Sword Catcher (Sword Catcher, #1)

Kel had seen Conor’s flinch, almost imperceptible, and wanted to kick Montfaucon. The King’s withdrawal from Palace life had happened so gradually, and so long ago, but that did not mean it had been forgotten. Kel and Conor had still been boys when Markus had begun to spend more and more time in the Star Tower, with Fausten. More time talking about the stars and the secrets they held, about the meaning of destiny and fate and whether the Gods spoke to men through what was written in the heavens.

At first, no one thought this was odd. A man must work his mind like his sword arm, Jolivet often said, and to have a philosopher-king could be a point of honor for Castellane. Had not King Ma?l designed the Tully gallows, a far more humane method of executing prisoners than the previous practice of tossing them to the crocodiles? And had not King Theodor’s knowledge of science helped end the Scarlet Plague?

The Gods smiled down upon kings and made them wise, Jolivet had said, as Conor, with Kel beside him, had stood watching as the instruments of Markus’s study were carried into the Star Tower: the gold orrery, the massive brass sextant, the telescope from Hanse and its boxes of accompanying lenses.

What was odd was that the King had followed his things into the tower, and emerged afterward but rarely. The strong, commanding man who had taught Conor to ride a horse and Kel to speak Sarthian had vanished, and this distant, dreamy-eyed ghost, with Fausten always at his side, had taken his place.

The winding streets of the Scholars’ Quarter swallowed Kel; the stars above gleamed faintly, washed with moonlight. The same stars the King studies from his tower, Kel thought, turning onto Jibarian Way, though he himself had never managed to see any real shape in them. They always seemed to him a scatter of gleaming sand, cast across the sky by a careless hand. No meaning, no design, any more than there was meaning or design in the cracked cobblestones underfoot.

The street slanted up, toward the Academie. Taking advantage of the bright moonlight, students sat out on their balconies, some reading, some drinking in groups, some playing cards or smoking patoun, a mix of dried herbs and leaves, which filled the air with a sweet incense. Tea shops and pubs were open and doing a roaring business.

He had reached Chancellor Street. It curved upward, curling around the base of Poet’s Hill. The sign for the Lafont Bookshop, gilt painted on wood, swung overhead. Across the street was a tall, narrow building, paint peeling off the sides. Balconies of wrought iron held a medley of weather-worn tables and chairs, while potted plants balanced on sills trailed green fringe down the building’s fa?ade. A sign in an upper window depicted a stylized quill pen, the symbol of the Academie. Definitely a student lodging house, then.

Kel dashed across the street and tried the front door. It swung open with a light touch, giving onto a tiny entryway and a perilously steep staircase, very nearly a ladder. The place smelled of stew and of something Kel recognized—a sharp, green scent, like the one that had hovered on Merren’s clothes at the Caravel.

Kel took the stairs two at a time, past several small landings, before arriving at a lopsided door. Here, the scent of freshly cut plants was stronger than ever.

Kel elbowed the door open. The lock was weak and broke immediately, nearly spilling him into the flat beyond. It was a small space: a single main room divided up into various areas by their use—a corner with a washbasin and curved, claw-foot bathtub; another with a small brick-and-tile oven and a collection of cooking pots hanging on the wall. Flowers and leaves were scattered across a table whose paint had largely peeled off; beside them sat a large glass phial, carefully stoppered, full of pale-blue liquid.

Wooden shutters gave onto a wrought-iron balcony, where an impressive collection of various plants grew in clay pots balanced precariously on the metal railing. A mattress on the floor was the only bed, its colorful velvet blanket the sole concession to luxury or comfort.

At first glance, Merren Asper seemed nowhere to be found. But the room was warm, almost hot—Kel glanced at the oven, in which a fire burned merrily. A copper pot balanced on top of the stove held a dreadful-looking soup of cut greens and water, which gave off the aromatic steam that scented the place.

Aha. Kel kicked the front door shut behind him. “Merren Asper!” he called. “I know you’re here. Show yourself, or I’ll start throwing your furniture out the window.”

A blond head peeked around a bookcase. Merren Asper opened his blue eyes wide and said, “Er. Hello?”

Kel began to advance on him menacingly. And he had been taught menace by Jolivet, who was a master of the form.

Merren backed away, and Kel followed him. It was not much of a distance. Merren’s back hit the far wall, and he glanced around as if seeking a means of escape. There wasn’t one, so he tried for insouciance. “Well, anyway,” Merren said, waving a hand airily, “how did you, ah, find me? Not that I mind . . .”

Insouciance did not impress Kel. It was Conor’s go-to when Jolivet or Mayesh was angry with him, and generally meant he knew he was in the wrong.

Kel glared. “You told me where you lived, idiot,” he said. “I thought of going to the Caravel to ask your sister how I could find you, then I remembered that I asked you your address and you’d given it, and it was unlikely you’d lied since we’d both drunk the same truth serum. Probably something you should have thought about, no?”

“Probably,” Merren said glumly. His eyes darted past Kel, toward the phial of blue liquid on the peeling table. He glanced away quickly, but Kel had already noted the gesture. “I thought you wouldn’t trust the wine if I didn’t drink it too, but I suppose I didn’t consider the consequences. I’m not very good at that sort of thing.” He waved a hand again, his fingers marked with old chemical burns. “You know: lying. Deceit.” He looked at Kel earnestly. “It wasn’t at all personal. Andreyen—that’s the Ragpicker King—said you wouldn’t come to any harm. That he just wanted to offer you a job. And I thought you’d like working with him.”

Andreyen. It had never occurred to Kel that the Ragpicker King had a name. “So you were doing me a favor?”

“Yes!” Merren looked relieved. “I’m glad you understand.”

“I’ve been told I’m very understanding.” Kel picked up the glass vessel from the table. He held it up, examining the sky-blue liquid inside. “Not by anyone who knows me well, however.”

Merren darted forward to reach for the vessel. “Don’t drop that. It’s very important—”

“Oh, I plan to drop it,” Kel said, “unless you tell me what I want to know. And I don’t advise lying. As we’ve covered, I know where you live.”

Merren looked indignant. “I don’t see how threats are ethically better than drugging someone with truth serum.”

“Perhaps not,” Kel said. “But I really don’t care that much about retaining the moral high ground.”

He strode over to the balcony, holding the vessel in his right hand. Merren yelped like an injured puppy as Kel held it out over the drop to the street below.