Page 30 of Stealing Tink

Apparently, the Nomad keeps ample stores of edible paper. Strange, but I must admit, rather useful.

We wait outside the palace. I delay linking my arm through the Nomad’s until the very last second, when it’s unavoidably necessary.

As I slip my arm through his, my disgust must be evident, because he says, “One would think my arm was hairy and one of a set of eight.”

Though I would never admit it to him, the truth isn’t far from that. Even through the layer of his jacket separating us, his touch is practically noxious.

Thankfully, since my arm is occupied, it gives me an excuse not to answer him. I’ve been practicing my signs, but so far what I’ve learned is more useful for tactical commands than snarky retorts. And if I can’t be clever, I’d rather not communicate at all.

“Invitation,” says the steward at the front of the line. His nose turns up as we approach. I wonder if he looks that way at all the guests, or if it’s because he doesn’t recognize us.

The Nomad produces a sparkling invitation from his pocket and hands it to the steward for examination. The man peers down through his spectacles, and I fight the urge to roll my fingers together in a fidgeting rhythm.

When the steward finally says, “Very well. Welcome, Lord and Lady Thereal,” I remember that the Nomad isn’t notorious for nothing. I take it forgery is another of the many skills he’s honed over his long career.

“Impressed?” asks the Nomad as we walk through the halls.

I roll my eyes and, instead of answering, take in the marvelous palace around me.

Everything is crimson.

Red curtains drip down from the sconces fashioned to look like soldiers, which gives the illusion of them bleeding. Queen Rische has never been the violent type. That was her mother and her grandfather before her. In fact, the most recent queen’s ascension to power has been broadly celebrated not only by her people but also by neighboring kingdoms for bringing peace to our age. Well, for humans, at least.

Most of the fae are still on the edge of society, the reason for the circlets on my and the Nomad’s heads—a rather convenient fashion borrowed from the kingdom we’re pretending to hail from, given that they cover our pointed ears.

Queen Rische claims to desire peace for fae, as well, but I can’t help but be skeptical. After all, the new queen might have ushered in a new set of politics, but she left the rather violent décor intact.

Guests file through the halls, following a servant dressed in flowing crimson robes. Eventually, we are led to a set of mahogany doors, which, at the clap of the servant’s hands, spread wide to reveal the ballroom.

It’s the Night of Undying Love: a commemoration of the night the queen’s late husband sacrificed his life to save her from an assassin. A rather dark reason to celebrate, in my opinion. It seems like the type of holiday that would be instituted centuries after the tragedy by descendants who never knew the late king. But I suppose everyone has their own way of mourning.

The ballroom is outfitted much like the rest of the palace, but to the extreme. Wine pours from a massive fountain set up in the center of the room. The guests wear one or both of the kingdom’s colors, crimson and gold. The golden face paint—likely made from faerie dust, which again has me skeptical of the queen’s intent toward the fae—is reserved for the royal family, smattering their jawlines with a faint glitter. But it’s not the royal family that arrests my attention. It’s the man standing next to the queen, his chin held high, his face somber. He looks like the type who would never deign to touch alcohol to his lips. He has dark brown skin and his head is shaved. A tattoo of a dragon wing cuts across his left cheek.

“I take it you found what we’re stealing?” the Nomad says.

You have got to be kidding, I write. Earlier this evening when the Nomad explained the plan, I’d been reticent. But now, looking at the man—he looks about as likely to join us as a woman under vow at a convent.

Sensing my doubt in our plan, the Nomad flashes a mischievous grin. “Unpleasant options become exceedingly more appealing when they’re the last resort.”

I would know, I write. Given my situation, I can confidently assert that my last resort is as unappealing as ever.

One of the benefits of writing is that, once he’s glanced down at the parchment, the Nomad can’t pretend he didn’t hear me.

Still, I can’t help the pit widening in my gut. We’re about to ruin this man’s life. Acel Vindicue came from a long line of farmers before joining the queen’s army and ascending in rank, extolled by his superiors until he finally earned a position as the queen’s personal bodyguard.

It’s got to be the highest-paying soldier’s position in the entire world, which, I suppose, is why we can’t just buy him off or hire him for a one-off job. Still, now that I’ve seen him, I’m even less certain than I was before. His arms are casually folded in front of him, but something tells me this stance would not keep him from drawing his scabbard faster than I could blink.

He scans the room steadily, carefully, with clever, discerning eyes noting each of the guests. He looks like the type of man who keeps a running inventory in his brain, the type that’s filled with unsavory details and the weaknesses of potential enemies. This might be less intimidating if it weren’t for the muscles.

“Something have you concerned?” asks the Nomad.

I take out my notepad and write, When you said we needed a heavy, I wasn’t picturing someone quite so⁠—

“Heavy,” the Nomad says slowly, as if hoping that wasn’t what I was about to write and that, if it was, he would be incredibly disappointed.

Discerning-looking, I scribble, offended.

“You don’t become the queen’s foremost bodyguard by being dull,” the Nomad says.