The Scout and the Scoundrel Read online

Fucking weather. The only reason she’d been caught was because the constables who were supposed to be on patrol had ducked into a doorway to warm up and had seen her climbing down the wall of the rich nob’s house. Not fair. Such lying in wait should have been illegal.

  And she’d been so happy at that moment. She’d gotten in and out without a single person in the house waking up. Even the dog had slept through it. When her toes had touched the street, she’d almost frozen at the cries of, “Halt,” and “Stop, thief!” Luckily, she’d recovered her wits enough to run. It was a sloppy end to a perfect job.

  Roni jammed her hands in the pockets of her too-thin jacket and leaned her back against the wall. She ducked her head, pushing her face under her collar to cut out some of the smell. Sleep had just begun hovering around the edges of her consciousness when someone shouted, “Veronique Bisset?”

  Roni straightened and dragged herself out of the haze of pre-sleep. “Here.” She threaded through the bodies toward where a jailer beckoned from the cell’s open door. It was her turn before the night magistrate, no doubt Jasper Olyphant, and she needed all her wits, ready to be charming or contrite or sympathetic or whatever the jumped-up little asshole might want.

  The jailer led her to a gloomy little room with thick stone walls and a wooden desk at one end that looked so pitted and worn, it could have been here since the Kingdom of Sarras began hundreds of years ago. Roni stumbled when she saw that a tired looking woman sat at the table instead of Jasper. Her long gray hair had been twisted in a braid that circled her head before hanging in a tail down her shoulder.

  And it had a couple of jewels in it, the sign of another rich nob.

  Gods, Roni was in the shit now. Nobs stuck together.

  The magistrate glanced up and scowled, her eyes glinting like a devil’s in the lantern light. Roni’s stomach shrank at the glut of contempt in that leathery face. No amount of charm, contrition, or sympathy could move a hunk of granite.

  “Charges?” the magistrate asked.

  The jailer stepped past Roni and tilted a piece of paper toward the light. The magistrate didn’t even look at him as he read the constables’ report, adding—quite vindictively, it seemed—that the stolen goods had been dumped in the canal and had yet to be recovered.

  Roni decided to try for contrition. She shuffled her feet and hung her head, wanting a break from the magistrate’s eyes if nothing else. Any speaking without being asked would earn her a cuff from the jailer. She’d never wanted a lawyer to speak for her more than now, but who could afford that?

  The jailer finished his bored recitation. Roni glanced up, ready to hear the fee, the damn tax on a hard night’s work. Then one of her friends could post the fee, go with her to retrieve and sell the jewels, and she could repay her friend’s kindness.

  With a suitable tip to keep their mouth shut.

  She’d be lucky if she had enough left over for a decent meal.

  The magistrate seemed to be studying the report. She leveled a glare Roni’s way that spoke of more than just the resentment everyone felt for having to work on a feast day. When she smiled, it had all the charm of a badger. “You’re no stranger to this place, Veronique.”

  Roni shivered. What the hell kind of game was this? Keeping up the contrition act, she winced and nodded weakly.

  The magistrate laid down her pen, cruel smile in place, her metallic gaze steady, waiting.

  “No, Magistrate,” Roni said, adding a quiver in her voice. It wasn’t difficult. She’d felt less malevolence from syndicate bosses armed with brass knuckles. “I’m sorry, Magistrate.”

  “No, you aren’t, you odious, thieving piece of filth.”

  Roni gritted her teeth and fought to hide her shock. Even Jumped-up Jasper had never called her names.

  “If I give you a simple fee and let you out, you’ll continue thieving until one of your equally odious acquaintances eventually knifes you in some back alley and leaves you to die in squalor.” Her smile never slipped.

  Even after a deep breath, Roni couldn’t keep up the contrition act, nob or not. She made herself meet that basilisk stare, knowing she shouldn’t speak, but… “Pretty high and mighty talk for a fucking night magistrate dragged in to work on a feast day.”

