The Thief King

18 | Talk is Food

Logan found all draining. He saw no reason to recall another's tale upon request. Gemima's claim to the ordeal was her own, and he saw no point discussing it with strangers. It was not his business. Still, he often found himself speaking out of politeness, and so came to know the tale by heart.

They had suffered a road robbery earlier in the day, before the Thief King hit. Their jewels and wealth hidden, they had escaped relatively unscathed, until the second attack. The Thief King knocked Sir Weatherstone unconscious while Gemima feigned a feint. She had kept her eyes closed but felt him moving around before leaving the coin in her palm.

Beyond the fantasies and fallacies injected into the tale, it was quite boring. A few noblemen had asked Logan whether the Thief King had hurt his possible bride. One even suggested he wooed her.

During breakfast, luncheon, and now dinner, the discussion leaned to the future. What needed to be done to prevent such occurrences from happening again? Marshall Fourdin had barely looked up since the arrival of their foreign guests. He had doubled the Peacekeeper numbers, increased the patrol areas and placed palace guards on high alert. He now sat with a slope to his shoulders. Age was catching up with the warrior, and for the first time Logan could recall, it showed. All to maintain a charade. His father was baring his teeth to not only his enemies, but his possible allies as well. One had to put on a good show to guests welcomed in such an ill manner.

Even the dowager of Roche had been suspect to the ongoings—to her utter horror. Logan's grandmother sat opposite her son-in-law at the head of the table. The Cylindalian ambassador, Sir Dorian Qu'rup, sat to her left and Sophia to her right. If one were to look upon the old woman, one would think her waiting for the gods to open their doors. As thin as a skeleton, she walked around as if she wore a skin meant for a much larger woman. It sagged, hung and wrinkled, but speak to the woman and one would find a sharp mind and a fiery heart.

Logan watched as she slowly moved her food across her plate, her lips turned down and her brows cast high, forming even more wrinkles. Sophia noticed her grandmother's distaste and rested a hand on the spiked shoulder. The dowager jumped and smiled.

"Gods almighty, Sophia, you should warn an old woman before you feel a wave of sentimentality overtake your senses." The dowager's voice was that of all old, refined woman who still wished for another age. It shook and existed halfway between the nose and head. Father hated it. It was why he insisted his mother-in-law remain in the countryside.

He claimed it safer, but Logan—and his grandmother—knew he wished to be rid of her constant interference and opinions. However, she had shown up, unannounced, just after the Weatherstones in an unassuming coach.

"If one travels in gold, one cannot act surprised when magpies appear," the dowager had chortled. "Arriving in a coach fit for a funeral is by far the wiser choice. Nobody wishes to steal a corpse."

His father had kept his response to a thought. Turning from the woman before she continued.

"Grandmama," Sophia giggled. She was exceptionally pretty this evening. Her dark curls arranged over her shoulder in a fashion much like the woman next to her. Lady Weatherstone smiled at the exchange, her dark eyes as much an enigma as they had been the day of her arrival. Logan recognised the look of an internal monologue. He considered himself a picture of everlasting rumination.

"You seem unhappy with your supper, Ma'am," the Cylindalian said. His shaven head tilted forward as if he were bowing by just speaking to the dowager.

"Unhappy?" Grandmama chortled, dabbing at the corners of her mouth with her serviette. "In my day we would serve swine to those we considered the ilk."