Page 91 of Oathborn
The bald man cleared his throat, ignoring the low threat emanating from Javen’s words. “Now, Alaric, tell me why you are opposed to Samuel’s plan? If we cannot depose the Queen, to deal with the threat, I see no other option than the direct one he proposes.”
Tobias was momentarily distracted trying to figure out who Alaric was. It hit him a moment later. That was Javen’s first name. He’d never really considered the man must have one.
“Give me a week,” Javen said. “Let me assess the situation.”
“How?” Lockwood asked. “No one can get to the isles, and we certainly don’t have a man on the inside to give us intel.”
“You will have a full report,” Javen said.
“Do I have your word?” The bald man pushed himself upright, dusting himself off with one hand. He was short and dressed in a very expensive, perfectly tailored suit. Gemstones flashed on his cufflinks and watch.
Both Javen and Lockwood rose to their feet. Though Lockwood seemed deferential to the man, Javen did not. With his hand on the hilt of his sword, he looked just as ready to challenge him to a duel as to bid him farewell. Javen said, “I do not give my word lightly.”
Lockwood shook his head. “Do be safe, Percival.” He pulled an overcoat from a hook on the wall and offered it to the bald man.
“Do not worry, the Sables are well-prepared for whatever things go bump in the night these days.”
The Sables. For that elite military branch to be mentioned, by a man named Percival… he could only be one person. Just what sort of meeting had this been, with two of the most powerful men in all of Rhydonia in attendance?
“As for Blood Ember’s reappearance, well…” Percival buttoned his coat, which was wool with gold buttons and a silk kerchief tucked in one pocket. “More than a dozen burned bodies of Crimsons are tragic, yes, but not proof the monster has returned.”
Burned? Did they mean the soldiers like Erik who had fallen to that horrible smoke? No, there hadn’t been more than five who died. Not a dozen. Which meant… he was referring to the scouting party which had gone missing.
Standing, Percival knocked twice on the door by the kitchen. The door swung open, letting in a rainy blast of chilled air. A soldier stood at the door, dressed in a wool cloak with brass toggles and a fur collar, with a weapons belt showing two gleaming pistols. Only one branch of the military had cloaks like that. The Sables.
No less deadly than the Crimsons, the Sables protected only two men in the whole country. Which meant Tobias’s guess was right. Percival was the deputy prime minister himself. Sir Percival Montclair.
Tobias shuddered. The war’s shadow loomed closer.
After the door banged closed, Lockwood slumped in his seat. “Well, that went like we expected, didn’t it?”
“I hate when he calls me Alaric.” As he sat, Javen kicked his feet up, sprawling out in a shockingly relaxed way. The usually impassive captain seemed at home here in this remote cabin.
“It’s a perfectly fine name,” Lockwood replied. “Came right from my family tree. I thought I was quite generous offering it to you, since I happen to remember the first forged document that I had to—”
“Enough. There’s work to do. You can reminisce later.”
“So curt. Is it the gray hair? Do you find me a doddering old fool now?” Despite Lockwood’s jovialness, an edge still remained. “Meanwhile, you haven’t aged a day.”
“My apologies,” Javen muttered without a drop of sincerity. An odd mix of friendship and dislike crackled between the two. It reminded Tobias of when his sisters had tried to bring home an old tomcat they’d found outside. The cat enjoyed the free food and warm bed, but never grew used to the affection the girls tried to show it. Any attempts at petting the small beast usually resulted in bloodshed, and even making eye contact with it might cause it to hiss. When they’d attempted to put a ribbon around its neck, it ran back into the wilderness and never returned.
Tobias thought that if he could, Javen would absolutely hiss at Lockwood, based on his expression at the moment.
Lockwood, though, merely took another sip. “Percival is going to notice one of these days. He’s known you almost as long as I have.”
“When he does, I will ensure I have an appropriate answer.” Javen struck a match, taking yet another cigarette from his pack. His intake had increased considerably in the past week. But, given what happened when Javen was denied his vice, Tobias couldn’t blame him.
Lockwood said, “What about the damned Accords? How much longer will they remain? With Blood Ember loose and that smoke returning…”
Javen’s eyes flicked up to the cracked open door. Tobias, like a cornered mouse, froze. Surely, he couldn’t have noticed him. The conversation resumed, and Tobias breathed a bit easier.
“As for the smoke, it was not crafted by an Oathborn, so the deaths do not break the covenant. Blood Ember is not bound by the Accords.” As always, Javen seemed to speak so confidently about both the monster and the peace treaty. He leaned forward, resting his chin on his hand in thought.
Tobias gripped the doorway a bit tighter, taking it all in. Did he still have that business card? Was now the time to send a telegram back to the capital? It would be easy enough to make up an excuse for his need to relay a message. Letting his family know he’d been injured, or asking someone to check on his apartment.
First, he had to find the card. He turned around, limping carefully back toward the bed, searching for his uniform jacket. A tin cup fell off the chair near him and hit the ground. It bounced, twice, the sound uncomfortably loud in the silence.
Spotting his jacket folded on the foot of the bed, Tobias leaned forward.
