Sword Catcher (Sword Catcher, #1)

Merren glanced up. “Kel?”

Ji-An twisted around to look at him. “Yes, and half the Charter Families, and of course, the Aurelians. All there to welcome the Sarthian Princess who will be Castellane’s next queen.”

Ji-An was grinning like someone who knew a secret. Lin said, “Ji-An, did something happen?”

“Another loveless marriage between heartless monarchists consolidating power,” said Merren cheerfully. “Was she pretty, at least? The populace will respond better to this whole mess if they’re assured of a glamorous queen.”

Lin braced herself. There was some part of her that did not want to hear how beautiful Aimada d’Eon was, how alluring, how elegant—

“She’s a child,” said Ji-An, with glee.

Merren looked puzzled. “The Prince agreed to marry a child?”

“He agreed to marry a Princess of Sarthe,” said Andreyen. “Who was, it seemed all agreed, to be Aimada. But—”

“But it wasn’t her,” interrupted Ji-An. “They sent her younger sister instead. All of eleven or twelve years old. The looks on their faces—the noble families, the Aurelians—was priceless.”

Lin reached into her pocket, wrapping her fingers around the stone in its setting. She had found that holding the cool, heavy weight in her hand was soothing. “The Prince,” she said. “What did he do?”

“The only thing he could,” said Ji-An. “Went along with it. But he stood there stiff as a plank for ages first. Kel had to shake him out of it. Then he behaved himself well enough.”

“Clever Kel,” Andreyen murmured. “That was, indeed, the only thing that could be done. An interesting move from Sarthe. Whether they will do more to signal their fury remains to be seen.”

“Rather hard on the Prince.” Merren frowned. “That heartless monarchial bastard,” he added.

“My grandfather,” Lin said, slowly. “He was there, wasn’t he?”

“The Counselor?” said Ji-An. “Yes, indeed. Didn’t look too pleased, either. I imagine the Palace has quite a day of diplomatic antics ahead of it.”

“They’ll manage something. They always do,” Merren said, lifting his pipette out of the dark liquid. He eyed it a moment before licking it thoughtfully.

“Merren,” shrieked Ji-An. “What are you doing?”

He looked up, blue eyes wide. “What? It’s chocolate,” he said. “I was hungry.” He held the pipette out. “Would you like to try it?”

“Certainly not,” said Andreyen. “It smells of wet weeds.” He frowned. “Lin. Walk with me. I wish to speak to you.”

Both Merren and Ji-An watched curiously as Lin, trying to hide her surprise at being summoned—because it was a summons, however politely phrased—rose to confer with the Ragpicker King.

He waited for them to be out of earshot of the workroom before he spoke. Lin listened to the hushed thump of his cane on the Marakandi rugs as they walked. She found it soothing.

“There are murmurs that someone else in Castellane is searching for the Qasmuna book,” he said. “With great dedication, I hear.”

“Just now?” Lin said. “Since I’ve started looking for it?”

He nodded. “Rumor has it they’re offering a pretty penny.”

“I’m sorry,” Lin said. “If I’ve been looking for it too clumsily, if I’ve stirred up interest that shouldn’t have been stirred up—”

“Not at all.” Andreyen dismissed her concerns with a gesture. “In my experience, it is often useful to stir things up. Perhaps whoever is looking for the book currently has been made nervous by hearing about your search. Perhaps these nerves will lead them to reveal themselves or what they know.”

The smile he fashioned filled Lin with relief that she was not on the Ragpicker King’s bad side, or standing between him and what he wanted.

“The junk dealer I spoke to in the Maze told me it had been purchased by a ‘discerning individual,’” said Lin. “Perhaps this individual has put it about that they have this item to sell, and thus we are seeing evidence of interest in buying the book beginning to make itself known . . .”

“Perhaps,” said Andreyen. “I admit I have not fully educated myself as regards the dark underground of antique book dealing. Vicious folk, I’ve heard.” He pushed open the door to what she now knew was called the Great Room, with its massive stone fireplace and comfortable furniture. It was clearly an often-used room; someone had left a book facedown on the arm of a chair, and a plate of half-eaten biscuits balanced on a tabletop. “Usually, though, I get word of it when someone in Castellane has something interesting or illegal to sell. This time, I heard only of the person looking to buy.”

“But no word who they are?”

The Ragpicker King shook his head.

“I could ask for permission to seek the book in the Shulamat again, but the Maharam made his position fairly clear,” Lin said.

The Ragpicker King picked up the silver incantation bowl on the shelf near the fireplace. Lin felt a sort of itch when he touched it, a desire to tell him to put it down, that it was a precious thing to her people. But she would only be a hypocrite if she did; it was not as if her current connection to the Ragpicker King, with everything he stood for, would not have horrified the Maharam and the Sanhedrin far more. She wondered if he had ever employed someone Ashkari before. He seemed as if he knew more about what went on inside the walls of the Sault than most. But then it was in his interest to know things, and any one of her people who worked with him in secret risked their place in the community. As she was doing.

“There are certain men,” said Andreyen, gazing into the bowl, “who, when in positions of power, err on the side of inflexibility.”

“You are in a position of power,” said Lin.

The Ragpicker King set the bowl down and grinned. “But I am very flexible. Mostly morally.”

Before Lin could reply, there was a stir outside the room. She heard Ji-An protest, and then the doors burst open and a familiar-looking man stalked in, glowering. Dark-red hair, black eyes, dressed like a merchant’s son. Lin remembered him now: the man who had been here the first time she came to the mansion. He had wanted—

“My black powder,” the man snarled. “It was supposed to arrive two days ago. I’ve been patient—”

“Bursting into my home, pushing past my guard?” Andreyen said, green eyes narrowing. “You call that patience?”

“My apologies,” said Ji-An, who had followed the young man into the room and stood at alert, her hand halfway inside her jacket. “I couldn’t stop him without killing him, and I wasn’t sure that was what you wanted.”

“Unnecessary, Ji-An,” said Andreyen. “He is rude but overall harmless. Ciprian Cabrol, if you want to talk with me, I suggest you make an appointment.”

“I haven’t got the time,” Ciprian protested. “Ascension Day is in four days.”