At least he won’t make me sleep on the dirt.
While Dunnan searches I pull my shirt forward and jerk it down as low as it can go, trying to show off a little more skin. I never had to use such a tactic on Azmar. But I force him from my mind. If I want to help him, I need to wrap this soldier as tightly around my finger as possible. Get him to do me a favor or . . . something.
He finds the folded cot and pulls it into the lamplight. His gaze catches on my chest, lingering for a couple of heartbeats, before he sets the cot up against the far wall, the only place where there’s room.
I weave my hair through my fingers. “What rank are you?”
“Nothing impressive.” He gestures toward the cot and pulls out a length of fabric. I wonder if someone took the rope for something else. Or if he couldn’t find it.
Making a point of looking him up and down, I say, “That’s not true.” I do my best to saunter to the bed. I’ve never sauntered in my life.
His lip quirks. “Don’t be trouble, Miss Thellele.”
Matching his smile, I raise him a grin. “Call me Calia.”
I hate that name.
I sit on the cot, as close to him as I can. Cross one leg over the other and run my fingers from my knee to my hip. He watches. I’m glad the poor lighting hides any rookie mistakes I’m making.
“Wrists.”
Changing tactics, I try a pout instead and offer my wrists, leaning forward and squeezing my elbows together, trying again to emphasize my breasts. “Be gentle, Dunnan. I’m delicate.”
Looping the cloth around my wrists, he asks, “How do you know my name?”
Because my father called for you in front of me. But he doesn’t need to know that. “I’ve noticed you, is all.” That sounded right. Like something Finnie might say to a boy she liked. But in my memory, Finnie is fourteen years old. I need to be careful.
His eyebrow rises, or the shadows around it do. “Oh?” He ties a knot around my wrists. I stroke his collar. When he leans forward to loop it behind my back—and he definitely leans too close—I swallow a gag and nip at his ear.
He pulls back. “Miss Thellele.”
I run the inside of my foot up his calf, where he’s not armored. “Calia.”
“The general would not approve.”
“Of what?” I blink at him. I try a coy expression. Rub his calf some more. Worried that I’m playing too dumb, I add, “He’s not here.”
A bud of fear sprouts behind my navel. Please don’t do it. I could press a little fear into him if he does. Make him change his mind. As long as my father doesn’t find out. But Dunnan should naturally fear Ottius Thellele.
He crouches down to knot the binds around my ankles. His knuckle grazes the side of my knee and draws downward. When he’s finished, he plants his hands on either side of my hips. I fight the instinct to pull away. Pretend he’s Azmar. Pretend anything you have to.
I lean closer.
“Calia,” he says, a hint of tease in his voice. “The battle will be swift. Afterward”—he thumbs my chin—“we’ll talk.”
I want to laugh at him. Swift? And which side will make it swift? My mate could crack your skull in the crook of his elbow, and he’s only an engineer.
I smile at him. Try to figure something to say that won’t make him suspect me. With the job finished, he stands up and walks away, grabbing his lamp. He stops at the tent flap. I look up through my eyelashes at him. When he slips into the night, I let out a shaky breath.
I don’t have time for after. I need to know now.
Working my jaw, I flop over on the cot. Pause. Twist my hands, then my feet. Smile genuinely, this time.
My plan did work. Dunnan was so caught up in me he wasn’t focusing on the knots. They’re loose. With a little wiggling, I’m sure I can free myself.
And if my father stays up as late as he did the night I arrived, his tent will be empty for several hours yet.
I wait an hour. I feign sleep, gently tapping a finger against the inside of my arm to keep myself alert. I’m checked on once. I don’t turn to see if it’s Dunnan or not, but lamplight flashes outside the canvas and the tent flap shifts. No sign of guards after that, though one could be standing at my door. I’ll need to be as quiet as possible.
I twist one hand, then another, out of my binds. Sit up and gingerly work out my feet. It takes some effort. I’ll probably have a bruise on my left heel in the morning. Free, I pull the cot out and wedge myself between it and the tent wall, then work up one of the stakes from the dry ground. Pressing my head to the earth, I peer out into the darkness. Only a couple of campfires remain. I guess it’s nearing midnight.
Light emanates from the center tent, likely where my father meets with his men. I presume he sleeps on the other side, unless he’s somehow humbled himself over the last decade. I scoff. Wait several minutes, surveying, before slipping out. I wish my hair were dark. It feels like a beacon, despite the new moon.
Needing to avoid the front of my tent and the campfires, I tuck my hair into my shirt and pad toward the lit tent, readying excuses in case any guards spot me. But they’re murmuring to one another, heads turned away from me. Praise the stars. Behind the tent, I hear my father’s voice. I freeze, listening. He’s talking about disciplining men from Dorys. Not useful.
I sprint on my toes to the next tent. Don’t bother checking the door. I slip in by raising a stake and dragging myself across the dust.
I can barely perceive anything within. I stub my toe on a cot. Swallow my reaction and move forward. It’s simply furnished, which is to be expected for a traveling army. A cot and two tables take up the space, one narrow with an empty pitcher on it, and another in the center of the room with a drawer. I pull on the handle, but the drawer is locked. Cursing silently, I feel around for the keyhole—
Wait. I know this table. It sat in the front room of our house in Lucarpo. Though I can’t see it, I know its top has a floral painting and a lily is carved into its front left leg.
I also know how the lock works.
Ducking beneath the table, I feel for the back of the drawer, but my fingers are no longer slender enough to reach over its lip. Holding my breath, I scramble across the dirt, searching for a flat rock, anything that could slip in and throw the latch for me. I find a tiny sagebrush and twist off a branch. Return to the drawer and shove it up. The latch is a long metal hook that extends nearly to the back of the drawer. After four attempts, I throw it, then discard the evidence of my effort.
Papers fill the drawer to the brim. I pull a book out from the top and carry it to the canvas where the light is strongest. Squinting, I see it’s a book of pressed plants. A record of what grows where.