Michael was a head taller than Eliot and his accent was slightly rounded from growing up near Mortise. He had a thicker build and lighter skin, but they were brothers in all but blood. His brown hair curled over his brow, nearly shielding his green eyes. He usually wore a grin, but at the moment his square face was pulled into a frown. Eliot hated lying to him, but he didn’t want Michael to know about Clare’s new position in the castle.
When Michael continued to eye him, Eliot snorted. “It’s nothing. One of my moods. You know me.”
“I do, which is why I’m worried.” Michael shifted, thumbing the mug’s worn handle. “You’ve been moody for weeks. If the concern is more coin for your family, I’ve always said you can take some of my wages.”
Eliot took a sip of the biting drink. Temptation licked at him, but he knew Clare wouldn’t reconsider, even if he could give her more coin. She was too stubborn. “No, thank you.”
Michael’s brow furrowed, but he didn’t press. Eliot took another swallow and the ale warmed through him, bringing him muted peace like a good drink always did.
Men shifted around them, laughing and bellowing at each other, elbows and shoulders knocking. Eliot shielded his drink from a red-faced man who staggered close, and by the time he passed, Geflin and Paven were standing before them, gripping drinks of their own.
Eliot straightened. The ale he’d drunk settled in his empty stomach and exacerbated the hollowness that had been there since he’d read Clare’s letter, but he needed to put that from his mind and focus on the issue at hand—because certainly, there was an issue. Paven and Geflin wouldn’t have arranged this meeting otherwise.
Geflin was middle-aged with ample muscle covering his body. He was a blacksmith who did occasional work in the castle prison. He smelled like his smithy—smoke, metal, and leather. His wild red hair and thick beard drew as much attention as his size, but the glances were passing. He made people nervous, even when he edged out a smile.
Paven was older, his gray hair gathered at the nape of his neck in a short ponytail, and wrinkles framed his eyes. He’d been a soldier before losing his arm during a bout of border violence with Mortise. The stump ended just below his shoulder. His captain had given him a handful of coins, courtesy of the king, and he was required to turn in his uniform. A soldier without a sword arm was useless. He hadn’t been able to find decent work since.
“You weren’t followed?” Geflin asked, his voice barely heard over the crowd’s roar. There was a reason they met here; any private conversation was lost in the roaring noise of the tavern.
“No,” Michael assured him.
Paven darted a look around, but no one paid them any attention. They were a rugged group of men like any other collected in the room. “As you know, our last attempt against the princess failed.”
“It should have worked,” Geflin muttered. “The keys I made were good. The princess must have had an increased guard, even for walking down the fates-blasted hallway.”
Eliot threw back another drink, wincing as it burned his throat. He’d known the rebels had been planning a strike, but he hadn’t known his sister would stumble into it. It was a fates-blessing she hadn’t been hurt, but it had gotten her into a mess, hadn’t it? Now she was the princess’s blasted maid. Guilt soured on his tongue.
Paven ignored Geflin’s muttering. “We’ve been blessed with a new opportunity.”
Michael perked up, anticipation lending a rasp to his voice. “You have a mission for us?”
“Nothing concrete,” Paven said, shooting another look around—he was always wary. “We can’t risk using you too soon.” Because Eliot and Michael were soldiers. Valuable. Their time would come. “For the first time in two years, we have an opportunity to recruit someone close to the princess.”
Geflin took a pull from his tankard, then spoke just over the swarm of noise. “She has a new maid.”
Every part of Eliot locked. His body. His breath. His thoughts. The common room rippled with bodies and laughter, but it was muted to his ears.
The rebels knew about Clare.
Eliot wanted to curse the fates, or Clare—or, better still, himself. He should have realized the rebels would find out. They were always looking for any change around the princess.
The others seemed oblivious to his stiffening. “What do we know about her?” Michael asked, his green eyes nearly glowing in the lamplight.
“Not much,” Paven said. “That’s where you come in.”
“Use your palace connections to ask some basic questions,” Geflin said. “We want to know who she is, who her family is, where her sympathies lie. If she can be turned or bought—” He grinned a little. “Or threatened.”
Eliot’s jaw hardened, but Michael nodded beside him. “I’ll play dice with Bevins tomorrow and ask what he knows about her.”
Bevins wasn’t a rebel, but he was an idiot. The palace guardsman didn’t know it, but he was one of their best informants.
“Don’t rush this,” Paven said. “We want results, but we want good ones. Ever since the princess’s marriage was announced, we’ve been plotting the best options. This girl could play into our plans nicely.”
A war rioted inside Eliot. He wanted to go to Clare now and demand she go home. But he’d already tried every persuasion he could—what else could he do to convince her, short of telling her about his involvement with the rebels? He couldn’t do that. It would put her in danger, and he couldn’t betray the rebellion.
He could tell the rebels that Clare was his sister. If he did, they might feel more confident that she would join the cause. They wouldn’t hurt her. Or would they? The rebels could be ruthless—they had to be, to fight a ruthless king. But if Eliot kept silent, Clare would surely get hurt. The
