Page 64 of The Ragpicker King
“The game is about to change, Beck,” says Gremont, his voice oily. “And you do know what that means.”
The man he calls Beck only shrugs.
“You refer to a redistribution of power,” Jerrod says quickly.
The Malgasi woman flicks a look in his direction. “As you say.” She nods. “Things are going to change, on the Hill and in the city. Some will fall, and others will be lifted. The Ragpicker King’s day is over. We need someone independent ruling over your streets. Someone I can work with. Can I work with you?”
Small tendrils of alarm unfold in the pit of Jerrod’s stomach, quickening his pulse. He’d expected the woman to make some sort of deal with Beck, perhaps buy something illegal. Weapons or the like. This—the implicit expectation that Beck would align withher against the two most powerful forces in the city—sets off every alarm he has.
The woman holds the gaze of the man behind the desk, her stare boring into him. At last, he says, “I’ll have to think about it,” his eyes sliding away from her. “Give me some time.”
Her narrow mouth curls at the corner. “Of course,” she says, and then seems to hesitate, as if something has just occurred to her. “Out of curiosity, why do you hate Conor Aurelian so very much?”
Jerrod tries to catch the eye of the man behind the desk, but it is too late. He raises his big shoulders in a casual shrug and says, “He is corrupt. All nobles are corrupt.”
“Ah,” the woman says, less of a word than a soft exhale. A moment later there is a flash of silver, as if a metallic bird had launched itself into the air. The man behind the desk falls back, clutching at his throat, where the hilt of a knife now protrudes.
Jerrod’s hand is at his side before he has time to think, his palm brushing the hilt of his own dagger. Before he can grasp it, he feels himself knocked backward, his back slamming painfully into the doorframe. The woman looms up in front of him, her face inches from his, her raptor eyes gleaming. He’s never seen anyone move so fast.
“Little minion,” she says, her thin white fingers brushing against his chest. “Stop twitching. I’m going to let you live, and this is why: Go back to Prosper Beck—the real Prosper Beck—and tell him Elsabet Belmany is looking for him and doesn’t suffer fools gladly. Nor will I easily forgive him for trying to palm me off with a trick.” She grins, a flash of white teeth in the shadows. “Beck can expect to hear from me again, and next time, I’ll turn Gremont loose on him. Gremont loves causing pain, and he’s very good at it—aren’t you, Artal?”
Gremont nods in the dim light, his face blank, and in that moment, Jerrod realizes how very much under the Malgasi Princess’scontrol he is. He reminds himself to tell Beck of this later. It’s exactly the sort of thing Beck will want to know.
A moment later, soundlessly, she is gone, leaving Jerrod alone in the room with Artal Gremont, who is gazing with a mild sneer at the dead body slumped across the table. This, Jerrod feels, is typical of the nobility: They are willing enough to order blood to be spilled, but don’t enjoy seeing the mess.
“That... wasn’t Beck?” Gremont says.
Jerrod sees no point in lying. “No.”
“That was stupid,” Gremont says with a little more force. “Stupid of your boss.”
Jerrod lets his lip curl at the edge. “You’d better fucking hope you never meet my boss.”
Gremont’s eyes darken. Not that Jerrod is worried. His companion has charged Jerrod with delivering a message, and she wouldn’t be pleased if Gremont interfered. Gremont knows it, too; he snaps a curse and turns on his heel, stomping out of the room like an angry, oversized toddler.
Jerrod has already stopped thinking about him. He crosses the room and bends down next to the dead body, looking at the pool of blood spreading very slowly across the table. Looking at the dead man’s face.
Bron. He’d been one of Beck’s for a long time, nearly as long as Jerrod. Jerrod remembered Bron learning how to be a passable Prosper Beck: what to say and what not to say, what to wear, the right accent. A little like Kel’s job, Jerrod had thought, when he found out what Kel’s job really was, and later he wondered if that was where Beck had gotten the idea.
Jerrod sighs. “May you pass through the gray door unhindered, my brother.”
He touches the other man lightly on the shoulder, feeling the scratchy fabric of the brocade jacket of which Bron had been so proud. Feeling very tired, Jerrod sinks down into the chair opposite the dead man. He sits there a long time.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The lamps were turned low in the royal apartments; it was past midnight. Kel sat on his bed, his back against a fortress of pillows, and watched Conor as he worked.
Conor seemed to be poring over a series of maps, looking at each one and taking notes in his fine, crabbed hand. (Kel knew Conor’s handwriting as well as he knew his own: In most respects, itwashis own. He had not been taught to write so much as he had been taught to imitate Conor’s writing.) He had been doing it for some hours since they’d returned from the Arena, pausing only to stretch or splash water on his face.
“You should eat,” Kel said, breaking the silence. “The meal Dom Valon brought won’t be good for long.”
Conor frowned at the plate near his elbow. “It’s already congealed.”
“Then ring for Delfina to bring you a new one.” Kel swung his legs over the edge of his bed. “I was surprised to see Lin at the Arena today,” he continued carefully. “And to see you laughing with her. I thought you didn’t care much for her.”At least, I know you’d like me to think that. But I know well how rare it is for someone to truly make you laugh. And how rare it is for you to look at anyone the way you look at Lin.
Conor shrugged without looking up. “She is the best physician I know. We’re both evidence of that.”
Kel let the words hang between them for some time. Then he said, “So you’ve decided...?”
