To Target the Heart Page 7

  Breathing deep, he strode to the nearest shelf. A peek into one of the books—the pages crackling with neglect and age—revealed little that he understood. Another offered a gleaning of an old tale involving an attack on Mullhind Castle or perhaps a historical record. It was hard to be sure, even when his grasp on the written language was far better than the tenuous hold on verbal communication. It didn’t help that the words were all but smashed together.

  Maybe if he brought Hamish here, the man could help him decipher the words and, in the process, give Darshan a less conspicuous opening.

  The door rattled, jolting him from his vaguely-interested attempts to make out the tale the book spoke of—something about a lone prince, he had lost track three times already. He turned as the door opened, revealing the queen’s bubbly daughter.

  Nora stared at him, those blue eyes at their widest. One of her hands alighted on her chest, clutching tight the scrolls and journals she had been pouring through during their meeting earlier; the other hand had fallen to her belt knife and was now merely resting on the hilt. “I didnae expect to find you here.”

  “Am I intruding?” Darshan hastily replaced the book where he had found it. “I can leave. Or were you sent to fetch me?”

  Shaking her head, she strode into the room to rest her burden on the table. “Nae, on all counts. Me mum—” A small smile tweaked her lips. “I mean, Queen Fiona has been regrettably called out to duties and willnae be back until this evening.”

  “That is a shame,” Darshan replied. “Will we be reconvening afterwards?”

  Again, Nora shook her head. She shuffled the scrolls into some semblance of order, glancing up at him. “What were you reading?” The question came so lightly, almost absentminded.

  “I cannot rightly say.” He picked up the book and brought it to her side. “History, I believe. Unless the castle library is big on fictional works?”

  “We’ve a number of them, aye.” She flipped through the book in question at a speed that barely gave her time to glean more than the occasional word. “This, however, could be considered a bit of both. It was a long time ago, but it happened.”

  Taking the book from her unresisting fingers, Darshan thumbed through a few pages. “I admit I find it a little difficult to read.”

  Nora nodded. “Formal text. They’re all like that.”

  He hummed, turning another page. The script was almost legible. “I wonder… would you be willing to assist me in parsing? If you are free, that is? I would very much like to learn.”

  “I dinnae see why not. We were meant to be in negotiations, so I’ve nae a thing beyond that planned.”

  “Excellent. Where do we start?”

  She gently took the book from him and laid it on the table. “With something a little simpler.”

  Darshan wandered down the corridors with no actual destination in mind. He had spent quite a number of hours in the library with Nora and his head swam with everything he’d read. Some of the text referenced old clan battles, feuds that still festered to this day. He was familiar with such animosity and had, regrettably, been the cause of one before his father shunted him off up North.

  Other books seemed more folk story than history. The one he’d discovered on his own had certainly walked the border between the two with wide-scale murder of the royal family, leaving only the youngest son of the King’s youngest child alive. That the story expected him to believe a boy of five could mount an attack on his own castle was laughable, but Nora seemed to take the tale fairly seriously.

  His feet had taken him to a spiralling flight of stairs. Up led to the guest quarters, where the only thing awaiting him was a few hours of boredom before the evening meal, whilst the prospects of going downstairs held rather much of the same, the only difference being he would be bored in public.

  Darshan plodded down the stairs. Perhaps he would get lucky a second time and find people training, or become luckier still and have those people be fighting fit men. His speed increased at the idle thought. Ordinarily, he wouldn’t bother searching the training grounds—the deliciously-sculpted soldiers in Minamist Palace didn’t do much training in the afternoon heat—but with Tirglas being much cooler, there was always the possibility.

  Maybe luck would be even further in his favour and he’d find the men training without any bulky armour obscuring their true physiques.

  Footsteps echoed from the corridor on his left as Darshan reached the foot of the stairs, brisk, purposeful and steadily growing closer. He slowed, curiosity swivelling his head, then drawing his feet. Whoever could be in that much of a hurry around here?

