By Divine Right Page 9

  I could almost imagine I heard the strains of music starting in Laidir’s court far above us. “I have to get to the chamberlain.”

  Jeb nodded. “Yes. I imagine you do.”

  Chapter 10

  One level down from Laidir’s court, I ran through the hall of heroes, flashing past the panoply of weapons and armor that depicted the history of Collum in iron and blood. I’d visited the hall often as a boy, my childish eyes and mind filled with notions of desperate glory and valor. Now the remnants and implements of men and women whose more sane choices had been taken away flew past me.

  I came up to the topmost floor of Laidir’s tor with my head tilted down in the manner of a servant but my eyes searching everywhere for the duke’s men. When I came to the massive double doors that marked the entrance to the king’s court, I turned to the left, circling around toward the kitchens and servants’ quarters.

  Strains of music drifted to me, and I prayed I would be in time. Turning a corner at a run, I nearly crashed into the court chamberlain.

  “Your pardon,” I said. I tried to shuffle past him, tried to ignore the way his face went florid at the sight of me, but he threw out a hand that could have doubled as a mace and brought me to a stop.

  “My debt to Jeb is paid.” His tone tried to compete with his face. “If I see you again in the king’s court, I’ll whip you myself.”

  A wide space in the bustle had cleared around us. The servants treated the chamberlain’s temper the same as the reeves treated Jeb’s. I stepped in close to whisper. “I’m a fool to come back here.”

  His brows lifted, and I took the opportunity to pull my arm free. “I saw something the duke needs to keep hidden. My life is forfeit. Why would I come back?”

  The chamberlain frowned, trying to piece together the nonsense of my arguments. I made it easier for him. “What oath does every servant in the tor recite?”

  The chamberlain’s arms hung at his side, no longer threatening. “To serve the king.”

  I pointed to the far corner of the room, where a neatly folded stack of servant’s garb stood waiting. “You know Jeb. He hates getting involved in other people’s affairs.” I couldn’t help but laugh. “He hates other people.”

  I saw the chamberlain almost smile then I saw him make the mental connection. He nodded toward the garments. “They’ll be serving the wine any second.”

  “Don’t let the king drink anything tonight,” I said. “Nothing.”

  I winced as I lifted my arms and forced them through the vest. A slow, warm trickle worked its way down my back. “It’s just as well it’s red,” I said, but the chamberlain had already turned away.

  I lifted a large flagon brimming with blood red wine and made my way into the light and sound of Laidir’s court. Except for the fact that the nobles had changed clothes, I might have stepped into the previous night. Musicians of consummate skill still played for nobles who took their efforts for granted. Concentric circles of Collum’s most powerful danced in time to the music, coarse jests and laughter weaving discordant strains in counterpoint. Groups of nobles stood in attendance, no doubt plotting how they might contrive to rise a bit higher than the one who owned the title just above them.

  I tapped my left forearm against my side, taking comfort in the hard feel of the rondel, the feather-thin throwing dagger strapped against my skin. Despite the presence of steel, my hands shook, sloshing crimson onto the floor. Desperate to lower the level of wine in the flagon before coming into the duke’s presence, I searched out the nearest noble to serve. Another beating at his hand would prevent me from exposing him as effectively as a sword stroke.

  Hysterical laughter threatened to well up from some black humor within me. The king’s life might very well depend on how well I served the duke. No servant in his right mind would seek out the man who’d scourged him the night before, but my success depended upon it.

  The shifting crowd parted, like sand in an hourglass, and for a moment I caught a glimpse of lustrous hair gathered at the nape, revealing the delicate arch of a neck. Working my way in Lady Gael’s direction, I stopped to refresh the glasses of nobles along the way, careful to conserve enough wine to serve the duke, should he require it.

  Some part of my mind that I wanted to silence whispered to me, and I turned away, reminding myself I’d woken alone in Myle’s shop at dusk. Cynical suspicions again flooded through me, like a parade of unwelcome guests. Court politics were murky. If the duke became the power in the kingdom, who else would stand to gain?

