“Understood, Lieutenant,” Jarat said. “But carry on.”
Destin looked around the circle. “You see, Lord Granger was working for me.”
This was met by stunned silence.
“Working . . . for you?” Beauchamp said finally, his face twisting as if he smelled something bad. “I thought it was the other way around.”
“We both report directly to His Majesty,” Destin said, struggling to be patient with this dog-eared question, “though there is, of course, some overlap. I focus on intelligence throughout the empire. Granger’s focus was protecting the person of the king and his family and guests.”
Botetort shuddered. “But why would a young man with such bright prospects want to involve himself in—?”
“Exactly,” Destin said. “Spycraft is a nasty business, unsuitable for those of noble breeding. Yet Granger was always interested in expanding beyond his role as captain of the King’s Guard and bailiff. He had a strong interest in the intelligence service. Perhaps he had a need for solving puzzles. Perhaps it reflected his dedication to using all possible strategies to protect our king. He kept bringing me bits of information that he thought I would find useful.” Destin rubbed his temples. Shoveling scummer always gave him a headache.
“I swear by all the saints, I tried to persuade him to leave off, to serve our king in another way, but he was . . . determined. And, actually, quite good at espionage.” He looked up at Jarat again. “I keep thinking that I should have come to you, Your Majesty, and asked you to intervene.”
Jarat sighed. “He knew that I disapproved of his dabbling in spycraft, but I never forbade it,” he said.
Destin took a breath, collecting his thoughts. “I finally agreed to allow him access to some of my sources, because I thought it would be safer for him to be working under my supervision. I told him that he needed to work closely with me, and bring me his findings straightaway so that we could determine how to proceed. That otherwise, he might be putting himself in grave danger.”
Destin swallowed hard. “So, after Lord Granger was killed, Captain Barbeau came to me with the letters he’d found in Lord Granger’s strongbox. I was devastated. I immediately offered to step aside and let someone else take over the investigation.”
“I assured Lieutenant Karn that I had every confidence that he would pursue the evidence wherever it led,” King Jarat said.
“You see—I’m speculating here—Lord Granger must have come across correspondence between a traitor here in the city and the empress’s emissary. Due to the—to the identity of parties involved, he may have been afraid to come to me. He decided to investigate on his own. I now believe he had some warning of the attack the night of the party, and put himself in position to confront the culprits.” He shook his head. “We all know what happened.”
Thus far, Destin had avoided looking at the general, afraid that his father would somehow read his intentions in his face. Still, any discussion of secrets that he was not privy to always made the general uneasy. Especially with Destin in the coachman’s seat. The general shifted in his chair and glared around the room, eyes narrowed, big sweat marks blossoming under his arms.
“Are you going to tell us what you found or not?” he growled. “Or do we have to watch you mince around it for the whole damned day?”
Destin looked at the king, who nodded. He rose, crossed to the door, and called in the half dozen blackbirds waiting outside. They swarmed in and stood in a rough semicircle around King Jarat.
Destin returned to his seat, reached under his coat and pulled out a chamois-wrapped bundle, resting it on his knees. “This is the knife I found with Lord Granger’s body,” he said. Slowly, methodically, he unrolled it from its wrapping, then held it up for all to see.
It was a sleek dagger, with a double-edged blade made for doing hard business. The handle, however, was distinctive. The quillions were a beautifully worked pair of stooping hawks, and the skull-crusher pommel cap was the head of a snarling bear. It was clan-made, in an era when northern metalcraft was almost impossible to come by.
Botetort leaned in so that he could take a closer look at it. “What are those devices on the hilt? It looks like a . . . a bear and—are those hawks?”
Destin heard his father’s hard intake of breath. He looked up and met the general’s gaze without flinching. “I believe this belongs to you,” he said.
He turned toward the others. “This was a gift from my mother to the general on their wedding day.” Not exactly true, but close enough. Destin traced the metalwork with his forefinger. “The bear is for my mother’s family, the Chambords. The hawks represent the general’s long service to the king.”
