“Morning, Lieutenant,” a voice called out from behind her.
“Morning, Simon,” a familiar voice called back.
Amelie froze in front of the market stall where she stood.
Slowly, she turned her head to see Lieutenant Jaromir walking into the market, wearing his chain armor and tan tabard. He hadn’t spotted her yet. Other villagers began calling greetings to him now. Jaromir was well liked by the people he protected.
What was he doing out here, just walking in the streets? The summer had been awfully quiet. Perhaps he was bored, as she was.
Ducking down slightly, Amelie couldn’t help looking at him for a few moments.
Perhaps thirty years old, he wasn’t exactly handsome, but he wore a small goatee around his mouth and kept his light brown hair tied back at the nape of his neck. From his weathered face to the scars on his hands, most elements of his appearance marked him as a professional soldier. He was tall and strong and seemed comfortable inside his own skin. However, he was also arrogant and too fond of being in control, and he would do anything—anything—he deemed necessary to protect Prince Anton.
Both Amelie’s opinion of Jaromir and her relationship to him were . . . complicated. In truth, there was no relationship, but he’d made hints that he’d prefer to alter that state of affairs.
So, at the prospect of him walking into the market, she did the only thing she possibly could do and dashed around the back of a stall to hide before he spotted her. Yes, it was cowardly, and she knew it, but facing him in the street would have been much worse.
She’d had to politely greet him the few times that Anton had insisted the sisters come up to the castle for a banquet, but once formalities were over, she’d been able to avoid talking with Jaromir due to the various activities that took place in a crowd, such as everyone eating too much food or the inevitable card games that followed.
Out here, in the market by herself, she’d have no excuse not to speak with him if he approached her.
So—though partially ashamed of herself—she crouched behind the stall of a wool seller and peered around the edge toward the street.
“What are you doing, girl?” asked the aging wool seller.
“Quiet,” Amelie told him. “I don’t want someone to see me.”
He glanced down the street. “The lieutenant? Did you break the law?”
All the people here referred to Jaromir as “the lieutenant,” as if it were some kind of title. He had authority over everyone except Prince Anton. He liked it that way.
“No,” Amelie answered. “I just don’t want to have to talk to him.”
The old man raised an eyebrow.
But he had no chance to respond, as a loud commotion broke out from the direction of the outer village gates. Amelie moved up from her crouched position to see what was happening.
A rider came pounding up the narrow cobbled street, straight toward the market, pushing his horse at a pace much too fast to be considered safe inside the wall surrounding the village and the castle. The population here was large and condensed. People were not allowed to gallop their horses through the streets.
But the rider didn’t slow down. Villagers screamed and dodged out of the way. A few fruit carts were overturned, and he just kept coming.
Amelie stood, wondering what was about to happen, when she saw Jaromir position himself directly in the rider’s path.
“Stop!” he ordered.
What a show-off, Amelie thought.
The rider fought wildly to pull up his horse and nearly smashed into Jaromir before he managed to get the creature stopped. Jaromir didn’t even flinch.
It was then that Amelie finally noticed the rider wore chain armor and a dark brown tabard: the color worn by the guards of Prince Lieven, who was father to both Anton and Damek, as well as the current head of the House of Pählen.
Though the rider was panting hard, upon getting a better look at Jaromir, he leaned down and said something while wearing an urgent expression. Amelie couldn’t hear what was said, but Jaromir’s eyes widened, and he seemed to forget all about the public disturbance. Turning around, he ushered the rider to follow, and they both headed toward the castle.
Finally, something had happened.
Amelie was dying to know what.
Once inside the castle, Lieutenant Jaromir sent a guard upstairs to find Anton, and then he led the messenger into the vast main hall—whereupon he immediately began second-guessing himself. Due to the banquet planned for that night, the hall was in a state of uproar, with far too many servants bustling about moving tables and dragging benches into place.
The messenger in the brown tabard looked around at all the activity. He was still puffing, and Jaromir couldn’t help noting his grizzled face, gray hair, and wide chest. The man was too old to be riding at top speed all the way from Castle Pählen.
A serving girl in an apron stood just inside the hall, and Jaromir motioned to her. “Could you fetch this man a mug of ale?” he asked. It sounded like a request, but of course she dropped what she was doing and ran for the kitchens.
“Can you not tell me something of your message?” he asked the burly man beside him.
“No,” the man answered bluntly. “This comes straight from Prince Lieven to his son.”
Even though the man was possessed of a strong voice, Jaromir could barely hear him over the din in the hall. Still, Jaromir balked at the idea of bringing a stranger up to Anton’s private rooms. Such a prospect went against all his instincts.
No, it was better to wait here.
Suddenly, the hall fell silent as Prince Anton walked through the large open archway. Of medium height, he was slender, with dark hair tucked behind his ears. He wore black breeches and a midnight blue tunic. At twenty-three, he looked young to be in charge of so many people, but his bearing was noble, and Jaromir was proud of the man he served. Anton was more than his lord. The two had become good friends.
All the servants bowed their heads, but Anton didn’t seem to notice them.
“Leonides?” he asked, looking at the messenger.
The grizzled man offered a tired smile. “Yes, lad, it’s me.”
Jaromir couldn’t help bristling at this lack of respect. Everyone here addressed Anton as “my prince” or “my lord.” But when Anton did not insist on a proper correction, Jaromir suddenly felt at odds, uncertain of the situation.
“Look at the state of you,” Anton said, walking closer.
“I’ve been riding all night and half the day. I’ve a message from your father.”
The girl came trotting back in with the ale, and the aging messenger took it from her, downing it in a few gulps and handing back the mug.
There was a small side chamber in the hall with a door that closed, and Jaromir motioned toward it with his head. “Perhaps in there?”
Anton nodded and led the way. As soon as all three men were inside, Jaromir closed the door. The room was small indeed, with a single table, two chairs, and no window. Several candles glowed from the table.
“Jaromir,” Anton said, “this is Leonides, my sword master when I was a boy. He has served my father for years.”
The affection in his voice was undisguised and unusual, as Anton almost always guarded his emotions. Again, Jaromir felt uncertain. So, he simply offered a polite nod.
“Sit and rest,” Anton said.
With a grateful expression, Leonides dropped into a chair.
“Is my father well?” Anton asked.
“He’s well,” Leonides grunted. “But he’s got a problem, a tricky one, and he needs you to see to it right away.”
“Me?”
Leonides leaned back, and his brow furrowed as if he was gathering his thoughts. “Do you remember about five years ago when your father bought the Ryazan silver mines up in the Northwest Territories?”