  “Be quiet,” I said aloud.

  Several of the nobles turned toward me, and I ducked and bowed and shuffled away. “Fool,” I muttered. “How many times have you laughed at some idiot undone by a pretty face?” But the realization that I was the idiot twisted like a dagger thrust in my guts, and for a moment I felt so alone it was as if my family had died from the fever all over again.

  I tapped the blade against my forearm for comfort.

  A tug at my sleeve startled me and wine splattered the stones of the floor. I pressed my left arm against my side, as if the crowd might see the weapon I hid there.

  “Wine, if you please.”

  I knew that voice, knew that if I raised my glance I would see a perfect mouth shaping common speech into uncommon beauty. Rage burned across my vision at my foolishness.

  “At your service, my lady,” I said, but the servant’s monotone wouldn’t come and undercurrents of anger flowed through my voice. Then I looked up to meet her gaze. Nothing but curiosity and surprise showed in her eyes, and a smile just beginning to flee. Oh, she was good.

  “You should leave,” she said, taking a sip from her glass. “The duke has little tolerance for servants whose countenances are less than fawning.”

  Of course she would say that. I ducked my head and made a show of refilling her goblet. “You are perhaps surprised to see me here, my lady?” Accusation filled the spaces between the words of my question.

  “No.” Her voice hardened in answer to mine. “I knew you would come if you could.” She stepped closer. “You cannot hope to approach Orlan with your anger burning in your face, reeve. At the least he will send you to the chamberlain for discipline. ‘An angry neighbor is like vinegar to the teeth.’ Yes?” she asked.

  “Do not quote scripture to me,” I snarled. “I know it better. Were it not for the whims of nobles like you, I would have been a priest.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “Your anger is directed at me?”

  Fool! I’d let her presence distract me again. Now my behavior had given her reason to denounce me and have me removed. I bowed toward her wine glass and turned to move away. In my mind I took my heart in my hands and tore it to pieces.

  “You will remain until you are dismissed,” Lady Gael’s voice, unexpectedly loud, filled the space around us, and several nobles turned at the distraction. “Your success or failure is mine to grant or deny,” she whispered, stepping close. She gripped my arm as if she meant to wrestle the truth from me. “Explain yourself,” she added. “And do not think to dissemble with me, servant.”

  I swallowed, preparing myself for the worst necessity. If Lady Gael proved loyal to the duke, I would have to take my chances on an attack. Inwardly I sighed. Daggers against swords made for poor odds, and the stripes across my back would make it difficult to throw a dagger well. “I slept until dusk, my lady, and woke alone, on my own and by merest chance managed to return to the tor in time to serve.” I held her gaze with mine as if we were of equal station. “Merest chance,” I repeated.

  Her face and mouth, so wonderfully, so deceitfully expressive, hardened until they might have been carved from the most lifelike marble. “You accuse me? The alchemist’s art is less than exact, or did you not witness the signs of experimentation on his ceiling?”

  I wanted to believe her, but I treated that desire with all the distrust I could muster. The life of the king lay in my hands.

  My reply died on my tongue as I looked across the ro
om and saw a man in the customary dress of the castellan, a red vest surmounting black hose, standing next to the king. In his hand he held a large goblet, but while those around him drank, he made a show of raising the glass to his lips—a journey that was never quite completed. “Who is he?” I muttered to myself, but Gael picked up the question as if it were addressed to her.

  “The new castellan,” Gael said. “Of course, master servant, you have the option of believing me or not.”

  I ignored the barb, my attention focused on the king’s dais, where he sat next to the queen and his son, observing the festivities of his court. The duke would know what I’d just now realized. He couldn’t poison the king while the queen and prince were present. Even the fastest poison would allow the king to pass the gift onto his wife or son in full view of the crowd.

  I needed an ally, and the only possibility close to hand was a woman whose face made a shamble of my thoughts and emotions. And who owed her allegiance to the Orlan family.

