Chapter Fifteen: Errands

Kenelm was starting to regret not going with his brother to see that Azhem fella. He mistakenly thought if he stayed, he would get to see some of the city. Instead, the king had other plans. The rebels were short on resources, and it was decided the two kids that stayed behind – Kenelm and Teller – should help in the war effort.

Teller was quick to mention his love for books. Kenelm wished he had the same passion for reading. His friend was tasked to organize the king's personal library. According to Teller, there were at least a thousand books in the man's collection. There was also the possibility one of the books could help with opening the portal. The blond girl – who Kenelm soon discovered was his cousin – had mentioned something about a book. Kenelm didn't think too much about it, he knew he would laugh if his friend Teller happened to come across it whilst looking through the King's books.

When it came to Kenelm, he struggled to explain what he was good at. Even back home the harbourmasters would be at a loss to find a suitable task for him. Usually, Kenelm would be tasked with fixing the fishing nets – although that seemed to be a common task given out to kids his age. Occasionally, he would be ordered to climb under heavy machinery to collect something that had dropped through the machines. But for the most part, he was fixing nets.

Still unsure what to exactly do with the kid, the king's steward sent Kenelm to help with the rebel's blacksmith. Although a common folk by birth, a young man in his early twenties named Artur was the quartermaster. The guy was orphaned at an early age, and the king was kind enough to adopt him into his family. Kenelm could tell Artur understood the two kids, especially when it came to growing up without parents.

Kenelm watched the blacksmith from a distance. The heat was suffocating. How can someone work in an environment like this, Kenelm thought? Artur was in the process of forging swords. Using a tong, he placed a long metal bar over an open flame. Once the steel had been heated enough, the young man would remove the metals from the forge, placing them onto an anvil. Using a hammer, Artur continuously struck the steel until it began resembling a blade. Seemingly satisfied, the man dipped the finished sword in a bucket of water to cool it off, before placing a grip on the sword.

“You think you can do this?” the man asked.

"Sure, sure," Kenelm replied, still half distracted by his thoughts.

“I can show you again,” Artur continued.

“No, no,” Kenelm continued, “I think I can do-”

As he was speaking, Jasher approached them. Jasher was Staphan's son. He was maybe a few years older than Kenelm – still a teenager. A Native boy, he was kind of lanky.

“Having fun,” Jasher asked, “I guess?”

“Yeah, sure.”

“You don’t sound so enthusiastic?”

“Nah,” Kenelm placed the tongs down. “It’s just, you know, a tad bit too hot here. Not use to heat like this.”

Jasher laughed, while Artur snorted – trying to hide his laugh.

“Hey, I’m sure Artur wouldn’t mind,” the older boy remarked, “but I’ve a few errands to do. Mind tagging along?”

“You mean going up top?” Kenelm asked. “To see the city for a bit.”

“Yeah, why not,” Jasher answered. "Might be good for you to get some fresh air."

The blacksmith probably could sense Kenelm wasn’t enjoying himself. Artur most likely had realized he’d been torturing him long enough with wearisome tasks. Provided they came back before nightfall, the two could leave the sewerage area, exploring the city itself.

After being rescued by the rebels, Kenelm barely had the chance to have a good look at the city. It was still rather dark when they arrived the day before yesterday – the King wanted the kids safe and sound before the governor and his men knew the wiser. This didn't give the child enough opportunity to see his surroundings, besides a few worn-down buildings as they passed through the streets. Kenelm was excited to see the city now in broad daylight.

Jasher warned Kenelm should wear a hat or something, to hide his curly hair. Although the governor was looking for Kenelm's brother, Jasher was worried Kenelm would be mistaken for a fugitive figure. While Kenelm wasn’t too keen on wearing hats, he understood what Jasher meant. The older boy found an old cap he used to wear. The cap fitted Kenelm quite well, much to his surprise.

Reaching the surface, Kenelm was shocked at the dire condition of the slums, especially around the marshy area. It was more of a thin sliver of a shantytown that went through the city. The wooden shacks were crudely constructed. In slums, the denizens used whatever scrap they could find to build their houses – old signages advertising the latest magic-infused devices were used as walls, while discarded metal cladding served as the building's roof. Nothing seemed to match.

