“You got another litter out of Fluffy, then?”
“Stellan probably could have bred her a few more times, but she was worn out, poor thing. Twins every year for the past eight seasons. Tassie was out of her last litter. We covered Fluffy with a sire named Rex we purchased from Lady Jimison, actually. I hear she was furious when she realised what she could have made in stud fees if she’d thought to hang on to him.”
“That stupid woman wouldn’t know a canine Crasii from a hunting dog,” Tilly agreed. “But we’re getting off the topic. Why this sudden interest in the veracity of the Tide Lord legends?”
“I met a man today who claimed he was one.”
Tilly laughed. “Have someone kill him for you, darling. That should settle his claim fairly smartly.”
“Well, they did, actually. That’s the problem.”
Tilly’s smile faded. “You can’t be serious!”
“Funny, that’s exactly what I said.”
“You mean they tried to kill a man who claims to be a Tide Lord and he didn’t die?” Tilly looked quite shocked.
“Don’t get too excited,” Arkady warned. “This man’s a confidence trickster, Tilly. I’m certain of it. But I need to prove it.”
“How?”
“Well, that’s what I’ve spent the last hour on the way back from Lebec Prison wondering. This man has really put some thought into it. He’s beaten the noose. He knows things about the Crasii that even I’ve had trouble getting out of them, and I’ve more trust among them than most. He’s going to be hard to expose.”
“Kill him again,” Tilly suggested. “If he’s not immortal, that will settle the argument one way or the other.”
“It’s not that simple, I’m afraid,” Arkady sighed. “The man’s Caelish, not Glaeban. We can’t attempt the ‘let’s settle this once and for all’ solution until we’ve exhausted every legal avenue, or there’ll be hell to pay. If the man is proved insane, on the other hand, we’ll never get to execute him for committing seven cold-blooded murders to which he willingly confessed.”
“If he’s claiming to be a Tide Lord, darling, I’d be going with the insanity option myself,” Tilly chuckled.
“Only if he genuinely believes he is a Tide Lord. My instinct is that this man is faking.”
“Get him to do something magic, then.”
“I tried that. Apparently, it’s Low Tide, so he’s powerless until the Tide turns.”
“How convenient.”
Tassie came back with a small cart before Arkady could answer. They waited while she served them, bowed three or four times more and then headed for the door.
“Tassie!” Arkady called on impulse.
“Your grace?”
She looked over her shoulder at the young Crasii, watching her curiously. “Would you know a Tide Lord if you met one?”
Tassie’s ears flattened and she looked away, wringing her hands, suddenly very self-conscious. “The Tide Lords are gone, your grace.”
“Yes, I know that. But suppose they came back? Your people believe the Crasii were magically bred to serve the Tide Lords. Don’t you think you’d know one if you saw him?”
The Crasii shrugged. “I couldn’t say, your grace.”
“Very well,” Arkady sighed, turning back to her tea. “You may go.”
“She’s lying,” Tilly noted, as Tassie closed the door behind her. “Not something you see the Crasii do often.”
“It’s more likely she didn’t know the answer,” Arkady surmised. “We may disagree with the Crasii about their origins and whether or not the Tide Lords ever actually existed, but we agree they’re no longer around. The Crasii believe the Cataclysm destroyed the Tide Lords.”
“Or so they tell us,” Tilly amended. “Still, you must give me all the gossip on this Tide Lord of yours. Is he handsome?”
“I suppose,” she said, remembering the intense look he gave her the first time their eyes met. Arkady discovered she couldn’t recall his features, just those soul-piercing eyes.
“Which one is he claiming to be?”
“Cayal. The Immortal Prince.”
Tilly nodded, unsurprised, as she spooned a good helping of honey into her teacup. “Well, that would make sense, I suppose.”
Arkady picked up her tea, took a sip, studying Tilly over the lip. “Why does it make sense?”
“Well, there’s more written about Cayal than any of the others. If you’re going to take on a Tide Lord’s persona, why not the one you can learn the most about?”