  For the nine years I’d been a reeve, I’d honed my skill of discerning the truth from a man or woman based on what I learned of the minds of the people in the poor quarter. Lady Gael played a more subtle game than pickpockets or night women.

  “Why did you leave me on the floor of his shop?”

  She drew herself up until she appeared to gaze down at me, though we were equally matched in height. “Do I owe answers or allegiance to a servant?”

  For a moment something more than anger stirred in the depths of her eyes, a flicker and tightening that I would have characterized as hurt in one of common birth, but that was ridiculous and I mistrusted it. I’d seen enough of nobles in the king’s court to know they donned and shed emotions the way others did clothes, and her answer only served to strengthen my suspicion.

  Movement over Lady Gael’s shoulder caught my eye, and I partook of Jeb’s vocabulary. Queen Cailin and the prince had risen and were departing, the boy following his mother with the stubby jackleg strides of a toddler.

  “Why are they leaving?”

  Her gaze could have soured milk. “The boy is a child. You’re dense even for a man, master servant.”

  Enough. “The question didn’t require an answer, my lady.” I lowered my voice to a hiss. “I misspoke. What I meant to say was ‘Now that the king is alone, fast poison will keep him from passing his gift on to the child.’ Is that more to your liking? My lady?”

  I pulled the scrap of parchment from inside my tunic with Custos’s flowing script on in, waving it as though she already knew the contents. “Orlan has assembled all the gifts he needs. If the king dies without blessing the prince, his gift goes free and the duke will pass any test the clergy can pose. Confession or not, the duke must die.”

  She paled, her eyes and lips growing stark against the pallor of her skin, but I didn’t relent. My desperation didn’t allow it. “Without the queen and the prince at his side the king’s life is forfeit.”

  Chapter 11

  Outside, the last light of day faded and I saw the king rise to make his welcome. I breathed a sigh of relief at seeing his hands empty—I had a few moments yet to get to the duke. Musicians and singers temporarily halted their performances, and to one side I saw the juggler work his sleight of hand, his brightly colored balls disappearing from the air as if by magic despite the efforts of several children to distract him.

  I stopped, staring. What had I seen that night? What had I heard?

  Threading my way through the crowd, bowing my apologies as if I needed to refill my flagon, I made my way to the juggler’s perch. He stood on his balancing ball upon the small block of wood, his feet just above the level of my head. Up close, I could see past the distraction of his outfit to note he had the coloring of an Aillean.

  “Nobles all,” Laidir intoned from the far end of the hall, “be welcome at the end of day, and let our merriment defy the darkness that . . .”

  I tapped the juggler on the feet, offering him wine.

  Without flourish he dismounted to stand before me. I retrieved a goblet and filled it for him, but he only sipped it.

  “You are highly skilled, master juggler.” I bowed as if I might have offended him. “Are you titled?”

  Off his perch, he was shorter than I had expected, his eyes a full hand below mine. He shook his head. “No. While my talent is quite strong,” he said, lifting his hands in a self-deprecating gesture, “my gift is only partial. Since I’m too short to make a good soldier, I decided to become a juggler.”

  I shook my head. “I congratulate you on your fortune, then. There was little to enjoy in being a soldier in our last war.”

  He nodded, taking another small sip of wine, but saying nothing more.

  I took a deep breath. “Your ability to maintain your weave despite all the distractions is remarkable.”

  The juggler nodded, but I saw his eyes narrow. “It is practiced. There are times when a king’s court can be tumultuous, yah?”

  I ducked my head. “Forgive my presumption, master juggler, but in the midst of my embarrassment last night, I thought I heard the clatter of your daggers hitting the floor.” I straightened to meet his gaze. “I was wondering what you saw to make you lose your concentration?”

  He smiled at me. “No one else noticed my slip. You were more entertaining by far.”

  I rolled my shoulders and plastered a grin to my face. “I hope to avoid a repeat performance, but I doubt the sight of a clumsy servant getting scourged is unusual enough to distract you.”

