Page 37 of A Court of Masks and Roses
“We should have left a guard outside,” I say, catching Trace’s eye. The first words I’ve uttered to him directly in days. “The bloody staircase is too cramped as it is.”
A bead of sweat creeps down the guardsman’s temple despite the underground chill. “You can go up,” he says evenly.
“I’m not the one who takes up all the space,” I say, adding the lifeline he just threw back in my face to the list of reasons I hate Trace.
At the end of the passage, Wil raises his chin and strides to the guard on duty. “Good afternoon,” he says with a gracious nod of his head. Apparently the boy can be princely when he needs to. “Might I speak with Questioner Calvin?”
The guard touches a fist to his chest, little surprised at Wil’s appearance in his lair. “Of course, Your Highness. This way, please.”
We follow the guard to a dusty room, where mismatched wooden benches surround a low table. A shelf on the wall holds ledgers, ink, jugs of water and wine, and, of all things, a teapot. With a set of painted porcelain cups beside it.
“I will tell Questioner Calvin you are here,” the guard says, touching his fist to his chest again before disappearing.
Wil, Luca, and I sit. Trace chooses to stand. Ten minutes pass. Fifteen. Half an hour. I’m beginning to wonder if Firehorn has specifically ordered Calvin to keep Wil waiting all day when the door to our room opens and a middle-aged man glides inside.
“I’m Calvin, Your Highness,” the man says with a half bow. Loosely tied-back graying hair and manicured fingers complement the soft, confident timbre of his voice. “Chief questioner.”
Wil rises to his feet. “Thank you.” He pauses as if searching for words and, upon finding none, points to us. “My guards. Kal, Trace, and Luca.”
Calvin greets each of us in turn. My gaze brushes past his thoughtful eyes and clean clothes to his blood-spattered shoes. He smiles wryly. “Ah, well. I imagine you’re quite familiar with what happens here, no matter how benignly I dress. Tea?” Without waiting for a reply, the questioner takes the teapot and fills five delicate cups with steaming liquid.
“Were we waiting for the tea to steep?” I hear myself ask.
Calvin smiles and places a cup in my hands. At once, the strong aroma of the brew overpowers the other smells assaulting my senses. A veil of pretense that we are somewhere other than a torture chamber, speaking with its master-in-chief.
“Well then, Prince William,” says Calvin, inclining his head respectfully. “I understand that His Majesty has placed you in charge of obtaining intelligence from a certain prisoner. Do you wish to question the man yourself, or shall I tell you what I’ve learned thus far?”
Wil places his untouched teacup back on the table. “I’m to do it myself,” he says quietly.
“Of course.” Calvin sets his own cup down and holds openthe corridor door, sending a shiver of dread through me. “This way.”
We follow Calvin past cells of misery to an isolated corridor. An alcove with a bench and some water jugs opens unexpectedly and quickly disappears behind a sharp corner as we reach our target.
My stomach turns as I behold the man in the cell. Despite the bars, the man is also chained to the back wall, with manacles on his wrists and ankles. He snarls at us.
The hate and rage are the only recognizable remains of the rebel Trace and I brought down a week ago. Bile rises in my throat as I see slivers of abused flesh peeking out from beneath the rags passing for clothing. Even with everything Lord Gapral put me through under his tutelage, he never made me question a prisoner. I don’t know whether the other scouts’ training was similarly shaped, but it’s a kindness the depths of which I’m only now appreciating. A wave of dizziness slams into me and I jam my hands into my pockets, focusing on the nails digging into my palms. Feeling a solid warmth beside me, I realize Trace has stepped forward. Our shoulders touch.
The prisoner’s eyes focus on Wil’s pale face, like a predator scenting blood. “Princeling.”
“Hello,” says Wil. The man growls and struggles against his chains, stopping abruptly when Calvin steps from the shadows.
Calvin nods to Wil. “Your guards and I will wait for you around the corner there, Your Highness. The man’s chain will stop him short of the bars. Please call if you require anything.”
I glance at Luca.Are we really leaving him alone?
“The king’s orders,” says Calvin quietly. “This particular corridor ends in a stone wall. I assure you that the prince’ssafety will be little compromised by you taking the twenty-five steps to the alcove.”
I turn my face. A preplanned game, that’s what this was. Following silently in Calvin’s wake, I claim a space on the stone bench and search for some place free of the questioner’s tools to look at. The crack on the far side of the floor is the winner until I realize it comes equipped with three fat cockroaches. Crossing his arms, Luca leans against the wall beside me. Trace stands statue straight, his fingers gripping his sword tightly when a moan ripples through the air.
Calvin’s eyes dart to him lazily. “If you are going to be sick, there is a bucket in the corner.”
“Tell me, questioner,” Trace says with deathly quiet. “Which part of your job do you enjoy the most? The screams or the blood?”
Calvin purses his lips in thought, taking the question seriously. “Understanding how people work is most enjoyable. Finding each person’s strengths and vulnerabilities. Learning how to exploit each to its full benefit.” A thin smile. “No two people are alike, you know.”
Trace’s teeth flash. “We all bleed the same.”
“Do we?” Calvin cocks his head. “You, guardsman, I could break without touching a lash.”
