Page 46 of The Ragpicker King
Elsabet
A faint aura of neglect reigns over the former temple of Anibal on Anchor Street. Inside, the corners of thecella,the great central chamber, are thick with dust. Tiles are missing from the ornate mosaics on the floor, and matted spiderwebs hang like seafoam from the candelabras.
Yet the northern part of thecella,where the altar rises, has been recently swept. On the altar, surrounded by glowering statues of the God of death, is a tall priest’s chair, and in the chair sits a woman with long black hair and sharp, aquiline features. She wears a scarlet gown, close fitting as a glove, as if she has been dipped in blood. She is a Princess, and very far from her native land.
She gazes without expression at the two men standing before her. One is Artal Gremont, looking unpleasantly sweaty. The other refuses to be referred to by his real name: The Princess has taken to calling him Seven, as that is the position of his chair on the clockface of the Dial Chamber.
“So the Prince is set on this alliance with Kutani, then?” says Elsabet Belmany. “He cannot be turned aside?”
“I’ve always thought of him as weak-willed,” says Seven, whoknows Conor better than Artal, “but he’s been remarkably firm on this. It doesn’t help that he has the backing of all his usual advisers. Bensimon, Jolivet—they’re all keen on this match.”
“Of course they are,” Elsabet breathes. Spineless opportunists, all of them. Everyone knows Castellane runs on greed the way the human body runs on blood and humors. Each person surrounding the Prince sought only to enrich themselves with gold; they have forgotten the more valuable offerings of royalty: nobility, stern pride, the steely rule of Law, and the courage to lead a nation into battle. “Annoying,” she says, “but as we suspected. It is the Sword Catcher who concerns me at the moment. He continues to be a thorn in our side.”
Artal’s forehead creases. “Is that the one that’s supposed to be the Prince’s cousin? He doesn’t look like much of a threat. I could easily hire a mercenary to put an end to him—”
“He’s a better fighter than he looks,” says Seven, shooting Artal a sideways look of contempt. “And besides—our lady wants him alive.”
Elsabet flatters herself that she finds most people easy to read. It is clear to her that Seven is none too fond of Artal and is barely tolerating his presence. She hides a smile. Seven thinks a great deal of himself, as all the Charter holders do, and it amuses her to see him discomfited. “I do want Kellian Saren alive,” she says. “But I also want him out of the good graces of the Palace.”
“It’s not the Palace that protects him,” Seven says, “it’s the Prince. He loves him like a brother. Won’t hear a bad word about him. I’ve tried.”
“But with what evidence? Surely the Sword Catcher has been loyal. And if he failed in some small way, surely the Prince would forgive him?”
Seven inclines his head to acknowledge the truth of Elsabet’s words.
“Still,” she muses, “a Prince must acknowledge treason. Wherea friend could forgive a betrayal, a ruler cannot countenance an act against himself, for it is an attack against his country.”
“You mean because he is working with the Ragpicker King?” says Seven. “And not with Conor’s knowledge, as far as I can tell.”
Elsabet watches a black spider scurry across the broken-tiled floor. She says, “That is not enough. In Castellane, the King in the City and the King on the Hill have long had more of a connection than most people know.”
Artal and Seven exchange a puzzled look; clearly they do not know what she means. Nor do they need to; they are merely rich men, not royal ones. There are some secrets it is unnecessary for them to know. “But working with the Ragpicker King— Well, it sounds to me as if he begins to chafe at his servitude. He was born to die for someone else, to uplift them with his blood. He surely has come to resent it. We can play on that. We will watch him, observe him. He will make a mistake.” She turns to Artal, who has begun to look glazed. Alas, complex machinations are somewhat beyond him. “In the meantime, Artal, you know your task. We have reason to believe your pretty fiancée knows where Prosper Beck can be found. I shall rely upon you to convince her to tell.”
Artal grins. “Wonderful,” he says. “I’ll enjoy that very much.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Jolivet was silent all the way to Marivent. The carriage took side roads, avoiding the main streets where the celebration was now in full swing: Lin could hear the sounds of it—distant shouts blending together like the roar of an unseen waterfall.
Since he was ignoring her, Lin felt free to stare at the Legate curiously. He reallydidlook like a raptor up close, with his curved nose, receding chin, and nearly unblinking eyes. No wonder the people of the city called him the Eagle of the Fall, though she had never been sure which Fall they meant exactly—the fall of the cliffs away from Marivent? Or a more metaphorical fall, the fall of the Empire long ago? For there had been Legates back then, too, enforcing Laws for Emperors.
Jolivet seemed to relax minutely when they reached the Palace. Kutani flags fluttered from atop the North Gate, and inside the walls of Marivent, red-liveried staff were hurrying to and fro, carrying pots of flowers in brilliant shades of coral, peach, and tangerine. Wires bearing golden chimes were strung between balconies; gold bunting hung above the doorways. Had all this been done this morning? Or last night, when she was sitting up with a patient in the Sault?
The carriage drew up in the courtyard of the Castel Mitat. Jolivet helped Lin descend and hurried with her into the small palace. It seemed deserted, quiet enough inside that she could hear the faint carillon of the chimes outside, shimmering on the air.
When they reached the door of the Prince’s chambers, Jolivet knocked, and there was a flurry of sound behind the door; it cracked open slightly and a woman in a white mobcap appeared. Lin remembered her—one of the hurrying servants she had caught a glimpse of the night she’d come to Marivent to heal Conor after he’d been whipped bloody.
It all seemed an age ago, now.
Clinging tight to her physician’s satchel, Lin followed the mobcapped servant into the Prince’s chambers while Jolivet remained outside. The chambers themselves did not seem to have changed much. There were the same two beds, the same marble tables and crumpled-silk divans—though there was now a heavy desk pushed against one wall, covered in a white hill of ink-scrawled papers.
A whirlwind of activity was happening in the center of the room. And in the center of the activity stood Prince Conor, almost completely naked.
Lin dropped her satchel. Luckily, no one seemed to notice; it hit the floor with a softthunkas she stared. She knew, of course, that the very rich had servants to help them dress, but she had never pondered what that would actually look like before—or that it meant that, of course, they would clothe you from the skin out.
Not that the Prince wasentirelynude. He was in his smallclothes: short breeches of fine linen, cut on the cross to be close fitting. Fluttering around him like anxious birds were a group of servants: a tailor, carrying thread, needle, and seam-ripper, another—the woman who had greeted Lin at the door—taking various garments from the wardrobe to hold up for the Prince’s approval, and a third holding open a velvet box inside of which rested a variety of glittering ornaments.
At the eye of the hurricane, the Prince stood calmly, utterlyunselfconscious about his lack of attire. In fact, he looked half asleep, his eyes heavy-lidded, his black hair tousled and still damp from the tepidarium.
