Page 9 of Pretense

Or, at least, that was what the propaganda put out by the Mongalian king was claiming. And, from all reports being sent by Escarland’s spies, the process had been a peaceful one. Suspiciously peaceful.

Edmund had to bite his tongue before he asked, yet again, for reassignment to Mongavaria.

General Bloam would only give Edmund the same answer he’d received the past three times he’d asked. The Intelligence Office had decided it was no longer necessary to risk Edmund’s life. His gift for elvish made him invaluable for spying on Tarenhiel, but Mongalia—well, Mongavaria—spoke the same language as Escarland, just with a different dialect. Edmund’s language skills were not so unique that the Intelligence Office would risk him again.

Besides, the spies stationed in Mongavaria were functioning smoothly. Adding a new spy would only upset the balance and risk their already established network, even if that network now had to expand to cover more territory since Escarland hadn’t had a spying operation in Nevaria. It didn’t share any borders with Escarland and had been deemed too insignificant to waste resources on.

That left Edmund stuck behind this desk. Going through reports rather than out in the field where he belonged.

“Take a break from studying the Mongavarian reports to go over these.” General Bloam tapped the new, much smaller pile he’d set on Edmund’s desk. “These are from our people in Kostaria and Tarenhiel. I don’t believe there will be any concerns, but you’re the expert for those kingdoms.”

While Escarland no longer had such an active spying effort in either Tarenhiel or Kostaria these days, passive spying continued to be conducted by carefully placed intelligence officers. They traveled with ambassadors or merchants or those merely visiting. It was the same spying that Weylind and Rharreth did in Escarland, even if it was unacknowledged on both sides.

Edmund nodded and tamped down his relief as he shut the Mongavarian file. Both he and General Bloam knew that giving the Mongavarian reports to Edmund was merely busy work. There were other analysts who had been tasked with monitoring Mongavaria, and they had been doing it for years. They would be far more likely to spot something than Edmund would.

Tarenhiel, on the other hand, had been Edmund’s kingdom of operations for years. He had been one of only a handful of Escarlish spies who had established a presence in Tarenhiel since the combination of learning elvish to the point of fluency and disguising oneself as an elf was so difficult.

But now, Edmund’s cover had been blown in both Kostaria and Tarenhiel. He couldn’t go back.

“I’ll have them back to you by tomorrow.” Edmund added the files to the stack of papers on his desk.

General Bloam gave a last salute and strode away to the next desk.

Edmund gave another sigh, dug his hands in his hair, and stared at the files. He had become a spy because he didn’t want to be stuck at a desk doing paperwork.

He cracked open the first file and quickly perused the contents. A report on the current state of affairs in Kostaria. Nothing much had changed. The internal strife had calmed, and most trolls had accepted their new king and queen. A month ago, a few who hadn’t been happy with having an elf for a queen had tried to cross into Tarenhiel for a raid. Their bodies had been found at the border, killed by the magic Farrendel had embedded into the ground. That had pretty much ended any thoughts of rebellion.

“Prince Edmund?”

Edmund glanced up to find one of the clerks standing there, a piece of paper in hand. “Yes?”

“We received a message for you at the front gate.” The clerk held out a piece of paper.

After taking the note, Edmund unfolded it, recognizing the handwriting even before he read the words.

Finally. Something he could do besides sit at a desk.

* * *

Edmund strolled through the narrow streets of Aldon near the bank of the Fyne River that cut through a section of Aldon. Warehouses crowded near the docks while factories filled this part of town. Taverns, small shops, and tall tenement housing packed the alleyways. It was considered one of the seedier neighborhoods in Aldon, and Edmund wouldn’t recommend that Essie stroll through the streets alone. But many good, hard-working people lived here, scraping by as best they could.

Dressed in ragged trousers and a sweat-stained shirt, Edmund shuffled along with the rest of the people going about their business at the end of the workday. He had a shapeless cap pulled over his hair and dirt smudged on his face to obscure his features.

No one paid him any mind. Why would they, when he blended into the masses?

Not that he was too worried if they did. The daggers and derringer hidden underneath his clothes would provide plenty of protection should he find himself accosted by anyone intent on mugging him.

In the dusky twilight and flickering glow of the occasional lamp that still functioned in this section of town, Edmund stepped into the Black Dog Tavern. The thick scent of beer and tobacco and sweat assaulted his sense of smell. Raucous laughter came from several of the tables in the center where groups of men—and even a few hard-eyed women—gambled and drank. The bar was crowded with those too focused on downing drinks to move to a table.

Edmund took his time ambling across the room until he reached a table in the corner. One chair at the table was already occupied by a brown-haired man wearing attire similar to Edmund’s. The beer mug in his hands remained nearly full while his eyes were clear and sharp. He sat with his back to one wall, leaving the chair with its back to the other wall for Edmund.

Edmund sat in the other chair, his boot sliding in something slimy underneath the table. He grimaced and shifted his boot away from the vomit or spit or congealed beer that was coating the floor. “We really need a better meeting spot.”

“Come on. Where else can you find such a lovely atmosphere?” Trent Bourdon grinned and gestured toward the rest of the tavern. Trent had gone to Hanford University at the same time as Edmund, and they had bonded over learning elvish. While Edmund wouldn’t necessarily call Trent a friend—princes didn’t have the luxury of making close friends outside of the family, and spies even less so—Trent was more than a mere acquaintance. Even though their jobs of prince and newspaper reporter put them at odds, they had built a give-and-take based on their respect for each other.

“I would take less atmosphere if it meant I didn’t have to clean my boots every time I left here.” Edmund rested his elbows on the table as a barmaid tentatively approached the table. When she held out a mug and a pitcher, he gave a nod.

Neither he nor Trent spoke until the barmaid finished pouring a mug for Edmund and left.

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