All The King's-Men (The Yellow Hoods, #3) (25 page)

The boy smiled. Then it evaporated just as quickly. “You’ve done a trick on me, yes? You are going to arrest me now?” he asked, his eyes filling with fear.

Marcus shook his head. “No. I have been looking for you, however. There are friends of mine who noticed you in recent weeks. Your family is dead, I assume.”

“Yes,” said Nikolas, glancing at the men behind Marcus and passersby, who were shaking their heads.

Marcus read every twitch and move of Nikolas’ face, and then gave him a compassionate smile. “My family were killed. This badge,” he said in Tyroli, tapping it, “I hate it. But I
will
change the world and never let this happen again. Would you like to help me?”

For the first time in a long time, the young Nikolas felt hope.

“Come, you’re part of my household now,” said Marcus, standing, his hand outstretched.

Nikolas stared at it, thinking. Taking a leap of faith, he shook Marcus’ hand.

“Do you have a family?” asked Nikolas.

Marcus nodded as they started walking. “Yes, I do. I have two little boys and a lovely wife. I won’t treat you as a son though. From this moment on, you are my long-lost little brother.”

Nikolas smiled at that idea.

Four years later, Nikolas beamed with pride alongside Marcus’ wife Richelle and their sons, as the King finished his speech and declared Marcus an official King’s-Men and High Conventioneer. 

Marcus smiled at being given the odd title. He had a running joke with Nikolas about it. They found it silly that it was considered plural yet used for singular appointments, how it was still hyphenated as if the term was new, yet it had been around for hundreds of years. To Marcus, it was one more element of society that made no sense and needed to be remolded by reason and vision.

He turned to wave at the large crowd of applauding friends, admirers, and political enemies. The attempts to trip him up or take him down had failed. Marcus had proven himself to be as much a genius in the realm of people as in the realm of chemistry and devices.

As the music started and the celebration got underway, Richelle and their sons came to congratulate him. Hugging his family, Marcus noticed Nikolas standing at a distance. He waved him over and gave Nikolas a very public handshake before addressing anyone else. He was sending a clear message to all that touching Nikolas would have the same consequences as coming after him. Until that point, Marcus had avoided such public displays, although their close friendship wasn’t a secret.

A few years later, Nikolas had been walking the streets of Teutork, his well-worn Badge of the Conventioneer visible on his green vest. With his maroon shirt and brown pants, Nikolas reminded many that Conventioneers were not known for dressing particularly well. He’d gotten better, according to Isabella, who was finding it less and less necessary to walk Nikolas home to change before they were allowed to start their dates. Twice he’d absentmindedly shown up in a blacksmith’s apron and goggles, for which Isabella had gotten teased by her friends and family.

To many, the brooch marked Nikolas as a dangerous beast who, though leashed by the monarchy, was still to be watched carefully. Despite Marcus’ successes in strengthening the laws protecting Conventioneers and working to humanize them in the eyes of people, many still dared to throw rocks, tomatoes, or worse. This would land those individuals in prison, and their family homes would be demolished. Nikolas had thought the practice extreme until he’d narrowly survived a mob attack that killed three of his Conventioneer friends. It happened with disturbing regularity.

Marcus was locked in a political war, trying to position himself as the regent for the ailing, heirless King. He and Nikolas had to be extra careful. Instead of the brainstorming sessions they’d held together, Nikolas had taken to walking the streets whenever he needed to design something. It allowed him to build the illegal contraptions in his imagination where they were safe from prying eyes.

Under Marcus’ leadership, the Conventioneers had provided significant improvements in sanitation and other simple areas of urban life. Those that risked investigating where all the money and resources went, trying to determine if Marcus actually did have the rumored secret laboratories spread throughout the kingdom, often went missing or found themselves jailed for treason. It was one of the many things that Nikolas tried to ignore, as Isabella advised he should.

Out of the corner of his eye, Nikolas caught sight of someone running into an alley, quickly followed by two big, drunken hooligans. 

Nikolas scanned around the deserted street. He hadn’t been paying attention to where he was walking. He’d managed to get all the way over to the poor, rough eastern edge of the capital. Nikolas wasn’t much of a fighter, but as with many things, Marcus had required him to learn at least the fundamentals.

Turning into the mouth of the dirty alley, Nikolas saw a white-haired man about his age, dressed in rags, with fresh blood dripping from his face. He was on his knees, one arm protecting his face and the other trying to wave off the hooligans. 

“Please, leave me alone. You’ve had your fun,” said the man desperately. Nikolas recognized the man’s accent as being from Tyrol, the neighboring kingdom to the east of Brunne.

The taller of the two thugs laughed and tightened his grip on a wooden club, while the other man wound up to deliver a kick.

Nervously pushing his spectacles up on his nose, Nikolas said, “You now start leaving him alone, yes?” His voice was more like a loud whisper than a booming command like Marcus issued, and his words were more jumbled than usual.

The kicker stopped and gave Nikolas a confused frown, as if a flea had spoken. In a slurred, drunken voice, he yelled, “Hello there, professor! Oh, look, you’ve even got a shiny bit on you! I think I’ll have that.” He started walking over to Nikolas, who quickly started fussing with something up his puffy sleeves.

“Give me your shiny thing and leave, and maybe I won’t beat you senseless,” said the thug, towering over Nikolas by a good four inches. He tapped the Conventioneer’s brooch.

“No,” said Nikolas firmly.

