“You haven’t been implicated,” was the cool reply.
“I thought I was to be forgiven my … earlier errors,” said Roger bitterly.
“Do your friends feel the same way?” Jon demanded. “Perhaps you should ask them. If you don’t know the answer already!”
“Enough!” the Provost ordered. “Let’s get movin’.”
They threaded through the corridors until they met one of the Provost’s men. Quietly the three of them were guided to spy holes in the corridor wall. Shielded from notice inside the room, the holes nevertheless allowed them to see and hear what took place inside. Three servants stood, sat, or paced the room, according to their natures. With a start Jonathan recognized his groom of chambers and the maid who brought him food or drink late at night. The third man, a nailbiter, wore the uniform of the Palace Guard, the rivals of the King’s Own.
Jon sneaked a look at Roger to see his cousin’s reaction. Roger’s mouth was set in a grim line as he watched the scene before him. He didn’t appear upset or worried, reactions Jon had half expected.
“When’re they coming?” the Guard snapped. “If my sergeant inspects—”
“You said he never inspects.” The girl’s voice was clear and cold.
“But if he does, tonight—”
“Keep your breeches on,” the groom ordered scornfully. “If you followed your orders, everything will proceed according to plan.”
There were two raps on the door—everyone inside stiffened. There were two more raps, a pause, then two more. The maid undid the bolt and let four men in. One was Jonathan’s favorite palace scribe, who had apparently guided those with him to the meeting place. Putting aside his bitterness over the scribe’s betrayal, Jon turned his attention to the outsiders.
He recognized Claw—Ralon of Malven—from his description. The other two he assumed to be the assassins, the Spy and the Killmaster—they had the look of paid killers.
The maid bolted the door as Claw looked around. “You were careful on your way here?” he demanded of the servants. Jon smiled grimly. Unlike Myles, he knew Ralon’s voice instantly. “No one followed?” Claw went on, checking the corners of the room. He apparently was unable to keep still. “Woe to any of you if you betray me.”
“None of us dare betray anyone,” the groom answered. “We’re all in too deep.” He tossed a packet of documents on the table in the center of the room. “Here’s my part of it. Diagrams of the king’s rooms and every way to get in or out.”
The Guard put a paper on the table. “Here’s the nights I’m on duty at the kitchen gate. But I don’t want to hear details—”
Claw put his hand on his dagger hilt, his single eye suddenly wild. “You hear whatever I want you to hear! And when I want your opinions, I’ll tell you to give them!” The Guard shrank back, frightened. At the edge of his vision Jon saw the Provost give a hand signal to one of his men. The man nodded and trotted away silently.
“Memorize their faces,” Claw was telling the assassins when Jon focused on the room again. “So you know who to kill if we’re betrayed.” The assassins looked slowly at each of the servants until the others were clearly frightened. Suddenly Claw leaned over the table and drew his finger over the surface. He stared at his fingertip for a moment before turning on the maid.
“You said no one ever uses this room. But there’s no dust on the table.”
The maid steeled herself. “I came in and dusted around. I didn’t want to breathe ten years’ worth of dirt—”
Claw backhanded her viciously. “Stupid female!” Walking straight back until he was inches away from the Lord Provost’s spy hole, he drew a finger down the intricate molding of the screen that masked the wall and the openings in it. He brought it away clean.
“And you dusted back here, too?” he screamed at the maid. He ran for the door and yanked it open as he drew his sword.
The Provost’s men outside were caught unaware and unready. Claw cut down one of them as the assassins rushed to follow. The Provost had already left at a run. Jonathan and Roger drew back from the wall.
“Tell me you knew nothing of this—cousin,” Jon snapped. “Tell me this isn’t yet another of your plots to gain the throne. I don’t care if you didn’t bespell my mother one more time. It was because of your past work that she lost the strength to live. What is there to stop me from believing this is just another of your schemes? That you want my throne as badly as you ever did?”
Roger gripped Jon’s arm. “I had no knowledge of a plot. I’ll swear it by any of your gods,” the Duke hissed. “If those who planned this did so for reasons they claim involve me, I shall hunt them down and … disabuse them of their mistake. In the name of the Goddess and the Black God, I swear I do not want your throne. Does that satisfy you?”