  She braced herself for the cuff from the jailer and leaned forward slightly to lessen the blow. Still, she staggered when the hit came, the back of her head smarting, until the jailer pulled her upright again. The magistrate’s smile widened, and Roni scowled, wishing for that lawyer again. The kingdom didn’t have the right to charge her for possible future crimes.

  Or for simply existing, for the gods’ sake.

  The magistrate scribbled something on the report. “How does a fine of five thousand sovereigns sound?”

  Roni nearly barked a laugh. That had to be a joke. She’d never even seen so much money. That was far more than she’d get for the jewels and was one hundred times the normal fee besides. “You can’t be serious.”

  Another swift slap to the back of her head made her swear and stumble, her head throbbing now and anger burning inside her.

  “You’re opting for the prison sentence, then?” the magistrate said without looking up. “Very well. Five years.”

  Roni’s ears rang, and her heart tried to beat out of her chest. This couldn’t be happening. She tried to protest, but her throat felt clogged, her tongue like ash. When the magistrate smiled again, Roni spat, “Fuck you.”

  The jailer dragged her around and shoved her out the door. “Maybe some hard labor will change your future,” the magistrate called. “An interesting experiment.”

  “I’m not your damn experi—” Roni gasped as the jailer twisted her arm behind her back and marched her along. She walked on tiptoe, forgetting everything but agony until the jailer shoved her into a small cell, and she staggered into the far wall. She turned, ready to hurl some insults at any target, but the heavy door banged shut, encasing her in darkness.

  Roni scrubbed her hands through her hair and paced, finding all four walls after only a few steps. Gods, this couldn’t be real. Prison? With murderers and thugs? Hard labor? If they wanted her to die, why not kill her now?

  The magistrate’s smile had said it all: the devils wanted her to suffer first.

  She shouted, beating on the walls, acting just like those prisoners she’d tutted over on her last visit to this place. If they’d kept their heads, presented whatever the magistrate wanted to see, they’d be set free, but if they acted like raging monsters…

  She couldn’t stop until her voice failed her, and her throat felt ragged. Rage felt like all she had left, but as she sagged to the floor and buried her head in her arms, she discovered despair waiting for her. Tears welled, and her chest felt hollow. She shook her head, telling herself not to give in. She’d lived on the streets since she was ten. She could survive this and whatever else these bastards wanted to throw at her. Prison was just like any other community. She could create a niche for herself, be whoever she needed to be. She could make allies, avoid enemies, keep her head down.

  Nodding, she stood. She just needed a plan. Step one…

  She had no idea.

  “Ah, fuck.” She dropped to the floor again and wept.

  Chapter Two

  Zara strode through the Sarrasian army base with barely a look to either side, trusting that everyone and everything was in its place, from the canvas-covered barracks to the stone buildings housing arms and offices. One of the things that made the army perfect was its clockwork efficiency.

  The fact that having a place here was also fulfilling her duty as a noble to serve her kingdom was an embarrassment of riches.

  Several lower ranking soldiers fired off salutes, standing straight in their crisp brown uniforms with one fist over their hearts and murmuring a greeting as she passed. She returned the gesture without slowing, wondering if enough people
now knew her rank that she could forego the gold helmet and jewelry while on base. The ornamental pieces were completely impractical, and her younger sister, Gisele, often teased her about them, but the honor of being a squad leader at twenty-six had the unfortunate side effect of people mistaking her youth for inexperience and not giving her the right amount of courtesy.

  Military law decreed that squad leaders received salutes and salutations from common soldiers, so salutes and salutations she would have. It was the order of things. She would never understand why people like Gisele found that logic amusing. But then, most people were strange.

  Not here, though. Zara smiled at the thought. She knew exactly how her day here would go. She’d been on one reconnaissance mission to the border of the Firellian Empire already. She and her squad had found nothing to indicate a Firellian invasion force, so now they were back to resupply, rest, then head out to another spot on the border and scout again. Today, she would receive knowledge of their exact target and so plan her route.

  And visit with the Vox Feram, of course.

