Luvian’s face was thunderous. “I see.”
Sorrow looked at the men. Their expressions were insolent, the same hint of a sneer Meeren Vine had worn gracing their lips. And she knew then that it was deliberate. That they’d wanted her to see this, before she crossed the bridge. Perhaps they’d even planned it. Last night hadn’t been a one-off, but a beginning.
Sorrow’s eyes darted to the woman beside her, her supposed protector, and her fear grew. Was Dain part of this? How much danger was she in?
Then, to everyone’s surprise, Dain spoke. “What is this? Get this filth cleared,” she said in a low growl.
The men looked at each other, clearly shocked, as Sorrow looked at the commander, an identical look of surprise on her face.
Commander Dain wasn’t finished. “And you make sure it doesn’t happen again. Because if it does, I will take it as an act of disobedience against me personally. And I won’t like that one bit. Do I make myself clear?”
“Yes, Commander.”
Dain looked to Sorrow and nodded, and Sorrow returned the gesture, still taken aback by the Decorum Ward commander’s actions.
Luvian covered for her. “Come, Sorrow, we’ll be late. Let’s leave these good men to their jobs. It looks like they have a quite a lot to do, and the sun is only going to get hotter and higher.”
With that he turned, taking Sorrow firmly by the elbow, guiding her to the Alvus gum waiting for them.
Sorrow said nothing else until they were both seated in a new carriage on the Rhyllian side of the bridge, Dain up beside the driver once more, and the carriage was on the move.
“They did it.” Sorrow moved to Luvian’s side and pitched her voice a fraction louder than the carriage wheels. “The guards, they painted it, and they wanted me to see. I think they’re trying to align themselves with the Sons of Rhannon. I’m the common enemy to them both.”
Luvian turned to her, staring for a long moment before he gave a single nod. “I think you’re right.”
“What do we do? If they control the bridge then they control who’s crossing it. What if someone comes after us – me – when we’re out there, miles from home?”
Luvian chewed his lip, falling silent as he contemplated. “We’re safer there,” he said finally. “We’ll be safe at the castle; it’s well-secured and there will be guards everywhere. And no one knows we’re going to Ceridog apart from you, me and Irris.”
“And the coach driver, presumably,” Sorrow said.
“No,” he said thoughtfully. “I didn’t want to tip Vespus off, so I hadn’t planned to tell him until we’d stopped. The inn is booked under a pseudonym, for the same reason. By chance, it’ll keep the Sons of Rhannon off our tail. They won’t know we’re there, and they won’t have time to get to you even if they do find out. Win-win.”
Sorrow was impressed. “That’s sneaky.”
Luvian shrugged, his cheeks darkening. “Quite. In the meantime, you need to write to Lord Day. Tell him everything.”
“I can’t. He has to be impartial.”
“This is impartial. This is the country’s police turning on their potential leader. And that only ever leads to martial law. Sorrow, if Dain hadn’t been there today, Graces knows what might have happened. You have to nip this in the bud. If they’re being this blatant about it, they must already think they could win.”
“Win what?”
“Rhannon.” Luvian leant forward. “You’re not only fighting Mael for the country any more. You’re fighting the Sons of Rhannon too. As is he, but I don’t care about that. I care about you, and they’ve made it pretty clear that they have a grudge against you. Without the power of the chancellorship behind you, you’re vulnerable to them all. It’s more important than ever that you win.”
The rest of the journey to Ceridog was sombre, and silent, Luvian working through his list, circling cases he thought were of note, and Sorrow writing to Charon, then watching the Rhyllian countryside roll by.
She sent the letter when they paused to change horses, staying close to Dain while Luvian informed her and the driver of the change of plan. He didn’t seem put out, only commenting that he’d have to stay in Ceridog overnight too, in order to take them the rest of the way to Adavaria the following day. Luvian, it seemed, had already thought of that, and had booked him a room at the inn.
“I didn’t anticipate you,” he said apologetically to Dain. “Though I’m sure they’ll have something.”
“I’ll be fine on the floor outside Miss Ventaxis’s room,” Dain said.
“You can’t—” Sorrow began, but stopped when Dain tilted her chin up, her jaw set, gaze steady. “Well, we’ll at least get you a pillow,” she said feebly, following Luvian back into the coach as Dain closed the door firmly behind her.
The inn was different from Melisia’s – this building was four storeys tall, with black wooden struts studding the white walls, and tables outside. Luvian had reserved the two attic rooms for them, at the top of a crooked but private staircase, and a room on the floor below for the coachman.
Dain checked both Sorrow’s room and Luvian’s before she took up a position at the base of their stairs without being asked, and Sorrow shrugged and went to see what a Rhyllian bedroom looked like.
Before she could see her own, Luvian tapped her shoulder and beckoned her into his. It was small, and disappointingly unremarkable. A single bed slotted against the wall, a narrow wardrobe at the end of it. There was a bureau and chair opposite, and a door Sorrow assumed led to a bathroom. But it was clean, and bright, the window looking out on to the square below, swallows darting in and out under the eaves.
Sorrow watched as Luvian reached into one of his cases and pulled out a rolled canvas. She gasped when he unfurled it, using shoes, a hairbrush and a bottle of cologne Sorrow had no idea he wore to pin the corners to the golden wood floor.
This year’s portrait of Mael. He’d taken it from the Summer Palace.
“You stole it,” Sorrow accused. “How? When?”
“Hush. I’m about to say some very important things.” Luvian knelt down beside it. “Pay attention. So, I’m going to assume you know very little about art, given the state of the nation for, quite literally, your whole life?”
Sorrow nodded.
“Then allow me to educate you, Sorrow, dear. The Rhannish style of painting is to use small strokes to create a whole picture. Up close it makes no sense, but at a distance the image can be seen. But the Rhyllian style is long, continuous strokes. That’s one way we can be sure the artist really is Rhyllian. See?” He gestured at the painting and she saw what he meant.
“The paints themselves differ too. Rhannish paints are oil based. Whereas Rhyllian –” he brushed a finger along the painted hair of the portrait and held it up to her, so she could see the thin layer of brown dust there “– are clay based. And when clay dries, it leaves a thin layer of powder.”