The Spy and the Lady Read online

  THE SPY AND THE LADY

  A Five Kingdoms Short Story

  by

  Deborah Jay

  First edition 21st March, 2017

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  Copyright © 2017 Deborah Jay

  Cover art by Nya designs https://nya-designs.com/

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  Deborah Jay asserts the right to be identified as the author of this work.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written per-mission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, contact the author via her website

  www.deborahjayauthor.com

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Similarities to real people, living or dead, places or events are completely coincidental.

  Table of Contents

  Copyright Page

  The Spy and the Lady

  The Prince’s Man – The Five Kingdoms Book #1

  THE PRINCE’S SON – The Five Kingdoms Book #2

  THE FIVE KINGDOMS BOOK #3 | THE PRINCE’S PROTEGEE | COMING SOON

  Urban Fantasy by Deborah Jay | FREE DOWNLOAD | SPRITE NIGHT | A Caledonian Sprite short story

  DESPRITE MEASURES | #1 in the Caledonian Sprite Novels

  About the Author

  The Spy and the Lady

  “Unhand the lady, you ruffians!”

  Was that pompous enough? Exiled spy, Rustam Chalice, slipped into the role of arrogant nobleman with the ease of donning a cloak. When he’d ridden into the forest clearing, he’d had nothing more on his mind than reaching a lower altitude before nightfall. Crossing paths with the motley group of armed men and their captive–a statuesque beauty—was sheer bad timing.

  Or was it?

  Perhaps the goddess hasn’t finished meddling with my life yet.

  Rustam and the outlaws studied each other warily. On foot, the eight men presented a limited threat. Even so, Rustam’s pulse raced. The boredom of days of aimless wandering vanished in a heartbeat, and excitement zipped along his nerves for the first time since he’d been forced to abandon his old life.

  A rescue attempt also promised a diversion to take his mind off a certain lady he would probably never see again.

  Weapons drawn, several of the men edged toward Rustam. He flourished his sword randomly as discouragement. The magnificent black mare beneath him sidled away from the swishing weapon, and Rustam reassured her with a light touch of his hand. “Easy, Nightstalker,” he murmured. “I haven’t lost my mind, I promise.”

  Two men slipped away between the straight pine trunks that rose to majestic heights above the mountainside. Another man grabbed the prisoner by one arm, as though he feared she might try to escape. Quite where he thought she would go, on foot, leagues from anywhere—not to mention the question of what she was doing here in the first place—puzzled Rustam.

  One of the bandits, a particularly skinny specimen, stepped in front of the others. “And why should we do that?” he asked.

  “I’ll run you through if you don’t, that’s why,” Rustam declared with another wild swing of his blade. “Your weapons are puny, and I am an expert swordsman.”

  Rustam winced at his ridiculous claim, but he wanted a moment to think. He could ride away now, follow the group at a safe distance and take time to plan a rescue. Probably the sensible thing to do. But now the outlaws were aware of his presence, they would be on guard, making such an approach trickier.

  Working from the inside—now that was more his style.

  Nightstalker jigged nervously and bunched her hindquarters, readying a vicious kick intended to maim the two men creeping up behind her. Choice made, Rustam reined her to one side, breaking her concentration. The battle-trained mare’s hooves could be deadly from many directions, and Rustam didn’t want to anger the bandits by dispatching any of them. He wanted to get captured, not killed. He was already taking a chance they wouldn’t just slip a dagger between his ribs and be done with it, but in his experience men such as these were always on the outlook for a payday, and they would likely check his worth before taking any such action.

  “We can see that,” said the thin man with a smirk. Rustam’s mouth opened to retort when something hard crashed into the back of his head. He swayed in the saddle, and although he wasn’t as stunned as his assailant probably hoped, he seized the opportunity and allowed himself to topple sideways, landing on the ground beside his startled mount with a large yelp of simulated pain. Spitting dust, aromatic pine needles, and strands of his long, dark brown hair from his mouth, he rolled away from Nightstalker, knowing if he stayed close she would protect him with both teeth and hooves.

