Page 67 of Rise of the Vicious Princess

“It’s too risky.” The queen’s eyes were worried.

“It’s no riskier than doing my normal duties in a city full of spies who want me dead. And I don’t want to rely on secondhand information about the attacking fleet. We need to be absolutely sure what we’re facing.”

The queen sighed. “You are as stubborn as I am.”

“Thank you.”

“Fine. Go get your workload done for the day so that your evening is clear. I have an appointment with several members of the council.” The dagger-sharp gleam in her eyes brightened. “And we’ve got a lead on the man Bartho who sent the assassin to Merryl’s. A city guard recognized the name and pointed us toward the warehouse district, where he’s rumored to live. Several guards will spend the day searching every single warehouse for him and anyone else staying with him. We’ll compare notes tomorrow.”

“This is madness,” Holland said happily as he, Charis, and Tal left the plain wagon they’d taken from the back of the Farragin estate for the twenty-minute ride to the small fishing dock at the northern tip of the city.

Charis had to agree with Holland. A princess dressed as a smuggler sneaking out of a fishing dock to search for a fleet of battleships while also waiting to hear if King Alaric would take the bait and accept the betrothal was utter madness, but she couldn’t see another move on the chessboard.

Mother had nearly stopped Charis from going at the last minute, but she’d finally agreed to it as long as Nalani stayed back in case the worst happened and the next person in line for the throne was needed. And only if Tal swore on his life to the queen that he wouldn’t let anything happen to Charis.

Orayn and a small crew of loyal sailors waited for them at the fishing dock for their first nighttime trip onto the open sea. An older frigate, painted black and flying no identifying flags, was anchored beside the dock. Charis drew in a bracing breath of salt-laced air and nodded to herself as she studied the boat. It resembled the ones used by the smugglers who brought goods into Calera without paying the tariff and who often traded with Montevallian spies, at risk of a long stint in the queen’s dungeon if they were caught. Much smaller than most merchant vessels. More nimble. And much harder to see out on the open sea, especially given that the sails were also black.

“Put your masks on,” Charis said quietly as they left the wagon and began their trek down the sand dunes toward the waiting dock. “It’s crucial that no one on the crew is able to identify us.”

“It’s going to look strange if we’re the only ones wearing masks,” Tal muttered as he slipped his on. His hair was tied back, and like Charis, he wore simple black pants, a plain gray shirt, and a black cloak. Holland wore his usual duster over black pants and a black shirt and had his sword sheathed at his waist.

“Everyone will wear a mask,” Charis said. “We cannot risk a spy knowing the princess is out on the water each night. If Alaric doesn’t accept the betrothal offer, he could order his fleet to hunt us down and sink us.”

“That would be unfortunate,” Holland said, though he still sounded happily in his element as their boots scuffed against the aging wooden boards of the walkway that led to the dock.

The sister moons hung low in the star-flecked sky, their soft blue light reflecting against the dark surface of the water, a spill of pale sapphire that undulated with the waves. Orayn met them at the entrance to the dock, a mask tied in place just above his bushy beard.

“It’s a fine night for sailing,” he said, stopping himself from bowing to Charis when she whipped a hand in the air.

“And for skewering things with a sword,” Holland replied enthusiastically.

“We’re going out to try to see where the fleet is hiding. Not to board them and try to fight them to the death,” Charis said to him.

Holland sighed.

“The rest of the crew is already here. Some of them are deckhands I’ve known for a while. Some are friends of mine from the city—got us a physician, just in case, and a seamstress to help repair sails and such—and a couple are refugees who’ve been hanging around the docks for months doing odd jobs for anyone with coin. All aboard that’s coming aboard, Captain,” Orayn said.

“I can’t be the captain, Orayn. I don’t know a ship well enough. I don’t have the instincts necessary to manage a battle on the water. And”—she dropped her voice though no one was near enough to overhear them—“no one can suspect I’m the princess. You’re the captain.”

He shifted uncomfortably, and then said, “Well, I’m not giving you orders, Your High—”

“Do not call me Your Highness.” Charis kept her voice gentle but firm as she placed a hand on his arm.

“He can’t exactly call you Charis, either,” Tal said dryly.

“It’s a common enough name,” Charis said.

Holland snorted. “How many other girls named Charis do you think move like a predator who owns everything she touches?”

“That’s a little harsh,” Orayn said.

“It’s a little accurate.” Tal adjusted his mask. “She speaks, moves, and acts like the princess at all times. If you call her Charis, it won’t be hard for the crew to figure out who she is.”

Charis held up a hand for silence and then had to acknowledge that even that act was one only someone used to having everyone obey her would think to do. “We’ll have to come up with another name, Orayn.”

The big man shrugged, his tunic straining over his muscular shoulders. “How about if you’re the captain, and I’m your first mate? A first mate always relays the captain’s orders to the crew, so this gives you a reason to look like you’re in charge, but lets me take over giving the orders myself if we get into a situation you aren’t sure how to handle.”

“What crew is going to believe a seventeen-year-old girl is qualified to be a ship’s captain?” Charis asked.

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