Blades Of Illusion: Crown Service #2 (23 page)

“Never mind,” Sara said with a sigh. “This is ridiculous. How do you usually get in there?”

“You don’t,” the redhead said. “Weren’t you listening? You don’t get in unless you’re deathly ill or escorted by a healer.”

Sara threw up her hands in anger. “Why?”

The girl shrugged. “They always say something about contaminants and keeping a sterilized environment. I can’t make heads or tails of it. Just know that no one gets in or out without their say-so.”

“Well,
I
need to get
in
,” Sara declared in frustration.

“Got an incurable disease festering inside of you?” the girl asked.

“No,” said Sara miserably while shooting her a crabby look. Then she realized something. “But I know something they might want even more.”

The girl perked up. “What does
that
mean?”

“Let’s take a walk,” Sara said slowly, stealing one more glance back at the healers’ shielded encampment. Now that being a disturbance was no longer her plan, she didn’t want any of them to overhear her.

When they had gone to a truly clear patch of field, with no soldiers milling about and no mage shields nearby, the girl plopped right back down on the grass and eyed her eagerly. 

“Do you have some aversion to standing on your own two feet?” Sara asked her grumpily.

“No, grandma,” the girl answered blandly. “Just resting my bum while I can. Now stop avoiding the question.”

Sara rolled her eyes. “I wasn’t avoiding anything.”

“Uh-huh,” her companion said, while twirling her hand in a manner indicative of a command to ‘speed it up’.

“It means I’ve got a reason to break a damned woman out of prison,” Sara said grimly.

The redhead sat up with interest. “Count me
in
.”

“Don’t you have a job?” Sara said in exasperation.

The woman replied with a grin, “Now that I’ve escorted you over here and chatted a bit, I only have twenty minutes more of time before I’ve got a free afternoon. And I doubt they’ll miss me much. If they do, I’ll say I was escorting you to find your friend and get back to the healers camp.”

Sara eyed her in disbelief. The patient expression on her face said she was serious.

“You don’t even know who it is,” Sara said accusingly.

“Don’t need to,” the girl said with a chuckle.

“Why the hell not?”

“I’m bored.”

“This is going to break at least six different regulations,” Sara warned.

“I don’t care,” the girl said.

“Why not?” Sara asked, exasperated. She was beginning to feel like a child repeating the same question.

“I’m already on probation.”

Sara stared at her for a minute, and then said in resignation, “Alright, you’re in.”

If she wants to get into trouble for dereliction of duty, who am I to stop her?
Sara reasoned in her head,
besides I need her. I still have no idea where anything is in this blasted camp.

Sara didn’t bother acknowledging that she was also practically dead on her feet. Exhaustion was catching up with her and she knew tired people made mistakes. If not physically, then mentally. It was no leap of logic to hope that two heads were better than one with this scheme.

Looking over at her new-found escort, Sara dearly hoped this second head could prove its worth.

Ideally, Sara would have taken a week off and slept like the dead, but she didn’t have a week. She might not have a day. She didn’t know how long the Algardis camp intended to keep Nissa Sardonien under house arrest instead of under the torturer’s spike, and she certainly didn’t know when she’d be called to war. To top it off, she needed to get Ezekiel before she went after Nissa—
if
she went after Nissa—
and
she needed to find Matteas Hillan in a soldier’s encampment that housed
thousands
of Red Lion mercenaries, some of whom would assuredly not take kindly to her questioning one of their own.

Time was flying by, and Sara Fairchild was tired of being dragged along by the heels like a obstinate child. It was time to take action. Biting her lip, she looked over at the redhead and realized she couldn’t just keep calling her ‘hey you’, especially if she intended to involve her in the semi-mad plan.

“What’s your name?” Sara asked.

The girl smiled, stood up from the grass, dusted off her bum, and held out her hand. “Margaret Verhaas, at your service.”

Sara reached out and shook her hand. “Sara Fairchild.”

“Great,” said Margaret with exaggerated cheer. “Now that the formalities are over, let’s go break whoever it is out of prison.”

