Starsinger

Missing

Malcolm's carriage rumbled along the road, bouncing through every dip and divet. He should have been grateful the road home from Opham Conservatory was still dry this far into autumn, but the persistent bouncing set his teeth on edge.

It had already been a long day. He had arrived in the hilly wasteland that was Opham just that morning and spent every daylight hour locked in frustrating discussions in the Conservatory's chamber meeting. Malcolm seethed at the memories. It didn't seem to matter that he served on the King's Council, or that he was wealthier than all the rest of them, the High Scholars and nobility that governed Opham never treated him with the deference he was entitled to. His was a family without a fief, a noble name with no land, appointed to the Opham Conservatory's chamber when no other local nobility could be found to fill the slot. An opportunity he'd carefully orchestrated, of course. Nothing in this life is free.

But he'd seen what he needed to see: the princess was not in Opham. None of the bioscholars seemed to have any idea where she was. Malcolm had his hirelings comb every inch of road and forest between Mercali and the Conservatory and chase after every nonsensical clue they could gather from the kaleidoscope of contradictory sensations the amber shards had begun sending, to no avail. The road was empty, the amberglass was pure misdirection. His quarry had disappeared.

Malcolm tore off his stiff neck tie and flung it across the velvet-lined box. His assistant ducked to avoid being hit in the face.

"Milord?" the assistant piped up.

"Send for Leopold," Malcolm barked. "He's caroused quite enough for one summer. I want my son home before the roads close."

"At once, Lord Malcolm."

At once. If only the rest of it were that simple. If only he could order the capture of the princess and her team as easily as he ordered his carriage, or a letter sent, or a new doublet. A whole realm of assistants ready to cater to his needs.

Malcolm sat up straight. Oh. Now there's a thought. Perhaps there was an easier way. Perhaps, this once, the realm could serve him.

"Have another letter drafted," he told his assistant. "A copy sent to every one of my agents, with instructions to share as widely as possible. I want this news discussed in every pub and eatinghouse, in every fief and hovel, from the Teeth to the Eastern Sea. Tell them they must maintain the strictest discretion. Never shall they allow this news to be tied back to me or this family in any way."

"Of course, milord." The assistant produced a thin ink quill from his pocket and opened the book he used for dictation. "What should the letter say?"

Lord Malcolm smiled. "Tell them the princess is missing."