Page 32 of Of Might and Mettle

He stumbled suddenly as his leg twisted out from under him. Gabriel caught his arm to steady him. “Are you all right, Capitán?” he asked.

Antonio gritted his teeth. His hip ached as he walked, and he still hadn’t rested enough to let the blisters heal from the week’s journey. He glanced at Gabriel, who leaned his lance against the hedge nearby. Maybe Antonio would prefer a lance—at least the recoil wouldn’t be at risk of unbalancing him. But, then again, any hand-to-hand combat was risky when they could sweep his legs out from under him.

“Give me your lance,” he said.

Confusion flickered across Gabriel’s face in the moonlight, but he silently obeyed.

Antonio took it, leveraging it against the ground to steady himself, and started walking. He leaned some of his weight on the lance as he walked. With his creaking knee and the metal clink of the lance against the marble, he was not very stealthy, but at least he would make it where he needed to go.

Peluche scrambled up beside him. Antonio had dropped him when he’d tripped, but now at least the pup knew to stay out of the way of either Antonio’s feet or the lance.

In the castle, the wide arched windows let in moonlight, but even still, the hallways were bathed in shadows. As they neared the royal wing, Antonio removed his revolver and handed it to Gabriel.

“Take it,” he said, when the lad hesitated. “Just in case.”

He hoped that he would be able to see the king without incident, but every figure walking down the halls could be another obstacle in his way. Any one of them could be Sir Thomas, or one of his men, here to take the kingdom apart from within.

But Antonio would know Sir Thomas’s silhouette like he knew his own shadow. The tall, lanky frame, the streaks of gray running through red hair, and the tidy uniform of the Empire, dark purple and gold. And how could he forget the gold tooth that had flashed in his triumphant smile when he’d stood over Antonio and gloated that he had won? That his men were ready to infiltrate the palace with enough gunpowder to blow apart even its foundation.

Antonio focused again on the world before him, the rhythmic clink of the lance as it struck marble, the creak of his knee, and the quiet shuffle of Gabriel’s steps behind him and the clip of Peluche’s claws.

At last, they reached the royal wing, where two sleepy guards stood on either side of the double iron doors. They looked familiar, probably men that worked under Cristian, and Antonio let out a breath. If he was going to get an audience with the king at this hour, he would need their help. And for that, they would need the truth.

One of them shot a curious look at Peluche. Antonio dismissed any questions with, “A patrol dog in training. He’s with me.”

“Capitán Fuentes,” said one guard, nodding in deference. “What do you need?”

“I need an audience with the king.”

The second guard perked up. “At this hour?” He shot his buddy a wry look, but the first guard was looking intently at Antonio, as if weighing his words the way Antonio weighed the medal he’d received.

Antonio let out a breath. “Sir Thomas is back. He’s on the island. I don’t know where he is or what he’s up to, but he’s planning something, and if he’s here, it means he’s about to execute his plan.”

Now the second guard fully straightened to attention. Antonio had expected the both of them to scoff, even laugh, but they hung on his words as if they weighed the invisible danger as much as he did. As if they, too, were afraid of ghosts rising from the past.

“I’ll get the steward,” said the first guard. “He’ll be the one to wake the king.” He disappeared down the hall.

Meanwhile, the second guard waited with Antonio and Gabriel at the entrance to the royal wing. He seemed wide awake now, even though it was the midnight shift. “What else have you heard of Sir Thomas?” he asked, voice low.

Antonio ran a hand through his hair. “Nothing. We thought we found a lead with some costumes at the dock, but they’re for the ballet. All I have are whispers, nothing concrete.”

“But it’s enough that you need to warn the king,” the guard said, nodding. “It’s a real threat, even if it’s hard to believe. Most people think Sir Thomas is dead.”

Antonio opened his mouth to respond but hesitated. Something about the way the guard talked about Sir Thomas piqued his curiosity. At last, he said, “Most people. Did you know he was alive?”

Before the guard could answer, rushed footsteps came down the hall. The steward all but ran to them, followed by three more guards. All unfamiliar men. Antonio’s hand fell to his sword, and at his feet, Peluche let out a growl.

“Capitán Fuentes,” said the steward, catching his breath. “I see you’ve been informed of some loyalist plans.”

The other guards flanked Antonio and Gabriel, who gripped the revolver with shaking hands, as if realizing the sudden tension and weighing that there was a real possibility that he would need to shoot.

Antonio balanced his stance, no longer leaning on the lance for support. But as he looked around, he knew this would be a fight he could never win. The steward pulled a revolver from his cloak and pointed it directly at Antonio’s chest. It glinted purple and gold—an imperial gun.

“I would advise you to forget what you’ve heard,” the steward said, his voice steel, “but I know you’re not one to give up without a fight, no matter the cost.” He gestured with the gun to Antonio’s leg.

Antonio tensed. He wouldn’t be getting out of this one. But maybe this wasn’t the end. He caught Gabriel’s eye. Now would be the time to see how much he really could trust the lad. Gabriel nodded.

With a movement, Antonio brought down the lance on the steward’s wrist, disarming him. The revolver clanked as it hit the floor and Gabriel aimed his gun at the steward.