All The King's-Men (The Yellow Hoods, #3) (15 page)

“This is a good spot. We’ll cover them up and leave them here. Dismount and I’ll bring them side by side,” said Christina.

Mounira tumbled backward off the side of the horse, barely making a successful landing. “
La la
- right, Tee?” she said, glancing over at her big sister figure.

Tee dismounted and gave Mounira a nod. “Yeah, that was a good one,” she said flatly, pulling her hood over her head.

Elly slid off and scowled at Mounira. “No. You don’t get to use
La la
,” she said, then turned to Tee. “If you’re not going to use it anymore, then, like so many things, it’s just gone. Just… gone.”

Mounira shrugged. There was something going on that she wasn’t following, nor cared to.

Christina pulled the camouflage blankets out of one of the saddlebags of each horse and covered them. She then stepped back several yards and examined them. “Yeah, they look okay there. Someone passing quickly by should miss them, and no one should be this close in the first place.”

“How long did you have them at the bottom of the mountain?” asked Mounira.

Christina smiled at the embodiment of never-ending questions. “Months.”

Franklin wondered what other inventions Christina had access to, and what other secrets of the world had been kept from him and his father.

“Wow, I guess that blanket works really well,” replied Mounira, studying it with newfound interest.

“It does,” replied Christina. She remembered her father telling her when she was six that if she’d stop asking questions for ten minutes, he’d give her a diamond. He’d never had to pay up. 

 “Okay, make sure we’ve got everything. Let’s go, everyone. We’ve got a couple of miles to walk,” said Christina.

After a minute of walking, Mounira asked, “Why can’t we just put the King’s-Horses in a stable? You know, like real horses? Why do we have to hide them?”

 “We need to keep going,” answered Christina, hiking on. She shifted her backpack, trying to find a more comfortable position for it.

Tee moved closer to Mounira as they walked. “We can’t just bring them into town. Someone would notice them and we’d have a lot of trouble.”

“Are they illegal?” asked Mounira, worried.

“No, but we are,” said Tee, grudgingly sharing some of what she’d learned recently. “They have a special word for inventors, scientists, and engineers who don’t work under a set of strict rules—” 

“Abominators,” said Franklin. “That’s what your uncivilized part of the world calls people like us. We might just find ourselves getting our heads cut off, depending on what this kingdom’s High Conventioneer recommends.” Franklin ran his finger across his throat.

Mounira gestured wildly with her one arm. “For what? Horses?” 

Tee put her hands on Mounira’s shoulders and said in a very calm tone, “Remember the story Christina told us about how these were made? There was this king who decided he didn’t want any people around who were smarter than him, or who made him look bad. Freland is better than most places, from what I hear, but it’s still dangerous. Long ago, that thinking spread like fire through the kingdoms, and correcting it is a very slow process.”

Elly said, panic leaching into her voice, “Wait, are you saying they still kill inventors? I’m not one though, right? I don’t invent things.” For the first time, Elly deeply regretted having left home.

Tee shot Elly a harsh glance. “You helped make that first sail-cart with me, didn’t you? That’s an engineer thing you did,” said Tee. “Don’t go pretending you’re somehow not a part of this.”

Elly started to get riled up.

Christina yelled over her shoulder. “It doesn’t matter. If you look a certain way, build something that makes someone else jealous, speak a certain way, or—in some places—are just born a smart woman, they will label you an Abominator. If you’re lucky, they’ll let you become a Conventioneer.

“All of us are in danger no matter where we go, except for maybe the Republic of Teuton.”

“Why are they called Conventioneers?” asked Mounira.

Tee avoided Elly’s gaze as she answered, “Because they abide by the rules—conventions—set by the monarchy or whatever government. Nothing too imaginative, too weird, or potentially threatening.”

Franklin piped up proudly. “Things are better in Inglea, though. We did away with the Order of the Conventioneers a few years ago and got those Abominator laws almost completely off the books. Now we have the Royal Society for Collective Progress. My father’s even a member. It answers to Parliament and if you’re doing anything big, you just need to go present to a committee. I’m not allowed to join until I’m sixteen, but I’ve already been pre-approved.”

“Was the steam engine allowed? I can’t see how there could be all this secrecy about it, if it was,” said Elly, poking at Franklin’s smugness.

