Sword Catcher (Sword Catcher, #1)

Adassa did not speak, but shut herself up in the great tower of Balal. When she did, unrest stirred in Aram, for the people feared their Queen had forsaken them. But Makabi came out to the front of the palace and said to them: “Do not fear, for our Queen will save us. Have faith. She is ours.”

On the morning of the second day Adassa emerged from her tower much changed. She had been a beautiful and gentle girl, but all that seemed burned away, and it was a woman bright and sharp as a blade who went out from her palace and looked upon her people, who had gathered together to hear her speak.

“My people of Aram,” she said. “I need your help.”

—Tales of the Sorcerer-Kings, Laocantus Aurus Iovit III





CHAPTER THIRTEEN


Kel made his way up Yulan Road, his head bent under the bright sun of Castellane. It was nearly noon, and he was beginning to overheat in his green velvet jacket, but such were the sacrifices one made to please the Queen of House Aurelian.

Merren Asper walked by his side, a slim figure in rusty black, seeming lost in thought. Here I am, Kel thought, side by side with a poisoner, off to meet the only man in Castellane who can, in theory, get me close to Prosper Beck. How again did I get here?

Not that it was a difficult question to answer. The Ragpicker King. Kel had made his usual excuses about training at the Arena, and headed directly for the Black Mansion. He’d found Andreyen in the solarium, admiring the plants. “You talked to Markus,” Andreyen had said, the moment he caught sight of Kel’s expression. “And I see it did not go well.”

Halfway through the story, Merren and Ji-An had joined them, plainly curious. Andreyen had shot Kel a warning look, but he’d already moved past the part of the story where Markus had acknowledged a connection to the Ragpicker King. He repeated the other things Markus had said: that it was his sin and evil that had brought them to this place. That Conor’s debt could only be paid in blood. And what he had not said: anything about Prosper Beck.

He told them, too, about Fausten—his defensiveness and his threats. “Maybe he’s Prosper Beck,” Merren had suggested. “Or funding him.”

The Ragpicker King had been quick to dismiss this notion. “Fausten has no money to speak of,” he’d said. “The influence he wields over the King is his only power. Prosper Beck is a destabilizing force. Fausten likes things as they are.” He’d shrugged. “You’ll have to try to talk to the King when Fausten is not there.”

But Kel had dug his heels in. Perhaps Fausten had been bluffing when he’d threatened the Trick, but Kel doubted it. There had been none of the usual fluttering of diffidence about him. He’d seemed sure, and the horror of what the Trick represented was stronger than he guessed Andreyen would understand.

“The King understands there is danger, of some kind,” said Kel, “but I do not believe he has a clear picture of it. His faith in the stars and what they portend is almost religious. He believes in prophecy, not actuality.” He hesitated. “I must speak with Prosper Beck instead. He knows his own plans; no one else seems to.” He’d reached out to brush the yellow petal of a sunflower. “I’ll need to find Jerrod Belmerci.”

There had been an explosion of argument. Jerrod could not be gotten through; he would never let Kel near Prosper Beck; it would only alert Beck that Kel was looking for him. But Kel had been adamant, and at last Ji-An had reluctantly proffered the information that Jerrod could be found between the hours of noon and sunset at a noodle shop on Yulan Road, where he conducted business on behalf of Beck.

“If you’re determined to go,” Andreyen had said darkly, “take Merren with you.”

“Merren?” Kel had echoed. “Not Ji-An?”

The Ragpicker King’s lip curled in amusement. “Don’t be rude to Merren.”

“I don’t think it’s rude,” Merren had said. “I think it’s a good question.”

Kel had half expected Ji-An to be offended, but instead she had merely exchanged a quick look with the Ragpicker King. One that told Kel that she understood Andreyen’s reasoning. “Poor Merren,” she said. “He hates conflict.”

“That’s true,” Merren said, looking glum but resigned. “I do hate conflict.”

But here they both were, marching up Yulan Road as the Windtower Clock began to chime noon, the sound of its bells carrying on the breeze from the harbor. Yulan Road was lively now with students in search of a cheap midday meal at one of its many dumpling pushcarts. Gold and white banners hung above carved wooden doors, bearing the names of shops in Castellani and Shenzan: a jeweler’s store, a tea shop. Scarlet lanterns of paper and wire, painted with characters for prosperity and luck, dangled from hooks in plaster walls. Similar neighborhoods bearing the cultural imprint of those who had settled in Castellane from Geumjoseon, Marakand, and Kutani dotted the city, though the area around Yulan Road was likely the oldest. Trade in silk had been the first Charter, after all.

Kel had started his trip to the Black Mansion with a plan, one he had not entirely shared with Andreyen. The closer he got to Jerrod and the enactment of the plan, the more he felt tension rise like a bitter taste in the back of his throat.

He pushed the thoughts away. “You’re awfully loyal to the Ragpicker King,” he remarked as Merren paused to examine the wares of a cart selling medicinal herbs.

“You’re awfully loyal to the Prince,” said Merren mildly.

“I didn’t realize you’d sworn an oath to protect Andreyen,” said Kel. “Or that keeping him safe was your duty and vocation.”

Merren looked up, squinting against the sun. His hair was bright as new-minted gold. “I owe him.”

Despite his jangling nerves, Kel’s curiosity was piqued. “For what? Is this something to do with Gremont?”

“Artal Gremont is the reason I became a poisoner,” said Merren matter-of-factly. “So I could kill him. Andreyen offered me a place to work. To hide from the Vigilants, if necessary. One day, Artal Gremont will set foot in Castellane again, and I will be ready. And Andreyen will have helped me.”

“Gray hell,” said Kel. “What did Artal Gremont do to your family?”

Merren’s gaze darted away. Abandoning the cart and its wares, he started back up the road, his hands shoved into his pockets. Kel went after him.

“It’s all right,” Kel said. “You don’t have to talk about it—”