  “Go!” he commanded, disguising the word within a large, theatrical cough. The black mare pranced away, tail and head high, disgust at her master’s antics evident in her rigid posture and furious snorting. She was not accustomed to losing her rider so easily, and her equine pride was visibly dented.

  Rustam rose to his hands and knees, shaking his head in a display of confusion. A quick set of muscles flexions reassured him his lithe body was still in good order despite the unscheduled tumble.

  Two men grabbed his arms and hauled him to his feet.

  “Take your hands off me!” he blustered, remaining in character as they patted him down. An expert search located all his weapons: his favourite knives in their wrist sheaths, the spare hidden inside the lining of his cloak. Even the tiny blades nestled in the tops of his boots. A wary respect shadowed the bandit leader’s narrow face, and Rustam wondered if perhaps he should have contrived to lose a few of his daggers before his capture—they were hardly the tools of a gentleman.

  Too late now.

  With his hands bound before him, he was tugged into motion. After a short march through the trees, the party reached a makeshift camp in a small hollow. A semi-circle of clear ground some ten horses’ lengths across nestled within a pocket bordered on two sides by a rocky crag, and on the others by the edge of the forest. A boot against the back of one knee forced Rustam to the ground before his feet were roped together, and he was propped against the rock face next to his fellow prisoner.

  The bandits retreated to the far side of the clearing. As they settled into a well-practiced routine, setting up camp, Rustam studied his companion. Her bronze-toned skin glowed in the rays of the sinking sun, but her mature, confident posture belied the youth of her features. She certainly did not appear cowed by her situation, her dark eyes flashing beneath lowered brows as she frowned at him with an expression of annoyance. Mud stained her elegant clothing; a calf-length red brocade gown over tall black boots. A bare shoulder peeked through a great rent in one sleeve, and tawny hair flew loose from an intricate coiffure as she shook her head.

  “Are you stupid?” she demanded. “You obviously have no skill with a blade, and you can’t even stay on your horse. What possessed you to wade into a situation that’s none of your business?”

  “Pardon me for trying to rescue you,” said Rustam, more amused than offended. Apparently, his performance of ineptitude had been convincing.

  “Rescue me?” She regarded him with raised eyebrows. “I doubt you could escape a tangled bed-sheet without help.”

  One corner of Rustam’s mouth quirked up. “That may be true, but my conscience wouldn’t permit me to ride off and leave you to their whims.”

  A rather unladylike snort was his only answer.

  Rustam wriggled
his shoulders against the jagged rock at his back, trying to find a more comfortable position, and testing his bonds at the same time. Quite secure, was the annoying verdict. Their captors appeared oafish, but there was nothing slipshod in the way they’d bound him. Perhaps the rough stone bruising his back might provide an edge sharp enough to cut rope. He shuffled round to bring his hands towards the potential tool.

  “Uh, uh.” The thin man strode across the clearing and grabbed Rustam’s bound hands. “You wouldn’t want to risk cutting yourself, now would you?” He looped a rope between Rustam’s joined wrists and secured it to a stake which he drove into the ground.

  A voice called from beside the fire. “Hey, Macey, food’s up. You coming?”

  “In a moment,” Macey answered, before hunkering down in front of Rustam’s fellow captive. “I’m curious, Mistress Frieda of House Ber’tan. What are you doing all the way out here, alone?”

  Frieda merely lowered her face with a shake of her head. Macey frowned. “I’ll ask you again later, when you’re more hungry. Say, in a day or two. In the meantime, do I need to leash you too, or will you be good?”

  “I won’t give you any trouble,” she whispered. Satisfied, Macey strolled back to his dinner.

  Not at all convinced by Frieda’s meek attitude, Rustam repeated Macey’s question. “What are you doing out here? And come to that, how did you get here? I didn’t see another horse.”

  “There are other ways of travelling,” Frieda replied, but offered no further explanation.