He’d just invoked two deities famous for their fierce punishments for oath-breakers. Reluctantly, Jon nodded. “You say ‘your gods.’ Don’t you believe in them?”
Roger’s smile was bitter. “I believe in them. Only a fool does not. Since they have made it very clear they do not like me, I refuse to worship them.” He stared into the distance, his eyes glittering. “But they can be defeated, Jonathan. The right man can shake their thrones.”
A few minutes later a slightly mussed Provost found Jonathan alone in the passage. “We have all of them but Claw,” he said wearily. “And two of my lads are dead. The others might wish they were dead, once I get through with them for lettin’ Claw escape.”
“He’s slippery,” Jonathan said absently. “I have every faith that you’ll get another chance at him, though.”
Eleni Cooper came awake, feeling uneasy. In her own home that feeling meant someone needed her as a healer. Deciding it couldn’t be different here, she pulled on a robe and ran downstairs. A bleary-eyed maidservant held up a lamp as Bazhir guards helped three people in at the door. One Bazhir gave orders to others outside: Eleni saw the glitter of drawn swords as the door was closed and barred.
“Mistress Cooper!” Relief was in the maid’s sleepy face. “These people say they’re friends of Master George.”
Eleni recognized them. “Marek Swiftknife, can’t you keep yourself in one piece?” She ran forward, taking charge of a pale and bloody Rispah while still lecturing Marek. “It’s only six months since I patched you up last!”
Marek tried to smile. “Sorry, Mother Cooper.”
“We need the empty storeroom,” Eleni told the maid. “And wake Myles—”
“Unnecessary.” The knight hurried downstairs, his hair and beard in disarray. “Mistress Cooper needs her bag, Tereze. Wake the housekeeper. We need clean linen and boiling water!” He opened the storeroom.
“You’re learning,” Eleni said with a smile. She helped Rispah onto a clean table in the unused room. “Who’s the worst hurt?”
“Ercole, then Marek,” Rispah whispered. “I’m all right, Aunt.”
Marek held a wadded burnoose to a wound in his side; another in his thigh bled freely. “They got Ercole five times,” he told Myles as Eleni laid the oldest of the three on his table.
The healer looked at one of the Bazhir. “Someone must go for Mistress Kuri Tailor, House Kuri on Weaver’s Lane. She’s a friend, a healer, and I need help.” The man bowed and was gone as she stripped Ercole down.
Myles’s servants brought Eleni everything she needed. As she cleaned Ercole’s wounds, Marek talked to Myles. “It was Claw—he found us, him and his people. He said he had a job, a secret job, and he was betrayed.”
“Betrayed?” Myles frowned.
“Just as we was betrayed.” Marek looked away, wiping his eyes on his sleeve. “They’re dead, Myles—Scholar, Red Nell, Orem, Shem, Lightfingers, the Peddler, and Zia the Hedgewitch; we was the only ones t’escape.”
Kuri arrived, her red-bronze hair flowing down the back of her cloak. Throwing that garment onto a chair, she came to Marek with her healer’s bag. She tied back her hair and rinsed her hands, appraising Marek’s wounds with
level brown eyes. Eleni finished cleaning Ercole’s wounds and began to stitch them, her hand steady. Fortunately for healer and patient, Ercole was unconscious.
“How did they find you?” Myles’s voice broke. Scholar had been a friend.
“Anci,” Marek whispered, gritting his teeth as Kuri probed the wound in his side. “She brought them in.”
“Your lady?” Myles asked, horrified.
Marek nodded. “Claw told her one of us sold ’im to the Provost. She gave us over because we broke Rogue’s Law.”
Kuri stitched Marek’s wounds quickly and went to Rispah. The redhead who’d promised her heart to Coram bore a long gash on her left arm from shoulder to wrist. Kuri went to work as Rispah fought to keep still.
“I hope someone did turn that crazy bastard over,” she snapped, her voice tight with pain. “Since he tried for George last Midwinter, more than a hundred of us’ve died. And it hasn’t mattered if the dead was for him or against him or innocent altogether. I haven’t forgotten the Market Day fight. Who could? With Claw loose, we don’t need any Lord Provost to weed us out!”
