“Yes,” Destin said, meeting her gaze straight on.
“We’re talking about women and children,” Marina said. “They’re being kept in the most secure part of the dungeon. I’ve been trying to talk Jarat into moving them into better quarters for months. This is not how you treat people you may need on your side later on. If you try to break them out of the pits, there will be casualties, and that will defeat the purpose.”
“That’s why we have to get them out of the dungeons first. That’s where you come in.”
“It’s been a long time since I’ve wielded a sword,” Marina said, flexing her hand. “We Tomlins are better with stilettos and poison.”
Is that how you did for the king?
“I have a plan that will not require swordplay.” I hope. “Next week, you’ll be welcoming nobles and emissaries from all over the empire to celebrate His Majesty’s coronation.”
Jarat’s coronation had been a hurried, secretive affair after the attack on the city and Gerard’s death. Now, four months in, he’d decided to host his first major social and diplomatic event, to demonstrate the power and stability of the empire despite the fractious lords. As regent and queen mother, Marina was King Jarat’s official hostess, since the king had not yet married.
“I’m not looking forward to that,” Marina said, rolling her eyes.
“No?” Destin pretended surprise. “Didn’t Jarat promise it would be the party of the year?”
“Compared to what?” Marina nudged a plate of pastries toward him. “Some of the down-realms’ representatives will be staying a month with their families. Why not stay and feast at the king’s expense? With so many of the estates under control of the rebels, our larders are nearly empty. That means we’ll probably be eating beans and barley cakes until the new crops come in. They’ll be feasting and dancing alone, because most of the court is either in rebellion or lying low at their country estates. So it will be on me to entertain them.” She laughed and poured more wine. “Forgive me. I’m not usually one for whining.”
“Could you invite the hostages to the reception? Wouldn’t that help fill up the ballroom?”
Marina stared at him. “Have you lost your mind? Why would His Majesty agree to that?”
“The lords of the down-realms will be taking Jarat’s measure,” Destin said. “Here’s a young, untried king whose thanes are in rebellion against him. What better way to demonstrate his power than to have the families of the rebellious thanes bending the knee at his coronation and dancing at his reception?”
“I know some of those ladies,” Marina said. “Trust me, they won’t be bending the knee to Jarat. It could get ugly.”
“It will be up to me to convince them to be on their best behavior. We also need to make sure that everyone, down to the babes in arms, attends. Nobody gets left behind.”
“They’ll need clothing—party dresses—and a good scrubbing,” Marina said. “It wouldn’t do a lot for Jarat’s reputation to have them showing up for the reception looking like they’ve been kept in a dungeon for months.”
She’s thinking about logistics, Destin thought. That’s a good sign. “If you tell me what is needed, I will do my best to procure it.”
“You’ll need the cooperation of that despicable Luc Granger,” Marina said, making a face. In addition to being the king’s drinking companion, Granger had been named the king’s bailiff. “Unless you kill him,” she said, brightening.
Destin raised both hands, palms out. “Eventually. But not now. Right now, I need to know if you’re in the game.” With that, he put a copper on the table between them.
It was Tamric custom to seal a bargain by putting money on the table. An ante, so to speak.
Marina did not hesitate. She laid her coin beside his.
“Thank you, Your Majesty. I will keep you apprised of my progress.”
He rose, bowed, turned to leave, then swung back toward her. “One more thing,” he said. “I’m very fond of masquerades.”
34
THE KING’S SPYMASTER
Destin Karn eased his body over the edge of the roof, careful not to send any of the tiles crashing into the castle courtyard below. Anchoring his toes on the stone sill, he poked a foot through the window, verifying that the shutters were open to the breeze. Traveling the high roads of the palace was always easier when the weather was warm.
Gripping the top edge of the window, he swung his lower body through and dropped to the floor, mildly pleased with this accomplishment. These days, he spent less time in operations and more on politics and espionage. It was good to know that he hadn’t lost his touch completely.
It was an opulent suite of rooms by any measure, especially for a bailiff. The king’s gaoler generally had quarters in the finest part of the dungeon, which, to be honest, wasn’t all that fine.
This apartment offered a lovely view of the river, yet was high enough so that the stench of that open sewer wouldn’t reach it, even in midsummer. It was in the same wing as the royal suite, a sign of the king’s favor. The furnishings were rich, some of them centuries old, though they’d seen hard use since this tenant moved in.
Destin picked his way through a rubble-field of dissipation—empty wine casks, dirty plates, spilled cups of ale and bingo, random pieces of clothing. The velvet bed curtains had been yanked down and spread before the hearth for a makeshift trysting place. Destin tried not to look too closely, tried not to breathe in the reek of lust and licentiousness.
Not that Destin had a problem with a bit of licentiousness. He did have a problem with the man who lived here.
Luc Granger had begun as an officer in the King’s Guard who’d managed to get himself assigned to young Prince Jarat at a time when nobody else wanted the job of babysitting the royal brat. In that role, Granger had spent considerable time wooing the young prince—mostly by enabling Jarat’s worst instincts. With Jarat’s ascendance to the throne, Granger’s star rose rapidly. He’d been named captain of the blackbirds, and then bailiff, giving him responsibility for the Guard, the royal prisons, and the courts. Jarat had recently bestowed on Granger a large holding that belonged to the Matelons. Since Arschel Matelon had been one of the founders of the Thane Rebellion, Jarat felt free to give his estates away. The king had also approved Granger’s betrothal to a rich widow, thus ensuring him a title and a fortune to go along with his estate.
That caused some grumbling among the loyal thanes, who disapproved of handing such a fine estate to a commoner. Their outrage was dampened by the fact that the holding was still occupied by Matelon’s bannermen, who showed no sign of giving way. Granger seemed to spend much of his time at court trying to persuade King Jarat to send an army to enforce his claim. That and abusing prisoners and tumbling any servant girl he could trap in a back corridor.
Granger resented the spymaster’s independence from the Guard hierarchy. A few months ago, the bailiff had thought he could blackmail Destin with some scandal he’d unearthed. Granger found a dead rat in his bed the next night, tagged with his name. And then his fiancée, a fierce and formidable heiress from the down-realms, found one in her bed. When she threatened to break off the engagement, Granger reconsidered his choice of a target.
More recently, the young thane had been pressuring Jocelyn Fournier, one of the palace seamstresses, to provide an expanded range of services when he came for a fitting. She was another poor choice of a target, because Jocelyn was Destin’s friend, and one of his most reliable sources.