Christina caught Franklin’s scared expression, and couldn’t help but smile. “We need to be careful. That’s why we’re not going directly into Palais.”

Elly and Mounira were visibly disappointed.

Franklin glared at Christina. “What?” he said, feeling jilted. “Let me go at least. I’m older than the rest of them, and I survived on my own for months.”

Christina considered Franklin’s request. “The inn’s about a couple miles southeast of here.” She snapped her fingers. “Actually, Tee and Elly, put your yellow hoods into Tee’s backpack. Mounira, give me yours. They’re fine when we’re walking through the forest, but not when we’re close to town like this. I don’t want anyone remembering us easily.”

Franklin rolled his eyes. “Don’t you think they’ll notice an annoying, one-armed Southerner?”

Mounira kicked him in the shin.

“FOR THE LOVE OF—” yelled Franklin, hopping around. “How do you keep managing to do that?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Mounira, walking away with a smile plastered on her face.

Franklin was fuming. “I didn’t mean it that way. I meant simply—” 

“Enough,” said Christina, cutting him off. “After we’re settled at the inn, you can go into town if you want, Franklin. But if you run into trouble, you’re on your own.” 

Glaring at all of them, he curled his lip and nodded to himself. Clearly, his comments weren’t welcome. “Thank you,” he replied calmly, putting his leg down. He’d won a small victory, and hoped to turn it into a bigger one.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Trust Me

Bakon hardly noticed the hunger building up in him. The gravity of what he’d learned and the rashness of his actions still weighed on him, clouding everything.

One simple piece of paper in the Ginger Lady’s house had made him betray so many people. He’d abandoned his father figure, Nikolas Klaus, by not rejoining Tee to help find him. He’d deceived his brothers, Richy, and the love of his life, Egelina-Marie, by running off without them. The ever lingering doubt that he wasn’t good enough for Eg was having a field day. Why couldn’t he just ignore that maybe once he’d had the name Beldon Pieman?

Bakon examined his fists, which he’d nearly broken punching a tree the night before. He’d swung at everything he could, except the horse, fighting through all of his mixed emotions until he’d finally collapsed on the ground at the side of the road and fallen asleep.

He’d decided to head for Relna, figuring if he’d never heard of the Piemans before, then they were likely not Frelish. His plan was simple: get there and keep asking about the Piemans until someone made him stop, one way or the other.

A woman’s scream slapped him back to attention. Looking up ahead, he saw a riderless horse trotting up towards him around a bend in the forest road. 

Bakon nudged his horse to speed up. “I hope that lady has some people I can mess with. I need a distraction.” 

As he came around the bend, he saw a bald man unconscious on the ground, and three thugs; one of whom was chasing a dark-haired woman around a toppled fruit cart.

“Hey, guys,” yelled Bakon.

The Chaser froze and stared at Bakon. He was a wiry man, and Bakon knew the type well. Likely he was the kick-puppy of the Ringleader, and probably the one who did most of the work. He had noticeably bad teeth and bags under his eyes. His clothes were haphazard, not unlike Bakon’s had been until very recently.

“Hey, yourself,” snapped the Ringleader, taking a step forward. He looked scruffy and like he’d slept in his unwashed clothes for weeks. His long beard and wrinkled, boyish face made him look more comical than threatening. 

Bakon scrutinized the third man, who reminded him of his brother, Bore. He was at least six-foot-six, with badly cut hair and stubble. He frowned at Bakon and kept glancing at the other two for direction.

“This should be fun,” said Bakon to himself, smiling. Dismounting, he chewed his lip, trying to figure how he was going to play this out. Recently, Captain Archambault had been sharing some new ways he could deal with things if he found himself alone; ways that, honestly, he’d never have considered as they didn’t involve punching someone. 

Bakon walked over to the side of the road and picked up a good and sturdy stick. He smiled at the trio of thugs. He noticed they were all wet, but the ground and stick were dry. He looked up at the sky and saw dark clouds heading away from them.

“What are you doing?” asked the Chaser.

“I needed a stick,” said Bakon as if there was nothing going on. “I found one. Do you need one?” he asked, offering his. “There are more.”

“Um, no,” said the Chaser, bewildered. 

Bakon shrugged. “Suit yourself.” He started walking towards the woman and the fruit cart.