  While the light continued to fade, Rustam worried at the knots at his wrists with his teeth, but made no discernible progress. He watched Frieda from the corner of his eye. She sat immobile as if carved from the rock against which they sat, her focus never shifting from the men around the camp fire. Her nostrils flared slightly as a light breeze delivered the unmistakeable smell of cooking rabbit, and Rustam’s stomach growled. He regarded it in surprise—he’d eaten enough rabbit since being exiled he was amazed his stomach still clamoured for it.

  A shout from the other side of the encampment drew their attention.

  “Hey, Macey, look what we found!”

  Macey started to his feet as a flurry of thuds, which Rustam identified as hoof beats on compressed pine needles, drowned out words, but not the sharp scream that rang out. A moment later, the thunder of hooves dwindled into the distance.

  Two of the bandits emerged from the trees, one supporting the other. Harsh grunts of pain issued from the man with the dangling, useless arm. Macey inspected the damage, and issued orders before storming over to his captives. He glared at Rustam, and then struck him across the face.

  “You have one chance to convince me why I shouldn’t kill you. That devil horse of yours broke Jex’s arm so good he’ll be useless for at least a season. If it comes back again I’m gonna hamstring it and turn it into steaks.” He drew breath and squared his shoulders. “Well? Are you worth anything?”

  Cold stabbed Rustam’s gut. He had no doubt the man would carry out his threat. He could only hope Nightstalker would stay clear of the camp, and not come seeking him. She was a formidable fighter, but had no protection against sharp steel if someone was able to get close enough. The very thought of her hamstrung...

  Rustam gave himself a mental shake. First, he needed to stay alive. “I am a member of the Tyr-enese royal family,” he declared in his best arrogant tone. “You want a ransom? Send word to the palace.”

  Macey’s jaw clenched, and he put a hand to his sword hilt. He’d slid the blade half free of its scabbard when a frown creased his brow. Rustam stared impassively back.

  “You aren’t bluffing, are you? You really are Tyr-enese royalty?”

  Rustam tilted his head in affirmation.

  “Charin’s balls!” swore Macey, and stalked away, shaking his head.

  Frieda favoured Rustam with raised eyebrows. “Preposterous, but he believed you. How did you do that?”

  Rustam shrugged. “People trust me.”

  “So I can tell.” Frieda sounded reluctantly impressed, but returned her attention to the outlaws, lapsing back into silence.

  “I’m Rustam, in case you’re interested,” Rustam offered, trying to restart conversation. “My friends call me Rusty.”

  “Indeed. I would say it was a pleasure to meet you, Master Rustam, but the circumstances are not that convivial. What are they doing now?”

  Raised voices from the bandits’ side of the clearing escalated to a shouting match. Few of the words were clear, but Rustam had an uneasy feeling that grew as Macey stomped back towards them, drawing his sword as he came.

  “Do you not have anyone this side of the mountains who’d be willing to pay for you?” Macey demanded. “We’ve had a discussion, and decided that trying to deal with a kingdom that far away is too much effort to be worth it. No? Pity.”

  He raised his sword, but bubbling laughter snagged his attention. “What exactly do you find so funny?” he demanded of Frieda. “I can always kill you too. There’s nothing in your pack to suggest you’re worth the effort either.”

  Frieda hitched the shoulder still covered by her dress up to her cheek to wipe a tearing eye. “You really aren’t that smart, are you?” she said. “You’re not thinking this through. Tyr-en has an alliance with Kishtan: you can make your demand of our king instead.”

  The sword dropped, the point landing on the ground beside Rustam’s thigh. He gritted his teeth and throttled the urge to flinch. The blade flashed in a harsh ray of evening sunlight as it rose again, and Macey pointed it at Frieda. “I’d curb that tongue of yours if you don’t want to lose it. Perhaps I should get rid of you, then, and concentrate on him.”

  Frieda met his gaze steadily. “If you’ve searched my pack thoroughly you’ll know I have connections—highly placed connections. In fact, you could offer us to the king as a joint package.”

