Page 20 of The King's Man 2

He continues, “I’m sure your mother would tell you the same thing.”

Quin’s smile doesn’t reach his eyes; his grip tightens again on the cane. “If only the vitalians were half as useful as you, uncle,” he says. His tone is brittle with affected weakness, but there—the shift of his hand over his cane, a glimpse of restrained venom.

“I’m sorry she must rely on me.”

“I still don’t understand how she can’t fight it off whenyoudid.”

“I have a stronger constitution.” The high duke reaches out and pats the shoulder of the king. “It’s just a thimbleful of blood; I don’t mind helping out when I can.”

Quin inclines his head reverently and the high duke breathes deeply, like the air tastes magnificent.

“I shall take my leave. Rest up. Enjoy the gala... festivities.”

He sweeps away with half the redcloaks in tow. Those remaining, Quin dismisses. I start to scramble, only to be delivered a flat look. “You stay.”

When we’re alone, he turns to me. “Mentally unstable? You’re not afraid of me at all.”

“I can’t say I’m not afraid of your uncle. He’s planning something for Sunday’s gala.”

“To be sure.”

My stomach rolls. “Are you truly rusty at controlling the wyverns?”

“That is, in fact, his hope. He wants me to lose credibility, publicly. He wants to claim I’m not my father’s son.”

“So prove him wrong. Control the wyverns. Have your men help if necessary.”

“That’s his back-up plan. If I have to act, he’ll know who my supporters are. He’ll make sure they all succumb.”

“If you force the wyverns into submission alone?”

He stares out at the vista of the royal city. “Quietly manipulating better outcomes for my people will be over. He’ll know my true strength, doubt my every move. He’ll be determined to be rid of me. But not before he stops giving my mother her antidote. Not before he makes me watch her suffer until she...”

I close my eyes, briefly. “What will you do?”

Quin stares hard at the long canal and the colourful stalls set along its bank. He sighs, looks at me, and steps forward. “We have other things to discuss.”

I cast my gaze to the grass between us.

“Don’t act shy now.”

“Shy?” I snort, stepping back. “Playing the part of your dutiful subject. Isn’t that what you like?”

“Scathing.”

I snap my head up and swallow a retort over the sudden fiery lump in my throat.

“Go on. Let it out.”

I don’t know where to start. I throw my hands up and ask, “Quin?”

“My aunt—Frederica—she calls me that, from my middle name. Constantinos Quinlaus Gaillot. I never reveal my true identity when I’m outside the royal city... unofficially.”

“I’ve been here a while.”

“And I expected you to find out.”

“You could’ve told me,” I say, my voice low, laced with both hurt and disbelief. “But I suppose the king doesn’t owe explanations to his subjects, does he?”

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