“Now that Mistress Duryan has arrived,” she said, with a smile at Ead, “perhaps we can begin.”
Crest had the same fine bone structure and azure eyes as her granddaughter, Roslain—though her hair, frizzled at the temples, had long since turned silver. Small lines were notched around her lips, which were nearly as pale as the rest of her face.
“Indeed,” Lady Nelda Stillwater said. The Duchess of Courage was a full-figured woman, with skin of a deep brown and a head of dark curls. A carcanet of rubies glistered around her neck. “Mistress Duryan, a man was found dead at the threshold of the Great Bedchamber the night before last. He was holding an Yscali-made dagger.”
A parrying dagger, specifically. In duels, they were used in place of a shield, to protect and defend the wielder, but they could also kill. Each cutthroat had carried one.
“It seems he meant to kill Her Majesty,” Stillwater said, “but was himself killed.”
“Terrible,” the Duke of Generosity muttered. Lord Ritshard Eller, at least ninety, wore thick furs even in summer. From what Ead had observed, he was also a sanctimonious fool.
She schooled her features. “Another cutthroat?”
“Yes,” Stillwater said, her brow creasing. “As you will no doubt have heard, this has happened more than once in the past year. Of the nine would-be killers that have gained entry to Ascalon Palace, five were slain before they could be apprehended.”
“It is all very strange,” Combe said, musingly, “but it seems sensible to conclude that someone in the Upper Household killed the knave.”
“A noble deed,” Ead said.
Crest snorted. “Hardly, my dear,” she said. “This protector, whoever it is, is a killer as well, and they must be unmasked.” Her voice was thin with frustration. “Like the cutthroat, this person entered the royal apartments unseen, somehow eluding the Knights of the Body. They then committed a murder and left the corpse for Her Majesty to find. Did they intend to frighten our queen to death?”
“I imagine they intended to stop our queen being stabbed to death, Your Grace.”
Sabran lifted an eyebrow.
“The Knight of Justice frowns upon all bloodshed, Mistress Duryan,” Crest said. “If whoever has been killing cutthroats had only come to us, we might have forgiven them, but their refusal to reveal themselves speaks of sinister intent. We will know who they are.”
“We are relying on witnesses to help us, mistress. This incident happened the night before last, about midnight,” Combe said. “Tell me, did you see or hear anything suspicious?”
“Nothing comes to mind, Your Grace.”
Sabran had not stopped looking at her. The scrutiny made Ead a little warm under her ruff.
“Mistress Duryan,” Combe said, “you have been a loyal servant at court. I sincerely doubt that Ambassador uq-Ispad would have presented Her Majesty with a lady who was not of faultless character. Nonetheless, I must warn you that silence now is an act of treason. Do you know anything about this cutthroat? Have you heard anyone expressing dislike for Her Majesty, or sympathy toward the Draconic Kingdom of Yscalin?”
“No, Your Grace,” Ead said, “but if I should hear of any whispers, I will bring them to your door.”
Combe exchanged a look with Sabran.
“Good day to you, mistress,” the queen said. “Attend to your duties.”
Ead curtsied and left the chamber. Lintley closed the doors behind her.
There were no guards here; they waited at the base of the tower. Ead made certain her footfalls were loud as she walked to the stair, but stopped after the first few steps.
She had sharper hearing than most. A perquisite of the lingering magic in her blood.
“—seems truthful,” Crest was saying, “but I have heard that some Ersyris dabble in the forbidden arts.”
“Oh, rot,” Combe interjected. “You don’t really believe in talk of alchemy and sorcery.”
“As Duchess of Justice, I must consider every possibility, Seyton. We all know the cutthroats are an Yscali enterprise, of course—no one has stronger motivation than the Yscals to see Her Majesty slain—but we must also root out this protector, who kills with such manifest expertise. I would be very interested to speak with them about where they learned their … craft.”
“Mistress Duryan has always been a diligent lady-in-waiting, Igrain,” Sabran said. “If you have no evidence that she was involved, perhaps we should move on.”
“As you decree, Your Majesty.”
Ead released a long-held breath.
