War of the Princes 02: Dragoon by A. R. Ivanovich Page B

thought for a moment. “Yes, I believe that would cause quite a stir. You'll need a plan, and a good one. I can pass you off as a Historian. It's the perfect cover. I'll teach you what to do. If we meet any soldiers, they will treat you with respect, especially if you're in my company. We can do it.”
    Skeptical didn't even begin to describe me. “A historian?”
    “ Trust me, it will work,” he insisted.
    I gave him a sidelong look that provoked him.
    “Or don't trust me, but it'll still work.”
    He was as desperate as a man drowning. I could see it in his eyes. Was it enough to influence him to do good? Maybe a second chance was what he needed. Year long solitude in prison didn't count for nothing.
    What was I thinking? He was a manipulative liar who'd do anything to save his own skin.
    “I can't,” I said squeezing my eyes shut and shaking my head.
    “ You need me,” he implored, shuffling to his feet.
    What I really needed was a boat, and I wouldn't get one without Brendon Axton's help. I could make an appeal for Ruby’s release, turn around, head home.
    And leave Paperglass here to die.
    If Prince Raserion made her talk, he'd find Haven. Eddie Elm's prediction would come true. Could I be satisfied with the hopes that she could get home herself? Eddie hadn't thought so. It was bad. My odds with Dylan were better than the alternative.
    “ Gravity, I hate this,” I groaned, fighting off the bad feeling devouring the pit of my stomach. I knew it was a stupid choice, but I simply couldn't see any other way.
    I could get a job at the docks. Spend the next six months trying to save enough money to buy a rowboat, be tossed overboard by waves and eaten by giant bloodthirsty fish.
    The seaworthy vessels were steam ships and some of them hovered several feet above the water. Even if I managed to steal one, I probably couldn't drive it. Not to mention, I'd make an enemy of Lord Brendon and have a hell of a time getting past Breakwater and back home on the return trip.
    “I can't believe I'm actually saying this. You're in. I'm not going to ask you to promise me anything, because I wouldn't believe you anyway, but there is one hitch.”
    “Oh?”
    “ I have a condition of my own,” I said pulling the shiny leather satchel from where it was slung over my back. “I’m going to neutralize your Abilities.”
    “What?”
    “It will only be for a short time.”
    “Small consolation!” he cried out.
    “I’m afraid it’s non-negotiable.” I snapped the case open, fished out a paper packet of gunpowder, and produced the sleek flintlock pistol. After pausing to think, I chanted a memorized phrase. “Powder, paper, bullet, paper.”
    He straightened to his full height. “What are you going to do with that?”
    “ Shoot you,” I said, tearing the packet open and pouring the gunpowder vertically down the throat of the barrel.
    “ Not so much of that!” he hissed, looking horribly disturbed. “Neutralize? So this is an execution?”
    “ You know, I kind of wish it was,” I said, pursing my lips together. “The bullets dissolve. Just think of it as an inoculation. It's just going to sting a little... I think.”
    “ I object to this!” he said, his chin lifting with pride. “I could stop you.”
    He certainly could. I glared at him. “Yeah. You could Command me to stop, or you could lift the pistol out of my hand, but if you do, you'll end up losing to yourself at card games until you mature into a dashing young skeleton.”
    Dylan frowned at me, and I couldn't care less.
    I tore a chunk of the paper packet, crumpled it, and stuffed it down the barrel. Next, I carefully picked a single round bullet from the ammunition pouch. It was a strange thing, a perfect sphere of incredibly hard yellow gel. I popped it down the tube, followed by a smaller wad of packet paper.
    “ I thought you people were peaceful,” he complained.
    “ Marksmanship is a sport,” I said, loosing the ramrod from its position below the