But they were neither infuriated nor offended, at least not openly, and Noyoki leaned forward in his chair with an eagerness that made Hadanelith think of a night-heron about to spear a fish.
"It's very simple—" he began.
And before Noyoki was finished with the explanation, Hadanelith was giggling. This could be more fun than ever.
Nine
Skandranon spread his newly-dyed wings to dry in the hot sun, knowing he looked entirely too much like an oversized cormorant hanging its wings out to dry, and waiting for the inevitable sarcastic comments. Aubri would never be able to resist this opportunity.
"You look like a short-necked, crook-beaked, fisher-bird, old crow," Aubri chuckled from his position atop a pile of pillows in the cool of the shaded garden. "Maybe one that ran into a rock because he wasn't watching where he was going. I can't wait to see the size of the trout you'll pull up."
"I am the one with the taste for fresh fish, lazy Aubri," Zhaneel chided. "You are as forgetful as you are slothful." She poked Aubri with a wingtip, then got up and circled Skan, eying him dubiously. "You will be lucky if those feathers dry at all by nightfall, as humid as it is."
"They'll dry," Skan said, with as much dignity as he could muster, given the undignified circumstances. "Drake is good at this feather-painting business. He used every trick there was to make sure I dry out properly. Don't you remember how humid it used to get in the summer, when Ma'ar pounded the camp with thunderstorms?"
Aubri shook his head. "I think you're going about this all wrong. Damned if I know why you want to play the Black Gryphon again. These people already think that you're a murderer—now you're dyeing yourself black and flying around at night? Are you trying to give them more reasons to point fingers at you?"
Skan growled under his breath, while he continued to fluff his body-feathers. Were they sticky? He didn't think so, but until they were dry and he'd had the excess dye rinsed off, he couldn't preen them to find out. "They'll be pointing a lot worse than fingers at me if I'm flying around at night as a white gryphon," he pointed out. "I've been shot at once already. If we're going to help catch the real culprits, I've got to find out how they're getting at their victims. Drake thinks they're using magic, but I don't think so, or at least, they're not using magic all the time. I may not be the greatest mage in the world, but I can tell when someone has used magic and there's no trace of it."
"You can tell, when magic is working right, you mean," Aubri countered. "Not even Snowstar is relying on what used to work anymore."
Skan just leveled a look of extreme skepticism at him. "I think they're somehow sneaking onto the Palace grounds, maybe in disguise, lingering for a while to watch several potential victims, then taking the first opportunity they see. Or else they already live in the Palace, and they're either servants or nobles. I think they're outsiders, Drake thinks they're insiders."
He and Amberdrake had hashed out every possible combination of ideas, and they both had their pet theories. Amberdrake thought the murderers were in the Court and using magic to transport themselves from their own rooms to those of the murder victims and back again. It would be a very nice theory, if anyone could find a trace of magic as powerful as a Gate or Pass-through, and if magic was working at all reliably. Skandranon thought they were disguising themselves as servants and sneaking into the Palace complex, then using perfectly ordinary tricks of thieves to climb into the rooms from the outside.
Which is a nice theory if every guard and every servant is conveniently blind and deaf at the time, is what he says. And I must admit there's something rather odd about the idea, because why would a thief who's that good waste his time on something like this? He'd be robbing the Palace bare, then taking the loot off to live in luxury somewhere. Granted, a lot of what he'd take is identifiable, but it's not that hard to melt down gold.
"I don't know, old bird," Aubri said dubiously. "I think you've picked prey too heavy to carry."
Skan only shrugged. "You can think whatever you want," he replied tartly, "but I've made my decisions, and until evidence comes along to make me change my plans, I'm sticking to them."
"You'd stick to anything with feathers that wet," Aubri retorted.
"Except you, you filthy buzzard," Skan snapped back. "You people put me in charge, and that is the way I am going to approach this."
Judeth chuckled sardonically from the deeper shadows under a low-hanging cascade of flowering vines. "I hate to be the one to tell you this, Skan, but you aren't the one in charge. Amberdrake is."