  “See much, say little,” the juggler said in a singsong.

  I nodded my agreement. “Words to live by, but who listens to a servant?” I reached beneath the vest to where I’d hidden the purse Laidir had given me and pulled it loose. Opening it I withdrew a coin . . . and nearly dropped it when I saw the color of gold.

  Fear and greed warred with each other on the servant’s face. “Who are you?”

  “The king’s reeve,” I said, pushing the coin into his hand.

  The coin disappeared, and he smiled at me. “You shouldn’t surrender your coin, master reeve, before you get what you’re after.”

  I let my expression mirror his. “I feel confident you’ll answer my question.”

  His smile grew mocking. “Why so?”

  I watched his eyes follow the king’s purse as I tucked it away. If the rest of the coins in it held the same hue as the first, I wanted nothing more than to return it as quickly as possible. Gold in the hands of a commoner brought danger, and I already owned more than my share. “Because if you don’t, I won’t give you any more.”

  “I won’t be able to come back here, ever,” he said.

  “With two gold crowns, you won’t have to.” Behind me, Laidir raised his hands, signaling the end of his welcome. “Now quickly, what did you see?”

  No one stood within ten paces of us, but even so, the juggler moved closer. “I saw someone with a gift.” He licked his lips and swallowed as if he’d just confessed to murder.

  “Nearly every noble in here has a gift,” I said.

  “You know what I mean, master servant. You threw it.”

  I nodded. “The duke caught the flagon.”

  The juggler shook his head. “No. It landed in his hand.”

  “What?”

  As if gold had opened a sluice gate, his admission poured from him. “No amount of practice would make me confident enough to perform a trick like that.”

  “Curse you,” I growled. “What trick?”

  His eyes widened as my ignorance became plain and I saw him take two breaths in succession. “The duke’s brother struck the flagon, deflecting and spinning it so that the handle came to rest in the duke’s hand.”

  What had I seen? “Luck?”

  He shook his head. “You’re gnath, yah?” he asked. But he didn’t wait for an answer. “My gift is just partial, but the intersection of it with my talent allows me to see what others miss.” He held up a hand and without seeming to move a dagger a
ppeared in it. “The marquis didn’t just slap the flagon with his fingers, changing its direction, and spin so that it landed in the duke’s hand,” he said. “He misdirected with the other hand, jerking his goblet to draw attention so that no one would notice what he’d done.” He shook his head in disbelief. “The duke never moved.”

  I dug into the king’s purse and pressed another gold coin into the juggler’s hand so that no one else in the hall could see. Without a word, he left his blocks and ball and departed.

  The strains of music drew my attention back to the throne room, sounds that faded a moment later as the pulse of my heartbeat roared through my ears. On the king’s dais, a servant detached himself from the shadows, a man twin to the hired blade who had followed Custos and me from the library, were it not for the horizontal scar on his forehead.

  I stepped through the crowd unmindful of any I bumped, searching in vain for the chamberlain. Jeb’s friend was nowhere to be seen. Aer in heaven, had I been discovered? Weaving through the press of nobles in their finery, I struggled to intercept Laidir’s killer as he approached the king. Those eight paces were all that separated him from death.

  “Servant!” A man stepped into my path, his goblet thrust at me.

  Six paces.

  I looked up to see one of Orlan’s men, his face leering and his eyes filled with the knowledge of who I was.

  Four paces.

  I tossed the flagon at him and stepped to one side, drawing the dagger from its sheath in my boot. The moment I threw it, my life was forfeit.

  But even if I missed, the king might live the night. Three paces. I cocked my arm and prayed I didn’t hit Laidir by mistake. The stitches along my back broke loose, and I gasped in pain as the blade flew from my hand.

  “MURDER!”

  The court froze at Lady Gael’s scream.

  I watched my dagger tumble end over end toward the assassin. The king’s guards saw the flash of reflected light and put a ring of flesh and steel around Laidir. To his left, the man with the scar ducked, the dagger flying over his head by a hand’s breadth.