The Dread Wyrm (Traitor Son Cycle) (31 page)

The imperial shook his head. “Names will not help anyone here. In a few days—a week—given some money, I can have a network of informers who can supply almost anything.” He shrugged. “It is a craft, like any other. Some men work gold. I work people.”

The ale arrived. The imperial took a deep draught of his and smiled. “That’s a fine ale,” he said.

“You cannot expect me to hand you money and trust you to do your work,” Maître Gris said.

The other man gave a lopsided smile. “And yet, everything would proceed so much better if you did,” he said. “Mistrust is inefficient.”

Maître Gris shook his head. “I want information about Lady Rebecca Almspend,” he said. “She has disappeared.”

The man opposite him pursed his lips. “I have heard that name,” he admitted. “She was sent into voluntary exile, was she not?”

Maître Gris nodded. “Good, I’m glad you know of her. Find her, and we will talk about money and networks of informers.”

He rose. The other man took another sip of his ale and shook his head. “No,” he said.

“What, no?” the friar asked.

“I’m sorry, but I do not work for free. Ever. I’m quite well known, in my way. I do not work for employers who distrust me, and I do not work for free.” The other man shrugged. “I will not wander the city looking for a missing noblewoman. That would be very dangerous, just now. I work through others, and that costs money.”

Maître Gris was shocked. “And how do I know you would act properly?”

The other man shrugged. “How do you know that a servant will light your fires every morning? Or fetch a chalice when you want to say mass? You see, I assume that you are a cleric of some sort. What possible benefit would I accrue by taking your money and running?” He shrugged. “The sum isn’t big enough for me to steal,” he said.

“How much?” Maître Gris asked, sitting again.

The imperial allowed himself a very small smile. “Ten ducats a week for every informer I recruit and pay. A hundred ducats a week for me. If any other services are required, I have… friends… to whom they can be contracted.” He spread his hands. “They are efficient, trustworthy, and always clean up after themselves. They are very expensive, and yet many clients find that they are much cheaper than amateurs.”

Maître Gris shook his head. “I cannot agree to any of this.”

The other man finished his ale and rose. “I suspected as much. I will meet you one more time—that is all. I do not make multiple meetings. It is unhealthy. If you wish to reach me again, please leave a slip of parchment with no marking on it pinned with a tack to the water gate of the palace. Do this in the morning, and I will meet you—at this very table—that night.” He shrugged. “Or someone representing me will meet you.” He frowned. “You are foolish to be out in the streets and I, frankly, do not fancy being hanged beside you.”

Maître Gris rose again. “But—” he said.

The other man simply walked away. He paused by the innkeeper’s bar, and said a few words—the innkeeper growled at him, that much was visible.

The foreigner spread his hands, as if showing he was harmless. Then he sang something.

Nothing could have been more incongruous. He sang a short song in Archaic—his voice was beautiful. Some of the men in the tavern fell silent.

Then he went out.

The Angel being the Angel, and the man being so well-dressed—and foreign—a pair of men with clubs followed him into the dark alley.

He moved very quickly. They had to run to keep up with him, and when he turned into Sail Maker’s Lane, they were both breathing hard.

And he was gone.

Both men cursed and went back to the inn.

Jules Kronmir jumped lightly to the ground and shook his head before walking down the hill, towards Master Pye’s yard by a circuitous route that took him the better part of the evening.

Good Friday dawned in heavy rain and cold, as if spring was unwilling to come. The tournament was five days away, and there was a rumour in the streets of Harndon that the Prince of Occitan was a day’s ride away—indeed, that he’d halted at Bergon, the country town of North Jarsay, to spend the day on his knees.

The same rumour said that he had a hundred lances with him. And that he’d have more, but his army was fighting the Wild in the mountains. Without him.

“He’s comin’ for his sister,” people said.

The King’s Guard—or rather, the sell-swords and thugs making up the King’s Guard—were seen in the markets. With most of the citizens in church, they moved to take possession of the market squares and rally points, and no one stopped them. Families leaving church, tired and sad at the end of a day of the Passion, found Guardsmen and Galles at every street corner. There were a few incidents, but even the Galles seemed quiet in the face of the day of fasting, the end of Lent, and the violence of two days before.