  Hamish appeared from one of the many corridors branching off the one they stood in. “There you are,” he said, his arms and smile wide as if welcoming an old friend. “I wondered where you’d scuttled off to.” He clapped an arm around Darshan’s shoulders, squeezing tight in the same good-natured fashion he had witnessed from the man’s brother last night. “Thought I might’ve said something to upset you this morning.”

  “What?” Darshan blinked up at the man, still a little dazed. After spending hours confined in a small library, anything earlier was a distant, foggy memory.

  “Archery range?” Hamish supplied, clearly searching for a hint that Darshan understood him. “You asked if I was married?”

  “Oh! No, I am merely a bit out of sorts.” He had almost forgotten the reason he had begun his little jaunt through the castle library. Sadly, he had garnered no useful information on that front, at least not from the books Nora had chosen as his starting point. Further perusal would probably lead him to the answer, but he hadn’t ever been that patient.

  Hamish slowly slid his arm off Darshan’s shoulders, the absence leaving him cold. “You’re nae ill, are you?”

  Darshan shook his head. Illnesses and injuries were for people without healing magic. “I must not be entirely over the journey here, that is all. I have heard travelling over water can do strange things to a person’s insides.” Dwarves especially hated it. At least, when it came to the hedgewitches of ancient lore. Something to do with the mysterious magic they once had and their ties to the earth.

  The admission seemed to ease the tension from Hamish’s broad shoulders.

  “I had the most delightful time with your sister, though.” His ears grew hot as he realised just how that must’ve sounded. Yes, that’ll really endear me to him. Rubbing his temple, he added, “We were reading some of your history and folktales. Something about an attack on this very castle and a single boy surviving.” Already, the details were fading, picked clean of relevant information.

  “Aye? She has a fondness for that one. Tried to do the same with me when I was a young man, but I was never one for spending too long indoors.”

  Darshan nodded. Although he had only been here a few days, he’d picked up a distinct liking of the wilderness from the man. That could work in his favour in regards to questioning Hamish, but asking those sorts of questions whilst alone in the woods might very well have the man bolting. “I had the most interesting midday meal, too. One of your sister’s favourites as I understand it.” It had consisted of thickly-cut meat between two equally-thick slices of bread.

  “That’d be the library special. She used to eat wee pies and pasties in there, but grew tired of dropping pastry everywhere.” Hamish shook his head, smiling fondly at some distant memory. “I can still remember the look of horror on the cook’s face when Nora entered the kitchen to make the first one.”

  “What were you doing in the kitchen?” Perhaps it was different here, but the royal family didn’t tend to venture anywhere near such common amenities back home. Darshan wasn’t even certain he could lead the way to any of the palace kitchens.

  Hamish grinned, boyish mischief glittering in those blue eyes. “I was there as punishment. Cook had me peeling tatties for several hours.”

  “Peeling—?” Darshan laughed at the imagery. “What did you do? Flog off the silverware?”

  “
Something like that. Where were you headed?”

  He shrugged. “Nowhere, really. But I was wondering… I am interested in taking you up on that offer of showing me one of your pubs.”

  “Now?”

  Taking in the slight confusion on the man’s face, Darshan decided some reassurance was in order. “Not a date.” He wouldn’t presume anything until he had gotten to know Hamish a little more. “Just a… cultural experience, if you would.”

  The man’s puzzled expression deepened, scrunching his nose. “Date? As in a set day?”

  “No,” he drawled. He hadn’t been taught the actual word for such socialisation. Finding out if he’d a like-minded individual nearby hadn’t exactly been on his intended agenda, certainly not according to his father or tutors. Only now did it occur to him that such outings might not even be a done thing in Tirglas. “I meant as in an excursion involving a romantic couple. Which I was trying to stress my suggestion is most certainly not that,” he babbled, mentally kicking himself.

  Hamish scratched at the underside of his chin. “I dinnae ken…”

  Darshan scoffed. Perhaps there was a sliver of truth in Gordon’s words about his brother last night. The poor man. “If you are thinking of first garnering your mother’s permission, then I am rather afraid you have missed her. According to your sister, Queen Fiona will not return home until evening.”