The words hit him like a pailful of cold water in the face. He almost dislocated his neck, whipping his head around to stare at her.
"Amberdrake is better at coordinating things than you are. You're better at anything that requires action. Anyone who knows you both knows that." Judeth shrugged. "Besides, Amberdrake can keep secrets. When have you ever been able to keep a secret?"
Skan just stared at her, unable to formulate a reply. "And further, when the evidence comes along that shows you're being a foolhardy old feather-brain, risking your life like this, you'll ignore it. We know you, Skan. We know what you're like. That's the other reason Amberdrake's in charge." She examined the leather trim on her black tunic with care, avoiding his eyes. "On the other hand, right now, stupid as it seems to me, he says you know what you're doing and we might as well let you go ahead with it."
Skandranon thought about pretending he hadn't heard her, but that would only prove her point rather than refute it. She's taking Drake as the leader here? Does Drake know this? How could he not? But he didn't say anything to me.
He felt as if he'd been caught in an invisible whirlwind, in the middle of a cloudless sky. Why would Amberdrake do this? And why not even mention it to Skan?
Maybe he didn't think he needed to. Skan had made no secret of the fact that he was tired of being the leader, of making all the decisions. But—it would have been nice if someone had asked him before they arbitrarily decided to give the job to Amberdrake.
"Drake is risking his life as much as I am mine," he said stoutly, as he tried to rearrange his thoughts to cope with the new situation. No point in making an issue of it here and now, but later—
No, first deal with convincing them that I know what I'm doing. At least Drake is with me on this.
He waved his wings to emphasize his point. "Drake's the one these people think is the real mastermind, if not the author of most of the murders. He's in danger from anyone who decides to go back to the old ways of court assassinations. Shalaman told us that much."
"But he's staying mewed up in his quarters like a sensible person, not lurking in the gardens at night, trying to catch someone climbing in a window," Aubri countered.
"That's because he can't," Skan interrupted. "He never was a spy or a fighter, and I was both. And I can beat you, broadwinger, at any game you care to mention."
Aubri shook his massive head, and clacked his beak at Skandranon. "You won't catch me in that trap. I'm not in shape, and I'll admit you are. That still doesn't make the game you're playing any saner."
Skan sighed. He'd done his best to convey the urgency of their situation to the Silvers who'd arrived in the guise of diplomats. He thought he'd convinced Judeth, and she was really the only one he needed to convince, since the others were all her underlings. But Aubri was stubborn—
Aubri is old, said a small voice inside him, noting the weight at the keelbone, the slightly shabby plumage, the care with which the broadwinger moved. He's older than you are, and he took a lot of damage in the war. Well, you did, too, but you were young when you took it, and the young heal fast and thoroughly. He's old, and he's as cautious as any old creature would be. He's forgotten how intoxicating danger can be, and all he remembers is the pain of failure.
Not that Skan had forgotten the pain of failure—but he wasn't willing to let his actions be dictated by it. Not when the safety of all the people in White Gryphon depended on it.
To his way of th
inking, "token" warfare all too often became real warfare. If Shalaman's casual description of the restless nature of his young fighters was at all accurate, Skan didn't think that a "token" effort to displace the settlement would remain that way for long. The first time a Haighlei was hurt or killed in their "token" siege, all the rules would change. Shalaman would be far away, and commanders with a grudge to repay would be on the site.
"Just remember the old soldier's rule, Skan," Judeth said, from her couch among the shadows. "Battle plans seldom survive past the first engagement with the enemy. Be flexible, and be prepared to change your mind and your plans."
She was right, and Skan knew it, and she knew that he knew. He didn't have to like it.
"Who knows?" he said instead. "It may turn out that it's so important that I fly night patrols that you dye Aubri and send him out too!"
"Not if I can help it," Aubri growled. "One crook-beaked fisher-bird is enough."