“What do you mean, there’s more written about him than any of the others? Where, Tilly? The only people who know anything about the Tide Lords are a few crusty academics—and I know all of them personally—and the Crasii. I’ve spent a lifetime working with them and I’ve barely gained their trust. Believe me, I’ve seen the way this man treats Crasii. And the way the Crasii react to him. He didn’t get anything from them. Not willingly, at any rate.”
“Then perhaps he reads his Tarot.”
She smiled sceptically. “You think he had supernatural help?”
Tilly put down her teacup and picked up the cards. She began laying them out on the table, discarding all but the major cards and placing them out in an order that made no sense at all to Arkady.
“What I mean,” the widow explained, as she continued to separate the cards, “is that the Tarot tells the story of the Immortal Prince.”
“I thought it told the future?”
“Well, it does,” the old lady agreed. “But the cards tell their own story. See?”
Arkady studied the cards, no more enlightened than she had been before Tilly showed them to her. “See what?”
“The story of the Immortal Prince! You see this first card here…the picture…that’s Cayal, the young man, off to seek his fortune. The next card depicts his meeting with Arryl, the Sorceress, who is possessed by the spirit of the Tide Star. She’s the one who convinces him to become immortal. In the next card, he meets Diala, the High Priestess, who teaches him what he needs to know…and on it goes. If your boy is pretending to be a Tide Lord, Arkady, and the Crasii didn’t take him into their confidence, then I’m guessing this is where he got his information.”
Arkady shook her head, unconvinced. “But surely he’d know anybody with access to a deck of Tarot cards would see through his ploy?”
“Not if he was using the Tarot to back up his claim.”
“You mean lacking any other source of information, he can say, If you don’t believe me, just check your Tarot?”
“Exactly!” Tilly declared. “If he’s learned it well enough, he’ll have an answer for anything you throw at him.”
“And if he doesn’t?”
“Then he’s surely not a Tide Lord, darling.”
Arkady studied the cards for a moment, nodding thoughtfully. “You know, it would be interesting to see his reaction when he realises I’m on to him. Can I borrow these?”
“Be my guest,” Tilly offered. “But they’re not much good to you if you don’t know what each card means.”
“That’s a good point.”
Tilly leaned forward, with a conspiratorial smile. “So, when you visit your Tide Lord again, I could come with you…”
Arkady shook her head. “Absolutely not, Tilly.”
Tilly leaned back in her chair, throwing her hands up. “Oh! Come on, Arkady! Jaxyn was right! You’re a damned spoilsport.”
“I’m also not supposed to be discussing this with anyone. This is an extremely delicate situation. I can just imagine the Warden’s reaction if I roll up with one of my noble friends tomorrow, to give our Tide Lord a Tarot reading.” Tilly reached for the deck but Arkady lifted it out of her grasp and began shuffling through the cards. “You’ll have to teach me what they mean, Tilly.”
“Will you promise to tell me every word he utters?”
“Will you promise to mention this to nobody?”
“I suppose,” Tilly sighed.
Arkady b
egan laying the cards out on the table. “Then tell me the legend of the Immortal Prince, so I can keep us both entertained.”
Chapter 12
Herino City was located some fifty-five miles south of Lebec, which meant the journey took two days if one travelled by coach. Stellan could have travelled by boat on the lake, but that meant involving a lot more people and no way of slipping into the city quietly. By leaving at dawn and riding a fast horse and changing mounts twice along the way, however, with only a two-man escort, Stellan Desean was in the capital about two hours after sunset on the same day.
Despite what he’d told Jaxyn and Arkady, it wasn’t the king who had summoned Stellan to Herino City. It was the King’s Private Secretary, Lord Karyl Deryon, who’d sent the message. Stellan probably wouldn’t have pushed so hard if the summons had come from King Enteny himself. The Duke of Lebec was required at court often enough, but with another month or more before the Privy Council was due to sit, it was doubtful Enteny was even in the capital at present. More likely he was still relaxing on his winter estate south of Herino, just outside of Jokarn.
