Page 6 of The Ragpicker King
“Cabrol,” Jolivet muttered in his gravelly voice. “What d’you think of him?”
Kel hesitated a moment before replying, watching the three men as they slowly drew closer. Against the white backdrop of Marivent’s towers, they resembled birds of bright plumage. Montfaucon was elaborately dressed as always, in trousers and a doublet of bright yellow, like a golden oriole. Joss wore a suit of cardinal red, embossed with a stitched design of coppery serpents. Beside him, Cabrol was the most plain of the three, in dark gray, though his tunic had a kingfisher-blue underlining that flashed when his sleeves fell back as he gestured.
“Hard to trust him,” Kel said quietly, “after the way he gained the dye Charter.”
Until three months ago, the dye Charter of Castellane had belonged to the family Roverge, whose son, Charlon, had been one of Conor’s close friends, along with Joss and Lupin. On the night of the Shining Gallery slaughter, the whole of the Roverge fleet had burned in the harbor, wiping out their fortune. Within days they were gone from the Hill, taking only a few belongings; the rest of what they had would be sold to pay down their vast debts. The Charter itself belonged to the crown and the Council, and was given over to a family chosen by Cazalet (and approved by the King in theory; Conor, in reality): the Cabrols, prominent ink merchants in the city.
There were three in the family: Ciprian, the eldest son; Beatris, his sister; and his elderly mother, who had been little-seen since the changeover of power. Ciprian was arrogant and good-looking, and he seemed to have entirely expected to be handed the reins to one of Castellane’s most profitable Charters.
And perhaps he had reason. After talking to Lin about the destroyed fleet, Kel had cornered Mayesh in the North Tower. “We are all aware that the Cabrol family burned the Roverge ships, aren’t we?”
“Oh, yes,” Mayesh had said. He’d been studying a map of Sarthe. It was studded with different colored pins, though Kel could not make out their code. “It is an open secret, Kellian.”
“And nothing will be done?”
“The Roverge family had many enemies.” Mayesh moved a pin. “They threatened and intimidated anyone they saw as rivals; the Cabrol family was only the most recent of their victims, and the first to have fought back. Their behavior would likely have landed them in the Trick if they had been other than who they were. Many on the Hill and among the merchant guilds consider this Benedict’s comeuppance.” He looked curiously at Kel. “How did youthinkCharter seats changed hands?”
“Not like this,” Kel had said. He’d thought of the harbor on the night of the fires, of the sea full of dye, of waves that broke in foam colored in yellow and scarlet, turquoise and violet. For days after, the smoke had hung in the air over Castellane, turning the sunsets into painterly displays of wine red and gold. A victory banner for the Cabrols. “They may have their power now, but it will matter how they got it. It always does, in the long run.”
Mayesh had smiled a little at that. “An astute observation, Kel. You have identified one reason that nobles are not constantly blowing up one another’s ships for Charter seats.”
“Is there another reason?”
“Black powder is expensive,” Mayesh had said, chuckling, and gone back to his map.
“Anjuman!” Joss called out. He was grinning his usual easy, lazy grin. “I suppose you already knew Conor’s big news, eh? No wonder you looked half asleep the whole meeting. No surprises for you.”
Kel made a mental note to adjust hislistening calmly but withinterestexpression. Clearly it was not conveying what he had hoped. “I knew, yes. It was no simple decision for Conor. He has wrestled with it.”
“Indeed,” said Montfaucon with a chuckle. The yellow of his suit was almost alarmingly bright against his dark skin. “He barely escaped the manacles of matrimony once. Now he willingly walks back into the prison.”
“Conor rarely just walks anywhere,” observed Joss. “I would say he is striding back into the prison with purpose aplenty.” He turned to Jolivet. “Would you agree, Legate?”
Jolivet muttered something about needing to review his troops and slipped away.
Cabrol looked after him with a raised eyebrow. “A lighthearted individual,” he said dryly. He had unusual coloring: dark eyes and hair the color of Castellane’s red roof tiles. “I have usually found soldiers to be good company in a tavern, but I would say the Legate is an exception.”
“Soldiers can be good company when off duty,” said Kel, wondering why he was about to defend Jolivet, but unable to help it. “Arguably, Jolivet is never off duty.”
Cabrol transferred his raised eyebrow to Kel. “I suppose that’s true. One certainly cannot doubt his loyalty to the city or the crown. Or Conor’s,” he added. “He is clearly marrying for the good of Castellane. And he will be sure to earn the gratitude of the people for it. Even those of us on the Hill.”
His voice was smooth, his tone light. Kel did not trust him for a moment.
“Gratitude.” Montfaucon waved away the concept as boring. “Listen, Anjuman, I’m having a gathering at the Caravel tonight. Liquor and hourglasses on me. Bring our young Prince along with you. He needs to have a bit of fun.”
“Indeed, and not much time to have it in,” Joss said, laughing. “Besides, he’s been working himself to death since—” He broke off, a little awkwardly, which was unusual for Joss. He was rarelyawkward. “Well, for the past few months. He deserves to enjoy himself a bit.”
“I’ll tell him about tonight, Lupin,” Kel said. He realized he could not recall the last time Conor had gone to the pleasure houses of the Temple District—with his friends or without them.
Montfaucon pointed a white-gloved finger at him. “Tell him it’s important,” he said. “There’s someone I wish him to meet.”
Joss, having regained his composure, slapped Montfaucon on the back. “Montfaucon’s infatuated with a new lover,” he said. “Been very secretive about him. Won’t even tell us his name.”
Montfaucon shrugged, though he was clearly pleased with himself. “I told you, he goes by his Arena name. The Gray Serpent.”
Cabrol laughed and said something about how surely Montfaucon could not reasonably, in the throes of passion, be expected to call his lover “the Gray Serpent,” but Kel barely heard him. Too shocked to speak, he stood where he was, motionless, staring into the past.
Marcel