Leaving the marshy area things didn't improve. Of course, these buildings were made of brick, and weren't sinking into the watery depths below, but everything seemed to be crumbling around them. Most of the buildings were probably built fifty or so years ago – long before Kenelm was ever alive – and certainly not been well maintained. Kenelm was shocked and disgusted at just how poverty-stricken the people were. Most of the occupants were Natives, although this was difficult to tell at times. Many of the residents’ faces were dirt-ridden, hiding any indicator of their race, or even age.

“Many of these people have to scavenge through the rubbish heap down south,” Jasher explained. “The governor doesn’t do anything about all this… well… this.”

“I was going to say things were better at home,” Kenelm responded, “but even there, that might be a stretch.”

“My Pa says the mines have got things worse,” Jasher explained. “Poor tapers, most likely Natives, are forced to mine manna for the Order. Only those Sensors seem to be the ones making money. May the Maker curse them?”

The conditions back in the workhouses in Angluem weren’t all too good, with the kid occasionally being tasked to do dangerous jobs. But at least there, the kids had some sense of freedom. They had, at least, a bed to sleep in at night. If the rumours were to be believed, Tapers were forced to work in the mines till they drop dead. And even then, the body usually lingers there to rot.

“Things will get better,” Kenelm tried thinking positively. “Once your kind overthrows the governor, things will improve.”

“Yeah, that’s the thing,” Jasher continued to explain, “my Pa says once we’ve thrown the Imperials out, the Republic and the Order won’t take to kindly to that. They’ll want revenge. And they might crush our rebellion even before it’s started.”

“Perhaps if everyone groups together,” Kenelm pondered, “the Republic would think twice about taking us on again.”

“I like your positive outlook there, Curls,” the older boy remarked. “I hope you’re right.”

Although Kenelm usually hated that nickname – Curls – for some reason he didn’t mind Jasher calling him that. Usually, kids would call him Curls as an insult, to mock Kenelm for his curly hair. But for the first time, he felt someone was calling that in an affectionate manner.

Leaving the slums, they wandered down one of the city's many market streets. Kenelm was awestruck at the amount of colour. He wasn't sure if he'd seen so much colour before in his entire life. Each building was painted a single pastel colour, such as pink, light blue, and yellow, with the occasional purple. They kind of reminded Kenelm of the colourful blocks the younger kids would play with.

As they walked through the city, Kenelm thought it was interesting there weren’t any factories. If this was Angluem, they would've wandered past a few factories by now. Large smoke chimneys were a common sight back home, which most often obscured the sky with smog. Workmen would burn refined manna, causing pollutive haze – the colour differed depending on the manna used. Bloodshot smog was the most common since fire magic was the most valued.

Their first stop was a temple district. Kenelm waited in one of the temple's courtyards while Jasher talked to one of the priests. Although Kenelm was curious to find out what Jasher’s errands were about, he decided not to ask, or find out. Instead, Kenelm waited there awkwardly.

The courtyard was a reasonable size –being a twenty-five-square-yard area. Priests would occasionally walk past, using the courtyard's pathways. In the centre was a huge fireplace – the flames themselves seemingly roaring. Kenelm was fascinated by the fireplace's intricate masonry. Reddish bricks piled like a wall around the flames. Some of the bricks had small carvings of flames.

Kenelm was transfixed on the flames when someone knocked into it. It was a Native boy – who must have been about the same age as Kenelm – who was holding a lump of cut wood. The boy was wearing a white robe. His head was completely shaved.

“Sorry,” Kenelm apologised.

Kenelm quickly got out of the boy’s way. He watched as the Native boy piled the freshly cut wood onto the fire. Having done this, the Native boy found a nearby iron stick, using it to nudge the kindled wood, causing the fire to burst alive. Traditional held that fire was the closest thing to the Maker's soul. Having a lit fire allowed the Maker to have a presence in the world.

