Plots Schemes and Scandalous Means (World of Weyvar Book 1) Page 3

  I’m fast, but I’m not that fast, and I need those papers.

  My lungs burn from the smoke inhalation followed by prolonged exertion. The Shadow appears totally unaffected by either. Still, I use her trick with the pipe to catapult forward, now only five or so feet from my prey. My reach is decent, so with enough power I can catch her.

  I needn’t worry.

  Weak moonlight illuminates the narrow space, and it’s useless against the irregular cobblestones. The gloom shifts as we negotiate each other and the darkness. When she rounds the next corner, her foot catches on a crate left in the street. An honest mistake; I don’t see it myself until she takes the tumble.

  The Shadow tucks and rolls out of the fall, bracing the satchel against her chest to protect it. The delay leaves barely enough room for me to catch up.

  As she springs to her feet, I snatch her shoulder and block her path. Piercing eyes glare back at me, her mouth contorted in a frustrated sneer.

  She shoves me hard enough to throw me off, but not nearly enough to keep me from my goal.

  That is, unless her purpose is to put space between us.

  As I stumble back, she slips a hand into a slit in the catsuit and withdraws a metal cylinder. Her thumb flicks over the top, the ends of the tube shooting out to form a five-foot-long staff. The silver metal’s muted-copper undertone means it’s magnesium alloy—absurdly expensive, but absurdly strong and light.

  The queen arms her favored pet well.

  With the full satchel slung under one arm, she spins the staff in front and then beside her. I’m not sure if the flair is meant to warn or scare me, but either way I’ve sparred against worse. It’ll hurt tomorrow, but the bag will be mine.

  The Shadow—woman of myth and legend—stares at me with violent intent, her body rigid and coiled for attack. The staff shines even under the weak light, but it’s nowhere near as menacing as the knowing glare in those intense eyes.

  Shit. I didn’t bring anything to attack or defend with.

  She shakes her head at me, as if to say not to test her, but we’ve come too far to surrender so easily. I raise an eyebrow and set one foot diagonally behind the other, my stance ready for an attack. The tension in my chest spreads, nervousness and excitement prickling in my limbs.

  With my palm out in front of me, I curl my fingertips and invite her to take her best shot.

  She rolls her eyes, but her lip quirks at the corner in an amused grin. Before she even returns her gaze, the staff shoots out and takes me out at the knee. The unexpected strike forces me to kneel before her.

  The staff sweeps out again, but I catch the end in the air before it can take off my head. She pulls on it, and I tug back, refusing to let it go.

  Using the palm of my hand, I knock the staff away and reach for the bag. She spins, the staff whirling as the blow comes from the other direction.

  I’ve played this game before. I can catch her strikes all night if I need to. We bat back and forth a few more times, her strikes becoming more a game to see if she can land a blow than attempts to cause harm.

  Her eyes drop to my figure, her mouth curling into a playful grin as her eyebrow lifts.

  Interesting. My curiosity might be reciprocated. I can use that.

  When I grab for her again, she scoots out of my range and pivots to sashay away. She glances back over her shoulder, the coquettish peek impossible to resist.

  This woman might be the death of me if I’m not careful.

  Rising to my feet, I use the power of my back leg to leap at her. She wheels, the staff whirling to knock my hands away. I lunge for the satchel, but she twists her body while metal whistles through air to attack my offending limbs.

  We tussle, neither gaining ground. Again and again the Shadow’s staff finds its mark. I let most glance off and accept the ones that can’t be avoided.

  She strikes only hard enough to defend herself, which is generous, but knowing there’s no danger of serious injury lessens the threat. I only wore the patchwork jacket for sneaking around, but it’s helpful in buffering the blows.

  I realize that I don’t want to hurt her either. I’m treating her like a trainee, not an opponent.

  So, I press the advantage of my size. Caging her in, I back her against the brick wall of the neighboring house. The strength of her strikes wanes in closer quarters. My arms will look for days as if I took a beating from a rabid mob, but the staff moves too quickly to disarm her yet.

