“And you didn’t complain about the price of my corn.”
Lyle rounds the edge of the table, and I see that the lower half of his body is shriveled and twisted. He catches me staring at his legs and smiles, though it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Don’t let the legs fool you, son. I can do more damage with my arms than most men could ever hope to do with their entire body.”
I nod as if I agree with him. His eyes slide over Connor without pausing, and he rolls himself to the center of the room, right beside the Commander. I start to look toward them when I realize one of the trackers is watching me closely, a slight frown on his face.
“I trust you brought experts to test my samples this year?” Lyle asks the Commander.
The Commander glances at me and then says, “Of course.”
“Well, then, what are we waiting for? Bring your experts, and let’s go test my ale and your corn.” He looks at Amarynda. “Have Jordan show the rest of Commander Chase’s party to their lodgings.”
“He’ll be here shortly.”
“Wait a minute.” The tracker who keeps staring at me steps forward and addresses Lyle. “I’ll come with you.”
Lyle’s face turns an alarming shade of red. “Think you can drink my ale for free, do you? I signed a protection agreement, not a standing invitation to raid my stores. If you want ale, you buy it at the going rate.” His hands grip the wheels on his chair until his knuckles turn white. “I’m not running a charity here.”
“I don’t want to drink your ale, old man.”
“Old man!” Lyle whips his chair around and speeds toward the tracker. “Pull your sword, fool. I’ll show you what this old man can do.”
“Father!” Amarynda rushes forward and jumps between the tracker and Lyle. “I’m sure Tracker Sharpe meant no disrespect.”
“He meant every disrespect.” Lyle’s voice trembles with fury. “He called me old man. He wanted to drink my ale.”
Amarynda looks over her shoulder at Sharpe. Her voice is calm. “The ale is below us in the cellar. You’ve already searched that room. What is the harm in allowing him to conduct his trade negotiations as he always does?”
Sharpe’s jaw tightens. “Fine. But we search the visitors before they go to the cellar.”
I meet the Commander’s eyes in a moment of shared panic. If they search him, they’ll find the Rowansmark device he carries. If they search me, they’ll find schematics for improving upon the device’s design. And if they pay too much attention to Connor, I’ll lose the staff.
The Commander’s spine snaps into a rigid line, and he stares the tracker down while he spits his words at him. “I am Commander Jason Chase, leader of Baalboden. I am not in Rowansmark, nor is this city under Rowansmark’s jurisdiction.”
“Actually, we are the official protectors of Hodenswald—”
“In the event of a tanniyn attack. Yes, I’m familiar with your leader’s protection agreement.” The Commander steps forward. “I am not the tanniyn, but if you disrespect my authority, I will make you wish you were facing that creature instead of me.”
Sharpe takes a step toward the Commander.
“Lay a hand on me, and you’ll lose it.” The Commander takes another step forward and stands toe to toe with Sharpe. “Furthermore, an act of aggression toward me during a diplomatic mission is equal to an act of aggression toward Baalboden and her allies. I’m sure I don’t need to remind you of the Diplomatic Trade Agreement ratified twelve years ago by all nine leaders.” His voice becomes dangerously soft. “You are in imminent danger of violating that agreement and thus giving me cause to start a war with James Rowan.”
Silence falls, thick with tension, and then Sharpe lifts a hand as if he’s going to pat down the Commander’s chest, searching for . . . whatever it is they’re searching for.
The Commander’s sword slides free of its sheath with a metallic shriek. “Go ahead, boy. Give me a reason to start that war.”
Amarynda steps to Sharpe’s side, cold confidence pouring off her. “There will be no bloodshed on Hodenswald’s soil. We are not in violation of our protection agreement, Tracker Sharpe, and these are our diplomatic guests. We will be responsible for their actions while they are inside our city.”
A smug smile tugs at the scar on the Commander’s face until Amarynda turns to him and says, “By the same token, Tracker Sharpe and his companion are simply doing their jobs. There is no need to antagonize them further.”
Before either man can respond, she turns to her father. “Jordan is just outside the door. You take Commander Chase and his experts to the cellar, and once Jordan has the rest of the Commander’s party well in hand, I’ll be along to conclude the negotiations.”
Lyle immediately starts rolling his chair toward a door in the far left corner of the room. The Commander glances over his shoulder at me and jerks his head toward Lyle as if to tell me I’m expected to follow. I grab Connor and Willow, and we head toward the door. Sharpe slaps a hand on my shoulder and pulls me to a halt as I brush past him.
“Have we met?” he asks.
I keep my expression neutral, though my pulse is pounding. In Lankenshire, the historian who was working with Jeremiah on the map recognized me as the lost McEntire boy from Rowansmark seconds after meeting me because apparently I closely resemble my mother. Sharpe looks to be at least fifteen years older than me. Maybe he knew her before she died.
