Page 51 of The King's Man 4

Sunlight hits them, and once more I cover my eyes from the glare. When I look again, my sight is captured by Prince Nicostratus riding onto the pitch, waving the noble team’s flag. He rallies a cheer for his team and trots around the pitch, scanning the crowd as he rides. On the third turn he spots me—and Quin.

His jaw shifts and he churrs his horse into a vigorous canter, whipping winds around him. The crowd becomes a murmur of appreciation at his blinding grace and power. Guilt ripples down my spine. I take a large step away from Quin and force myself to make useful observations. There’s something about this scene...

Most of the spectators are men, redcloaks both in and out of uniform, wearing circling wyverns in support of the true king. But there’s also a fiery female crowd amongst the refugees, and they’re singing folk songs of infamous drakopagon matches.

I watch their joy with a sickening ache. They’ve no idea. They think the food poisoning they had a few days before was horrible, a malicious act by the runaway king, but that they’d miraculously survived it.

My jaw clenches as I search the crowds for the sadistic culprit, who is wholly aware of the atrocity soon to happen.

“Where are the vitalians?” I ask Quin.

“I told them to come as spectators. They’ve consumed and stacked all layers of the antidote barring the last key catalyst. I ordered a trusted vitalian to smuggle in rare herbs hidden under roasted nuts.”

As he says it, I taste the strong aroma of sugared almonds. The cart is parked at the far edges of the field, partially obscured by barracks, not far from the infantry kitchens and herb garden.

I glance again at the refugees singing at the narrow end of the pitch. “Will there be enough vitalians?”

“It’ll be a challenge, but they should manage.”

Dread claws sharply up my stomach. “If we don’t discover the missing part...”

“They’ll use gut feeling and hope for the best.”

Gut feeling. How many refugees would make it?

“We need to search the commander’s room. Corner him. Force him to give us the missing ingredient.”

“He’s a dangerous man,” Quin says, gusts spinning around him. “I’llfind him.”

My hair whips in the sudden rough winds. I meet his gaze squarely and ignore the lurch in my stomach at his determinedly protective expression. “Either I stay by your side, or Idon’t.”

His lips pinch at my threat but he hauls me along with him, past the nut cart, into the heart of the outpost. Sunshine burns over corridors and doors creak where redcloaks have hurried out of their barracks for the game; the distant cheering and hollering is a constant buzz that covers our steps.

“Should we confront him,” Quin whispers, grip flexing on his cane. “Stay behind me.”

I nod, and we slip through the commander’s cracked door, the floor immediately groaning in protest—or perhaps warning.The chamber is lit by streams of dusty sunlight coming through the windows. We move swiftly around the room, searching for any clue to the antidote. There’s not a single plant in sight.

“Is there anything here?” Quin murmurs, gesturing to cluttered parchment on the commander’s desk.

I join him to search through it, but these are mostly lists of army equipment, requests for funding, marked maps—

“This is...” I study the parchment. “A record of donations the refugees received.”

I frown over it. Why does the commander have this?

Quin looks at it and the other handwritten documents on the desk. “It’s his writing.”

“He copied it?” For what purpose?

Frowning over this, Quin crouches to the bookshelf and shakes each book like he might find a secret note with answers. I lean against the wall behind the desk. All I have is a list that includes his name on it as delivering sacks of oats. Where’s he hiding his spells? The equipment he’d need to concoct poison? Any of the essential herbs? I don’t scent traces of anything.

I scan the page and jerk at a familiar name further down the list. Ariadne Aureliana. “Quin, look at—” I push my foot against the wall to kick off it, and my heel clicks something—

Suddenly the wall is shifting with a low rumble and swinging inwards. I stumble back with the momentum and yelp as I’m deposited into a cold, dark space. Quin swings around wildly in the commander’s room, and his frantic “Cael!” is cut off as the stone slams back into place between us.

“Cael. Cael!” Quin’s yell is muted behind thick stone.

He bangs against the door-wall. It doesn’t budge. I press against it, but it remains firmly closed. I shiver, jam the list of donors into my belt, and turn around in the black space. I squint; the tiniest bit of light comes from under me. Far under me. I crouch and make out the rungs of a ladder descending. If there’s light, there’s something down there.

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