  When her back smashes into the wall, she gasps in surprise. She peers up as I loom large over her, her eyes wide and electric.

  She’s still trying to strike out with the staff, but I knock it out of her grasp and enclose her throat in my hand to take control. Paint, slick and runny from sweat, smears onto my skin, not that the disguise matters in the murkiness of the alley.

  Squeezing gently, I take the satchel from her, slinging the strap around my body so the papers rest at my back.

  Her gorgeous eyes burn in a glower that would melt the skin from my face if left too long. I tilt my head, my eyebrows coming together while I smirk.

  No one likes a sore loser.

  She purses her lips insolently. Damn, she’s beautiful. Even here, in her eponymous shadows, it’s obvious. Unexpected.

  I rub my thumb along her chin, trying to smear off the paint so I can see more of her. Unlike that on her neck and hands, the riot of grim hues will not budge.

  That blaze in her eyes settles to a smolder, her gaze falling to my lips. I crowd in closer, bending my knees to press my hips against hers, and her breath hitches. Her heart might be beating as fast as mine is, after all.

  Pushing her chin up with my thumb, I press a tentative kiss to her lips. I’m anticipating another ploy, another playful jab, but she’s thoughtful.

  As I pull away, she sucks those freshly touched lips into her mouth as if she can taste me. When her gaze dances over my shoulders and chest and returns to my face, those wide eyes are so potent I can feel the desire clawing at my skin.

  Our eyes bore into each other. Despite the shadows and distortion from the paint, I try desperately to memorize every curve and plane of her face so I can find her again. I’ll never forget that fiery gaze. I want to see what it looks like turned on its head, when it’s contorted in ecstasy.

  From her replying look, she feels it too.

  The weight of my need for her.

  The demand in her for my touch.

  The agony of the impasse, as we wait to see who will surrender.

  Her eyes narrow.

  The Shadow fists my jacket with both hands and wrenches me to her, our mouths colliding in a torrent of tongues and teeth.

  We devour each other, her spicy chai-tea scent and taste overpowering caution. Her body feels too good against mine, her demanding tenor insisting I give as much commitment as I get.

  We war, the Shadow and I.

  We crusade, and struggle, and menace each other until we’re both breathless.

  My hands cup the ass I’ve been chasing for the last half hour. Her fingers dig under my shirt to knead my back and draw me tighter against her. My pulse sprints at the thrill.

  And we forget ourselves, for a small while.

  Until—without breaking the kiss—she discreetly slithers a hand behind her back, withdraws a scissor-like weapon, and clips the strap of her satchel.

  The Shadow ducks under my arms as the bag slaps to the ground. She retrieves it effortlessly.

  She’s not quick enough, though, and my smack to her backside shocks her to a sudden stop. I pluck the bag from her grip before she can recover, and jump away to put space between myself and the vixen.

  “Hey, you two!” a constable shouts from the end of the alley. The lantern dangling from his arm casts chaotic beams of light that slash across the alley as he runs awkwardly towards us.

  I dip my head at her in respect, but her mouth is a tight line. She snags her staff and retracts it, then bounds toward the opposing wall and leaps onto the balcony. She glances over her shoulder, that same devious glint telling me she doesn’t want me caught.

  The Shadow wants to play again sometime.

  It’s barely dawn by the time I stagger into the hovel the Unscrupules use as a headquarters. Despite already being winded, and totally blindsided by the Shadow, I still had to outrun the constable and then double back to ensure I wasn’t followed.

  I did stop to confirm my suspicion that both she and I sought the same goal—possession of the asset and debt markers for nearly a sixth of the nobility in the realm of Ilneah. Most are already Unscrupules, and the rest can now be encouraged to become one.

  The Unscrupules—as an amalgamation of both peers and peoples—were born of years of frustration. The queen may be cunning and insightful, but she lacks the common decency and warmth required of a ruler. Her cutting inflexibility and staunch refusal to listen to her betters has already undermined several of the realm’s industries. The realm’s dire situation has escalated in the last six months alone.