The religion of Estmere and the Riverlands was a strange one, even Kenelm found it confusing. It was especially confusing for Imperials who lacked a universal belief system. Those who adhere to the religion believed in a duology – the creator deity known as the Maker, and its counterpart simply known as the Devourer. Kenelm had heard the story many times. The Maker would create the world, and the Devourer will attempt to destroy the Maker's creation through chaos and destruction. According to the teachings of the Maker, and his Avatars – chosen few people blessed to embody the Maker's divine spirit – it was important for people to do good deeds. Being a good person empowers the Maker, while bad deeds only benefit the Devourer. In reality, according to Kenelm, it was a load of religious gibberish used to control the masses. No one truly believed in that stuff, Kenelm guessed.

Jasher soon returned. In his hand was a scroll. The older boy quickly placed it under his shirt.

“Where to next?” Kenelm asked.

“The racecourse,” Jasher replied, simply.

Kenelm’s heart suddenly rushed. The racecourse? It was pretty much an open secret among the kids of Angluem that Kenelm dreamed of one day being an Ash’q racer. It was a completely unrealistic goal, especially for an orphan. But there was something about the idea of travelling the world and being around such majestic creatures.

“You seem excited?” Jasher asked.

Kenelm didn’t realise he was jumping in anticipation.

“Sorry,” he apologised, “kind of into stuff like this.”

“Don’t expect much,” Jasher cautioned. “We’re only going to be dropping some stuff off.”

“Can I at least go inside?” Kenelm asked.

"Well… I guess it won't hurt," the steward's son laughed. "Just don't tell my father. He hates when I linger too long around somewhere. He's always scared one of the governor's men is going to arrest me, or something."

“My brother can be a bit like that,” Kenelm responded. “Can suck the joy out of things, to be frank.”

“You can say that.”

It didn’t take long to reach the racecourse – only ten minutes or so. The stadium was in the western part of town, not that far from the Palace of Kings. Although not as tall or foreboding as either the Grand Temple or the Palace, the racecourse was an incredibly large structure. The building was built in an oval shape. On top of the circular wall were flags, each symbolising different parts of the Republic. A few of the flags even presented the free cities – quite a few ash’q racers were free folk, so Kenelm guessed this was honouring their heritage.

As soon as they entered the stadium, someone approached. It was a rather short fella – he was shorter than even Kenelm. His somewhat flat head was bolding, although the slimmer of hair still survived around his sides. The man stared intensely.

“I’m here to see Nerrou,” Jasher explained.

The rather short man grunted. For a moment, Kenelm expected the man to communicate through grunts. He was surprised when the man spoke with a soft yet crispy high-pitched voice – not something he'd expect from the man.

“He’s out back,” the man explained. “Currently inspecting new ash’q.”

“Is it possible for Nerrou to meet us, perhaps here?”

“If you’re going to need talking to him, you might as well see him at the stable,” the man explained. “We're quite busy here if you can tell."

The man turned around and returned to his previous task.

"Guess it's your lucky day," Jasher remarked. “Make sure you’re on your best behaviour, my Pa will kill me.”

Kenelm followed Jasher down a series of corridors, before entering the large arena complex itself. It was still broad daylight, and the audience seats were empty, but Kenelm could imagine the excitement in the evenings when the races were occurring.

Stolen story; please report.

Nerrou was on the other side of the arena, in the holding stable. As Kenelm approached, he noticed the man was standing beside a large bipedal creature. The reptile was native to the Sanlands. Despite being flightless, the creature had rudimentary wings that looked like webbings on a bat. Kenelm once heard that millions of years ago Ash’q were once able to fly, but over the aeons lost that ability. The creatures were famous for their versatile nature, being able to survive practically anywhere - whether it be the desert or a frozen wasteland. Ash’q were used in the Sanlands by scouts and couriers to cross large swaths of desert. In the Republic, on the other hand, they were used for racing. Even from an early age, Kenelm loved the look of the creature. It wasn't uncommon for him to sit and admire the few Ash’q in Angluem, whenever Kenelm had time to.

Next to ash’q was a skinny-looking man. He quickly realised he had company.

“A-ha!” the man said in a booming voice, dropping what he was doing to approach the two boys. “Well, if it isn’t Narrou! How’s your father?”

