Sword Catcher (Sword Catcher, #1)

Falconet shrugged. “Just because something is good for me, it does not hold that it isn’t good for House Aurelian. The spices of Kutani are valuable, and will serve to enrich the coffers of Castellane. But I have had the privilege not just of visiting Kutani but of meeting Anjelica Iruvai. She is far from some empty-headed royal. A bandit uprising once threatened the palace in Spice Town while the King was away; Anjelica directed the army herself and put down the threat while the Princes cowered. The people adore her. And—well, you’ve seen her.”

Yes,” Kel said drily. “Or I have seen the work of some very imaginative artists, at least.” He glanced over at Conor, who was laughing as Charlon Roverge arranged a tower of palit bottles to form a new target. A few servants had ventured into the gallery and now scuttled about, picking up the broken glass that littered the room. Montfaucon looked on as he always did, dark eyes unreadable.

Kel glanced at Falconet. “Might I ask you something?”

“You may always ask,” said Falconet. “Whether you will get what you ask for is anyone’s guess.”

“It is information,” Kel said. “I overheard the Queen refer to Artal Gremont as a monster. Have you any idea why, or why he was exiled?”

“Hm.” Falconet seemed to be considering whether to answer, for so long that Kel assumed he had settled on no. Then he said, “He was never exactly upstanding, is what I’ve gleaned. But it seems he conceived a passion for a guildmaster’s daughter in the city. He could not offer her marriage, of course. But he did offer to make her his official mistress, for a decent sum.” Falconet examined the shining half-moons of his nails. “Alas, her father was a respectable sort. Wanted his daughter married, and had no interest in bastard grandchildren. Gremont had the father thrown in the Tully on a trumped-up charge and took the opportunity to . . . use the daughter.”

Kel felt sick to his stomach. “He raped her.”

“Yes. And the father killed himself in the Tully. But he’d had friends among the guilds. There was talk of going to the Justicia. So Artal was sent away, and the scandal died down. Some money was settled on the daughter, for her pains.” Falconet sounded disgusted by the whole business, which was, Kel thought, to his credit.

“The daughter,” Kel said. “Was she Alys Asper?”

Falconet whipped round to look at him. “You do know more than you let on,” he said. “Don’t you?”

Before Kel could reply, there was a tap on his shoulder. It was Delfina. “My apologies, Sieur. Gasquet wants a word with you.”

Kel hopped off the table. “You understand,” he said to Falconet. “The chirurgeon demands my presence.”

“Of course.” Falconet inclined his head. “Your injuries, the sad result of falling off a horse for personal reasons, must be seen to.”

Kel followed Delfina out into the courtyard. It was no longer drizzling, though the courtyard still smelled of it—the richness of white flowers, the green scent of damp earth and limestone, the sour-sweet marriage of sea and rain.

She turned to face him beneath a dripping arch. “I’ve a note for you, Sieur.”

She handed over a folded piece of paper. Kel scanned the lines quickly before looking up at Delfina, who was watching him without curiosity. “So Gasquet doesn’t want to see me.”

Delfina shook her head.

“Who gave you this note, Delfina?” Kel asked.

She beamed, her face blank as paper. “I really couldn’t say. So much happens in this Palace, one simply cannot keep track.” She bustled off toward the kitchens.

Kel glanced back down at the missive, its ink already beginning to smear with the dampness of the rain.

Meet me at the gates of the Sault. You owe me.—Lin





The people of Aram had gathered together to hear the words of their Queen in their time of greatest need and fear. Already the armies of the Sorcerer-Kings were massing on the plains beyond Aram.

With Makabi beside her, Queen Adassa stood before the Ashkari people and spoke unto them. “For many years our land has been at peace while those around us have warred,” she said. “But that time has come to an end. The wicked and the power-hungry are bringing war to us, and Aram must answer.”

And the people cried out, for they were in fear for their families and their lives, and they said, “But Queen, Aram is such a small country, and with such power ranged against us, how can we prevail?”

And Adassa said, “Sorcerer-Kings such as Suleman know only how to take power by force. They do not understand that which is freely given.” She stretched out her hands. “I cannot command you to share your strength with me, that I might wield it against our enemy. I can only ask it of you.”

But though her words were bold, in her heart she was afraid. Perhaps none of her people would wish to share their strength. Perhaps she would stand alone before the armies of the plains.

But Makabi said, “Take heart,” and so then the Queen threw open the doors of the palace, and as she sat upon her throne one by one each of her people passed before her. Not a one stayed back: not the very young or the very old or the sick or the dying. Each came and offered a word to increase the power of her Source-Stone—a word that they gave up willingly, a word that, after it was offered, they could never speak again.

And that was the gift of the people of Aram.

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





CHAPTER FOURTEEN


Lin had been waiting outside the gates of the Sault for more than an hour by the time Kel arrived. She was grumpy; it had been drizzling, on and off in bursts. For the first hour, at least, she’d had Mariam’s company; they’d perched on the edge of a stone cistern, with Mariam watching eagerly for a sign of the Marivent carriage. She was delighted at the chance to lay eyes on the Prince’s cousin.

“He’s part Marakandi, isn’t he?” Mariam had asked. She’d had a bag of speculaas—spiced cookies from Gelstaadt—open on her lap and was munching happily. Sugar had been forbidden to the Ashkar in Malgasi, and Mariam had an insatiable sweet tooth.

“Yes.” Lin had answered slowly; she supposed she wasn’t entirely sure. The Prince had Marakandi blood through his mother; Kel did look very much like him, so she supposed it was possible, even probable. Still. She hated lying to Mariam, even about small things, and she’d been forced to do so repeatedly these past days.

“I remember Marakand,” Mariam said, a bit wistfully. “Such beautiful fabrics there. Silks and satins and brocades, all woven with these gorgeous patterns. I remember seeing a procession of the Kings once, in Kasavan. The courtiers were all wearing green brocade edged with saffron silk that looked just like flames—”

The Kings. Marakand had a double throne, currently occupied by two brothers. Queen Lilibet was their sister. If she had not come to Castellane, Lin wondered, might she have sat on one of those thrones? Or had her chances of queenship been greater here than in her mother country?

Mariam sucked in a breath. Lin looked at her friend, startled, and saw that she had gone bone-white. She was staring at something out in the Ruta Magna. Lin looked, but saw only a tangle of the usual traffic, damp pedestrians darting under stone arcades to avoid the drizzle. Among them was a massive dark carriage painted a deep charcoal gray, its lacquer top gleaming with rain. As it passed, Lin caught a glimpse of the blazon on its side: a black-and-gray wolf, teeth bared, ready to pounce.