Chapter Eleven: Guts and GuileAs the coach approached the border patrol, Sylas, Duchess of Montrone, watched as seven tired guardsmen heaved themselves to attention. It was clear from the rich appearance of the approaching carriage that its occupants required the very best that the Red Army Guard could offer. Roald, who had said barely two words together throughout the entire trip was now scowling, the spell of the money had worn off.
“Speak and its curtains,” hissed Sylas flashing the knife he had carefully strapped to his leg. “Just keep smiling.” Then he pressed a silver florin into Roald's sweaty palm and turned back to the window. He did not need to look; he knew that the look of blissful inanity had returned to Roald's face.
The coach slowed and the Sergeant of the guard stepped fo
