CHAPTER 571: THE PRINCE AND HIS DISFUNCTION (END)

The lower quarter always smelled like someone had boiled bad decisions and poured them into the gutters.

Lyan and Will limped through it anyway.

"Well," Will muttered, one hand on his ribs, the other rubbing at a bruised jaw. "I can safely say I’ve discovered muscles I never wanted to meet. Everything hurts. My everything has an everything."

"That," Lyan said, cloak shifting around his shoulders as he walked, "is what ’controlled violence’ looks like."

Will shot him a flat look. "That tavern was about as controlled as a stable fire."

"You picked the place," Lyan replied. "You said, and I quote, ’somewhere honest, where people hit back.’"

"I wanted to punch something, not discover gravity three times with my face." Will winced as his boot scuffed a loose cobble. "And my ribs. And my pride. And possibly my soul."

Their footsteps echoed between leaning buildings as they moved deeper into the lower quarter. The street here was narrower, hemmed in by shuttered storefronts and crooked signs. Extra lanterns burned along the eaves, pools of yellow light that did more to sharpen the shadows than soften them.

Lyan noted the details with a soldier’s eye. The lamps were spaced wrong—not for travelers, but for watchers. A pair of closed stalls looked too neat, too intact, as if no one dared rob them. There were no city guards in sight.

"This," he said quietly, "is the part of town where people don’t disappear. They’re just never mentioned again."

"Wonderful," Will muttered. "Let’s trust my genitals to this district."

Lyan’s mouth twitched. "On the positive side, if something goes wrong, we’ll have a variety of witnesses from the criminal element."

"That is not the comfort you think it is." Will hunched his shoulders deeper into his cloak and squinted ahead. "There. That’s the door, isn’t it?"

The apothecary’s sign was tasteful, which was already suspicious. A small wooden plaque with a mortar and pestle painted in dark green, hanging from a quiet iron bracket. The windows were shuttered from the inside, but a thin line of warm light spilled around the frame.

Will started toward it, but Lyan caught his sleeve.

"Wait," Lyan said.

"What now?"

"That shop is rumored to belong to the Gilded Morrow."

Will blinked. "The what?"

"Underground syndicate. Smuggling, quiet extortion, clean books." Lyan’s voice stayed mild, but his eyes stayed on the door. "Too careful for the crown to nail them. No proof, only whispers and missing ledgers."

Will stared at the sign, then at Lyan. "And you decide to mention this now?"

"You decided to send me an urgent letter about your erectile dysfunction," Lyan said. "This is already not the usual kind of statecraft. We adapt."

Will made a strangled noise. "You cannot say that out loud in public."

"No one here cares," Lyan said. "But some of them might care that the Crown Prince is walking directly into a syndicate’s front with his shirt half open."

Will tugged the laces at his throat, scowling. "Fine. So we wear hoods and mutter. Happy?"

"We do more than that." Lyan’s hand left his sleeve and moved to his shoulder, turning him slightly toward the mouth of a nearby alley. "We are not Lord Evocatore and His Highness tonight. We are people who can walk away if this becomes stupid. So we need covers."

Will planted his feet. "I am not hiding my beauty under some flea-bitten rag."

"Your beauty is exactly the problem," Lyan said. "You glow when you’re annoyed. That’s not helpful."

"It’s a noble glow," Will protested. "It cannot be suppressed."

Lyan looked at him for a long, tired moment. Then he reached under his own cloak, produced a rough, hooded mantle that looked like it had come out of the losing end of a fight with a wagon wheel, and dumped it over Will’s head.

Will spluttered as coarse fabric swallowed his hair and shoulders. "Hey—"

"Congratulations," Lyan said. "You are now thirty-seven percent less obvious."

"This smells like someone stored onions in it."

"Consider it character building."

(He does look more like a bandit now.)

Cynthia’s amused warmth brushed the back of Lyan’s mind.

(Or a runaway servant.)

Griselda’s lightning-quick scoff followed.

(At least he is less radiant. The district was almost reflective.)

Eira’s cool tone slipped in like a draft under a door.

Lyan ignored them all and nudged Will toward the alley.

"Come on," he said. "We rehearse where fewer people can hear you ruin everything."

"I am perfectly capable of lying," Will grumbled as he stumbled after him. "I do it every time I pretend to enjoy council meetings."

"That is the part I’m worried about," Lyan said.

