“How?”
Chelson brushes a fleck from Rowan’s shoulder. “What will you be, boy, when you grow up?”
“A captain.”
“No,” Chelson says. “You will be what I say you will be. Isn’t that right, Captain?”
Sivarts says, “Yes.”
Rowan looks at Sivarts. No matter what you wear, you’re never not a cabin boy, he thinks.
“So was the rider Aydeni?”
Rowan’s father always reminds him, “It’s not your lie if they make you tell it.” So he says, “Yes.”
“Good,” Chelson says. “At Council this morning, you will repeat that. In the meantime, Sivarts, you stay with the woman.”
“She needs a surgeon more than me.”
Rowan brightens at this. Boys and their attachments, Chelson thinks. Nonetheless, if it will grease his compliance, Chelson says, “Of course. The Shield takes care of its own. I’ll have our best surgeon attend to her, not one of those bloodletters or useless herbwives.”
Rowan relaxes. Sivarts departs. Chelson gestures to his footman. “Have they arrived?”
The footman shakes his head.
Chelson’s expression suggests he doesn’t know if this is a good sign or a bad one. “Tell my house guard to assemble. They’ll escort us to Council. And see that the palanquin is readied. I will give you a note for the surgeon before we leave.” The footman bows and leaves. “Have you ever ridden in a palanquin, boy?”
Rowan says, “No.”
“You won’t today either,” Chelson says. “Always provide a diversion. By the time people realize you’re not where they think, they may have run out of fish and rocks to throw at you.”
5
* * *
Derc slides into an improvised pantry. Shelves wall it off from the rest of the kitchen that fills much of the tower’s basement. He feels his way around, listening, but no sounds come from the darkness.
“Give me the candles,” he says. They’re passed down and he paces the kitchen’s perimeter. Their quarry isn’t here, and the sculleries must sleep in the nearby dorm. They’ll be arriving soon, though, probably in less than an hour, to light the fireplaces and ovens. The kitchen serves all the companies in the tower, and the slightest fault in service is considered a great slight.
Derc goes back to the grate and slips in a pool of something on the floor.
Holestar calls down, “What’s the problem?”
Derc checks the ground. Olive oil. He looks around. A jar of peppers is smashed on the floor, and jars don’t leap from shelves by themselves.
“He’s been through here,” Derc says.
“That clinches it,” Skite says. “He’s Aydeni. If he’d been working for a company, he’d have had a key to the door.”
“Let us in the back door,” Holestar says. “We can’t fit through the grate like you, Little Man.”
Derc grits his teeth.
Holestar watches the candleglow fade as Derc heads upstairs.
While they wait they put the grate back into place. No sense in letting anyone else know there’s a secret way into the tower. They might need it themselves some day.
Several minutes pass. Skite works the door latch absently. Holestar hisses. “Let’s go in and see what’s happened to him,” Holestar says.
The men reopen the grate and squeeze into the basement, nearly shattering several more jars, and replace the grate behind them as best they can in the dark. They feel their way to the stairwell whose stone steps end in a door ajar. Candleglow seeps past it.
Holestar peers through. The candles are scattered on the flagstone floor. One remains lit. Holestar doesn’t hear anything, so he and Skite draw their weapons and enter the arched service hallway beyond.
It circles the tower beneath the council chamber. Doors lead to cloakrooms, janitorial closets, night closets, and a small armory. At each end a door leads to the tower’s entry hall and in the middle is a spiral servants’ stair leading to the top of the tower.
Holestar sees Derc’s weapon on the flagstones. It sits in a smear of blood and points toward a closed door. Skite listens at the door. He hears a steady sound, like someone tapping his foot unconsciously, and he smells excrement. He checks the door. It’s unlocked. They relight the candles and stand them on the floor. Holestar counts to three and flings open the door.
Derc sits on a circle of wood atop a brick-lined cesspit, his throat slashed, blood dripping between his legs through a hole into the pool of waste below.
Skite says, “Was he lying in wait for us?”