Her secret was safe. No one had witnessed her entering the royal apartments that night. Moving unseen was another of her gifts, for with flame came the subtlety of shadow.
Sound from below. Armored feet on the stair. The Knights of the Body, carrying out their rounds.
She needed somewhere less open to eavesdrop. Swiftly, she descended to the next floor and slipped on to a balcony.
“… is of an age with you, by all accounts very pleasant and intelligent, and a sovereign of Virtudom.” Combe. “As you know, Majesty, the last five Berethnet queens have taken Inysh consorts. There has not been a foreign match for more than two centuries.”
“You sound concerned, Your Grace,” Sabran said. “Do you have so little faith in the charms of Inysh men that you are surprised my ancestors chose them as consorts?”
Chuckles.
“As an Inysh man myself, I must protest that assessment,” Combe said lightly, “but times have changed. A foreign match is critical. Now our oldest ally has betrayed the true religion, we must show the world that the remaining three countries who swear allegiance to the Saint will stand together, come what may, and that none will support Yscalin in its misguided belief that the Nameless One will return.”
“There is danger in their claim,” Crest said. “The Easterners venerate wyrms. They may be tempted by the idea of an alliance with a Draconic territory.”
“I think you misjudge the danger of that, Igrain,” Stillwater said. “Last I heard, the Easterners still feared the Draconic plague.”
“So did Yscalin once.”
“What is certain,” Combe cut in, “is we cannot afford any signs of weakness. If you were to wed Lievelyn, Majesty, it would send a message that the Chainmail of Virtudom has never been tighter.”
“The Red Prince trades with wyrm-worshippers,” Sabran said. “Surely it would be unwise to give our implicit approval to such a practice. Especially now. Do you not agree, Igrain?”
As she listened, Ead had to smile. Already the queen had found an issue with her suitor.
“Though producing an heir as soon as possible is the bounden duty of a Berethnet, I do agree, Your Majesty. Wisely observed,” Crest said, her tone motherly. “Lievelyn is unworthy of the scion of the Saint. His trade with Seiiki shames all Virtudom. If we imply our tolerance of this heresy, we may embolden those who love the Nameless One. Lievelyn was also—lest we forget—engaged to the Donmata Marosa, who is now the heir to a Draconic territory. An affection may remain.”
A Knight of the Body walked past the balcony. Ead pressed herself flat to the wall.
“The engagement was broken off the moment Yscalin betrayed the faith,” Combe spluttered. “As for the Eastern trade, the House of Lievelyn would not trade with Seiiki unless it were essential. The Vatten might have brought Mentendon into the faith, but they also beggared it. If we gave the Mentish favorable terms in an alliance, and if a royal match were on the horizon, perhaps the trade could be broken off.”
“My dear Seyton, it is not necessity that compels the Mentish, but greed. They enjoy having a monopoly on trade with the East. Besides, we can hardly be expected to prop them up indefinitely,” Crest said. “No, there is no need to discuss Lievelyn. A far stronger match—which I have long advocated to you, Majesty—is the High Chieftain of Askrdal. We must keep our links with Hróth strong.”
“He is seventy years old,” Stillwater said, sounding dismayed.
“And did Glorian Shieldheart not wed Guma Vetalda, who was four and seventy?” Eller piped up.
“Indeed she did, and he gave her a healthy child.” Crest sounded pleased. “Askrdal would bring experience and wisdom that Lievelyn, prince of a young realm, would not.”
After a pause, Sabran spoke. “Are there no other suits?”
There was a long silence. “Rumor of your familiarity with Lord Arteloth has spread, Majesty,” Eller said, his voice tremulous. “Some believe you may be secretly wed to—”
“Spare me, Your Grace, from baseless gossip. And from talk of Lord Arteloth,” Sabran said. “He has left court without reason or warning. I will not hear of him.”
Another tense silence.
“Your Majesty,” Combe said, “my intelligencers have informed me that Lord Arteloth has boarded a ship bound for Yscalin, accompanied by Lord Kitston Glade. Apparently, he discovered my intention to send a spy to find your lord father … but believed himself to be the only man fit for a mission that touches Your Majesty so closely.”
Yscalin.
For a terrible moment, Ead could not move or breathe.