Page 12 of The King's Man 4

“More and more of my people are being displaced by the volatile situation at the border. They come inland, hoping for a life with more security.” He looks at me. “These are people that have truly lost everything and must start over.”

My throat is thick.

“Out of the boat.”

I climb out and follow him through throngs of quietly suffering families, young to old. In a makeshift pavilion, aklos and aklas and a group of nobles are cooking porridge, doling out blankets.

“Who are they?” I ask.

“My supporters,” he says quietly. In his constable guise, Quin heads into the pavilion; they greet him as a constable, albeit with a knowing twinkle in their eyes. “I have things to discuss with them. I’ll need a couple of hours,” he says, and leaves me with the aklos and aklas.

Hungry people crowd the pavilion, eager for food. Two flustered aklos are trying to maintain order and serve—I take a ladle in each hand and tell them to organise people into a peaceful line.

“He took two bowls!”

“One is for my nannan. She twisted her foot, can’t get up.”

“You’re just scamming for more!”

The man with two bowls flattens his lips. There’s a scar cutting his brow, and his hair is hacked short—as if he might have sold it for money or food along the way.

“There’s enough for everyone,” I say, keeping my voice firm and calm. “Sir, pass one bowl along to maintain peace. I will bring another for your nannan.”

This is reluctantly agreed to, and once everyone who can move has been doled out a bowl, I take a tray and find those who are immobile. Finally, I find the grandson who’d first taken two bowls of porridge. He’s seated at the base of a tree, an arm around his nannan, spoon feeding her from his own bowl. I crouch before them and pass him the last bowl of porridge. “Make sure to keep your strength.”

“Who are you?”

“No one. I support the true king.”

“True king? The runaway king?”

“This,” I say, gesturing to the volunteers, the food, the blankets, “is his doing.”

Nannan whines against her grandson, and instinctively I reach to take her pulse, and drop my hand again.

Hope flashes in his eyes. “Do you have medical knowledge? She hurts after every meal, for days now. Can you help?”

I stiffen and scramble back. I shake my head.

“Hurts,” she croaks.

I’m on my feet, hands trembling. “I don’t. I can’t.”

“Please.”

“No.”

A hand latches onto my upper arm forcefully, and I whirl to Quin watching me with shadowed eyes. His jaw twitches, and he tells another to help the grandmother.

I feel each thump of his cane in the ground under us until he tosses me into the boat. I can’t look at him.

“I thought Nicostratus was supposed to make you feel better. I see I have to take this into my own hands.”

Quin uses his inner force all the way to the dock closest to Nicostratus’s residence, then he uses it again to tow me along tothe gates. Petros lets us in, but Quin doesn’t let him lead the way. Nicostratus is shooting arrows at distant targets in the military courtyard; a line of aklos, all buttoned with circling wyverns, are arrayed behind him and running to collect his spent arrows.

Here, Quin lets go of the scruff of my neck.

Nicostratus lowers his bow, frowning. “Constable Soterios, are you here with news on my case?”

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