  “Perhaps I will.”

  Macey stomped away again, and Rustam wondered if the bandit leader was wearing a track into the ground between the camp and his captives. The fact it was always Macey who came to them said a lot about his need for control of every situation.

  Either that or he didn’t trust his men.

  “My thanks for your intervention,” he said to Frieda. “I thought I might be seeing the goddess rather sooner than I’d planned.”

  “It was no more than the truth.”

  “What, that he hadn’t thought it through, or that he’s stupid?”

  Frieda laughed then, a sound like a big cat chuffing. “Both. But now that your immediate future is settled, please don’t do anything more to put yourself at risk.”

  “What would I...”

  Rustam’s words trailed off. He stared in disbelief as Frieda bent her head forward and bit through her bonds with a set of teeth far larger than ought to fit inside her mouth, generous though it was. He blinked, trying to rationalise the event, particularly when the dangerous-looking fangs melted away, vanishing behind Frieda’s pretty—and perfectly normal—lips.

  “How—?”

  “Shhh. Remember what I said. Stay here and stay safe.”

  The last glimmer of daylight died, leaving the flickering of the camp fire as the only source of illumination. Macey’s lanky figure stood briefly silhouetted against the orange glow before he strode away at an angle from where the captives sat, heading for the tree line running along the base of the crag. When Rustam glanced round, Frieda was nowhere to be seen.

  “Dammit!” He spotted a dark figure following Macey before they were both lost to the gloom.

  Dear goddess, what have I got tangled up in now? Lady in need of rescue, my arse. He huffed with annoyance. Shame I wasted such a convincing performance. Oh well, time to practice some of my new skills, and get out of here.

  He squirmed around until his back faced the camp, allowing his irritation with Frieda to build to a fiery resentment. He permitted a small burst of anger to escape his control, and recoiled as a miniature fire-wr
eathed dragon popped into being a hairsbreadth from the tip of his nose.

  “Ouch! Not so close.”

  The tiny fire elemental backed off, red eyes whirling as it searched for a reason for its summons. Rustam held up his bound hands, and was both relieved and alarmed when the dragonet zipped down to sink its iridescent claws into the rope. Tiny flames ignited in the fibres, eating into the tough strands, and Rustam squirmed as intense heat seared his wrists. He glanced over his shoulder to check no one in the camp had noticed, but his body blocked their view. There was nothing he could do about the gleam of the flames, or of the fluttering dragonet, but his luck held. Straining against his bonds, he felt the strands separating. An extra strong heave ripped them apart, and he tossed them against the base of the stone ridge where they settled to the rocky ground and dulled to red embers.

  “Okay, you can go now. Shoo.” A wave of his fingers dismissed the elemental, which vanished with a tiny ‘pop’. Rustam rubbed his sore wrists and set to freeing his ankles.

  He twisted cautiously around to check the bandits’ camp, but the five men still around the fire were playing bone dice. Rustam assumed one would be on guard duty out amongst the trees. Keeping watch for the return of the devil horse, no doubt, he thought with a wry twitch of his lips. Good old Nightstalker, keeping them occupied even when she wasn’t around.

  He eased to his feet and ran through a set of muscle stretches. Despite falling and then being tied up for hours, everything seemed to be in working order, though no doubt there would be a few good bruises visible by morning. He turned in the opposite direction to the one Macey and Frieda had taken, and slipped a few steps across the rocky ground.

  He stopped. This whole venture had begun as a rescue operation. Could he really abandon that now? Not to mention he owed his life to Frieda’s quick thinking a short time ago.

  He wasn’t operating under orders this time. He’d made his own decisions since being exiled, and while this probably counted as his worst yet, he knew deep down he’d never live with himself if he deserted Frieda. No matter that she seemed capable of handling the situation alone, she was up against eight armed men—seven, he corrected himself, discounting the one Nightstalker had incapacitated—with no more than her feminine wiles and a set of scarily unnatural teeth.