The general had been smitten with it, representing as it did his rise from despised mage and soldier into the corridors of power. It was the one thing of beauty he’d protected, the only one he hadn’t destroyed. He’d carried it constantly, displayed it often, and used it at the least provocation until he’d left it in a puddle of blood in the seaside cottage in Tarvos.
Evan had brought it to Destin at Baston Bay. Since then, Destin had carried it constantly, hoping to return it to his father at an appropriate time. In an appropriate way. Until the night of the party, when he’d given it to Harper Matelon for self-defense.
By now, the general’s face was the color of fresh liver. “You lying, gutter-swiving, scummer-sucking—I haven’t seen that thing for years. Where did you get it?”
“Like I said, I found it in the street next to Lord Granger’s body, covered in his blood.” How many have died on the point of this blade, General?
The general looked around at the other council members. “Does anyone here really think that I’m stupid enough to murder a thane with my own dagger—a weapon that could be traced back to me?”
“That’s exactly what I thought,” Destin said, “at least at first. As you all know, my father and I have had our differences, but I couldn’t believe that he would murder one of the king’s most important councillors. I launched an investigation, assuming I would find out that his blade had been stolen, or that there was some other explanation. But when Captain Barbeau came to me with the letters Lord Granger had found, I knew that I was wrong.”
“What did young Granger find?” Botetort asked.
Destin nodded at Barbeau. “That’s your story to tell, Captain.”
Of course it was. After all, Barbeau had been the one to find the papers Destin had planted in Lord Granger’s rooms. Therefore, the new captain of the King’s Guard was invested in the truth of the contents and in position to back up Destin’s story.
Barbeau puffed up like a black-feathered peacock. “It seems that General Karn has been collaborating with agents in the Fells for years,” he said, “since before King Jarat came to the throne. It goes a long way toward explaining why we’ve never been able to gain an advantage over the queen in the north, despite our superior resources.”
“You swiving cock-robin,” the general muttered, too softly for any but Destin’s trained ear to hear.
“It was all there—letters, messages, references to maps, diagrams of defenses, and the like. The northerners knew we had cannon on the heights overlooking Delphi, knew our numbers and weaponry, and knew our points of vulnerability. Captain Matelon may be a traitor, but the loss of Delphi was by design.”
Barbeau glanced at Destin, who smiled faintly. After days of coaching, the new-made thane sounded almost . . . clever.
The general planted his thick hands on the arms of his chair and pushed to his feet, back rigid. The flock of blackbirds stirred and drew their weapons.
Barbeau looked from the general to the blackbirds, wet his lips with a gulp of ale, and continued. “Despite the general’s efforts, the war dragged on with no end in sight. The thanes were getting restless, and he worried that he’d be replaced as commander of the empire’s armies, especially after King Gerard’s death. So he offered his services to the empress.”
He unrolled a parchment s
leeve, and pulled out a crumpled page. “This is dated the third of last month, a few weeks before the masquerade.” He cleared his throat and read. “‘Expect us at the river docks after midnight. Require five wagons and horse teams for transport of approximately fifty persons.’” He looked up. “It’s unsigned.”
“I’m surprised it isn’t signed ‘Your Friend, General Karn,’” Karn growled. “Like I’d be foolish enough to commit treason in writing. This is a farce, Your Majesty, and a forgery, and if you don’t know it now, you will. I am not going to sit here in the meantime and listen to this stall-whimpering molly tell lies about me.”
“General,” King Jarat said, “is it possible that Lord Granger was targeted because he was under consideration to replace you as the commander of the imperial armies?”
The words landed with a thud in the suddenly silent room.
The general stood rigid, fists clenched, like an embattled bull deciding which way to charge. “I was . . . unaware of that, Your Majesty.” He bowed stiffly to the king. “I’ll be in the garrison house, preparing my defense.”
“General Karn, I look forward to hearing the evidence you present in formal proceedings,” King Jarat said. “But, in view of what we’ve seen and heard, I must insist that you be confined to the tower until we can sort this out.”