A summons from Lord Deryon, on the other hand, invariably meant there was trouble. The sort of trouble that needed to be kept in the family. The sort of trouble Stellan was particularly good at taking care of.
Usually trouble that involved a young man named Mathu Debree, who was, rather awkwardly, the Crown Prince of Glaeba.
The palace sat on the peak of a small hill and, like every other building on the island-city of Herino, was built on a massive scale. He dismounted in the torchlit courtyard and gave his horse and his escort into the care of the palace grooms. Over the top of the wall he could just make out the lights of the city stretching all the way down to the lake shore. Behind him, the tall marble columns at the palace entrance loomed like a threat over the whole island. The rare white marble had been cut from the mercilessly hot quarries on Torlenia, brought to Glaeba by ship, and then painstakingly shaped by countless Crasii craftsmen.
When he was younger, Stellan would study the columns, with their bases taller than a man and their intricately carved double rows of acanthus leaves, thinking that if you scrunched up your eyes and squinted at them from a distance, the columns looked like bars. It was a fitting analogy in Stellan’s mind. Being a member of the royal family was as good as being a prisoner at times.
Stellan was expected at the palace and hurried through the broad halls behind a canine Crasii page who was under instructions to show him straight into the presence of Lord Deryon no matter how late he arrived. The King’s Secretary was waiting in the atrium, located in the middle of the labyrinthine palace, its centrepiece a large bronze fountain depicting several nymphs carrying water jars to a large and undoubtedly flattering statue of Agranella, the first of their family to assume the title of Queen of Glaeba some three hundred years ago.
“Lord Stellan!” Lord Deryon exclaimed with relief when the page announced his guest. “Thank you for coming so quickly.” The King’s Private Secretary was older than Stellan by nearly thirty years, but his back was ramrod straight, and his face unnaturally smooth, despite his white hair.
“Would it be too much to hope that Torlenia has declared war on us, and that’s why you summoned me?” he enquired, as he shook the other man’s hand.
Lord Deryon smiled thinly. “Likely as that is to happen if we don’t sort out something about who actually owns sovereignty over the Chelae Islands, your grace, our Torlenian cousins are quiet, at present. I believe the Imperator has a new wife and she’s keeping him distracted.”
“How long can that last?”
“Not long enough, I fear. We’ll have to do something about it soon.”
“Well, Jorgan’s a competent fellow,” Stellan said, recalling the ambassador charged with keeping the peace between Glaeba and Torlenia.
“I suspect not as competent as you, my lord,” the secretary said with a slight bow. “Lord Jorgan has a temper, which is hardly an asset in the art of diplomacy.”
“I appreciate the compliment, old friend,” Stellan replied. “However undeserved it might be.”
“You are too modest, your grace.”
“Perhaps.” He sighed as he pulled off his riding gloves. “I suppose if we’re not at war, then it’s our other little problem again.”
“I’m afraid so, your grace.”
“Do you know where he is?”
Deryon motioned for the page to leave before he answered. Once he was certain they were alone, the old man let out a heavy sigh and turned to face Stellan, indicating he should rest on one of the many couches arranged in small groups about the atrium. “He’s in a brothel near the docks, best we can tell. Your timing is impeccable, as usual. Hawkes only located him a few hours ago.”
“How long this time?” Stellan asked, taking a seat. He didn’t bother getting too comfortable, certain he would have to leave again shortly.
Deryon shrugged and took the couch opposite. “Four or five days is our best guess. Did you want something to drink? You must have damn near foundered your horse to get here so quickly.”
“I’d better sort this out first,” he suggested with a frown. “I thought he was supposed to be in Venetia with Reon? Learning the finer points of provincial government, wasn’t it?”
“Apparently Venetia’s provincial delights aren’t enough for our Mathu.”
“I suppose the king knows nothing of this?”
“Of course not.”
Stellan studied the secretary, shaking his head in wonder. “I never cease to be amazed at your ability to keep Mathu’s excesses from the king, Lord Deryon.”
