Wesson’s gaze followed the stout finger. “That’s him,” he agreed, returning his eyes to the stranger. Foreigners and passing adventurers weren’t unusual in Manurhin, so the fact that the heavy man wasn’t a local—or that he had slicked reddish hair, oily skin, and dirty clothes—didn’t draw much attention.
“And who would’ve thought?” Wesson commented. “The duke himself, coming to Yuma Casull’s funeral.”
“Was Mister Casull an important man?”
“No, he just owned a small weapons shop. The adventurers took a liking to him.” Wesson paused. “On the other hand,” he added, “Yuma never talked about what he did before he came to town. And he was an odd one, not unlike how the duke is a bit eccentric. Maybe that’s why they got along.”
“That so?” The stranger nodded intently, like an investigator taking down new information.
“Sure. Any particular reason you’re asking about Yuma?”
“We had some dealings together once,” the stranger said with a shrug. “I’m just, y’know… curious.”
The man excused himself from Wesson and squeezed his way out of the throng of mourners. When he was far enough away from the mob, his thin, wet lips distorted into a sly grin.
“Interesting,” he murmured. “Maybe I should pay a visit to the good duke.”
Someone who wanted to lose himself in a crowd was often deceptive or troubled. Or, in those rare cases… were planning a professional murder.
“Getting rid of the girl will be child’s play,” the man said to himself, snickering at his own pun. “But I’ve lost seven men already. I think the deal needs a little sweetening.”
The rotund man wrapped his drab olive cloak more tightly around his girth as he exited the city square. “I wonder,” he mused under his breath. “What’s Sinner up to today?”
A slightly off-key note sprung from the plucked string, reverberating softly in the still, quiet room before fading into silence.
Shannon frowned. “That didn’t sound good,” he murmured as he reassessed his lute. He took a tuning fork from the case and tapped it against his leg, then started tightening and adjusting the strings.
Shannon knew that he had more important things to do than play his old lute, but with the funeral over, he felt like taking some time for himself for a change. His sisters had set out to go through their father’s old belongings; never very good at organizing things, Shannon had retreated to keep from getting in the way. Besides, the chore made Shannon uncomfortable—he felt that clearing out his father’s possessions was like trying to rid the house of every trace of the man’s existence.
“I guess women are more practical,” he mumbled to himself.
Alone in his sparse room (contrary to Raquel’s chambers, which were bursting with books and knick-knacks), Shannon realized, not for the first time, that the place could even strike him as unwelcoming. He also realized how long it had been since he’d last played his lute.
When his mother had first taught him the instrument, he’d become absorbed in singing and playing music and had even considered performing. A scowl crossed his face as he thought of how unadventurous he’d become.
Of course, for the past several years, his father’s rigorous fencing lessons had left Shannon little time for any other pursuits.
It wasn’t that Shannon disliked fencing, but his father’s obsession with swordsmanship had always been puzzling. Yuma had never volunteered any kind of explanation.
And now I can’t ask him anymore, Shannon thought.
A knock came at the door. “I’m coming in,” said a soft voice.
Shannon looked up. Raquel entered the room, her sleeves rolled up and her long, black hair in a ponytail. She was definitely in organization-mode.
“I found something,” Raquel explained as she drew an envelope from her pocket. It was a plain envelope with a broken seal, but Shannon could immediately guess its contents.
“Father’s will?” he asked flatly.
“Mm.” Raquel handed the letter to her brother. With furrowed eyebrows, Shannon slid the letter out of its confines. It had to be a will… but why had a man in the prime of his life written such a thing?
Was he expecting to die suddenly?
“Duke Franki was right,” Shannon murmured, recalling the duke’s nervous curiosity. “And you noticed the wound on Father’s back?”
Raquel nodded. “It was from a knife. There’s no doubt in my mind.”
It had been the sort of small wound that a less observant person could miss, but not the Casull siblings. Their father had drilled Shannon in martial arts and Raquel in dagger self-defense; the training had included how to treat blade injuries. Both of them recognized the type of wound they’d found on their father’s lower back.
Yuma’s dead body had been discovered by the City Guard. In most small towns, a citizen’s patrol kept the peace, but Manurhin had its own City Guard despite its small population.
The unit of professional protectors reported only to Duke Franki—in other words, the duke was in a perfect position to suppress any clues the guards had discovered about Yuma’s death.
“Some accident,” Shannon growled. “That bastard is hiding something.”
Shannon unfolded the letter, crammed with his father’s familiar handwriting. He began to read aloud:
My dear Raquel and Shannon,
Now that I’ve died, I have an important mission for the two of you.
Shannon looked up at his sister. “Important mission? ” he repeated.
Your mother and I gave you life for this very day. You know, I took your mother in my arms, one thing led to the next, and pretty soon your mother was saying, ‘Oh, stop! No, you brute, no! Oh, my, what’s that feeling? Oh, oh, YES! DON’T STOP!’ You know.
Shannon groaned and slumped over the table. “Father was always joking around,” Raquel said with a sniff, wiping at her moist eyes.
“Hilarious.” Shannon continued to read. As his gaze moved over the handwritten lines, his eyebrows began to rise.
Fourteen years earlier, Yuma Nambu Casull and his wife Carol Casull had been asked by “a friend” to take care of an infant that they named Pacifica. Shannon and Raquel already knew that part of the story, as did Pacifica herself; although they’d been young at the time, Shannon and his sister could remember the day their mother and father had brought the swaddled newborn home.
What Shannon and Raquel didn’t know—until their father’s will explained it—was that this “friend” was Queen Elmyr, ruler of the Kingdom of Linevan.
Shannon looked up abruptly. “Does this mean,” he breathed, “that Pacifica… is the Scrapped Princess?”
Raquel answered in a flat tone, “That’s exactly what it means.”
The very name “Scrapped Princess” was considered blasphemous throughout the kingdom. Although no one dared whisper it in public, deep in the memories of the Linevan people lived the legend of the infant princess who had vanished, without a trace, at her birth. The rumors about her varied, but almost every one agreed that she’d been killed as an infant.
Shannon quickly went back to the letter.
Since I assume that something happened to me, you must protect Pacifica until the day she turns sixteen—the Day of Destiny. I know it’s not an easy job, and I know that your late mother and I weren’t perfect parents… but consider this the first and only favor we ever ask of you.