“You don’t want to do that, mate. You just want to leave,” said the Ringleader, his hand on a flintlock pistol in his pants.

“Is that so?” said Bakon, acting a touch surprised. “I’m really hungry, and there’s fruit right there. Now, I was planning on paying for it, but I don’t have any coins.” He patted himself down. “Hey, do you accept sticks as currency? It’s a really good one.” He waved his stick about for all to see.

The Chaser shifted his gaze between his buddies and then to the woman, who shrugged at him, having no idea what was really going on. “We’re… ah, stealing this stuff,” he said, pointing to the cart. “So we’re not interested in selling nothing.”

Bakon smiled to himself as he thought of what Isabella Klaus would have said if he’d used a double negative like that. 

The Ringleader pulled out his pistol. 

Bakon recognized the make. He had one at home. 

“Get out of here,” said the Ringleader. “This is none of your business. We’re doing some stealing, and you don’t need to be part of this. Just… just go away.”

Bakon nodded in understanding, rubbing his chin. He rolled his shoulders and thought. He imagined Gabriel describing the situation, and asking him questions as to what he should do next. As much as part of him was itching for an out-and-out brawl, he was curious to see if leveraging his charisma could really work.

“Careful there, buddy,” he said seriously. “I’m armed with a stick.” The Chaser started to laugh, but Bakon’s expression made him stop and look at the Ringleader, even more confused than before. Bakon noticed that the big guy was reacting about five seconds after everyone else. “This
is
my business. See, that lady’s my sister.” Bakon took a few slow steps towards the Ringleader. 

“No, she’s not,” said the head thug. “Nice try.”

“You’re right, she’s not,” replied Bakon, smiling sheepishly and taking two more steps. “She’s my wife.”

“She’s not your wife,” said the hyena-like Chaser.

Bakon winked at him. “Got me again.” He took another step towards the Ringleader. 

The Ringleader shook his old firearm at Bakon. “Just go away!”

“Hey,” said Bakon calmly. “Tell you what. How about I drop this stick, and you point the gun at the ground?” 

The Chaser caught wind of something and yelled, “Shoot him. I don’t like him.”

“He can’t. It’s wet,” said Bakon, pointing at the flintlock pistol. “I can fix it though, for some fruit.”

“What?” said the Ringleader. “It’s not wet.”

Bakon frowned at him. “Look, I’m hungry. I don’t care what else you’re doing, just give me some food, and I’m on my way. Everybody wins—”

“I don’t,” grumbled the woman.

“Fair point, but close enough,” said Bakon. He pointed at the pistol again, now only three feet away. “See the shine on the top there? That means the chamber’s wet. Even if it does fire, it’ll blow up in your face.”

The Ringleader stared at the firearm for a moment. “It’s fine,” he insisted. 

Bakon shook his head, his expression annoyed. “Hey, guy, you’re embarrassing yourself. I know you’re a professional highwayman, and I’m just a country ruffian, but let’s be honest with each other. That pistol’s useless if you don’t let me fix it.”

The Ringleader frowned at his pistol. There was something about the way Bakon was talking that made the Ringleader feel that he genuinely had the thug’s best interest at heart.

“I’ll prove it to you,” said Bakon. “Lady, come here.” He stepped forward and snatched the pistol right out of the Ringleader’s hands and handed it to the lady.

Everyone stared at Bakon in disbelief.

“Did he just do that?” asked the Chaser.

“Trust me,” said Bakon, waving for them to calm down. He didn’t know if they had another weapon, but he was certain that the pistol had at most one shot. 

The woman stared at Bakon, confused. “Help me out, lady. Now, please try and shoot him.”

“Um, where?” said the woman, waving the pistol around.

Bakon glanced at the man. “The foot’s good.”

“Are you sure about this?” asked the Ringleader.

“Positive,” said Bakon, giving him an okay gesture. “Mademoiselle.”

The gun fired. The Chaser, Ringleader, and woman all screamed.

“My foot!” yelled the Ringleader. “You flipping pargo! I told you it worked fine!”

Bakon snatched the pistol from the woman’s hand, opened it up, took out the spent bullet, and closed it back up just in time to point it squarely at the face of the third big man, who was now just inches away.

The big man and Bakon stood there, gesturing at each other for a minute, until finally the big man nodded and went to collect his wounded friend.