Scott cleared his throat. “I have decided,” he declared, “that the prince is in need of sustenance. We shall make our way to the riverside.”
There was the tiniest breath of air on the back of Loth’s neck, almost as if Grub was laughing despite himself.
“Stellar leadership,” Loth murmured, and was rewarded with another puff of air, just above the drape of his scarf. His cellmate, while completely insufferable, was at least observant.
Their pace slowed as they turned off the road towards the snaking river.
The ride to the riverbank, and to the cart concealed behind a screen of bushes, was only a few more miles. Still, Loth was glad to get out of the saddle and stretch his aching muscles. It had been too long since he’d ridden. In all senses of the word, actually, but at the moment hunger was his primary concern.
He thought back to Delacourt and pondered on the wisdom of a dawn raid as he waited to be served his breakfast. It wasn’t the way these things were done. And the reason it wasn’t done was because it wasn’t practical, or effective. Yet here they were. He looked at Scott speculatively. “Not that I, as a prince, have been rescued before, but I’m curious as to why you chose morning to stage your attack, Scott? I believe these things are normally done under cover of night?”
“Yes Scott, tell the prince why you decided that,” Ada piped up from where she was rifling through the cart.
“For the ballads,” Scott mumbled.
“Pardon? What was that?” Ada asked, arms folded. Loth suspected it was to stop herself from leaping down from the cart and pushing Scott into the river.
“I said, it’s so it will sound dramatic in the ballads.” Scott cleared his throat. “As dawn's light broke so was our prince freed by the hero sounds much more impressive than by dark of night they snuck away. And it’ll stand out since there are hardly any ballads about dawn raids.”
“That's because nobody survives them,” Loth told Grub in an undertone. The boy nodded glumly, and for a moment Loth was thankful that there wasn’t really a lost prince, because if this was his rescue party, things were grim.
“And what was the other reason, Scott?” Ada asked. “The reason we took twice as long to get there as we should have?”
“I was given a defective map.”
Loth raised his eyebrows. “Pardon?”
“Completely inaccurate. Impossible to follow.”
“It had a lot of words on it,” Dave agreed. “And arrows.”
Grub rolled his eyes and wandered down the riverbank. Loth glanced at Ada.
“Yes, the arrows were pointing the wrong way,” Scott clarified.
“You mean you were holding it upside down,” Ada muttered.
Ah, so the basic map had stymied anyone of below average intelligence. Unfortunately, it appeared that was half the rescue party. It felt a little unkind to think badly of them when they had saved him from a dungeon. Still, Loth had a feeling that their success was more down to dumb luck than anything else—dumb being the operative word.
Loth took a moment to stretch his legs and arch his back—he really was getting too old to spend the night in shackles, at least without a safe word, once his back started to twinge. Not that he was old. He was just a little stiffer in the mornings than he had been as a teen, that was all. Why, he was barely out of his adolescence! Those weren’t crow’s feet appearing at the corners of his eyes. They were character lines, and Loth would stab anyone who said otherwise.
He glanced down the riverbank where Grub was standing at the edge of the water squinting rather unattractively into the sunlight. Loth strolled over to join him.
“Daydreaming about all the pretty horses, Grub?”
“Fuck off,” Grub said, scowling and scratching his nose.
“Oh, that’s right,” Loth remembered. “You have lice. Let me help you with that.”
And he put a hand on Grub’s back and pushed him into the river.
Grub yowled like a drowning cat as he broke the surface of the river, splashing and spluttering. “What the fuck did you do that for?”
“That’s no way to talk to your prince, Grub,” Loth said, as Grub waded through the reeds and hauled himself out onto the bank.
And—oh!—his wet rags clung to him like a second skin, and Loth felt a sudden jab of unease in his belly. It was an emotion he couldn’t name because he wasn’t sure he’d ever felt it before. Was it sympathy? Pity, even? Because the body that was revealed to Loth’s gaze was thin; too thin. Grub’s chest rose and fell as he glared at Loth, and Loth could see his wet shirt clinging to each individual rib. His hip bones jutted out like those of an old mule’s. A droplet of water chased down his throat and over his clavicle—a sight Loth was partial to in most circumstances—and Loth thought that he could have jabbed Grub in that dip and lost his finger up to the first knuckle.
Loth wasn’t usually lost for words.
More than that, he didn’t understand it. Loth had spent enough time in dungeons all around the kingdom—always a misunderstanding, of course—and the worst he’d had of it was burned porridge and stale bread. He’d never been starved.
Grub saw him staring and glared.
“Come now,” Loth said. “At least the lice will have floated away, hmm?”
“You’re an arsehole,” Grub snarled and stalked his way over to where the others were preparing breakfast. He dripped all the way.
Loth took the time to relieve himself in the bushes and splash cold water on his own face and hands. It was cold—freezing, in fact—and that tendril of unease in his gut curled a little tighter. It felt more like a knot now. It didn't help that when Loth joined the others a little way up the riverbank he saw that Grub was shivering.
Another emotion that Loth wasn’t familiar with stirred in his gut. He was fairly sure this one was guilt. He wasn’t a fan.
Almost against his will, he stepped closer, pulling off his cloak and thrusting it at the shaking boy. “Do wrap yourself up Grub, it’s making me cold just looking at you.” When Grub failed to take the cloak, instead staring at him with a furrowed brow, Loth shrugged and let it drop to the ground. “Suit yourself. But I warn you, if you get sick, we might just roll you into the reeds and leave you behind.” With that he strolled off, resisting the urge to turn back and wrap the boy in the fabric—that would imply he cared, which was ridiculous.
Scott followed him, holding out a plate. “Breakfast, M’Lord Prince Majesty?” He obviously had no idea of the correct way to address royalty.
Loth wasn’t quite certain either, but he didn’t let that stop him saying, “Just M’Lord is fine,” before taking the plate with a slight nod.
“Actually, it’s Your Grace.”
Loth whipped his head around at that, to find Grub giving him an exasperated look. He was wearing the cloak at least, and Loth tried not to be pleased about it. “And what would you know about it, horse boy?”
Grub glared at him. “Kings and queens are technically still princes and princesses but should be addressed as Your Highness or Your Majesty. Otherwise, it's Your Grace. M’Lord implies a lower echelon and should never be used with the heir to the throne. I thought you’d know that, Your Grace.”