Sara rocked back on her heels, and then asked, “How do you feel about sleeping agents?”  “I do better with poisons,” Margaret answered with a shrug. “But I can make do.”

Sara stared over at her, wondering just with whom she had allied herself with.

That sort of wonder seemed to be the story of her life lately.

“Alright, dollface,” said Margaret cheerfully, “Where are we off to?”

Sara closed her eyes and muttered to sky. “I hope this works. God, I hope this works.”

“What was that, sheepcakes?” Margaret asked. “You were practically whispering over there.”

Sara opened her eyes and looked at her. She opened her mouth to say something dismissive, but then closed it again, internally chanting,
she’s all I’ve got. She’s all I’ve got. Don’t kill her.

Sara ground her teeth, kept her hands carefully away from all her weapons, and said, “I was thinking that we need to get to my tent.”

Margaret blinked. “Why?”

“I had some stuff....well, my friend had some stuff. We redistributed some of his junk into my knapsack a week or so ago. They took everything I had except for some weapons and a small bag before I boarded a ship. That gear should be in the tent,” Sara said.

“Alright,” said Margaret.

Sara turned to her quizzically, “You sound disappointed.”

“I told you,” Margaret said with a roll of her eyes. “I’m
bored
. Looking for a tent isn’t exactly the height of exciting times.”

Sara huffed. “Trust me, you’ll get all the excitement you need once I get my hands on that bag.”

“Fair enough, dollface,” said Margaret.

Sara slapped a hand to her forehead. “Do you
have
to call me that?”

“What, sweetcheeks?”

“That!” Sara cried.

Margaret looked at her like she was an idiot. “I didn’t call you that.”

“You did before!”

“I’m not now. But if you prefer ‘sheepcakes’, just say the word,” Margaret pointed out in a reasonable voice.

“I don’t!” Sara insisted.

“Then why’d you ask me to change over?” Margaret said exasperated.

Sara dragged a hand across her face. “I’m too tired for this.”

“Yeah, you look like you could use a few days’ rest.”

Sara glared at her through splayed fingers. She lowered her hand and asked, “Would your probation have anything to do with interactions with other soldiers?”

Astonishment flared on Margaret’s face. “How’d you know?”

Sara sighed. Half-exasperated, half-thankful that Margaret wasn’t on probation for larceny, or cowardice, or a hundred other things that would jeopardize her mission.

“Just a guess,” Sara muttered as she began walking forward.

“Dollface, do you know where you’re going?” Margaret asked as she lazily walked behind her.

Sara knew she was walking at a slow pace because she’d looked behind her once or twice to see where she was, hoping Margaret would be helpful and point out that she was bunked somewhere close by. Instead, her guide-turned-partner-in-crime was casually loitering about ten feet back and whistling.

Finally, Sara stopped and said with exaggerated slowness, “No, I’m kind of new here. Would you care to lead on?”

Margaret sauntered up, smirked at her, and said, “All you had to do was ask.”

As she swept past Sara into the crowded path, Sara stared at her back and wondered why she didn’t feel an instantaneous urge to cleave the annoying woman into two pieces.

Then she realized as she grumbled aloud, “She may be sassy, but underneath all that sass is something else. She’s hiding something.”

In the pit of her stomach, Sara had a feeling that whatever Margaret Verhaas was hiding, it was her bravado that got her through fear.

Sara swallowed her pride and followed Margaret silently through the crowds, watching as she interacted with people. Waited for a trap to shut close on her. She didn’t necessarily think Margaret was evil or cunning. But Sara Fairchild wasn’t stupid. The girl may have been
bored
, but no one acquiesced that quickly to breaking the law out of boredom.

At least, not for someone they just met,
Sara thought drily as she remembered some very perilous escapades she had gotten into with friends in the arena training facility out of boredom. Those escapades had been committed out of a sense of loyalty and friendship.

But she was nearly a stranger to Margaret, and as she followed the girl closer to the officers’ tents, she thought back on the redhead’s mannerisms. The slightly hunched shoulders that fought with a back that was ramrod straight to feign confidence. The joking laughter that didn’t quite reach her eyes. The eagerness she showed at breaking the law. All of these added to Sara’s growing sense of discomfort.

