All The King's-Men (The Yellow Hoods, #3) by Adam Dreece

weaknesses.
    Simon smiled sinisterly. “If I’d wanted to kill you, you’d never have seen it coming. You would’ve been getting off your horse and then BOOM, nothing but bits of mess. No, I was given a challenge and I decided to see just how subtly I could do it.”
    “Subtle isn’t usually your style,” Abeland started coughing profusely.
    “Ah,” said Simon, pointing at Abeland with an eyebrow cocked. “See, by my calculations, right now your lungs have lost more than half of their capacity. In another minute or two, it’ll be nearly nothing.”
    Abeland felt his legs turn to jelly as his chest hardened. He knew the feeling all too well. It had been his single greatest secret over the past couple of years. 
    Simon grinned as Abeland fell on all fours. “Pollen. Not guns, not spears, not even machines of serious imagination. It’s poetic, really. They are the seeds of your destruction. 
    “I had to have one of the servants steal a couple vials of your homemade medicine in order to figure out just how much pollen, and what types I needed to completely overwhelm you. It seems I owe him a bonus.”
    Abeland blacked out.

CHAPTER SIX

The Pointy Stick Inn
     
    Nikolas yawned as the carriage door opened. It was nearly midnight. One of Marcus’ soldiers stood with a lantern, holding the door. The light cut a path in the night between the carriage and the inn. Nikolas was hungry and looking forward to a warm meal and a decent bed. It had been a whirlwind day.
    Marcus stepped out the door of the double-length carriage’s front section. He’d been working for the past several hours. They’d stopped twice in seemingly strange places. Nikolas had made a point of not paying attention. He knew what was going on, but the less he was seen witnessing, the better for him, he figured.
    Despite the late hour, and the remote location, the Pointy Stick Inn was bustling with well-armed men and women inside and out. Nikolas didn’t recognize their colors.
    A few of Marcus’ soldiers remained to guard the carriage and horses, while the rest huddled around Marcus. 
    As he gave them instructions, Nikolas wandered off, taking in the sweet spring air. It was different here; more humid and warmer than back in Minette. It reminded him of home.
    “Where are you going?” asked a gruff voice.
    Nikolas slowly turned, his hands clasped together behind his back. “I am appreciating the night and the opportunity to stretch my legs. It is good to move about. It allows the mind to move in concert with the body once again, yes?”
    The soldier was one of Marcus’ scouts and clearly didn’t like what he’d heard. He was wearing gray leather armor, and had a crossbow on his back. His belt held a dagger and a shiny pistol.
    Nikolas hunched over, exaggerating his old man status. The moonlight bounced off his bald head. “Why do you have that?” he asked, pointing to the interesting firearm.
    The soldier tried to grab Nikolas by the arm, but Nikolas nimbly sidestepped him, nearly making the younger man tumble to the ground. 
    Nikolas leaned in to examine the pistol. “That’s not a flintlock. That’s new… very new. Why would you have one like that?” he wondered aloud, reaching for it.
    The soldier cursed and went to grab Nikolas more forcefully. Nikolas turned, leaving his foot strategically placed, and watched as the soldier fell on his face.
    Some of the patrons started laughing and clapping. “Nice one, old man!” yelled someone.
    “What’s the problem?” asked Marcus in a sharp and stern voice, walking up to them.
    Nikolas showed Marcus the pistol he’d taken from the soldier as he’d fallen. “Why does he have such a pistol? Its newness is… unexpected, yes?”
    Marcus squinted at the pistol in the moon-and-torch light. He glared at the soldier as he scrambled to his feet, face red with anger and embarrassment. 
    “Tell me where you got this,” demanded Marcus.
    The soldier shifted his angry gaze between Marcus