“He’s great,” Jasher responded simply. “We came to ask-”

“What do we have here,” Narrou interrupted. Ignoring the older boy, the skinny man turned his attention to Kenelm.

“He’s Ken,” Jasher explained. “He’s been helping me with my errands.”

“I can tell an ash’q enthusiasts a mile away,” the man again ignored Jasher. “Ever ridden one?”

Kenelm shook his head. Even though the ash’q trainers back in Angluem tolerated him having a glance at the creatures, they would never allow Kenelm to approach one, let alone ride. The man’s comment came out of the blue.

"No… no, I haven't."

“You’re missing out on a lot, kid,” the man laughed. “How about I let you have a go around the track.”

"Are you sure that's okay?" Kenelm asked. "Won't the owners be worried?"

“I am the owner,” Nerrou laughed again. “I practically own the place. Just jump on. I want to see how you manage this.”

Kenelm was expecting Jasher to interject and say Kenelm couldn’t ride the ash’q. Yet the older boy remained quiet. There was a slight smirk on his face as if Jasher had planned this all along.

“You better put this one,” the man quickly remarked, quickly finding a helmet and leather goggles. Kenelm put them on. “Now you look the part.”

Nerrou explained what Kenelm had to do. Nervously, Kenelm approached the ash’q. Kenelm had been told not to look anxious, since the creature can sense that, but he couldn’t help it. The ash’q stared intensely at him. It was probably just as scared of him. Kenelm made sure to keep his hands out, palms open, as Nerrou had instructed. The beast didn’t seem sure at first, but it quickly calmed, remaining still as a rock. The ash’q bowed its head.

“Jump on,” Nerrou instructed.

Kenelm climbed on top. He made sure he was firmly seated in the saddle. He quickly slipped the goggles over his eyes. While the padding had become a tad bit, and the glass lenses had a few scratch marks – it had been used multiple times over the years – Kenelm was glad to get anything to protect his eyes.

“Hold onto this,” Nerrou said, handing the boy a dead mouse. Kenelm leant over to grab it, still rather mystified.

“What this?” Kenelm asked.

“A dead mouse, obviously,” the man remarked. “It’s Daisy’s favourite treat. Make sure to feed the girl after you’ve finished riding her.”

Kenelm found it somewhat amusing that the ash’q was called Daisy. Why would anyone name a creature that? It was the type of name you would expect to name a bison and calve, not a race stallion.

Carefully, Kenelm placed the dead mouse in his front pocket. Taking the reins, Kenelm attempted to direct the ash’q forward. For a moment, Kenelm was prepared the creature to jolt suddenly forward, throwing him front first into the mud. Instead, the creature began moving at a gentle pace.

“Ah, come on kid,” Nerrou uttered. “You can move faster than that. Kick it was your heels. Let’s see this thing do some speed.”

Spurred by the man’s remark, Kenelm gentle nudged the ash’q with his feet. This caused the creature to speed up. It was a reasonable trot – certain not as quick as Kenelm was hoping for or expecting.

“You gotcha kick it,” Nerrou yelled in excitement. “Squeezing it won’t do.”

Kenelm did as instructed. To his surprise, the ash’q began speeding up, moving from a trot and into a quick gallop. Kenelm was now having to hold the reins right, or else he was going to fall off. Kenelm could feel the wind as he charged around the racecourse. Whenever he approached a corner, he slowed the creature down slightly by pulling the reins in. But once he was back onto the straight path, he got the ash’q to dash as fast as possible.

After about a half dozen goes around the track, Kenelm carefully steered the ash’q back to the stables. Using the harnesses, he climbed off the creature. Kenelm searched his front pocket, finding the dead mouse Nerrou had given him. Holding his arm, daggling the rat by its tail, Kenelm waited and watched as the ash’q gentle took the dead mouse. The creatures gobbled its meal in one go. Kenelm took the helmet and goggles off and gave them back to Nerrou.

"You're a natural," the man praised. "You said you've never ridden one before?"

“Ash’q owners back home wouldn’t allow me,” Kenelm explained.

“Well, their loss is our gain,” Nerrou laughed. “You’ve got talent. If you’re seriously thinking about getting into the ash’q racing industry, give me a call and I’ll train you.”