The general halted, midturn, and stood, fists clenched, staring at the floor. “Surely that won’t be necessary, Your Majesty.”
“If you are innocent,” Jarat said, “then we’ll soon put this unpleasant business behind us.”
“I have served your father for more than thirty years,” the general said, “when nobody gave him a gnat’s chance of winning the throne.”
“All of that will be taken into consideration.”
With that, the dam of malice broke, as Destin knew it would. “I won’t be tossed into gaol by a candy-assed boy who can’t even dress himself,” the general snarled.
Jarat’s eyes narrowed to slits, and in that moment he looked more like his father than he ever had before. “Guards! Take General Karn to the Pit.”
The vein in the general’s forehead pulsed, and Destin knew what was coming. He’d spent a lifetime learning to read those cues.
Still, when the explosion finally came, he was ambushed, as always. If he’d thought Barbeau’s performance would redirect his father’s rage, he was mistaken. His father could move quickly for such a bulky man. Instead of bolting for the door, or charging the king, he lunged toward Destin, slamming into him with the force of a runaway slag wagon. They both toppled backward to the floor, the general on top.
The general gripped Destin’s lapels, repeatedly slamming his head against the stone floor, igniting those familiar skyrockets behind his eyes. Kindling the familiar terror in his gut. There was a commotion all round them, the king shouting to his guards to take the general alive, the blackbirds swarming, trying to drag his father off him. Yet, somehow, the scene had been reduced to two players, each reprising the role he’d mastered long ago.
“I should have drowned you at birth,” the general said, spraying spittle into Destin’s face. “As soon as I laid eyes on you, I knew you were no son of mine. I may go to gaol, but you’ll be dead, and I promise you, the bitch will pay.”
“Didn’t anyone tell you?” Destin gasped. “You’re too late. Frances passed away three days ago.”
With a roar like a bloodied bull, the general wrapped his thick fingers around Destin’s throat and squeezed until black shadows swarmed before his eyes. Destin gripped his mother’s dagger with both hands and plunged it into his father’s black heart.
For several long moments, nothing happened. Hot blood welled up around the blade, soaking into Destin’s coat. Then, gradually, the general’s eyes glazed over, the spark of malice extinguished. His grip loosened, and Destin sucked in ragged gulps of air. Finally, the blackbirds were able to pull his father’s dead body away.
6
A SMALL MUTINY
By the time Ash raced up four levels from the brig to the quarterdeck, he was out of breath, his knees quivering. Strangward still beat him there, with Captain Talbot lagging a deck behind both of them. When Ash arrived, the pirate was standing on the quarterdeck with DeVilliers and Finn, sweeping the horizon with his spyglass. Just outside their circle of calm water, a three-masted ship was barreling toward them, her sails bellying out with a strong northeast wind.
Strangward lowered the glass and swore softly. Handing the glass back to DeVilliers, he pulled out a watch cap and yanked it down over his hair.
“Who is it?” Captain DeVilliers demanded.
“She’s not flying colors, but I can tell by her lines and rigging that she’s one of Celestine’s,” the pirate said. “I won’t know which ship or who’s at the helm until she gets a bit closer.”
“I would prefer that she didn’t. Get any closer, I mean,” DeVilliers said, scowling.
Hands on hips, Strangward glared around at the mirrorlike sea, the flaccid sails. “It may be too late already. Here we are, sitting ducks on a duck pond in the middle of the ocean.”
“Which is your fault,” DeVilliers said. “Your gambit has given us away.”
“No, Captain, what has given us away has been your insistence on ignoring my advice and sailing your fine flagship so close to the Northern Islands,” Strangward said.
“I don’t care whose fault it is,” Ash hissed, his eyes fixed on the oncoming ship. “Could you give us some wind, Evan, so that we can maneuver, at least?”
Strangward stared up at the sky. “If Captain DeVilliers gives me my amulet back, I’ll see what I can do.”
“Captain?” Ash said, feeling like he was arbitrating a schoolyard squabble.
