Page 5 of The Ragpicker King
ALL THAT IS GOOD COMES FROM THE GODS.ALL THAT IS EVIL COMES FROM MEN.
Kel could not help but stare at the words picked out in gold tesserae across the interior of the domed ceiling of the Dial Chamber. They seemed to carry a sinister weight they had not conveyed three months ago, the last time the heads of the Great Charters of Castellane had met together in this place.
He was not sure precisely why. In the end, Conor’s announcement went over rather better than Kel had expected. At first, voices had risen in protest after Conor gave the news of his engagement. Kel could hear snatches of conversation, objections—it was a marriage that got us into this in the first place—and complaints about not being consulted. Conor sat patiently—patience, like a new coat, sitting awkwardly on his shoulders—until the noise died down.
He said, “Our new partner knows of the situation with Sarthe. They have pledged a dowry of one hundred thousand crowns, and the use of their fleets in case of war. They have ten thousand warships. Sarthe has none; they would have to beg, borrow, or steal the use of them, and if they chose to do so, they would find our harbor full of ships ready to blast them to Hell.”
His eyes were narrowed to silver slits, and Kel could not help but think how much care had been put into the preparation for this moment. Sleepless nights considering whether this was the right thing to do. Consultations with Mayesh, hours spent locked in the North Tower with the Counselor and Legate and those maps, endless maps with pins in them. Every pin an army. And for every pin representing the armies of Castellane, ten more representing the armies of Sarthe.
In the end, there had been no real question.
It was Cazalet who spoke first. As it should be, Kel thought; the other families took their cues from him. “An admirable decision, Monseigneur,” he said, “and one clearly made with the benefit of Castellane in mind.”
If a fuss had been brewing, it subsided. Ciprian Cabrol looked genuinely pleased. “Brilliant stuff,” he said. “Sarthe cannot stand against such combined forces. They dare not even try.”
Even Lady Alleyne had accepted it gracefully. After all, Antonetta was engaged; Liorada had no further hopes of marrying her to Conor. She had abandoned her dream that her daughter might be royalty and accepted that it was likely she would only be very, very rich.
Kel had half hoped that Antonetta would be at the meeting, but she was not. He had seen her only a little since her engagement had been announced, only a week after the Shining Gallery murders. She had not come to the Palace at all, and when he had seen her at House Cabrol one night, she had only smiled very brilliantly and said that the wedding required a lot of preparations. She was much busier than she had imagined, and did he think that it would be a problem to have pink roses on the altar, because pink roses were her favorite but in the Castellani language of flowers they suggested impermanence of affection?
He had only just managed to get away without saying something he shouldn’t. He could still remember her, months ago, begging him to do something to stop the marriage—but he had been wearing his talisman at the time. She had thought he was Conor. Which meant that Kel was not supposed to know she had—at first—not wished for this engagement; he could not mention the fact without betraying his Sword Catcher vows.
Suddenly, he found he was desperate to get out of the Dial Chamber and into the fresh air. The meeting over, several of the Charter holders were clamoring around Conor. Between the heaving shoulders of those trying to get close to the Prince, Kel could see only the bright splash of his red velvet cloak and the wink of the ruby in his crown.
A movement near the door caught his attention. Legate Jolivet, the leader of the royal guard. His hair seemed to have grown grayer since the Shining Gallery, his profile more angularly hawkish. He had said very little during the meeting, though he had been intimately involved with every decision the Prince had made over the past months.
In the chaotic days after the slaughter of the Sarthian Princess, along with her bodyguard and ambassadors, Marivent had waited breathlessly for word from Sarthe. To show good faith, it was Jolivet who suggested they send a message to Sarthe immediately, detailing what had happened—truthfully, he had emphasized; the tale of what had occurred would be everywhere soon enough, and the King in Aquila would soon discover any lie. The only untruth had not been in the words, but in the implication that the King had penned the message himself. Conor had done it, and then signed his father’s name.
When the reply arrived, it was terse and cold. Writing from his palace in Aquila, King Leandro d’Eon said that Sarthe had sent its Princess in good faith. That calamity had befallen her at Marivent was the fault of Castellane. To prevent war, an honor price must be paid.
He named a figure of one million crowns. Even Mayesh’s expression had changed at that. “He can’t be serious,” he’d said. “One could sell all of Castellane and not raise that much. No country save perhaps Kutani could part with that much gold and survive.”
“D’Eon is saying he wants war,” Conor had said wearily. “He is offering a way out, but it is not a real offer.”
“Or a real way out,” Jolivet had said. He had looked around the room at them all, his expression imperturbable as always. “We will not pay. We will find another road.”
And so they had, though Jolivet did not seem overjoyed at the plan’s apparent success. He jerked his chin at Kel, indicating that Kel should follow him out of the room, and left.
Kel slipped away through the crowd. Outside the Star Tower, it was a hot, bright midday. A haze hung over the city that fell away below the Hill, turning the ocean to a distant green smudge.
He found Jolivet standing in the shade of the wall that surrounded the Queen’s Garden. He wore a flat expression along with his Lion Ring and the gold braid on his uniform. When Kel drew close, he said in a low voice, “I suppose you will be taking the news of this meeting to the mansion.”
“I see no reason to conceal it,” said Kel. “The city will know soon enough, and the Ragpicker King before anyone else.”
Jolivet grunted and crossed his arms. “I suppose you and your friends have made no further progress.”
Kel bit off an annoyed retort. Of all the people in Castellane, he certainly would not have chosen Legate Jolivet to be the only one outside the Black Mansion to know his secret. But he’d had no choice in the matter. Jolivet had nearly ordered him to throw in his lot with the Ragpicker King in the hope of finding out who had orchestrated the Shining Gallery murders.
Kel belonged to the Palace; he was Palace property. If Jolivet ordered him to do something, it would have been in the nature of a small insurrection to refuse. He could have gone to Conor, but in his heart he was in agreement with the Legate. Whoever had executed the attack on the Gallery had a bigger target in their sights than the visiting Sarthians.
Kel had followed one of the assassins out of the Gallery, trapping them on the roof. He still recalled what the black-clad figure—face and body entirely hidden, identity unguessable—had hissed at him as he stood, incredulous, sword in hand.
You stand upon the threshold of history, Sword Catcher. For this is the beginning of the fall of House Aurelian.
Conor was the only child of a King who was himself the only survivor of three sons. If the line of Aurelian was to end, it meant Conor’s death. And Kel was sworn to prevent that. Even if it meant following the orders of Jolivet to keep his activities a secret. Even if it meant joining forces with the Ragpicker King—the biggest criminal in Castellane.
“Progress is slow,” Kel said. “We are chasing ghosts. No one seems to know anything of the attackers. Thirty men must have died that night, yet there have been no whispers of anyone missing. And the Ragpicker King has access to many whispers.”
Jolivet grunted again. “Nothing happens with no warning,” he said. “Only the warnings may not take the form you imagine.Anything unusual or amiss in the city is worth noting.” He glanced toward the door of the tower; Ciprian Cabrol, Joss Falconet, and Lupin Montfaucon had emerged and were walking in their direction along the path of crushed stones, their heads bent together as they spoke.