Skan flexed his wings, testing the feathers for lack of anything better to do.
Who decided that Drake was in charge? Judeth? Drake himself? Both of them together?
Amberdrake had been one of the most expert feather-painters in the whole of Urtho's contingent, and he had learned a lot about feather-dyes in that much-different time. He had sworn to Skan that he could take the barrel of black dye the others had brought, thin it with certain chemicals, and produce something that would dry quickly and without stickiness in the oppressive humidity of this place. It would also have the possibly beneficial side effect of coming out glossy.
Well, no use trying to deny to yourself that you're hurt, Skan. Now be reasonable. Does it matter who's in charge? Objectively, it probably didn't; Skan would do whatever he thought was best, and both Amberdrake and Judeth probably knew that. Objectively, it was actually better for everyone if Skan didn't have to worry about coordinating plans and keeping everyone informed while he was flying clandestine missions.
But it was hard to be objective when you thought you were the Gryphon King and you walked in to find someone else sitting on your throne.
Still, he was going to have to think this one through, calmly and rationally. There was no point in getting upset.
I don't want to be calm and rational! I want to be upset about this! But—no, I guess I'm not really upset. I guess I just have hurt feelings because nobody consulted me.
"Where's Drake, anyway?" he growled. "I think Evening Court is about to start; shouldn't he be here?"
"He said he was going to give everyone something to think about besides the murders," Judeth replied, her lips thinned with disapproval. "He wouldn't tell me what it was; he said he wanted Winterhart to react naturally."
Once again, Skan whipped his head around to stare at her fully, but this time it was with dismay.
He wouldn't tell Judeth, and he must not have told Winterhart—oh, no! Oh Drake, what are you getting yourself into this time?
Shalaman sighed and patted Amberdrake on the shoulder in a surprisingly fraternal gesture. "I hope you know what you're doing, my friend," he said heavily. "This all seems very dangerous to me—not to mention unkind to the lady."
Amberdrake half shrugged, then shook his head. "I hope so too, Serenity," he replied with honesty. "I hope Winterhart forgives me for doing this to her—but you know my reasons."
Shalaman nodded and knotted the sash on his tunic a little tighter. As always, he looked magnificent, an imposing figure of a man dressed immaculately (if by Amberdrake's standards rather flamboyantly) in a long tunic and loose, flowing trousers of shimmering saffron silk decorated with heavy red, black, and gold embroidery, with a heavy gold pectoral and armbands in a motif of lions. By contrast, Amberdrake looked dreadful.
This, of course, was precisely the image he wanted to have. He was an innocent man, wrongly accused of hideous crimes, whose lady had abandoned him. Anyone in that situation should look dreadful.
His long hair was unbound and artfully disheveled, his robe looked as if it had been slept in and not changed for days (thanks to an extended romp with his daughter and the two gryphlets), he was unshaven, and he had altered his posture to a defeated slump. Shalaman had been gratifyingly shocked to see him.
Unfortunately, he hadn't needed to resort to cosmetics to create the dark circles under his eyes. He'd earned those naturally.
"I can see why you would want to give my Court something to think and gossip about besides the murders," Shalaman said thoughtfully as he got up to pace the confines of the tiny Private Audience Chamber. "But will this accomplish what you hope?"
"If I'm dramatic enough, and if Winterhart responds the way I think she will, they won't be able to talk about anything else," Amberdrake told him grimly. "I'm very good at creating unpleasant scenes. It comes from needing to know how to prevent them."
Shalaman accepted that without comment. "I'm sure, given time, that Leyuet and Palisar could arrive at something that would accomplish the same thing." His eyes, as he turned to look into Amberdrake's face, were troubled. "I do not like to see Winterhart hurt."