Just before darkness fell, the King’s Champion rode through the streets with a hundred Gallish lances. There were Albans among them—local knights who’d seen which way the wind was blowing, and devoted King’s men. They marched a relief through the streets and changed the guards at each market square. Everywhere they went, they posted a proclamation.

It announced the Queen’s Trial by Combat on Tuesday next.

It attainted Ser Gerald Random for treason, and Mistress Anne Bates, and a woman called Blanche Gold, as well as Lady Rebecca Almspend and Ser Gareth Montroy, the Count of the Borders, along with Ser John Wishart, the Prior of the Order of Saint Thomas.

And it forbade all assembly by more than four persons of either sex, for any reason, or the public bearing of arms.

Master Pye sat in his private workroom with his lead journeymen. Duke had pulled a copy down from the market cross in the square where they had their Maypole.

“Probably a crime to take it down,” Sam Vintner said.

Master Pye glared. “No time for foolishness,” he said.

The journeymen sat and fretted.

“What do we do, Master?” Edmund asked.

Master Pye blew out his cheeks, took off his spectacles, rubbed them on his shirt, and put them back on his nose. He stared into the darkness of Friday evening.

“How did they do it so fast?” he asked the darkness.

Duke raised his head. “You…” and he paused.

They all looked at Duke. He was the only boy born in the streets. The others came from guild houses. Duke thought about things differently.

Duke shrugged.

Master Pye cleared his throat. “Favour us with your views, lad,” he said, and his voice was not unkind.

Duke shrugged again. “You take it all for granted,” he said. He sounded as if he was angry—or if he might weep. “It’s bloody good, this thing we have. But you forget it’s not natural. You expect everyone to cooperate with the law. To make the law work.” Duke took a deep breath. “But all you have to do is lie. If enough people lie, all the time, then there isn’t enough truth for law to work. That’s how I see it.” He looked at his feet. “If enough men are greedy, and willing to lie to get what they want?” He raised his head and faced them. “Then it’s easy. Their way is easy. And you lot will sit here and debate. When the only real answer is to arm, go out in the streets, and fucking kill every Guardsman and every Galle on every corner until we hold the city.”

Edmund drew in a breath in horror. He had had a bad week; the man he’d killed haunted him. It had been—so easy. Like fencing in the yard. But the real man had fallen like a carcass cut down by a butcher. But worse—bloodier…

“See?” Duke said. “You all still think that if you do nothing, maybe it will go away.”

“We fought!” Sam Vintner said.

Duke jutted out his jaw. “You know, I’m not a nice boy like you. My experience is—you
always
have to fight. Fighting is the normal way.”

Master Pye chewed his lip. “Duke, there’s merit in what you say. And mayhap we need a little more fire under us—by all the saints, people have been placid these few months. Wealth and good food and safety make men and women like cattle, right eno’.” He looked around at all his senior men. “But Duke—if we kill the Galles and the King’s men then we’re rebels.”

“That’s just a word,” said Duke.

“Not when the Galle knights come through our squares, killing our people,” Master Pye said.

“We need the Order,” Edmund said.

All the men there knew that the Order’s knights were somewhere. Ser Ricar no longer wore the black and pointed cross, and he’d been seen twice—once after he escorted the black man out of the city, and another time Edmund had seen him talking to a tall man in a fine black hood.

Master Pye surprised them by shaking his head. “We can’t count on the Order to do our fighting for us,” he said. “Duke’s right, and he’s wrong.” He chewed on his lips a little while. “I’m sending all o’ you north, to Albinkirk. It’s too late for the fair, but there’s an empty smithy there and Ser John Crayford offered it to us. You can’t stay here. You’ll fight—and die.” He shook his head. “It’s going to be awful.”

Duke glared. “Just run away?” he asked. “And what of all the orders for the tourney?”

Master Pye nodded. “I’ll be on the next attainder list,” he said. “And we don’t have the swords—not if every man in the whole City Muster stood against them. Three thousand Galles? Christ, boys, think on what the routiers was like.”

