Sword Catcher (Sword Catcher, #1)

The buzz of voices died down as Conor entered the room, followed by Kel. Faces turned toward him as he stalked to the Sun Chair like the pages of a book turning; Kel tried to read their expressions. Conor had attended numerous Dial Chamber meetings, but had never presided over one. Lady Alleyne, resplendent in pink silk, looked pleased, as did Antonetta, sitting beside her on a low stool; every Charter holder was allowed to bring one companion to meetings of the Twelve. Joss Falconet looked encouraging. Benedict Roverge, who had brought Charlon with him, was glowering. Cazalet, who held the Charter in banking, was smooth-faced and unreadable. And Montfaucon, in raspberry brocade edged by pale-green lace, seemed amused by the whole thing.

As Conor took his place in the Sun Chair, he nodded at Mayesh Bensimon, who was seated on the low stool beside him. This still put their heads on the same level, as Mayesh was ridiculously tall. If Kel had expected him to shrink with age, he had been disappointed. As far as he could tell, Mayesh had not changed since Kel had arrived at the Palace. He had seemed old to Kel then, and was still old, but though his gray hair had gone white, no new wrinkles or ridges had appeared on his face. The state medallion around his neck gleaming like a star, Mayesh sat straight-backed, gazing flatly at the Charter holders from beneath brindled eyebrows.

There was nowhere for Kel to sit, which he had expected. He took his place beside the Sun Chair as Conor sprawled in it, deliberately loose-limbed, as if to say: Nothing about this meeting seems terribly urgent.

“Greetings, Monseigneur,” said Lady Alleyne, smiling at Conor. She had been very beautiful when young, and was still handsome, her voluptuous curves poured into her tight gown. The upper circles of her breasts spilled from the square neck of her bodice, only barely restrained by a thin layer of white netting. “Alas, we have already lost one member. Gremont is asleep.”

This was true. Mathieu Gremont, holder of the Charter for coffee and tea, was ninety-five, and already snoring quietly in his carved chair. Conor, flashing a smile at Lady Alleyne, said, “Hardly a good advertisement for the strength of his merchandise.”

There was a low ripple of laughter. Kel caught the eye of Falconet, who looked tired and a bit rumpled. Well, he had been up until nearly dawn, drinking with Montfaucon and Roverge atop the West Tower. He winked at Kel.

Ambrose Uzec, whose Charter was wine, looked at Gremont darkly. “It is time for Gremont to pass the Charter on, surely. He has a son—”

“His son Artal is in Taprobana, meeting with the owners of tea estates,” said Lady Alleyne. Her shoes, as well as her dress, matched her daughter’s: white heels, sprigged with pink silk rosettes. Kel wondered if it bothered Antonetta that her mother so clearly saw her as a miniature version of herself. He knew Antonetta would never show it, if it did. “Important work, surely.”

Kel exchanged a look with Conor. Artal Gremont had been sent away amid a swirl of scandal when they had been fourteen years old. Neither of them had ever managed to find out what it was he’d done to be effectively exiled; even Montfaucon did not seem to know.

“Gremont’s business is his own,” said Lord Gasquet, looking irritable. He, too, was not a young man, and showed no signs of turning his Charter over to one of his gaggle of sons, daughters, or grandchildren. Charter holders always thought they were immortal, Mayesh had said once, and tended to die without making any provisions as to who might inherit their places on the Council. Infighting would then ensue, usually settled by House Aurelian. Only the King or Queen had the power to grant Charters and strip them away.

“I believe,” Montfaucon said, ruffling the lace cuffs that spilled over his wrists like pale-green seafoam, “that we were discussing Roverge’s latest troubles, were we not?”

“There is no need to make it sound as if I am beset by troubles, Lupin,” growled Roverge. Charlon, beside him, nodded sagely. His eyes were only half open; he was clearly suffering a brutal headache from the jenever he’d drunk the night before. His father turned to Conor. “It is a question of tithes, which I seek to put before you, Monseigneur.”

Kel’s mind began to drift as Conor considered the matter of whether merchants selling colored paper should tithe a percent of their proceeds to the Roverge House, or to House Raspail. Trade was the blood that ran through the veins of Castellane. Every one of the Charter Families had caravans on the roads and ships on the seas, laden down with precious cargo. Their control of specific goods was the source of their wealth and power. House Raspail, for instance, had the Charter for timber, so no bit of wood or paper, nor the smallest carved flute, changed hands without them getting a share of the profit.

That did not mean, however, that it was objectively interesting to anyone else. Kel could not stop his mind returning to the Ragpicker King. In Kel’s memory, the Ragpicker King’s voice was soft as the nap on velvet.

Conor had been nodding along as Roverge and Raspail argued, his gray eyes sleepy beneath the tumble of his black hair. Now he said, “The tithe on colored paper will be split between your two Houses, evenly. Understood? Good. What is the next matter at hand?”

“Bandits,” said Alonse Esteve, leaning forward. He was an odd one. The Esteve Charter was horses, and Alonse, though in his fifties, had no wife, nor any heirs to inherit his Charter. He seemed far happier with horses than people and was usually in Valderan, where the best horseflesh was bred. “We must discuss the problem at the Narrow Pass. It affects us all.”

It was as if he had tossed a lit match into kindling. A loud squabble blazed up as the nobles fell to arguing. It seemed that several caravans had been attacked by teams of well-coordinated bandits while approaching the Narrow Pass that connected Sarthe to Castellane; it was a concern, as there was no other land route into the city, but no one was agreed on a solution.

“If you ask me,” said Polidor Sardou, whose Charter was glass, “the thing to do is march the Arrow Squadron into Sarthe. Put them on the back foot. We need to demonstrate our strength, show them we can’t be trifled with.”

“That risks war with Sarthe,” said Falconet languidly. “The Black Guard would be on us like flies.”

“No one wants war,” said Lady Alleyne, watching Conor out of the corner of her eye. “A stupid and unprofitable way to settle disputes.”

“Liorada, that’s simply not true,” said Montfaucon. “War can be very profitable indeed.”

“Perhaps,” said Raspail, “we should consider strengthening our alliance with Sarthe. This state of uneasy détente serves no one, really.”

“I had heard tell,” Falconet said, “of a possible alliance with Sarthe.”

All eyes turned to Conor. He sat motionless in his black velvet, his eyes glittering like the rings on his fingers. The light from the oculus cast his face in shadow. It was Mayesh who spoke.

“The matter of the Prince’s marriage,” he said, “has not progressed to a place at which you need worry yourself about alliances, Falconet. We can all agree, I think, that it is an area in which our Prince should have time to apply due consideration.”