  “Nora said that?” He bit his lip, his gaze settling on a window set deep into the corridor. “Evening, hmm?” Grinning, his focus turned back to Darshan, that boyish mischief reigniting his face. “Sure, then. We can be back well before she arrives. You go change into that plain outfit you wore to the city yesterday whilst I saddle the horses and I’ll show you one of me favourites.”

  “Wonderful!” Darshan fought to hide a grimace of wearing the same attire behind exuberance. It had been laundered as to his requests—by a most amused middle-aged woman—but to be seen in public wearing the same outfit so close together would’ve turned him into a pariah back home.

  Hamish paused as he took a few steps towards the stairs. “Oh, and Darshan? The date thing? We call it ducking out.”

  “Noted.” His heart pounded. Excitement or anxiety? Either seemed plausible. If things went to plan, he would know where he stood on certain matters. He just hoped Hamish didn’t react poorly should the answer be negative.

  ~~~

  The Fisherman’s Cask was situated near the docks and served as a sort of hub for all sailors, be they locals in search of a drink close to work or travellers from afar. That was what had first drawn Hamish to this place in the distant past, beyond it being the farthest pub from the castle.

  Propositioning men here had been easier on his conscience. Sailors were often more willing to bed another man than other like-minded land-working Tirglasians. They’d also the added benefit of being off home with the tide.

  The smell assaulted his nostrils first as Hamish opened the door. Always did. It was a sort of briny stench that spoke of fish guts and seaweed drying on the shore. He didn’t know where it came from as the pub interior was immaculate, its flagstone floors kept clean of dirt and drink in equal measure.

  Whilst he had learnt to ignore the smell, he glanced at Darshan to gauge the spellster’s reaction. The man’s nose wrinkled slightly, but he voiced no objection towards venturing further so Hamish led the way into the room.

  Smoky lantern light greeted them. It glowed dully on the battered wooden tables and muddied the mortar clinging to the assortment of stones that made up the walls.

  Despite it being mid-afternoon, The Fisherman’s Cask already had a wide assortment of patrons. Some nearer the door were deep in their drink and oblivious to all else. A group to their left played darts, the dull thunk as each one hit the target was greeted by collective groans or cheers. At the back of the room, another bunch tossed wooden rings onto the tusks of an old boar head.

  Darshan froze at Hamish’s side, his expression one of uncertainty. “Well now,” he breathed. “What a quaint place. Not exactly a high-end establishment, is it?” He arched a meaningful brow at Hamish.

  Heat flooded his face and he offered up an apologetic smile. Maybe I should’ve chosen another pub. Something a little more suited to serving an imperial prince. The man’s attire, although absent of the embroidery and gems of his arrival garments, practically glowed in the low light. Hamish wouldn’t be surprised to discover it was silk or finely woven linen.

  On the other hand, they were here now, leaving would likely generate more rumours than having a few pints together could ever hope to garner.

  Darshan must’ve come to a similar conclusion as he seemed to gather himself and waved Hamish on. “Please, lead the way.”

  Inclining his head, Hamish strode across the room. Curious eyes, some already deeply fogged with drink, tracked their passage. More likely, they watched the ambassador. He would need to be mindful of opportunists attempting to accost the spellster once they left.

  They settled on a couple of barstools, where Hamish flagged down the barkeep, Ewan.

  Unlike the farmer of the same name, this man had a sickly grey complexion that matched his greying blonde hair. He’d a sparse beard and, through it, a disapproving frown had permanently etched itself into his face, dragged down further by heavy jowls.

  Still, there was a hint of youthful curiosity gleaming in his dark gaze as he eyed Darshan. “This is the ambassador I’ve been hearing so much about?” Ewan asked Hamish, jerking his head towards the man in question.

  Hamish fought to hide a smile as one of Darshan’s brows twitched upward. The spellster continued to stare at the assortment of kegs and casks sitting behind the bar as if he hadn’t understood a word. It was possible. The barkeep had a thicker brogue than most around Mullhind, the kind that spoke of him coming from the northward mountains across the harbour.