DeVilliers reached into her stormcoat, produced the pendant on a chain, and thrust it at Strangward. He slid the chain over his head, tucking the pendant under his coat. Then, with a snap of his wrist, he conjured a light wind that sent ripples across the water’s surface and stirred the sheets hanging limp on the masts.
“We’ll need more wind than that,” DeVilliers growled.
“If I raise too much weather, I may as well run my standard up the mast,” Strangward said. “We might get away, but the element of surprise will be lost. And that’s the only way we win this. If Celestine finds out I’m here, in a matter of days, the entire Desert Coast will be swarming with ships, all hunting for us.”
As Ash watched, the other ship crossed the invisible line, its sails deflating a bit but her momentum carrying her closer and closer. Strangward raised a cross breeze, and Ash could see the sailors aboard the enemy ship scrambling to adjust the sails, tacking a bit to starboard to find the wind again.
Ash squinted at the Carthian ship, shading his eyes, looking for the blue-white aura that marked the gifted. Members of the crew glowed, but it was a dull indigo color. These must be the—
“Bloodsworn,” DeVilliers said, looking disappointed, as if she’d harbored some hope that Strangward was mistaken. As they watched, the empress’s siren banner climbed the mast, followed by the black flag, demanding surrender.
“Do you think we can bluff our way out of this?” Ash said.
DeVilliers said, “Maybe,” at the same time that Strangward said, “No.”
“They already know who we are—at least that we’re aboard a wetland ship,” Strangward said.
“Even if they do, why would they challenge us?” DeVilliers said. “They can tell we’re heavily armed, and unlikely to be carrying valuable goods. Pirates favor easier meat.”
“But Celestine isn’t thinking like a pirate these days,” Strangward said. “She’s thinking like an empress, with territory to protect. She’ll want to know what we’re doing so close to their capital. How—and if—we get out of this will depend on whether she’s aboard. I don’t feel her presence—yet. Let me take another look.”
DeVilliers slapped the spyglass into his hand. He looked again.
“Well?” Ash whispered. “Do you see h
er?” He’d looked forward to seeing the empress for himself, but not under these circumstances.
Strangward shook his head. “It’s Tully Samara, the empress’s admiral of the fleet. The ship is the Hydra. As far as I can tell, they have no mages aboard, unless you count the bloodsworn. The good news is that Samara can’t erect magical barriers or work any fancy magic. On the other side of the ledger, the bloodsworn are unstoppable hand to hand. We cannot allow them to get close enough to board.”
“We can’t afford to get into a firefight, either,” DeVilliers said. “We might lose crew, and we’re at a minimum as it is. Look, we have four wizards on board, and from what you say, they have none. If we demonstrate what they’re up against, don’t you think they’ll back off?”
“It’s more likely to make them wonder why we’re sailing off their coast with four wizards on board, at a time when all of our magical assets are needed for the fight at home,” Ash said. “We’d have to sink them outright, or they’ll carry that knowledge back to Celesgarde.”
Strangward shot him a quizzical look, as if surprised by this display of logic.
“Then we’ll run up the yellow flag,” DeVilliers said, “and try and bluff our way out that way. At least it might explain why we’re sitting offshore, going nowhere.”
Strangward rubbed his chin. “Every freebooter from Sand Harbor to Deepwater Court knows that rig. Even if you scare off Samara, it won’t bother the bloodsworn.”
“What’s the yellow flag?” Ash felt hopelessly unschooled in nautical matters.
“It signals disease on board,” DeVilliers said. “A symbol of quarantine. It’s an old trick to fend off pirates, but that, along with our firepower, might cause them to think twice.”
Strangward shook his head. He leaned toward DeVilliers, speaking low and urgently. “Captain, now that we’re in this, we need to hit them hard and fast with conventional weapons. With the crew we have, we can’t man the big guns, so we probably can’t sink her. The best we can do is cripple her enough that we can sail away without revealing too much. My recommendation is to erect magical barriers, which Samara can’t see, then open up with the eight-pounders with bar and chain, aiming for the masts and rigging. If they try to board, use the swivel cannon at the rails, loaded with grape and canister shot.”
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