“What if Claw’s not wrong entirely?” George had come at last, hooded and cloaked like the Bazhir to escape detection. “What if I made sure he and his people were taken up before they killed Jonathan? What then?”
The room was silent as everyone but Eleni and Ercole stared at him. Then Myles whispered, “Regicide.” Kuri made the Sign.
“Remember the tale of Oswan that murdered King Adar the Weak?” Rispah asked. “The law said he wasn’t to be let die till he was tortured three days, dawn to dark. The gods turned their faces from him and he lived six days.”
“Royal dynasties get their right from the gods. Only the gods can take it back—not men,” Kuri added softly.
“I don’t know if you did right, George.” Marek lay back, his face white. “I only wish you’d’a shivved Claw yourself afore lettin’ him escape my lord.”
The room was a parlor decorated in pale green and cream, perfect for the emerald-eyed brunette on the sofa, less perfect for the striking blonde beside her. A swarthy nobleman lounged in an armchair. It was a room meant for chatter and flirtation. The fourth man, with his battered clothes and ravaged face, was wrong here. He stood before the cold hearth, hands jammed into pockets.
“We erred in letting you join us, Ralon,” Delia of Eldorne said coldy. “Last fall you said you would be Rogue in a matter of weeks. You are still not master among the thieves. You tell us, leave the killing of a certain prince to you. Now the Provost has your people who were to handle the matter, and Jonathan is alerted to his danger.”
“I was betrayed!” Ralon of Malven was rigid with fury. “No one knew Cooper would—”
“I’m not finished!” Delia rapped out. “Explain this!” She thrust a parchment at him.
The drawing was clearly one of Ralon. Beneath it was written:
WANTED BY MY LORD PROVOST
FOR TREASON AGAINST THE CROWN
ONE CLAW, BORN RALON OF MALVEN
REWARD: ONE THOUSAND GOLD NOBLES
It described him in detail. “How did they learn my name?” he whispered in horror.
“That is immaterial,” Princess Josiane said coldly.
“You’re useless to us,” Alex of Tirragen pointed out. “More than useless—you are a danger.”
“No!” Claw yelled. “You need me—”
The door slammed open. Alex stood, sword unsheathed; Claw’s hands were filled with two sharp knives. Roger of Conté swept in, followed by a frightened guard. “My lady, I couldn’t stop him, not him—” the guard stammered.
“Return to your post,” ordered Delia, and he obeyed. Delia, who’d once been Roger’s mistress, rose to curtsey to the Duke. “Roger, this is a pleasant surprise—”
“I wanted no independent action on your parts.” They stared at him, seeing he was in a rage, and were suddenly afraid. “Do you think you assisted me? Now the king-to-be watches me; my Lord Provost suspects me. And I find I owe this happiness to you four.”
Delia sank prettily to her knees, skirts billowing. Reaching up, she touched his hand. “Forgive our enthusiasm, dear lord,” she murmured. “We meant to bring you to your rightful throne—”
“Enough.” He dragged her to her feet. “You cherished dreams once of becoming my consort. Unless you wish to be the consort of Carthaki snake-breeders, you will await my orders.” He threw her into Alex’s hold and turned to Josiane.
“Josiane of the Copper Isles, I have known you only since my return from the dead, but I understand you well. Jonathan courted you to spite Alanna of Trebond. Still, you might have kept him, with some restraint on your part. Now you want to punish him, and so you meddle with things that do not concern you. I am not your pawn. Stay out of my affairs. If you wish to be a part of this, you will await my commands—either here, or on the river bottom. Do not cross me again!”
He looked at the thief. “Ralon of Malven. The present Rogue is worth twenty of you. Your choice of tools is bad, Delia. He’ll betray you when he’s done with the thieves.”
Turning to Alex, the fury in Roger’s sapphire eyes faded to puzzlement. “I am surprised at you, my former squire.”
“I told them to do nothing,” Alex shrugged. “I said you’d have different plans. They thought matters could be … hastened. Frankly, I didn’t think it was important enough to bother you for.”