  Just this past spring, she refused to allow four ships of grain to dock during a pestilence and subsequent shortage. The food stores would have fed the people for weeks. She turned them away, all because they came from Precipe, and Precipe is well-known for its ties to her political opponents.

  The queen considered the choice of feeding her people or her power, and selected the latter.

  Even now, she outwardly claims to send food and other supplies to the ends of the realm, but the Unscrupules have been forced to fill this gap. The shipments are either a figment of her insanity or a clever disguise for her neglect.

  And, still, she refuses to admit to her mistakes and fix them. A good leader recognizes the error of their ways and course corrects, especially with lives at stake.

  Remembering the pleading cries of hunger as I walked the District earlier in the year still sparks my ire. We don’t even have an accurate count of the death toll from the famine.

  She must be removed, whether by words or wars.

  Open rebellion isn’t an option yet. We’re growing, but not fast enough apparently. The Shadow’s presence, seeking our same prize, indicates an awareness of and concern for our activities.

  We’re finally enough of a problem for the queen to address.

  Penn sleeps at the splintering wood table in the middle of the room. With his face flat against the surface, drool collects under his open mouth and his hand clutches a now-stale mug of ale. He left the lantern to burn; it flickers but needs refilling thanks to his inebriated oversight.

  Shaking my head at him, I slam the satchel down on the table beside him. He jumps, snorting, the cup in his hand swinging around as he tries to fight off an unknown assailant . . .

  . . . and sloshes it down my front. Phenomenal. As if I didn’t smell bad enough.

  The footrace through the Carmel back streets didn’t help either. My joints protest simply standing here, and my arms haven’t felt this weak since my early training as a squire. Most days I don’t feel particularly old, but right now I’m every day of my thirty-three years.

  “Huh . . . what . . . who is it?!” Penn splutters, still vaguely drunk. Scraggly red hair embedded in the creases the wood left on his face.

  “Rise and shine. Mission a success, no thanks to you.”

  Penn laughs, checking the window for the time and examining me for signs of injury.

  “I got you the key,” he notes.

  “Into the house, not for the desk.”

  “How was I supposed to know you needed another key?”

  I hadn’t, truth be told, but didn’t know how the Shadow found the markers either.

  “You were in charge of collecting the necessary information to retrieve our papers.”

  “Given the stack you ’bout threw at me, I’m guessing it worked out fine.”

  I grunt. “If you call fine the earl’s home being burnt to cinders and nearly taking me with it.”

  “The earl’s what? Hold off, Goose. I need a drink before you tell this story.”

  He crosses to the barrel in the corner and refills his mug. We’re supposed to sell the ale, not drink it. Revolutions are expensive, especially when you wage them in secret. Discretion comes with a surcharge.

  Penn sniffs at the cup. His face contorts in disgust, but he downs it in one gulp. The burp that comes up could steam the soot from my skin.

  “Why did you burn down the earl’s residence?” he asks.

  “I didn’t. The Shadow did.”

  He does a double take, his eyes alight. “Did you say the Shadow herself burned the earl’s house? And you witnessed it—and lived?”

  “In all fairness, I think she meant me to go up in the blaze.”

  Taking one of the mugs, I fill my own glass and down a swig. My stomach churns, but I haven’t eaten anything other than a mealy apple from the earl’s kitchen.

  “Well? What’s she like?”

  What is she like?

  Infuriating.

  Intoxicating.

  Bah. Strike those thoughts from my head. Of course I’d pine for a woman best known for invisibility and ruthlessness.

  “Effective. She was there for the papers, too. I’d hazard a guess that the queen also wants to leverage the Unscrupules’ debts, although to what end I can’t say. Perhaps she means to deprive us of resources so she can publicly condemn us to the poorhouses.”

