Smart little beast, Loth thought, and promptly covered his mistake with an insult. “Listen to you. Been hanging around the royal stables, have you? Eavesdropping while you wrapped your hands around a great big horse—”
“Shut up!” Grub spat out. “You don’t know anything!”
“Shouldn’t that be you don’t know anything, Your Grace?” Loth asked smoothly. For a split second, watching the way the boy’s fists were clenched at his sides, quivering with rage, Loth wondered if he’d gone too far, but then Grub’s shoulders slumped, all the fight leaving him at once.
Grub grabbed his plate, turned his back on Loth and started to eat, attacking his meal like, well. A starving man.
It was then that Loth noticed that Grub’s plate held far less than his own did. “Where’s the rest of your meal?” he demanded.
It was Ada who answered. “We weren't expecting to feed two extra bodies. That’s all there is. And Scott insisted that as royalty,” she gave Loth a narrow look, “you get the most.”
Loth’s gut did that squirming thing again. He looked at his own meal and privately mourned his loss. “There’s far too much cheese here. It doesn’t agree with my royal disposition,” he said through gritted teeth, “and the cured meats seem very pedestrian. I can’t possibly eat this.”
He took a slab of bread and one slice of ham (the thickest one, naturally), and set the rest down next to Grub. “You may as well have it since it seems you’re not picky.”
Grub glared at him again, and then bent over the plate like a dog afraid someone was going to steal its bone. He was still shivering, and the squirming in Loth’s gut refused to go away, quite spoiling his appetite. He rolled his eyes and unwound his scarf from his throat. “Here,” he said, dropping it onto Grub’s shoulder. “I expect it back once you’re dry. Do try not to leave any dirty marks on it.”
Grub promptly grabbed at the scarf with greasy hands and left dirty marks on it. Loth opened his mouth to object, but closed it again when he took in the way the boy was quick to wrap the scarf twice, thrice around his pencil-thin neck. He almost missed the muttered, too quiet, “Thanks.”
Almost.
“You’re welcome,” he declared loudly. “What kind of prince would I be if I didn’t take care of my subjects? Even the lowliest of petty criminals like poor Grub here?”
Grub actually hissed like an angry cat at that, and Loth allowed himself a smile. At least teasing the grubby little monster had chased away that awful, possibly sympathy emotion, which was the point of the exercise. If Loth were to start feeling bad just because he took advantage of someone, where would it end? With him unemployed, that’s where—pickpockets didn’t build a successful career on being decent human beings.
And he was successful, the odd arrest notwithstanding. But maybe, he reflected, he could use this to his advantage, take a break from looking over his shoulder with every dip and snatch. His rescuers were, for the most part, thicker than treacle, although he’d have to watch Ada. If he could successfully string them along (and he could, he had no doubt), there was no reason he couldn’t have a nice easy ride to the capital, fed and watered and pampered like a prince every step of the way. Once there, he decided, he’d make the dramatic revelation that Grub was the prince after all, and that he’d only been playing the part to protect Grub from possible attackers. Grub would play along, surely—his other option was to be sent back to his cell, and Loth doubted he’d want that. The story sounded far-fetched even to his own ears, true, but with enough dramatic flair he was sure he could pull it off, and that was one thing Loth had never been accused of lacking. Morals, yes. A conscience? Definitely didn't have one of those. But flair? That, he had in spades.
Anyway, Grub would only have to pretend long enough for Loth to make a swift escape into the crowded streets of Callier, and Loth was sure that even he could remember to stand up straight and look imperious for a few minutes.
Maybe, once he’d ditched these idiots, Loth would dye his hair again—blonde this time—and see if they really did have more fun. Perhaps he’d keep his hands out of people’s pockets and slip them into their breeches instead and make his coin that way for a while. It was far less hazardous, and he did so enjoy it.
He pondered quietly as the others ate and packed up, not offering to help. He was meant to be royalty after all, and he’d never heard of a prince who’d lift a finger unless it was for his own benefit. Once the work was done, he mounted his horse and slapped the saddle. “Hurry up, Grub. I know you’re not used to using a horse for its intended purpose, but we have a lot of ground to cover to get to Callier.”
“No.”
“Pardon?” Loth arched one eyebrow in an expression that was part incredulity, part intimidation. It was a good look. He’d practised it in the mirror, and it never failed to get him his own way.
It didn't seem to work on Grub, though. He arched an eyebrow of his own, suddenly exuding confidence and, dare Loth say it, authority. “I want to sit up front. I haven’t escaped that prison after five—after a long time, only to be stuck looking at the back of your neck.”
“Excuse me, it’s a very nice neck!” Loth said, affronted. It was, too. Thick and muscular, he’d call it one of his best assets, except he had so many others to choose from.
“That’s as may be, but I still don’t want to stare at it for the next—” Grub stopped, turned to Scott. “How long will the trip to Callier take, exactly? Are we going through the mountain pass?”
Scott cleared his throat and said, “Uh,” before casting a helpless glance at Ada.
“If we take the mountain pass? Six days, maybe eight if the weather’s bad.”
“Six days,” Scott repeated, as if anyone needed to hear it again.
Loth cast an eye doubtfully at their small cart of supplies. “Forgive me for saying, but we aren't equipped for a trip that long. We’ll starve.” One of us is halfway there, he added to himself.
Scott’s expression brightened. “Oh no, there are places along the way. Ser Factor sent me a list. We stop and gather our supplies, and they let him know we’re still safe.”
“Ser... Factor?” Loth had a working knowledge of the kingdom's noble houses—it made it easier to pick a target when he chose to do an actual burglary—but he’d never heard of Ser Factor. “And who might that be?”
“He’s your glorious rescuer. Well, I’m the real rescuer,” Scott clarified, just in case anyone had forgotten he was supposed to be the hero, “but he’s the one holding the purse strings.”
Loth’s brow furrowed. Perhaps this Factor person was one of the new nobility that Doom had knighted in return for their support when he took the throne? He tucked the information away to ponder over later.
“Anyway. I’ll be taking the front of the horse,” Grub insisted.
“Make a change from you taking the back of one.” Loth said airily as he dismounted. He watched as Grub struggled to pull himself into the saddle, and when it looked like he wouldn’t quite make it, Loth gave a helpful shove.
Grub landed in the saddle with a solid thunk and let out an outraged yelp. “Don’t you dare put your hands on me!” he hissed, and Loth was eerily reminded of every spoiled palace brat he’d ever come across.