  Zara sighed and slowed as anticipation flowed through her. She glanced at the sky. Her superiors had told her to report between twelve and thirteen bells for her new orders, and she’d planned to appear right at twelve to combat the anxiety of possibly being late, but perhaps she could arrive exactly halfway between twelve and thirteen. That way, she could see the Vox now.

  And she still wouldn’t be late.

  Or early.

  And no one would chuckle at her timeliness.

  She switched direction, heading for the armory. Gisele would tease her for her “lack of discipline,” while their older sister, Adella, looked on indulgently, silently siding with Gisele, but Zara wouldn’t let that spoil her excitement.

  Besides, they didn’t know about the Vox. Her prize, her honor, her secret, the only thing in her life she would never have to share, not even if she wanted to.

  Inside the armory, the desk clerk only had to see her to fetch the box. Zara gave him a nod, appreciating the anticipation of her needs before she set the box on another table and took a moment to center her thoughts.

  The surface of the metal box had been discolored by time, but it still fitted so tightly together that there was no seam, no hinge. It was light, almost flexible, and impossible to break or cut. Like the Vox Feram, it had been made by ancient people with knowledge long forgotten. Such magic barely existed anymore, even for the greatest mages.

  She placed her hand on top of the box, moving her fingers just so without having to think about it. Ever since the Vox had chosen her, she’d known where to touch this box to open it, even if she couldn’t recall exactly how she’d done it afterward.

  Her skin tingled, and a seam appeared in the box as it opened for her and her alone. A bright yellow jewel the size of her thumbnail waited inside, the many facets dazzling her like always, and she couldn’t help picking it up, its golden chain slithering after it. Why would anyone want to resist such a thing of beauty? Such a treasure demanded to be looped around her wrist and fingers in a precise pattern—still without her remembering how—creating a glove that caressed her skin like a golden spiderweb, with the jewel nestled against the pulse in her wrist.

  Deceptively strong, the chain and jewel were treasures beyond price on their own, even without the greater prize they now tied her to.

  From a small room to the side, Zara felt the Vox Feram stirring. “You’re early,” the Vox said in her mind, their many voices coming together in a happy chorus.

  Zara stepped through the door, stopping to stare as a ray of sunlight passed through a high window in the small room and lit the Vox’s eagle form in sparkling, breathtaking radiance.

  “Flatterer,” the Vox said.

  Zara chuckled. “It’s not flattery if it’s the truth.”

  The Vox shook out their wings, creating a rustle of delicate, tinkling metal. Their clawed feet clinked against the perch, and were it not for the sunbeam, an ignorant observer might think the Vox an ordinary golden eagle, except their body gleamed in the sun, metal in more than name.

  Each of the hundreds of feathers had been cast from gold or silver or other metals even the most gifted blacksmiths couldn’t identify, and each looked as real as any bird’s. The beak and talons functioned as a flesh and blood bird’s might, but they were cunningly sculpted from metal as well and were sharper than any blade.

  Ancient, beautiful, intelligent, deadly. What a pity that the secret of the Vox’s construction was lost to time. Even the faintest voices inside the Vox didn’t know how old they were.

  And Zara had their favor. She shivered through a wave of pride. Even the way the Vox functioned by using her life force was an honor. She understood now why Gisele sacrificed her body to magic.

  Well, she understood more. She still didn’t approve of that painful way of life. The Vox didn’t cause her pain, and most of their forms only took a little of her life energy to function.

  The Vox lifted their wings, and the tiny pieces of metal that made up their body shifted and flittered like minute scraps of paper caught in a maelstrom, rearranging the eagle’s body into the smaller form of a falcon before they hopped upon her gloved wrist.

  “Shall we?” they asked.

  Zara nodded and took them into the sun. Everyone she passed gawked as the Vox gleamed like a precious jewel. Zara straightened her shoulders, just as she had the day the Vox’s former partner had died, and the Vox had chosen her out of everyone in the Sarrasian army. They’d said she possessed the same sort of heart as them. At the time, she’d been proud but also fearful, as the Vox’s former partners had never been able to adequately describe what it felt like to merge with the ancient object. The fear had fled the moment she’d looped the chain around her wrist as if she’d been born knowing how.