  A solid plan—it’d not only isolate us, but undermine our authority with the people and serve as a deterrent to others.

  “Well, she’s no match for you apparently! You made it out with the markers after all.”

  Removing the stack of papers from the bag, I turn up the lantern and leaf through the documents. If anything is missing, well, it’d be a pile of ash by now.

  Exhaling in relief, I find the most crucial documents in the stack and set them aside. I’d need to go over the ledgers to confirm, and some of the seals are damaged, but all appear well.

  Yet, as I flip through the pages, there’s at least one critical set of documents missing. A set too important for their absence to be accidental.

  I splay the pages out on the tabletop, sorting and reorganizing them in my search for the last set.

  All of the asset and debt records that we need are here—all except one.

  The one most impactful for the rebellion.

  Those belonging to Duke Roscoe Baethan of Pantho.

  The Unscrupules’ primary benefactor, and the queen’s fiancé.

  Silver clicks against porcelain in the grand dining room. The waning sun sifts through the gauzy curtains, illuminating the half-eaten table spread in a soft-white shimmer. I chose the grand dining room for this diplomatic dinner in part because it seated the requisite forty-four places, but also because I love how it glows at sunset.

  These beautiful plates, inlaid with a rose-gold filigree, were a gift from King Volne of Candon. Candon is well-known for its filigree artisans, and its king thought it a kind gift to remind me of our friendship.

  Some years ago, he’d sent Duke Natre of Landmere to deliver them to me in person. The duke connived his way into my rooms to serve himself to me upon them—for the sake of his realm, of course.

  I returned him to King Volne in pieces the service plates could accommodate.

  This set became my favorite after that. I relish both the filigree design and the casual reminder to those eating from them not to meddle with me or my staff.

  I did mourn the poor maid he seduced to gain entry. An unfortunate collateral victim of Duke Natre’s careless attention.

  A queen does not allow weakness to fester.

  Duke Natre isn’t the only duke in my concern of late.

  At the other end of the elongated table, as far away as I could physically seat him, perches Duke Roscoe Baethan of Pantho.

  My ephemeral betrothed holds his own version of court at his half as he flagrantly flirts with the ladies I seated around him.

  No, I hadn’t escaped the millennia-old traditions of my realm. Parties are planned by women, even women who are queen.

  Turning to Zana, I send the young woman for more of my favorite wine and to cut the duke off from his.

  Zana’s technically my private secretary, and one day she’ll be ready to assist in my royal duties. Until then, she fulfills tasks while she gets better acquainted with the ebb and flow of the castle.

  The versatile girl has become quite a good spy. Zana was left on the castle steps as a small child, and has been my constant shadow since she was a straggly pre-teen. She’s agile enough to slip through the halls unnoticed; loyal to a fault, despite her Thyzian roots; and her posture defaults to unassuming and quiet when someone notices her, disguising the shrewdness I’ve helped her nurture.

  I wait for her to execute the task, anticipation warming my insides. It’s entirely too enjoyable to prick at the prick at the other end of my table.

  To appease my detractors, and to hedge my bets on an annulment or better, I chose the most inhospitable of suitors—a man I was and remain convinced will fuck it up enough that I can separate from him before committing to anything permanent.

  And so, there sits Duke Baethan, drinking my wine and eating from my filigree plates, while leering down the corset of any woman foolish enough to lean over in his company.

  We placed a fidelity clause into the marriage agreement. Such provisions are common, although he failed to ensure it applied equally to me. The duke is a well-known womanizer; I’d thought I only needed to bide my time.

  As the months have passed without proof of scandalous activities, I’ve had to resort to less passive means of avoiding our nuptials.

  Zana appears at Baethan’s side and discreetly slips a hand to the wine decanter in front of the duke.

  His palm snaps out to seize her wrist. He looks at her sideways, contempt obvious, before those baleful eyes swing toward me instead. She returns his glare and waits for me to command her otherwise. He despises it when I send Zana in my stead, which is exactly why I do it.