"Neither do I—but I must be honest with you. I don't believe that Palisar is particularly motivated to help us, and Leyuet is not very good at gauging what ordinary people are fascinated by," Amberdrake replied, with complete candor. "Most of all, we don't have time. The Eclipse Ceremony is less than a fortnight away. Idle people want scandal and drama, which I'm about to provide in abundance. This will give the courtiers something to take their minds off the deaths of some rather unpleasant people who were fairly minor fixtures of your court. It will also give me a good reason to appear to be locked away in my suite without being under house arrest. And I think doing both these things will force our enemies to show their hands again."
Shalaman sighed, then motioned to his servant to open the door for him. This servant, like the two bodyguards who were also in on the plot, had been with the Emperor for years, and Shalaman swore they were as trustworthy as himself. Amberdrake had to accept that. After all, one of the possibilities he and the others had discussed was that Shalaman himself was at the heart of this mess, creating a situation in which he could declare a full war on White Gryphon with the heartfelt blessings of everyone with any power in his kingdom. It was an outside possibility, very low on their list, but it could be the case.
We have to trust someone, somewhere, or nothing is going to happen.
"Very well," the Emperor said. "I bow to your better judgment, my friend. Thank you for warning me."
Amberdrake smiled wanly as Shalaman left, taking the servant with him. He paced the floor himself, measuring out the proper length of time as dripped out by a waterclock, waiting for Court to get underway and all the participants to be in place. Skan wouldn't be there—he'd insured that fact by choosing the afternoon rest period to dye the gryphon's feathers black again. Judeth and her Silvers wouldn't be there, either; he'd simply told her not to attend.
Her reactions had been odd, though, since the time she'd arrived. She'd held herself back from saluting him more than once; he'd seen the little twitch as she restrained the automatic impulse. Judeth hadn't saluted anyone since Urtho died, not even Skan....
Does this mean she thinks I'm the real leader around here? He wasn't certain he was comfortable with that idea—but he also wasn't comfortable with the notion of Skandranon leading this group in the current circumstances. The old Skan was impulsive, quick to think but also quick to act, and likely to run off and do things without consulting anyone. Skandranon's old ways were coming back with a vengeance. This wasn't the best time or place for someone like that to be the leader.
And you aren't acting impulsively? his conscience chided.
I thought this through completely, he told it sternly. And I consulted Shalaman. If I'd let anyone else in on the plan, Winterhart would have gotten word of it, and I have to have a real reaction out of her, not something feigned. Leyuet's not the only Truthsayer in the place and besides, she's good at hiding emotions. She isn't very g
ood at creating them.
His conscience grumbled that he was underestimating her. Well, he might be, but it was too late now.
He took a deep breath and slumped his shoulders, opened the door of the small room Shalaman used for private appointments, and headed toward the Audience Chamber. If he did his work right, this would be something that the courtiers here would talk about for decades.
If he did it wrong, they would still talk about it for decades, but Winterhart would rightfully never speak to him again.
He waited at the edge of the crowd for the best possible moment to act. At this instant, Winterhart had no idea that she was in the same room with him—but he knew very well that both his appearance and his reputation as a killer would soon clear a path between them. That, and the expectation induced by his appearance that something dramatic was going to happen.
Whispered word spread through the crowd as if by magic, and as if by magic the courtiers parted along the line his eyes followed toward his lady. The gathered Haighlei parted neatly, as if invisible guards were clearing a path for him, and as they moved back they turned to stare avidly at him.
He waited; she suddenly realized by the stares and stir he created that he was standing near the door to the Audience Chamber, at the end of a cleared corridor that divided the courtiers into near-equal groups. She turned, met his eyes, and started. Silence descended, the heavy silence that falls whenever a mob senses drama.
"Oh, gods!" he shouted into the silence, clutching his robe melodramatically at his throat. "Oh, gods, it is true! I thought they were lying, I thought—"
He advanced toward her, where she stood at the foot of the platform holding the Emperor's bench. Shalaman might have been a statue; he neither stirred nor spoke. "You bitch!" he snarled. "You faithless dog, running to lick the hand of the first man who offers you a better bone and wallow at his feet! You mongrel cur! You—you—perchi!"
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