Roger smiled grimly. “You might have been right. The trouble with ambitious plots is that those who are not involved get wind of them—as they did this time. That person, or those persons, took what they heard to Jonathan, and he took their information to my Lord Provost. But you—I know you are not a plotter, and I know you are not ambitious. What do you want from this?”
Alex met his eyes for a long moment; then, smiling slightly, he bowed. He knew Roger would guess what he desired of any plan to take Jonathan from the throne.
Roger tugged his beard. “We shall see. Perhaps … You haven’t changed. As for you others,” he said, looking at them, “no more plots. No more assassins. Steal nothing for me, bribe no servants for me. My plans are my own, and you will await my instructions. I warn you this once.”
He raised a hand. Slowly blood-colored fire—the fire of magic—collected in his palm. With a savage gesture he hurled it at a small table, which exploded into chips of burning wood and molten pieces of brass and porcelain.
In the silence that followed, Roger whispered, “Don’t think to disobey me.” Turning, he walked out.
Delia was ashen. “But his Gift was bright orange …”
Alex picked up a cooling bit of glass in his handkerchief. He looked it over and began to smile.
6
HOMECOMING
THE TRAVELERS SET OUT FROM PORT CAYNN immediately after landing, eager to reach their destination. Riding slowly, to reaccustom themselves after several weeks out of the saddle, they would be in Corus before nightfall. They halted shortly after midday at an inn Alanna and Raoul remembered, where the squires had often stopped on trips to Caynn. The food was good, the place so quiet that a rest seemed in order. Buri and Thayet napped; the men played chess. Alanna took Faithful to sit under a courtyard tree, scratching his ears and enjoying the sun. She was half drowsing when she heard an approaching rider.
Someone in a hurry, the sleepy Faithful remarked. Alanna nodded, refusing to open her eyes. The buzz of summer crickets was soothing after days of waves and gulls. Never would she board a water vessel again!
Curious, she peeped through her lashes; the rider entered the yard. With a yell she leaped up, dumping Faithful to the ground. “George!”
The thief grinned and grabbed her. His brawny arms closed tight; she was lifted, spun, then well kissed. Alanna looked up into dancing hazel eyes. “How did you know we were here?” she asked, wiping teary eyes on his sleeve.
“Stop that, lass,” he whispered. “Messenger birds, remember? You’re thin. Haven’t you been eatin’, my hero?”<
br />
“I was seasick.” She grinned. “It was the only way to get home in time. Are you all right? You look worn.”
George kissed her again, taking his time to convince her of his health. He released her, a wicked twinkle in his eyes. “Now your Dragon can kill me—I’ll die happy.”
“You know about Liam?”
He chuckled. “Sweet, everyone knows the Lioness and the Dragon were prowlin’ Sarain. I heard two songs about you this week.”
“Have you counted her fingers yet, Cooper?” Liam walked toward them, his eyes pale crystal.
George smiled. “I never thought you wouldn’t take care of her, Dragon.” He held out a hand, keeping a grip on Alanna. “I assume you’re used to bein’ sung about.”
Liam’s eyes darkened to blue-gray; he shook the offered hand with a smile. “They’ll have more to sing about, I guarantee.”
George stared past Liam, eyes wide. “Bless me, Crooked God,” he whispered.
Thayet and Buri emerged from the inn, still yawning. Alanna knew what had caught George’s attention: The afternoon sun sank into Thayet’s midnight hair while it turned her skin a deep cream. Thayet would look good anywhere, Alanna thought, with only a touch of envy. “Princess Thayet jian Wilima, may I present George Cooper? George, this is Princess Thayet of Sarain, and her guard Buriram Tourakom.”
“Don’t bother,” muttered Buri. George released Alanna to bow and kiss Thayet’s hand. “He won’t remember anyway.”
George straightened and winked at the K’mir. “I’m awed, Buriram Tourakom, but I’m rarely that awed.”
Charmed in spite of herself, Buri smiled. “Alanna told us about you,” she said gruffly. “We’ve been warned. It’s Buri, anyway.”
“I told you I’d bring them back,” Raoul said.
George looked at Alanna and gave her a squeeze. “I’ll never doubt you again, lad.”
“Ye would be the first,” Coram announced. He and Raoul had brought the horses around.
Lioness Rampant (Song of the Lioness) Page 14