Kenelm wasn't sure what to say. A part of him wanted to say yes. But would his brother allow him to take up the offer? Knowing Finneas, he would probably not approve, stating how ash’q racing was dangerous. That was one thing Kenelm hated the most about his brother – Finneas was too cautious at times.

“I’ll think it about,” Kenelm replied.

“Take your time,” Nerrou responded. “I’m not trying to rush you.” The man paused for a moment, turning to face Jasher. "Go and tell your father the shipment will come soon. Hopefully, tomorrow, if weather permits."

“I’ll let him know,” Jasher replied. “Thanks for doing this.”

“You’re welcome.”

Nerrou and Jasher conversation intrigued Kenelm. What was this deal they were talking about? What was being delivered? Kenelm thought it too rude to ask. It was none of his business anyway.

Kenelm followed Jasher out of the stadium. There was one last stopped the older boy needed to do. There was a package that needed picking up in a bookstore. Kenelm laughed a little bit. Teller would be incredibly jealous of him. Going to the bookstore with Kenelm would be a waste – he had already made it clear he wasn’t too keen on reading. But the chance to look around the market district did excite him.

The market wasn’t too far from the stadium, only a five-minute walk. Reaching the market district, Kenelm noticed a crowded gathering around a raised platform. As they got closer, Kenelm wasn't prepared for what he saw. They dangled there, six bodies, hanging like washing on a cloth rack. Sacks were over their head, obscuring their races. But knowing the political climate in the region, they were most likely Natives. The crowd was beginning to disperse, now the executions had ended. The people seemed disappointed as if expecting to see something entirely different.

"The governor flexing his muscle," Jasher commented. “He seems to be doing this more often. It used to be once a week. Now it happens daily.”

“Surely Governor Malakos, my uncle, would run out of people?” Kenelm asked, naively.

“I wouldn’t declare that openly in public,” Jasher warned. "Who knows who be listening?" He paused. "But you're right, the Governor is going to run out of people. He can't kill everyone, can he?"

Kenelm tried to remove the image of those bodies from his mind. He hoped he wouldn't dream about them that night. Jasher moved a little bit quicker than before, reaching the bookstore. The store was simply called A-Tome-Ment – clearly a pun. Kenelm giggled a little bit. At least he thought it was funny. Kenelm stayed outside, this time, as Jasher went inside. The older boy didn't take too long. He was out less than a few minutes, holding in his arm a package. Kenelm wanted to know what was inside the package, but again decided it wasn't his business.

“Hey, before we return to drop this off, how about I show you this pub my father always goes to,” Jasher suggested. “The place is quite popular among us Native folk. It helps the pub’s owners are sympathetic to our cause.”

Kenelm followed Jasher to the city's south side, the harbour district. As they got closer, Kenelm could smell the scent of salt – he could recognise that smell anywhere. The inn was not too far from the fishing docks. The building's rough wooden structure stood out from the rest of the red-bricked storage houses. Kenelm was surprised there was even a pub here – wouldn't a better place to have an inn would be in the heart of the market district?

The pub was called the Magpie’s Nest. Kenelm chuckled at the name. It sounded like a hoarder's den. It was quite common for inns to have witty names. Kenelm found these names could be rather creative at times. Something quickly dawned on him. This was the first pub he'd seen wandering around Revitea. The people seemed to prefer cafes – Kenelm had noticed. Sadly, cafes lacked clever names.

As Kenelm entered the inn, a ginger cat quickly darted towards him, rubbing up against the boy’s legs. The cat looked like a miniature lion, with a small orange mane. Kenelm leant down to pat the cat. The animal chirped as if to approve of his action. Because the inn's main room was overcrowded with load and boisterous sailors, the two boys decided to go to the common room, where there were far fewer people – the only patrons in the room were two sailors playing a quiet game of cards. Kenelm and Jasher sat down at the other table. The innkeeper quickly approached them to take their orders.

“Well, if it isn’t Jasher,” the man said. “How’s your father? I haven’t seen him in a while.”