“I keep a lot of things from the king, your grace,” Deryon remarked. “It’s part of my job, you know…keeping secrets from him.”
Stellan met his gaze, waiting for Deryon to add something further, but his secretary seemed content to leave it at that.
“Can you have someone take me to him?” he asked, rising to his feet before the silence dragged on long enough to become uncomfortable.
“I’ll have someone take you to Hawkes,” Deryon offered. “From there you’ll probably be able to hear our noble young prince and his drunken friends making fools of themselves from half a mile away.”
“Save that drink for me,” Stellan suggested. “I think I’m going to need it by the time I get back.”
“I’m sorry to put this on you again, your grace. You’ve been having an interesting time of it lately, that’s for certain.”
“What do you mean?”
Deryon smiled sympathetically. “First there was that business with the botched hanging. And then that escaped slave who killed another Crasii in their haste to depart?”
“That only happened the other night,” Stellan pointed out, a little concerned by the speed with which the news of his domestic problems had reached Herino.
Lord Deryon shrugged. “Declan Hawkes mentioned something about it. Bad luck comes in threes, they say.”
Stellan shook his head with a thin smile. “Then I dread to think what’s next.”
He turned for the entrance but Deryon called him back. “Lord Desean!”
“Was there something else?” he asked over his shoulder.
“I meant what I said about keeping secrets.”
The duke hesitated and then nodded, turning back to face Deryon. They were no longer talking about the wild behaviour of Glaeba’s heir. Both men knew that. “I appreciate your forbearance, old friend.”
“Then take an old friend’s advice, your grace. Don’t leave the question of your own heir in doubt much longer.”
“Kylia Debrell is my late sister’s only child,” he reminded the secretary. “She is currently, and quite legally, my heir.”
“A stopgap heir, at best, my friend. Particularly given you have a wife perfectly capable of bearing a child. It’s been six years since you married your physician’s daughter, and I still remember your elegant and persuasive arguments when you petitioned Enteny to al
low the marriage. All those passionate speeches about how the True Families would benefit from the injection of new blood; how your beautiful, clever, common-born wife would bring much needed vitality to the Desean line…” Deryon sighed and opened his hands in a gesture of helplessness. “The king loves you like a brother, Stellan, and he adores your wife—you know that—but he grows impatient.”
“There will be an heir, Karyl,” Stellan assured him.
“You are a scion of the True Families, Stellan. If Arkady doesn’t give you a son soon, the king will do one of two things. He’ll assume Arkady is barren and force you to put her aside so you can take a more fertile wife, or he’ll start to wonder if there’s another reason why you haven’t gotten her with child.”
Deryon wasn’t threatening him, Stellan knew that. But it was a timely reminder of his responsibilities. “I’ll speak to Arkady, Karyl. As soon as I get home. I promise.”
“Please understand, I only mention this out of concern for you, Stellan. And your lovely wife.”
The duke nodded in agreement, not doubting the man’s honourable intentions. “I appreciate your discretion.”
Karyl Deryon smiled tiredly. “Speaking of discretion, you will try to get Mathu back here as quickly and quietly as possible, won’t you?”
“Don’t I always?”
“The king will reward your loyalty someday, Lord Desean.”
“I’d rather he didn’t learn of it, actually,” he replied with a wry smile. “For all our sakes.”
Declan Hawkes was waiting for Stellan on the waterfront in the Sailors’ Friend, a tavern across the street from the brothel where Glaeba’s crown prince was currently ensconced with a number of his friends. Still a couple of hours before midnight, the taverns near the lake were in full swing, laughter, music and the sound of revelry spilling out from every open door and window along the waterfront.
“Behold the delights of the Friendly Futtock, your grace,” Declan announced, as Stellan slid into the seat opposite the spymaster in a booth facing the street. Declan signalled for ale and a moment later, a frazzled-looking wench dumped a foaming wooden tankard in front of the duke. Stellan left it untouched. Ale was not his beverage of choice. Through the grubby window, he could just make out the run-down building across the street where the house of ill repute was located.
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