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“Oh Lord Cinnamon,” Fey said, shaking her head with a smirk. “What have you gotten yourself into?”
Chapter 3
The address on her assignation was one Fey recognized, though she made a point of avoiding it. The Eternal Crown bar was a favorite among the Queen’s generals and the lower nobility, thanks to its proximity to the palace itself. The interior had even been designed to mimic the aesthetics of the throne room—white marble, gold trim, and dark red accents. But the gold trim was painted on and noticeably flaking off from wear, and the red privacy curtains were thin, threadbare material and nothing like the thick, luxurious velvet found throughout the palace.
Most of the patrons of The Eternal Crown bar were unlikely to have ever set foot inside the throne room, and thus unlikely to notice what a mockery this place was.
Everything about the bar rubbed Fey the wrong way. The drinks were overpriced and underpoured, and the pretentious decorations were a far cry from the palace interior they sought to copy. It was a poor man’s facsimile of luxury.
Fey didn’t wear her Blade’s uniform, not for this assignment. This was a simple fact-finding mission, with Fey serving as little more than an unbiased eavesdropper. She would be better served blending in. So, she made do with a pair of light linen pants and a long-sleeved shirt that clung to her curves and muscles. The sleeves covered her sigils and Blade’s mark, but even still she engaged the spell that kept them hidden, that fooled an observer into seeing only pale, unmarred skin. Fey wore her red hair down and reluctantly let Joy apply just the faintest hint of makeup to her face.
To the patrons of The Eternal Crown, she looked like an unassuming recruit, eager to soak up the atmosphere in a popular bar sure to be crawling with potential suitors. She looked like she belonged.
Lord Alexander Cyanean was already there when she arrived, nestled in a corner table near the bar with a group of lesser nobility. She recognized a few of them from the Princess’s party, but most were of such low consequence they wouldn’t have merited an invite.
Fey positioned herself at the bar, close enough to overhear their conversation but hidden from their sight by the garish red privacy curtains hung with little rhyme or reason around the place. She ordered a seltzer from the bartender and waited.
There is an art to this sort of assignation, and it requires patience and focus. Of the three of them, Joy was best suited for this sort of work. Not only could she blend into any situation, moving flawlessly between different personalities she had cultivated for just this sort of thing, but she had an aura about her that made her easy to trust.
Joy didn’t need to interrogate her assignations—they spilled their secrets to her willingly. And when she’d pulled every scrap of information she needed from them, when they served their purpose, she happily helped them spill their blood as well.
But Joy worked best in a close, one-on-one environment, where she could develop that trust and convince them to open up to her. This assignation was different. A name and an address, a public space, meant someone had tipped Dameon off. It meant this was a trap, and all that was required of Fey was to sit and observe. Watch, listen, and report back to Dameon what she heard.
Lord Cyanean and his friends were just as boring as she feared. They spoke of trade, travels, and trivialities, and it was a trial to pay close attention to their conversation, especially after such a long day. But if Lord Cyanean had been accused of something untoward, if it was known he would be here in this bar tonight, it was likely one of the patrons drinking with him had been the one to report him to the Crown. They would be looking to lead the conversation, to set a trap for Alexander Cyanean to walk right into.
Fey sipped her drink and waited.
The men talked and gossiped, and Fey was starting her second drink by the time they said anything of consequence. After ordering another round, and pouring drinks for all at the table, someone said loudly, “To the Queen!”
The sound of glasses clinking, and comradery.
“To the Princess!” said another voice. And this time the murmuring was subdued, less enthusiastic.
“I heard deSanguine made an appearance tonight,” someone said.
A few of the men chuckled.
“Oh, you know how the Fallen King is,” another voice answered. “He can’t help but to make a scene. The Queen nearly set her Blades on him, from what I could see.”
“I’m shocked she didn’t.”
“DeSanguine is harmless. He’s too frightened of the Queen to make too much of a nuisance of himself. He’ll never make a move while Edelin sits on the throne.”
Murmurs of assent and agreement followed. And then, after a brief pause, a dark voice.
“And what will happen when Edelin no longer sits on the throne?”
Fey paused her drink at her lips. A few of the men murmured.
“Cluck your tongues and shake your heads all you want, but Edelin will step down from the throne, eventually.”
“And Princess Amalia?—”
“Amalia is no Princess of mine.”
That was Lord Cyanean's voice. Now, it was getting interesting.
The bartender set a drink in front of her, momentarily pulling Fey’s attention away from the conversation.