They dodged groups of people and wove between rows of tents, and Sara watched Margaret carefully all the while. It reminded her of the streets of Sandrin, when one poor, innocent orphan would lead Sara down a dark alleyway into a trap, where his gang of goons would melt from the doorways and shadows, ready to attack her.

It had happened multiple times, and Sara had always followed behind dutifully like a sheep to slaughter. She knew that if she didn’t, the orphan would have been blamed for tipping her off or letting her get away.

As if a skinny runt with no meat on his bones could make me do anything,
Sara sniffed derisively.

She had followed the child every single time in order to teach his thief lord/protector a lesson. She’d left them alive, but for the most part they never sent the orphans after her again.

Sara didn’t blame the children, either. The orphans hadn’t had a choice. Forced by the thief lords of this district or that small corner to do what he or she said, or risk being black-and-blue by morning. Just like Margaret, those thief children had smart mouths. Just like Margaret, those thief children had stunk of fear.

Sara was tempted to grab the girl by the shoulder and ask her what the plan was, but she didn’t dare. She’d let this play out. Besides, for first time in weeks, she felt on even terms. Unlike a mystery involving a search for missing documents, an illness that threatened to kill a friend and half of her regiment, or a crazy enemy of the state asking for her help, this was familiar to Sara. This was a classic chess movement that sacrificed pawns before queens, and had knights waiting in the wings. Sara knew she was supposed to be the destroyed bishop, and Margaret was the sacrificed pawn.

She was just waiting for the knights to show up on the board and the queen, whoever it was, to reveal their hand. She wasn’t worried about the how or why. She was actually enjoying herself. She’d played these games on the streets of Sandrin, but unlike those streets, she knew the soldiers and mercenaries played by different rules.

Despite the fact that she would be going up against trained warriors, Sara knew it was a deadlier game on the streets. The dark streets and alleyways were a game of knives in shadows, garrotes behind doors, and swords from behind. This, however, was a field of war, and just like the arena she’d grown up in, the battlefield had rules. Or, at least, the campsite of the battlefield did. Rules that said you didn’t kill an opponent without just cause, and that meant committing treason against the empire, attacking a high ranking officer, or doing something that endangered the lives of many.

So Sara Fairchild could guess that no matter where she was headed, whoever she would face didn’t intend to kill her. They might
intend
to beat her bloody. But murder her, they would not. That is, if they were mercenaries and soldiers, like she suspected. Nobody else would have known that she’d left Sandrin, which forced her to speculate on other, still unknown threats. She and Margaret were heading deeper into the camp, not
away
from it, so she didn’t think the redheaded girl was an enemy spy for the Kades. If she had been, Nissa Sardonien would have been the first to command her loyalty.

So that leaves but one question,
Sara thought.
Who have I pissed off-enough to have them lure me into a trap on the first day afield?

Only one person came to mind. Well, two.

Her captain, whom she hadn’t heard a word from since boarding the airship.

And that idiot administrative official from the off-loading docks.

If she had to guess, it would have been the latter. Sneak attacks didn’t really seem her captain’s style.

As they entered between rows of tents that were bigger than the rows they just left and deep shadows began to loom around them, Sara got ready with her hands on her waist—conveniently near the handles of some very sharp knives—and quickly checked the balance of the sword on her back.

Soon enough, she and Margaret stepped forward between four very large tents, the center blocked off on all sides by the billowing fabric of the regular white corners that kept uninvited individuals from seeing in and shaded a small square lot about eight yards across in either direction.

Margaret stepped off to the side, stopped whistling like a bird who had seen a predator, and turned to look into Sara’s eyes.

At least she didn’t shirk away from looking me head on
, Sara thought, faintly amused. Most of the orphans hadn’t been able to look her in the face, before
or
after the fights. But she realized that Margaret at least had a few years of wisdom and courage on her. She knew when she had done something wrong and how to own up to it.