Page 63 of The Ragpicker King
“No.No.” Magali was breathing hard. “The visitor arrived masked and hooded, all in black, and left the same way, in an unmarked carriage, and my lady shut herself in her study for all the rest of that day. I heard her weeping through the door.” Magali looked at Kel eagerly. “So you see? It was not her fault. Find the person who was threatening my lady, and you will find the one who planned the slaughter.”
“A mysterious figure, all in black, who comes and goes in anunmarked carriage?” Kel’s tone made Magali shrink back. “If I bring this tale to Legate Jolivet, he will imagine you have invented this individual, Magali, to distract attention and blame from Lady Alleyne. If you have no further proof—”
“There is one more thing.” Magali’s eyes were red-rimmed now. “My lady received a letter a few days ago. She flew into a rage over it. I—I may have fished it out from the rubbish. I wanted to know what had upset her so greatly.”
“What did it say?”
“It ordered her to a meeting on Cereday night. On Tyndaris. To discussa matter of loyalty.”
“Tyndaris?” Kel frowned. People tended to avoid the drowned island, save for religious pilgrims determined to visit the Chapel of a Thousand Doors, visible only at low tide.
“Yes.” Magali’s voice was firm. Kel knew lies and the look of them. She was not lying—of that he had no doubt. Nor did he sense she had anything more to tell him.
He rose to his feet, the taste ofloukumoversweet and sticky on his tongue. “Keep this conversation between us, Domna Berthe. Or I will know it, and so will the Legate. Do you understand?”
Magali nodded; the spirit seemed to have left her, as if she had no energy for anything but agreement. Kel left her staring blankly at the Arena, with no sign that she was aware of the now-unchained crocodiles as they circled each other, each snapping at the other’s sides with blood-flecked jaws.
Kel turned his steps toward the stairs that led back to the royal box, thinking of Magali, the fear in her eyes as he spoke of the Trick, the Law, the Legate. He had never really used his place as Kel Anjuman to threaten anyone before. He was surprised to find it did not bother him nearly as much as he’d thought.
Jerrod
Jerrod doesn’t like it. He doesn’t like it at all.
Ever since Kaspar had slid into the booth across from him at the noodle shop with the news that Prosper Beck was officially back, he’d been brooding. He had always known Beck would return and that, when that happened, his former boss would reach out for him again. He was Beck’s man; he’d sworn it. But he’d underestimated how comfortable he’d gotten in his new life at the Black Mansion.
When Jerrod had joined Andreyen’s team, he’d instructed himself not to form any attachments. Not to make friends, despite the deliberately congenial atmosphere. He’d failed parlously.
He supposed he’d secretly thought that the collegiality in the mansion was a façade, as false a front as the warehouse he was standing in right now, with its painted signs outside advertising a gambling parlor. Beck had once run games out of the place, but that had been a long time ago. Now it housed something quite different from games of chance.
What Jerrod had not expected was how genuinely attached to one another the group at the Black Mansion was. He had grown up around criminals; most were out for themselves because theyhad to be. When the Vigilants came, you ran, and you didn’t look to see if your accomplice was keeping up with you. In fact, you might consider stabbing your accomplice yourself so he couldn’t spill your name in the Tully.
Andreyen Morettus’s crew were nothing like that. They looked out for one another. Jerrod was a little afraid they might even look out for him.
And then there was Merren. The others—Kel, Ji-An, Andreyen himself—might well have reservations about Jerrod. He wouldn’t fault them for it. But Merren trusted him. For a poisoner who worked for a famous criminal, Merren was astonishingly trusting in general, but Jerrod liked to think—
Footsteps on the warehouse steps snap Jerrod out of his reverie. He has been waiting in the corridor; he goes now to the doorway of the small office and peers inside. The big man behind the desk wears his usual coat of scarlet and silver; somehow it makes his size look even more imposing. “I’m going to bring them in,” Jerrod says.
He gets a curt nod in response, which is very in character for Beck. Jerrod makes his way back into the hall, where his two guests have just arrived.
One he knows by name and sight: Artal Gremont. Beside him is the Malgasi woman. Jerrod hasn’t been told her name, only that she is someone significant in Malgasi circles of power, and that she is determined to talk to Beck. She has long dark hair and a narrow face and is dressed in severely cut black velvet. A gold chain gleaming around her neck is her only jewelry.
“The guard downstairs sent us up,” says Gremont, unnecessarily. They wouldn’t be here if Kaspar hadn’t directed them.
Jerrod gestures for the two to go into the office and they pass him, neither really acknowledging his presence. He stands for a moment, his hand on the door. This is the closest he’s ever been to Artal Gremont, and he is surprised at the nausea that twists in his gut. Jerrod has never thought much of the nobility. Though theyoperate within the bounds of the Law, they cheat and lie and steal just like anyone else. Their belief that they are somehow better seems to him distant and ridiculous. But Gremont is unusual—so loathsome the other nobles had taken the step of sending him away from Castellane. And he’d hurt Merren, the person in the world who least deserved to be hurt.
Jerrod steps into the office.
“... And you know the city needs a leader,” the woman is saying. She has a heavy Malgasi accent, which isn’t surprising.
“We have a monarchy, here in Castellane, that functions well enough,” says the man behind the desk. “And a King.”
“The Palace is hopelessly corrupt,” the Malgasi woman says sharply. Everything about her is sharp. She has the air of something rapacious, waiting to strike: a bird of prey, or a coiled snake.
“I won’t dispute that.” The man behind the desk folds his hands over his middle. “But there is another King here. The King in the City.”
“He does the bidding of your Palace,” she sneers. “More than you know.”
Interesting,Jerrod thinks.