“He’s been a tad bit busy recently,” Jasher explained. “I think you’ll understand.”

“I’m under no illusion your father must be under a lot of stress,” the man laughed. “But the next time you see Staphan, tell him to see his old pall Marcus when he does have the chance.”

“I will do.”

The innkeeper Marcus asked for their orders. Before Kenelm could say anything, Jasher quickly ordered two flame-roasted ales. Having taken their orders, the man disappeared back into the kitchen. Jasher explained his father and the innkeeper were best friends growing up. Marcus was originally from Estmere – which explained why Kenelm recognised the man’s faint accent – but moved to the Riverlands at a very early age. Despite not being a Native, Marcus was a supporter of King Joses, having allowed secret rebel meetings to occur in his pub.

As they wait, something on top of the common room's fireplace caught Kenelm's eye. On top of the mantle was a flintlock pistol. He had never really seen one close-up before. From the distance, he inspected the gun. The stock, the weapon's main body, was made mostly of hardened wood. The timber was more than likely sourced Athian timber – the city was known for its strong trees. Atop the stock was a long metal cylinder pipe – the front of the barrel shaped like a trumpet. The gun's butt was decorated with carvings of flowers. People usually disliked firearms. They were usually quite clumsy to use, taking forever to reload. Most people preferred hand-to-hand combat, wielding swords or spears. For long-range attacks, people were more likely to use a bow and arrow – at least with those weapons people didn't need to wait between each attack. The only advantage of firearms was their large spread – one shot could hit a large radius. With one good shot, a person could blow the head of someone. Kenelm wondered if the gun was loaded. He decided to leave it alone, just in case it was.

Marcus soon returned with two large mugs. Placing them on the table, he wished them good luck. Kenelm sat there looking at the ale. He had never drunk alcohol before. Back home the matron would cane any child found drinking. They were even discouraged from going to any of the city's pubs – despite the orphanage being built from an old pub.

“Are we sure we can drink this?” Kenelm asked.

“I won’t tell if you don’t,” Jasher laughed. “Just drink up, it be fine.”

Kenelm initially took a few sips, before gobbling the entire drink up.

"Slow down!" the older boy laughed again. "That's how you get drunk. Drink it slower. We don't want to take your back to the sewers wasted."

“Sorry,” Kenelm apologised, now drinking the flame-roasted ale.

The beer was both bitter and sweet, with a strong chilli punch. Kenelm found it difficult to describe – he had never drunk anything like this before. Once he had finished the ale, he wanted another one immediately. Jasher informed him it probably wasn’t the best idea.

Having finished their drink, the two boys returned to the exiled king’s underground hideout. Kenelm spent the rest of the day helping Artur in the forge. After a quick meal in the evening, Kenelm went to sleep.

Kenelm awoke the next morning in extreme pain. All his bones were aching. He felt like he’d been pierced by a thousand arrows. He wasn’t too sure whether it was riding the ash’q that caused the pain, or whether the flame-roasted ale did the killer blow. Besides the stinging pain, he wanted to throw up as well. When he complained to Teller, the other boy didn't show as much sympathy as Kenelm was hoping for. His friend stated it was his damn fault for drinking the ale, and that Kenelm should harden up he wanted to be an ash’q rider. Teller also brought up how books are less dangerous – no one that he'd heard of had been killed or injured from reading a book. Kenelm scoffed at this. Besides the strained eyes from reading, it was possible to hurt someone with a book if they threw it at someone.

As Kenelm was about to help Artur with blacksmithing, Staphan approached him, telling him King Joses wanted to meet him. The king was eager to have breakfast with both Kenelm and Teller. Still slightly in the pain, although quickly recovering, Kenelm was nervous about meeting the king. He’d only seen King Joses from a distance; Kenelm dared not approach the man to strike a conversation. Kenelm had never met anyone of royalty before. What the heck was he to talk about? He wanted to throw up again, this time not because of a slight hangover, but because of nerves. However, a thought came to Kenelm. He could ride an ash’q, he could easily talk to a king.

Staphan insisted the two boys dressed a bit smart, ditching the overalls for more traditional Riverland garbs. Kenelm preferred his old dungarees – the new clothes were incredibly stiff – but he decided not to complain. He guessed he could change back into his old overalls once his meeting with the king had ended.