  “Aye,” Hamish answered. “He’s here to sample some of Mullhind’s finest.”

  “Oh ho!” Ewan slapped his hand on the counter. He gave Darshan a wide grin, the smoky light turning his teeth yellow. “And what does his lordship wish to taste first?”

  Darshan remained silent for a time, likely trying to decipher the accent.

  Just when Hamish thought he might have to translate, Darshan said, “Wine would be good, right now.” The words came slowly, almost wistful. “Any will do, but a nice Nulshar Red would be preferable.”

  Ewan frowned. He glanced at Hamish before leaning across the counter. “Is he serious?” He jerked his thumb towards Darshan as if the ambassador wasn’t a mere few feet away.

  “I assure you, I am quite serious,” Darshan snapped back, the reply raising Ewan’s thick brows. Heat flashed in the ambassador’s eyes, his narrow-set nostrils flaring.

  Hamish clapped a hand on Darshan’s shoulders. There was a lot of tension in that slender frame. Just what would the man do if he considered himself slighted? What was the spellster capable of? “You’re in Tirglas, your imperial highness.” Out the corner of his eye, he caught Ewan’s face growing greyer. “You should drink like a Tirglasian.”

  His gaze swung Hamish’s way, becoming far warmer. “Then, what would you suggest?”

  “How about we start with a couple of pints of me usual?” Hamish said to the barkeep.

  “Getting him right into the strong stuff, your highness?” Ewan chuckled, a nervous edge weaving its way into the notes. He eyed Darshan warily. Did he understand that the ambassador was a spellster? Or was it the royal address Hamish had unthinkingly uttered? “Two usuals it is then.” The man tottered off back to a barrel crowding the other meagre ales. He returned bearing two wooden tankards with creamy white heads of foam and set them on the counter before moving on to other tasks.

  Hamish took a swig of his drink, watching Darshan’s reaction out the corner of his eye as the man mimicked him.

  Darshan smacked his lips and delicately wiped the foam from his moustache. “Tastes like sucking on an iron bar.”

  Hamish
chuckled quietly into his tankard. The man wasn’t wrong; there was a certain hint of iron in the aftertaste. Perhaps not to the extent Darshan suggested, but if all he usually drank was wine, then any Tirglasian drink might take a bit to acquire a taste for.

  Regarding the tankard as if it was poisoned, Darshan took a slightly less bold sip before wrinkling his nose and setting the drink back down. “What absolutely ghastly stuff this is. Did I hear you proclaim this was your usual?”

  Hamish nodded. “When I can escape the castle for a few hours.” His mother didn’t mind him spending time amongst the locals—he was the public face of his family, after all. But it had been some years since he’d been able to venture off unescorted.

  “Then you, my friend, must have an iron stomach to match this swill. If I ever brought this home, they would likely use it to strip paint off the walls. This simply cannot be the best Mullhind has to offer.”

  “If it’s that bad, then why are you still drinking it?” The spellster had been taking one hesitant gulp after another, almost punctuating each sentence.

  Darshan glanced down, his brows lifting as if he was surprised the tankard was still within reach or so empty. “Why I do believe my senses are in shock. I must have gone catatonic for a while there. Or perhaps I simply cannot believe it is truly as bad as my tongue proclaims, but alas…” He took a long swallow, set the tankard down and shuddered.

  Hamish ordered a second round.

  Darshan treated it in much the same fashion, swallowing in small, shuddering sips. The ambassador seemed to sway on the stool, but he couldn’t possibly be drunk already, he hadn’t even finished his second tankard.

  Hamish twisted in his seat, indolently leaning on the counter to take in the pub.

  More people had filled the room. They crowded tables and jostled each other in games. Music had started up at some time between the two drinks, the source being a man plucking the string of a Udynean lyre and another beating a hearty tune on a drum. A few drunken louts danced in the centre of the room, some singing off-colour songs, the words garbled but vaguely Cezhorian.