“Where are you going?” asked Maxim, handing his papers to an attendant.
Kell turned back. “I was going to oversee the construction on the floating arenas, Your Highness.”
“Rhy can handle that,” said the king. “You have an errand to run.” With that, he held out an envelope. Kell didn’t realize how eager he was to go—to escape not only the palace but this city, this world—until he saw that slip of paper.
It bore no address, but he knew exactly where he was meant to take it. With the White London throne empty and the city plunged into crown warfare for the first time in seven years, communication had been suspended. Kell had gone only once, in the weeks after the Dane twins fell, and had nearly lost his life to the violent masses—after which it was decided that Kell would let White London alone for a time, until things settled.
That left only Grey London. The simple, magicless realm, all coal smoke and sturdy old stone.
“I’ll go now,” said Kell, crossing to the king’s side.
“Mind the prince regent,” warned the king. “These correspondences are a matter of tradition, but the man’s questions have grown prodding.”
Kell nodded. He had often wanted to ask King Maxim what he thought of the Grey London leader and wondered about the contents of his letters, whether the prince regent asked as many questions of his neighboring crown as he did of Kell.
“He inquires often about magic,” he told the king. “I do my best to dissuade him.”
Maxim grunted. “He is a foolish man. Be careful.”
Kell raised a brow. Was Maxim actually worried for his safety? But then, as he reached for the letter, he saw the flicker of distrust in the king’s eyes, and his spirits sank. Maxim kept grudges like scars. They faded by degrees but always left a mark.
Kell knew he’d brought it on himself. For years, he’d used his expeditions as royal liaison to transport forbidden items between the worlds. If he hadn’t developed his reputation as a smuggler, the black stone would never have found its way into his hands, would never have killed men and women and brought havoc to Red London. Or perhaps the Danes would still have found a way, but they wouldn’t have used Kell to do it. He’d been a pawn, and a fool, and now he was paying for it—just as Rhy was forced to pay for his own part, for the possession charm that had let Astrid Dane take up residence in his body. In the end, they were both to blame. But the king still loved Rhy. The queen could still look at him.
Emira held out a second, smaller envelope. The note for King George. A courtesy more than anything else, but the fragile king clung to these correspondences, and so did Kell. The ailing king had no idea how short they were getting, and Kell had no intention of letting him know. He’d taken to elaborating, spinning intimate yarns about the Arnesian king and queen, the prince’s exploits, and Kell’s own life in the palace. Perhaps this time he’d tell George about the tournament. The king would love that.
He took the notes and turned to go, already pulling together what he’d say, when Maxim stopped him. “What about your point of return?”
Kell stiffened imperceptibly. The question was like a short tug, a reminder that he was now being kept on a leash. “The door will be at the mouth of Naresh Kas, just off the southern edge of the Night Market.”
The king glanced at Staff, who hung back by the door, to make sure he’d heard, and the guard nodded once.
“Don’t be late,” ordered Maxim.
Kell turned away and left the royal family to their talk of tournament visitors and fresh linens and who preferred coffee or wine or strong tea.