Page 71 of Morfran, Dark Lord Reformed

“No,” he murmured, gaping at it. “It’s more. It’s more special.”

Glad relief replaced her nervous gaze, and she let out a laugh. “Why do you look panicked—”

He didn’t know what happened. One moment he was staring down at her. The next he was embracing her, his free arm thrown over her shoulder, clutching her tightly against him. She smelled inexplicably like wildflowers again, and she was warm and soft and perfect, so perfect he didn’t deserve it, didn’t deserve her.

He hugged her tighter. No, no, no. Of course he was falling in love with an assassin who wanted to kill him. Of course. But even knowing that, if he pulled away now he would kiss her. Damn it, he would kiss her, and then what would happen?

He’d want to stay, that’s what. And if he stayed, it was inevitable she’d find out. Whether on her own, from Ravana, or from a thousand other ways. He wouldn’t survive her.

“Bernard?” she murmured. “Are you all right? You’re shaking.”

He pulled back, avoiding her eyes, rubbing his mouth with his free hand. “Thank you,” he managed to force out. “This sword—it’s— You—”

She was waiting patiently for him to get out what he wanted to say, the same way he waited for her when her hex made her stumble over her words. And she was starting to eye his lips.

Now he really had to leave.

“You’re the best of them, you know that?” he said, and then he fled, light-headed, dizzy, pleased, and above all, guilt-ridden.

25

The 64th Jam Convention of Warshire (and Public Execution of Thirty Rebels)

Before he deserted his position as Dark Lord of Ruthven™, Morfran considered the tri-city of Warshire his last defensive stronghold in case his grip on the kingdom fell.

As such, getting into the tri-city area of Warshire (which was composed of Warchester, Lestershire, and Mestershire) required that one approach the first gate of Lestershire and go through the lengthy, challenging process of getting past customs.

Of course, what one was required to show or do at customs ranged from simply stating your name and business to more rigorous tests such as reciting the alphabet backwards, touching your toes, being subject to having all your items randomly confiscated and sold at auction for Lord Morfran’s benefit, or promising to give them your firstborn child so long as it didn’t scream too loudly. It all depended on the moods of the customs agents that day.

The one thing that Morfran knew, however, was that what his custom agents hated more than anything or anyone else in the world…was an idiot.

Enter Hugh.

Morfran could imagine him now, coming up the road to Lestershire, a lone man seated in a cart pulled by oxen, followed by carts pulled by even more oxen. All the carts would be stocked full of barrels, each one large enough to hide a grown, armored man and his weapon of choice inside it with ease.

Hugh would be slouched in the front cart seat, plucking away on the lute with skills less serviceable than Toothless Pete’s, his clothes stinking like a blown-out diaper, and next to him would be a baby basket from which inexplicable clucking would spontaneously arise.

He’d join the line—public executions tended to bring out the masses—and wait for the next customs agent. Eventually, however, Hugh and his fourteen carts would be next in line, and the available agent would wave him forward to scan him in. And that’s where The Plan was most crucial to get right, and most likely to fail.

“Oy!” the custom agent shouted over Hugh’s damnable racket. From the sounds of it, he was making his way away from the gate entrance to get closer to Hugh. “I said, oy! Don’t you know what oy means?”

“Pardon.” Hugh stopped playing. “I thought you was singing, I did. Lots of folk likes to sing to my songs, they does.”

“Good goats.” The custom agent began coughing. “You reek.”

“It’s just my moisturizer from my mornin’ skin routine.”

“Smells like you smeared yourself in cow dung.”

Hugh sounded surprised. “You use cow dung, too? Here I’d think I was the only one. It’s the best of moisturizer out there, y’know, it just exfoliates and closes out the pores just grandly. Here, feel my cheek. Feel how soft it is—”

“I ain’t touching you!”

“Oy!” A second voice rose from the gate entrance. “What’s the holdu—”

An atrocious noise that sounded like a badger’s death cry arose, followed by Hugh’s singing.

Oy, oy, this’s me toy,