The king’s court sat at a large table, made entirely of granite. Kenelm wondered how such a large object was smuggled into the sewers without the governor’s men noticing. The two boys along with Artur sat on one side, while Shaphan, his son Jasher, and the sensor Sebastos sat on the other side. King Joses sat at the head of the table.

Besides the king, Sebastos was another person Kenelm was interested in meeting. He had heard a lot about him from his brother. The man had gone rogue and was now actively fighting against the Order. Kenelm was always taught sensors were scary people, whom you'd never want to cross. But the man seemed incredibly friendly, eager to hear what the boy had to say. On quite a few occasions, the man would probe Kenelm. Unlike those sensor apprentices, he was never forceful, nor nasty about it. He simply asked the question, and Kenelm was willing to answer.

“I heard you sneaked out of Angluem, not long after I left,” the sensor remarked. “It must have been difficult, with the guards on high alert.”

“We went through the sewers,” Kenelm explained, reaching for the butter to spread on his slice of bread – his body still ached from the day before. "It wasn't too difficult. We only had to sneak past a few guards."

“The guards are just human,” the king added. “They are people doing their jobs. It’s the people in charge that are to be blamed.”

“True, true,” Sebastos responded. He began chewing on a chicken leg, whilst speaking. “But we can’t ways accept someone was simply performing their duties when committing atrocities.”

“We’ll have to agree to disagree,” King Joses responded. "Maybe it's my fatal fault, but I want to see the good in everyone, even my enemies."

Sebastos laughed.

“And that’s why you’ll make a good king,” the Sensor commented, now guzzling a large mug of ale.

Kenelm wasn't sure what was going on. One moment they were discussing how Kenelm, and his friends, sneaked out of Angluem; the next moment they were discussing the morality of one’s duty. Kenelm wasn’t too keen on philosophical debates – that was more his brother’s thing. Personally, for him, no matter what the person’s order is, they are morally obliged to do the right thing.

As Sebastos spoke, an older gentleman entered the room. He was wearing the robes of a scholar. In his hand was a large book. He rather hastily placed the book on the table, causing the table to jolt slightly. The scholar sat down beside Staphan.

“It good to see you, Brother Hextor,” the king remarked.

“Anything to get rid of this Sensor menace,” the man replied, before looking at Sebastos. “No offence.”

“None taken,” Sebastos responded.

“Were you able to find that book?” King Joses asked.

"I've mentioned this before, both to you and to Brienne, the only place we'd find this text is in the palace itself," Brother Hextor explained.

“Not even a copy in my father’s library?” the king continued to probe.

“Your father’s books are extensive,” the scholar clarified, “But it doesn’t have the book you are seeking. The only place this book will be is in the Palace.”

“When is Brienne returning?” Sebastos enquired. “Perhaps she could sneak in there and get the book?”

The king shook his head.

"She'll be gone for some days. By the time she returns, we'd be leaving things too short," King Joses explained. “And even if I got her to sneak into the Palace, the Governor will be expecting that. Malakos is already suspicious of his daughter. No… we’ll have to find another way.”

The conversation came to a halt. A lone voice spoke. It was Teller.

“I can sneak in there,” Teller suggested. "I can disguise myself as a servant. No one knows who I am. I can go undetected."

“Teller?" Kenelm uttered. What was his friend thinking? This was totally out of character. "If it's anyone, it should be me."

“You’re one of the last people who should go,” his friend continued. “You’re the governor’s nephew. Finneas has already mentioned you look a lot like him. You'd easily be caught. Plus… you can barely read. I have a better chance at finding what we need."

The grownup remained silent.

“It’s an insane plan,” the Sensor remarked. “But this kid might be right.”

“I think I can find some old servant clothes that’ll fit the boy,” Staphan added. “I’ve also got a blueprint of the Palace. I can direct the boy exactly where to go.”

The king scratched his beard.

“This might work. Staphan,” he ordered, “make the preparations. Do whatever is needed to help this boy. Tomorrow we’ll strike.”