The alley was narrow and damp, the smell of stone and old rain tucked in the walls. A stray cat regarded them from atop a broken crate, then decided they were unimportant and resumed cleaning its paw.

Lyan turned to face Will, arms folded. "All right. Covers. You are Milo Thatch."

Will squinted. "I am what?"

"A mid-tier traveling merchant dealing in rare herbs and stamina tonics," Lyan said. "You work the border roads. You are ambitious, but not very bright. You pay your taxes late."

Will’s mouth fell open. "Why am I Milo? Milo sounds like a man who loses arguments with his own donkey."

"Exactly," Lyan said. "Harmless. Forgettable. The kind of man who can buy things from shady apothecaries and disappear into the road dust."

"And you?" Will demanded.

"I am Roderik," Lyan said. "Your bodyguard. Ex-mercenary. I do the glaring and the counting. You do the talking."

"I should be the one called Roderik," Will muttered. "Milo Thatch. Gods. What next, do you want me to limp pathetically and talk about my bunions?"

"If it helps, yes," Lyan said. "Now. The script."

Will rolled his eyes, but listened.

"We’re here," Lyan said, "to ’diversify our stock’ with high-demand potions. We have clients—rich idiots—who want strong results, discreetly. We heard the Gilded Morrow’s apothecary has the strongest stuff. We are willing to pay, but we need proof the product works."

"Fine," Will said. "Simple. Straightforward. I can do that."

"No real names," Lyan said. "No royal references. No mention of your... condition. We call it ’performance reliability.’"

Will made a face. "That sounds like I’m buying parts for a wagon."

"That is the point. No one will snicker to your face."

From somewhere in the back of his mind, Lilith’s voice slinked in, amused and rich.

(Performance reliability. You do find the most adorable euphemisms, Master.)

Azelia giggled.

(Like when you called that forest ’logistically dense’ because you were lost.)

Arturia huffed, embarrassed even by implication.

(This entire conversation is... indecent. At least attempt to maintain knightly decorum of phrasing.)

Cynthia, of course, sounded delighted.

(Oh, I don’t know. I find noble men whispering about their... reliability... rather charming.)

Lyan patched over the background noise of spirits with practice and focused on Will.

"Repeat it back to me," he said.

Will straightened, puffed out his chest under the shabby cloak, and adopted what he clearly thought was a humble-merchant voice. It sounded exactly like himself, only slower.

"We are here," Will intoned, "to diversify our stock with high-demand potions for rich idiots, and we have heard of your excellent performance-reliability solutions, and we wish to exchange coin for mutually beneficial—"

"Stop," Lyan said. "You sound like you swallowed a grant proposal."

Will scowled. "You said not to improvise. I am not improvising."

"Speak like a man who owns a donkey, not a council chamber," Lyan said. "Shorter sentences. Fewer syllables. Less smug."

"I am not smug," Will said, automatically smug.

"Remember," Lyan said, "you are a mediocre merchant. Be mediocre."

Will sighed dramatically. "Fine. Milo Thatch. Mediocre as a damp crust of bread. I lost my previous shipment to jealous rivals, my donkey ran away with my wife, and all I have left is a dream and lower back pain."

Lyan stared at him. "Where did the wife come from."

"It adds depth," Will said.

"Remove the wife," Lyan said. "Remove the donkey drama. You’re here for potions, not sympathy."

"You are stifling my art," Will grumbled.

"You improvising is how we ended up punching seven bandits and a man who only wanted to finish his stew," Lyan reminded him.

"He insulted my reach," Will said. "That was personal."

Lyan shut his eyes briefly.

(Honestly. They are both children.)

Eira’s voice was cool and unimpressed.

(His covers truly are terrible.)

Hestia’s warm, haughty tone chimed in.

(If you let me, I could negotiate this entire matter in ten sentences and walk away with half their stock for free.)

Sylphia whispered at the edge, hesitant.

(U-um... m-maybe just let him talk? If he fails we can... run?)

"We are not running yet," Lyan muttered.

Will squinted. "Talking to the spirits?" he joked.

"Yes, my ancestors. Wishing myself somewhere quieter," Lyan said. "All right. One more time. No wives. No donkeys. Just potions."

They went through it twice more until Milo Thatch sounded at least like someone whose greatest ambition was not to strangle a noble in a velvet chair, and then Lyan jerked his chin toward the mouth of the alley.

"Ready?"

"As I’ll ever be," Will said. He adjusted the hood to hide more of his hair. "Let’s go buy my dignity."