The hooligan chuckled, then noticed Nikolas had something wooden in his hands. “What do you have there?”

Nikolas closed his eyes. “Please, do not make me hurt you, yes?”

“Hey, this guy’s threatening me with three little planks of wood.”

“Make him eat them,” said the other hooligan.

“Oh, I like that idea,” said the tall hooligan, smiling down on Nikolas.

Nikolas opened his eyes and thrust his hands forward. As he did so, the compressed springs keeping the three wooden panels together released their energy, and expanded so quickly into the face of the thug that it knocked him clean off his feet. 

Nikolas yelped in pain as the mechanism in his sleeve twisted unexpectedly. “Well, it’s field-tested now,” Nikolas said to himself as he hastily tried to take it off.

The remaining hooligan gestured in disbelief at Nikolas. “What did you just do?! You’re… you’re an another Abomy! You’re a freaking Abominator!” He tightened his grip on his club as he moved towards Nikolas.

His fear gone, Nikolas saw the man’s bouncy lunge in as if in slow motion. Nikolas ran at him, timing his tackle perfectly and catching the huge man off guard and off balance.

“There!” yelled a woman at the mouth of the alley, as Nikolas got to his feet.

He sighed heavily and tensed up as he saw five guards enter the alley, and then was surprised to find that the woman’s voice he’d heard had been Isabella’s.

Helping the stranger up, Nikolas noticed something in his eyes. He leaned close to the man and whispered in Tyroli, “Are you one of the hunted, as I was?”

The man stared at his hero in disbelief. He’d never seen a man do what this one had done—never mind someone who was clearly like himself—sticking his neck out for a stranger. He nodded nervously.

Nikolas hastily removed his Badge of the Conventioneer and pinned it on the man.

The stranger looked at Nikolas in wide-eyed confusion.

“What’s going on here?” the lead guard asked Nikolas and the stranger, as the other guards restrained the thugs.

“This man is a Conventioneer,” said Nikolas, sweating as he tried to sound confident. Lying was not in his blood, but it was another survival skill that he’d learned from Marcus.

The lead guard looked over the raggedy and bloody man.

“You don’t look like one,” said the guard, tapping on the brooch to check it was genuine.

“They did this to me,” said the man, pointing at the hooligans.

“He’s an Abomy! A freaking Abomy!” yelled the recently-tackled hooligan, pointing in the general direction of Nikolas and the stranger.

“I guess he means you,” said the guard to the stranger.

“Sir, I found this,” said one of the guards, carrying Nikolas’ arm-brace and expanded wooden panels.

“Is this yours?” the lead guard asked the stranger.

“Yes,” said the stranger.

“What is it?”

Nikolas interrupted. “It is a jack-in-the-box trick. That is all; see the wood and the springs. He was going to… an important birthday party. He used it to surprise one of those men, yes?” He kicked himself as his words stumbled.

The lead guard held up the apparatus. “That seem like an Abominator thing to you?” he asked the other guard.

“If it is, it’s not one worth explaining to the captain,” he replied.

“It’s a weapon!” yelled one of the hooligans. “He broke my friend’s jaw!”

“Yeah, he broke my jaw! It’s all broken and stuff!”

“Take them away,” said the lead guard. “And who are you?” he asked Nikolas.

“I can vouch for that man. He’s my fiancé and well known to Lord Marcus Pieman, High Conventioneer,” said Isabella in a commanding voice.

Nikolas’ eyes went wide.
Fiancé
?

The lead guard looked at her, then back at Nikolas. “Sorry, sir. Shouldn’t you have a brooch on? It’s illegal to be out without one, if you’re a Conventioneer.”

“Him? A Conventioneer? He’s a librarian,” said Isabella, wrapping her arm around him. “Notice the bookish, boyish expression?”

Nikolas smiled and pushed his glasses up.

The guard nodded at them and walked off.

Isabella kissed Nikolas on the cheek and said, “I accept your engagement proposal.” She gave him a devilish smile before turning to the other man. “What’s your name?”

The man blinked twice and smiled at the nobly-dressed young woman, and then at his own blood-stained, tattered clothing. “My name is Christophe,” he said proudly, straightening up. “Christophe Creangle.”

“Well, given that you will be keeping that badge if Nikolas has anything to say about it, you better get used to adding your title at the end, Conventioneer,” whispered Isabella.

The man winced at the designation. Nikolas recognized the expression. It told him that the stranger had been through a lot, likely by trying to escape those who sought to turn him in for being an Abominator, or blackmail him for it.

“Christophe Creangle, Conventioneer,” Nikolas said, smiling appreciatively.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

Grimy Roof

Abeland had fallen asleep much faster than he’d expected to. The foursome had fled south, stopping at a little roadside inn near the Laros Republic border town of Wosa. The journey had been quick, as they’d managed to borrow some horses and a cart from one of his neighbors on a promise of future payment. He had a plan, but had only shared the smallest of pieces to Bakon and the others, just enough to get them to agree to go along.

A floorboard creaked, and he instantly ascended from the deepest sleep to fully awake. He scanned around the dark room and silently rolled out of bed onto his hands and feet. He could hear boots moving about and muffled voices; then he heard someone curse.

“He bit me!” yelled someone.

“Abeland!” warned Richy from the adjacent room.

Two soldiers kicked in Abeland’s bedroom door and rushed in, lanterns and pistols in hand. After a quick glance about the empty room, one of them checked under the bed.

The captain worked his way through the hallway full of soldiers and into the room.