Two dozen horses and three hostlers.”
Mustache puts his arm around the youngster. The gesture would be brotherly but for the boy’s nervous twitches. “You backing out? Perhaps you are not ready to receive the flame.”
The tattoo of a flame over the heart marks Viva Sylthia’s full members. I flatten myself into the barn’s shadow, my breath stilling as I listen.
“No. I’m just sayin’ the barn ain’t empty,” says the boy.
“Those three hostlers? They are cowards calling themselves Dansil soldiers, all drunk and snoring in an empty stall.” Mustache’s voice shoots a chill down my back. “Tell me, was your uncle passed out drunk in Sylthia when Everett attacked? When thosesoldiers did nothing? How many thousands of our people died in the Sylthia massacre? How many more lost their homes? Dansil families have been waiting for over twenty years to return to their land, to the gravesite of their ancestors. You can be their voice. Tonight. Right now.”
“By burning down a barn?” says the boy.
“By sending a message. Those are the king’s soldiers drinking at the inn. Drinking instead of fighting to take back Sylthia.”
Oh, for stars’ sake.In the dozen years that I’ve trained under Lord Gapral, the king’s distant scoutmaster, I’ve heard the same justifications for violence over and over:Send the king a message—no one in Dansil is safe until Sylthia is ours again.Never mind that it’s been two decades since the kingdom of Everett invaded Dansil’s Sylthia territory, the swath of land at the Dansil–Everett border that is rich with living-crystal deposits. Never mind that even if Dansil took Sylthia back, we’ve not the people to work the mines. Or that we’ve hunted down too many of our whisperers to actually make use of the living crystals.
Mustache releases the boy, who slumps in relief—or fear. “The king is a coward and a fool. He thinks negotiating with Everett will keep him safe. But tonight, you set him straight. Tonight, you make your uncle’s death matter. Make all deaths in Sylthia matter.”
My hands tremble at my sides. The bastards will burn the barn and kill the horses and hostlers, and I’ll report back how it happened. My orders are to observe, not engage. Neverengage. At best, I’m told it’s because I’m too valuable to risk, that too much effort and coin have been poured into training me. At worst, Lord Gapral simply barks that weighing the value of victims against the cost of exposing his scout network is beyond my station. My shoulder burns in phantom pain where Gapral branded me the last time I dared disobey.
I’m a scout. I’m supposed to watch the terror mongers’ horror show and write a rutting report.
“Viva Sylthia,” says Mustache.
“Viva Sylthia,” the others echo.
A horse whickers inside the barn and my gut clenches to stone. A living, faithful horse, resting after a day’s work. A boy’s sleepy voice soothes the animal. A child is inside that place.
Mustache drags a bar toward the barn. The bastards are barricading the doors before setting the blaze. Blood roars through my veins.
I should leave. Now.
Instead, I pick up a jagged stone and press myself against the wall. My heart pounds in my ears, sweat forming on my temples despite the chill wind. If Lord Gapral finds out... Swallowing, I lean around the corner and skip the stone along the side of the barn closest to Mustache’s men.
The men startle. Move toward the sound. I sprint in the opposite direction, banging my fist against the barn wall. “Loose horse! Wake up in there! Loose horse!”
