The Thief's Daughter (Kingfountain #2)

The king only sneered at him, not bothering to respond.

Owen gave up trying to save the other duke from himself. “And your ships are probably too spread out to communicate with each other. Iago will come with a fleet and he will slice through your net. His people are sailors, and they are warriors. They will strike hard. Eyric is convinced, my lord, that you will be killed upfront to make way for him. Occitania sent a poisoner to accomplish this! Better to keep you moving. Go to Beestone castle. It’s in the heart of your realm.”

“It’s closer to Westmarch,” Jack sniped.

“I’m pleased you know your geography, my lord,” Owen said. “Since we cannot predict where he will land, we must stand ready to respond as soon as he does. Let Iago try and put one of our cities under siege. Let him see what happens.”

The king smiled grimly. “Then we collapse around him on all sides.”

“First we cut off his escape,” Owen added. “Trap him inside our realm. And then we teach him the cost of betting foolishly.”

The king’s smile turned into a smirk. “I like your thinking, lad. So your plan is to return to Westmarch, gather your forces, and stand ready. All the dukes will do the same. Wait until Iago lands and then—” He suddenly clapped his hands together, letting out a sharp noise that startled Jack. “Like a fly caught between two hands.”

Owen felt a queasy sensation in his stomach. In his mind flashed the quicksilver thought of Iago kissing Evie. Well, if Iago were dead, the rivalry between them would end. But still . . . it felt unfair that Iago was being maneuvered into attacking Ceredigion only to fail as part of a larger conspiracy. The King of Atabyrion was operating under imperfect knowledge.

“What vexes you?” the king asked Owen, his brow narrowing.

Owen shook his head. “It’s something I cannot say,” he said, struggling to put his doubts into words. “Give me a moment to think on it.”

“By all means,” the king said. He came up and slapped Owen’s shoulder affectionately. Then he turned to the duke. “Sail back to East Stowe, my lord. If this blizzard keeps up, the roads will be difficult. Call your retainers, those who owe you loyalty, and prepare for war. Go.”

It was a firm dismissal, and Jack Paulen bowed stiffly, his complexion showing the hue of his jealousy and resentment. He stared at the king with eyes full of wrath, taking Owen by surprise. The look was beyond humiliation; the man’s eyes were full of murder.

“I would speak to you about Mancini,” the king said to Owen, his back already turned to Jack. Owen could not rip his eyes off Jack’s face—the emotions there were boiling hotter and hotter. He felt a trickle of warning from the Fountain and realized its power had been seeping into the room.

The king seemed to sense it as well, for his head jerked up and his hand dropped to his dagger hilt.

Owen stepped around the king and walked briskly over to Jack, putting his hand on the man’s shoulder. “What are you doing?” he asked in a low voice.

As soon as he touched Jack’s shoulder, he felt as if the waters of the Fountain had been diverted—like a river splitting off around a boulder. Jack blinked suddenly, the anger purging from his expression.

“I . . . I’m not feeling well,” Jack stammered, his forehead suddenly rimmed with sweat beads. The power of the Fountain was emanating from the doorway of the throne room. It was rushing toward where Owen and Jack were standing, but the power of its intention was broken now that Owen was standing there. He remembered Etayne saying that Tyrell was Fountain-blessed.

“It’s coming—” Owen started.

“—from the doorway,” Severn added.

Both of them drew their weapons and started toward the closed throne room doors.

“Open the doors,” the king commanded the soldiers standing guard there.

The rushing sensation from the Fountain vanished in an instant.

The guards yanked on the door handles and pulled them open. As the doors opened, the air filled with noisy commotion. Servants and soldiers were running up and down the corridors in absolute confusion. There was a mass of bodies, so many it was impossible to discern who had summoned the Fountain’s magic, but as Owen reached the opening, he sensed the residue of the magic on the doorframe itself.

Clark broke out of the crowd and rushed forward, his face grave and streaked with sweat.

“What’s going on?” Owen shouted above the ruckus as the Espion came into the room and shoved the doors closed, muffling some of the racket.

Clark pressed himself against the doors. “My lord,” he said, facing the king. “The people were rioting in the streets. The palace doors have been barred and sealed, and your guard is being summoned.”

“For what cause?” Severn snapped, his eyes piercing and fierce. “Bring me my sword! What has happened?”

Clark leaned back against the door, panting. “My lord. Mancini is dead. He went to the sanctuary of Our Lady. He had several Espion with him. When he arrived, the deconeus denounced him. He said he had broken the privilege of sanctuary by abducting Tunmore. He said . . . he said you threw Tunmore from the tower window yourself!”

“That’s a lie!” Owen shouted.

“Tell that to the mob,” Clark said, gesturing with his head. “They grabbed Mancini and hauled him to the river.”

Severn’s face was aghast. He mouthed the word no.

Clark nodded vigorously as Owen felt his own stomach tighten with horror. “The mob threw him into the river, my lord. He went over the falls. A friend of mine saw him go over the edge. Now they are marching on the palace. We must get you out of the city. The mob is coming here next!”





CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE


Retribution




When Owen looked at Severn, he saw the king’s implacable will turn his face to stone, sending ripples of the Fountain into the room. The king’s eyes were like flint and his mouth twisted to a deep frown.

“If I abandon my crown to a mob,” Severn told Clark in a tight, barely controlled voice that quickly rose to a shout, “then I do not deserve to wear it. By the Fountain, I will make this rabble kneel in obedience!” He grabbed Jack Paulen’s tunic and jostled the man. “Go through the castle and rouse every man with the spleen to fight. Every butler, every knave, even my woodsman Drew. We’re to gather in the courtyard and open the gates.” He turned to face Owen. “I want my armor and my horse. They will not evict me from this place willingly. Will you stand with me, lad?”

Owen admired the king’s bravery and courage. He had no idea what was going to happen, but his instincts told him Severn was right. If he fled from the mob, he would not be allowed to return. But there would be blood spilled. Mobs responded to force, not sugared words.

“Loyalty binds me,” Owen said gravely, gripping his own sword hilt.