“We can fight,” Edmund said. He looked at Duke, who nodded.

“Can Ann fight? How about your sisters? Eh? Blanche? Want her to fight?” Master Pye shook his head. “Lads—either you are or you ain’t my people. You wear my livery, you eat my food. Now I’m giving an order. You pack the mint and all the armoury. And tomorrow, when I give you the word, you ride out into the city and over First Bridge.” He looked at Duke. “More than half the goods we’re working so hard to complete are for men now attainted as traitors.” He shrugged. “I’m not minded to complete the King’s harness, either.”

Edmund wanted to cry. “But—how? I mean—won’t they stop us?”

Master Pye shook his head. “You worry about moving four wagons over muddy roads. I’ll worry about getting you out of the city.” He waved them out in dismissal.

In the dungeons, the Queen sat in near perfect darkness. She had one window, high in the wall of her cell, and it allowed in some light during the day. She had a bed, and wall hangings and clean linen, and excellent food.

And very careful guards. She didn’t know any of them, despite their red surcoats. But they were cautious and courteous.

It might have been restful, except that de Rohan came every day to examine her. He brought a dozen monks and other creatures, and they filled her cell while he asked her, unblushing, to tell her the dates her courses had run, the names of her lovers, the date on which she had lost her virginity, and a thousand other little humiliations.

She ignored him, and eventually, each day, he went away.

It was easier to ignore him because she was, already and perpetually, under attack. His voice wasn’t even a pinprick compared to the assault of her real enemy, and the black serpent—that’s how she had begun to think of Ash, her foe—never ceased to press against the walls of her memory palace. There were no overt attacks.

Just a constant, deadly pressure on her mind.

He was insidious, too. Twice, defending the sanctity of her memory
palace, Desiderata found false memories trying to leach through her walls. The memory of lying with Gaston D’Eu was laughable—her new enemy clearly had no notion of how a woman perceived the act of love. But the memory of giving Blanche a letter—a sealed letter—was almost tangible, and terrifyingly like a genuine memory.

And he gloated. That’s the reason she knew his name. Ash. So… fitting.

She began to grow scared. Desiderata was not easily made afraid, but here, in the constant darkness, with no sun and no friend, no Diota, no guardsman she could trust, without even a dog or a cat, she was oppressed by a power far beyond her own.

After a day of near defeat—by which time she had begun, like a mad person, to doubt her own thoughts—she turned to prayer. And not simple prayer, but sung prayer.

She sang. And while she sang, having practised this, she began to weave herself some protections, spending carefully some hoarded
ops
. She was shocked—almost shocked out of her palace—to find how little
ops
she had.

But she worked. She stayed on her knees for most of Good Friday, allowing the pale light of the rainy spring sun to fall on her face, replenishing what little power she could muster, making
ops
into
potentia
and then to
praxis
.

Singing hymns of praise to the Virgin, and all the while, holding back the night in the fortress of her mind.

The sun went down.

Why do you do this to me?
she asked the blackness outside her memory palace.

The blackness made no answer. It was not even green—just black.

Slowly, she worked. And with her will along, she reinforced her hope. To Desiderata, the loss of hope would be the loss of everything.

But she had doubts, and they were like stealthy miners working under the walls of her fortress.

Why has the King deserted me?

Why does he believe them?

Why did he rape his sister?

Who is this man to whom I am married?

Did I ever know him at all?

Why is my palace built atop this evil thing?

The last question seemed to bear the weight of many meanings.

The guards changed outside her door. She heard the stamp of feet, the whisper of sandals, and knew that de Rohan was back with his minions. She kept her head bowed, her now-lank hair hanging over her face. She continued to sing—her six hundred and seventieth Ave Maria. As she completed it, she went straight into her favourite Benedictus.

And in her mind, she placed another small, carefully wrought brick of power in the growing citadel she was creating.

Her perception of the world was imprecise. She had very little awareness to spare for de Rohan, but she noted that he was alone, except for two guardsmen.

He began to speak.

She paid him no heed.