Lyle rounds the edge of the table, and I see that the lower half of his body is shriveled and twisted. He catches me staring at his legs and smiles, though it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Don’t let the legs fool you, son. I can do more damage with my arms than most men could ever hope to do with their entire body.”
I nod as if I agree with him. His eyes slide over Connor without pausing, and he rolls himself to the center of the room, right beside the Commander. I start to look toward them when I realize one of the trackers is watching me closely, a slight frown on his face.
“I trust you brought experts to test my samples this year?” Lyle asks the Commander.
The Commander glances at me and then says, “Of course.”
“Well, then, what are we waiting for? Bring your experts, and let’s go test my ale and your corn.” He looks at Amarynda. “Have Jordan show the rest of Commander Chase’s party to their lodgings.”
“He’ll be here shortly.”
“Wait a minute.” The tracker who keeps staring at me steps forward and addresses Lyle. “I’ll come with you.”
Lyle’s face turns an alarming shade of red. “Think you can drink my ale for free, do you? I signed a protection agreement, not a standing invitation to raid my stores. If you want ale, you buy it at the going rate.” His hands grip the wheels on his chair until his knuckles turn white. “I’m not running a charity here.”
“I don’t want to drink your ale, old man.”
“Old man!” Lyle whips his chair around and speeds toward the tracker. “Pull your sword, fool. I’ll show you what this old man can do.”
“Father!” Amarynda rushes forward and jumps between the tracker and Lyle. “I’m sure Tracker Sharpe meant no disrespect.”
“He meant every disrespect.” Lyle’s voice trembles with fury. “He called me old man. He wanted to drink my ale.”
Amarynda looks over her shoulder at Sharpe. Her voice is calm. “The ale is below us in the cellar. You’ve already searched that room. What is the harm in allowing him to conduct his trade negotiations as he always does?”
Sharpe’s jaw tightens. “Fine. But we search the visitors before they go to the cellar.”
I meet the Commander’s eyes in a moment of shared panic. If they search him, they’ll find the Rowansmark device he carries. If they search me, they’ll find schematics for improving upon the device’s design. And if they pay too much attention to Connor, I’ll lose the staff.
The Commander’s spine snaps into a rigid line, and he stares the tracker down while he spits his words at him. “I am Commander Jason Chase, leader of Baalboden. I am not in Rowansmark, nor is this city under Rowansmark’s jurisdiction.”
“Actually, we are the official protectors of Hodenswald—”
“In the event of a tanniyn attack. Yes, I’m familiar with your leader’s protection agreement.” The Commander steps forward. “I am not the tanniyn, but if you disrespect my authority, I will make you wish you were facing that creature instead of me.”
Sharpe takes a step toward the Commander.
“Lay a hand on me, and you’ll lose it.” The Commander takes another step forward and stands toe to toe with Sharpe. “Furthermore, an act of aggression toward me during a diplomatic mission is equal to an act of aggression toward Baalboden and her allies. I’m sure I don’t need to remind you of the Diplomatic Trade Agreement ratified twelve years ago by all nine leaders.” His voice becomes dangerously soft. “You are in imminent danger of violating that agreement and thus giving me cause to start a war with James Rowan.”
Silence falls, thick with tension, and then Sharpe lifts a hand as if he’s going to pat down the Commander’s chest, searching for . . . whatever it is they’re searching for.
The Commander’s sword slides free of its sheath with a metallic shriek. “Go ahead, boy. Give me a reason to start that war.”
Amarynda steps to Sharpe’s side, cold confidence pouring off her. “There will be no bloodshed on Hodenswald’s soil. We are not in violation of our protection agreement, Tracker Sharpe, and these are our diplomatic guests. We will be responsible for their actions while they are inside our city.”
A smug smile tugs at the scar on the Commander’s face until Amarynda turns to him and says, “By the same token, Tracker Sharpe and his companion are simply doing their jobs. There is no need to antagonize them further.”
Before either man can respond, she turns to her father. “Jordan is just outside the door. You take Commander Chase and his experts to the cellar, and once Jordan has the rest of the Commander’s party well in hand, I’ll be along to conclude the negotiations.”
Lyle immediately starts rolling his chair toward a door in the far left corner of the room. The Commander glances over his shoulder at me and jerks his head toward Lyle as if to tell me I’m expected to follow. I grab Connor and Willow, and we head toward the door. Sharpe slaps a hand on my shoulder and pulls me to a halt as I brush past him.
“Have we met?” he asks.
I keep my expression neutral, though my pulse is pounding. In Lankenshire, the historian who was working with Jeremiah on the map recognized me as the lost McEntire boy from Rowansmark seconds after meeting me because apparently I closely resemble my mother. Sharpe looks to be at least fifteen years older than me. Maybe he knew her before she died.
