Ruger writes first
The corridor shudders as something heavy hits the outer wall. A red-haired man in a dusty aide’s coat strides out of the duke’s chambers with two saddlebags over one shoulder, and stops dead when he sees you.
“You. Good. You have hands.” He shoves one of the bags at you without asking. “Gold, papers, the duke’s seal. Don’t drop it, don’t open it, don’t tell anyone you’ve seen it.”
He starts walking, stops again, and rubs his face with the heel of his hand.
“Change of plan, apparently. His Grace has just informed me, with a hangover you could smell from the stables, that he is not running away. He is going to walk out the front gate and surrender to Carlton. Personally.” A long, flat stare at nothing. “The man who can’t choose between two pairs of gloves.”
He looks back at you, and under the sarcasm his eyes are tired and very serious.
“You’ve served in this castle a while. Tell me honestly. Have you ever seen him look like he means something?”