  And afterward…she couldn’t even think of the right words to describe the bond. Maybe the words didn’t exist. Complete connectivity, that came close. Words like best friend and soul mate acquired meaning for the first time.

  And the Vox had agreed. She’d felt them doing so. Not struggling to understand someone or make herself understood had been the best feeling in the world.

  “Look out,” the Vox said. “It’s your newest annoying hanger-on.”

  Zara changed direction even before she glimpsed Keelin Hoffman through the Vox’s eyes. She’d met and loathed Keelin even before she’d bonded with the Vox, but it was nice to know they didn’t like her either. Zara had never had to interact with her much, until her father, a colonel, had promoted his daughter to the same rank as Zara.

  And Keelin was two years younger.

  And useless.

  And now that she and Zara were the same rank, she thought they were friends.

  “We should be grateful she works a desk instead of leading soldiers to their deaths in the field,” the Vox said with a sigh. “She’s seen us. I take back the gratitude.”

  “Zara,” Keelin called.

  “Is she far enough away that we can pretend we didn’t hear?” Zara asked softly.

  “Maybe. If she doesn’t…no, she’s running to catch up.” The Vox spoke softly, too, even though no one else could hear them. Probably habit, the same reason Zara usually spoke out loud when the Vox could hear her thoughts. At least the mind communication left the Vox free to mumble the true but uncharitable thoughts they shared about other people.

  “Keelin,” Zara said as she turned.

  Keelin jogged to a halt, her red curls bouncing around her face when they should have been tied back or under a helmet. Her entire being exuded a joviality inappropriate for a military base.

  “I didn’t know you were back,” Keelin said. “You never come by to say hello.”

  Why the hell would she? “Hello,” she tried now. “Well, if that’s all.” She tried to turn toward the practice field again.

&
nbsp; Keelin guffawed, though nothing was funny. “When are you marching out again? We should have lunch before then.”

  Zara clucked her tongue. “My schedule is classified, as well you know, and I usually lunch with my squad or at home.”

  Keelin continued to twinkle at her. “I wouldn’t mind eating with your squad.” She stepped closer. “Or seeing your home.”

  “Gods,” the Vox said. “She’s being very obvious today about wanting a space in your bed.”

  Ah, so that was it. Zara fought the urge to shudder. She had enough trouble reading the people in her own house; she did not need that extra complication in the one place she felt most at home. She liked being romantically pursued about as much as she liked chewing glass. “I’m afraid we must be going.”

  “I’ll walk with you.”

  Zara and the Vox sighed in unison. If only Keelin was a rank lower. Then Zara could order her away or ignore her. Instead, she began walking, hoping an escape would present itself.

  “Is it true he can turn into any kind of bird?” Keelin asked, nodding at the Vox.

  “They. The Vox has no gender, nor do they wish for one. And yes, they can turn into any kind of bird.”

  Keelin’s eyebrows lifted. “Any bird? A hawk? A vulture? A chicken?”

  The Vox stirred, metal feathers tinkling, many voices darkening in anger. “Chicken, indeed. I should disembowel her for that.”

  Zara snorted, hoping that was a joke. Having a commander disemboweled by an ancient artifact would require a lot of paperwork. “They have no wish to become anything besides raptors.” At Keelin’s questioning expression, Zara added, “Eagles, hawks, falcons, vultures, and owls, the birds of prey.”

  “Pity. It would make such a pretty songbird. Or a peacock, or a pheasant, really.” She laughed. “My mother would give quite a lot for even one of those feathers in a new hat.”

  “Disemboweling and decapitation,” the Vox said. “The only cure for such an acute case of witlessness.”

  Zara smoothed their cold feathers. “Please stop making terrible suggestions, Keelin. They can hear you, and they do not approve.”