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Numair surveyed the wreck of the foyer, took in the mercenaries in House Megadari crests and said, “Hostage negotiations gone awry, I take it?”
Clare suspected it was Numair’s very obvious sobriety, and the confident, assessing tone that kept Alys from immediately berating Clare for his presence.
“I’m afraid,” Alys answered, “that my brother was killed attempting to secure my return. He was unprepared for a double-cross.”
“Who killed him?”
“His Second, the same man who kidnapped me.” She jerked her head to where Fitz had men rearranging the scene. Two of them came forward to move the body of Geoffrey’s Second next to Alys's fallen brother, setting the body into place just-so, and placing in his hand the knife Alys had used to end Geoffrey.
“How did you escape?”
“Reinforcements arrived.”
The remaining men, Clare noted, had stripped the identifying black bands from their wrists, indistinguishable now as anything but house guards.
Numair nodded. “Are the wards tied in to alert the city guard?”
Alys nodded.
“Then you need a little more time to set your scene.” He looked up to the mezzanine floor. “Clare?”
Clare, because it had looked like a great deal of fun when Lina did it—slid down the balustrade to land nimbly by his side.
Alys looked at them in confusion. “How are you going to delay the guard?”
“My prince,” Clare said, “you do look indecently drunk and in want of a public disturbance.”
“Don’t I always?”
They were at the door when Alys called, “Numair.”
They paused, turning.
“When you’re finished doing what you’re doing…come talk to me.”
Clare felt him hesitate, recognized a coming refusal on his lips. So she gave him a look that said, Don’t be a coward.
His return look said, Don’t be an ass. But aloud, he said, “If I can.”
Chapter Fifty-Six
Do You Have To?
Numair stood in the rising dawn outside the Megadari estate, trying to make up his mind. Go in, or leave. Stay with what was comfortable, what was safe, or see if he could find anything better.
Don’t be a coward. The words had practically been written on Clare’s face, as if she’d known he was going to refuse Alys's invitation.
But was it really an invitation if Clare’s prodding at Alys was the only reason he was receiving it? Was there truly anything better to be found in a grudging friendship based on one party’s sufferance of the other’s behavior?
He sighed and walked through the gates, up to the heavily guarded front doors. It didn’t have to be the start of something. He could just see that she was all right. Her and Lina both. They’d been inseparable as children, and he’d had a good notion of the direction they were heading in before either of them had figured it out.
One of the few benefits of his obnoxious title was not having to wait at the door. He was led to one of the sitting rooms, which Alys, Lina, and Fitz appeared to have done their best in the last few hours to make comfortable rather than formal. The low table between the L formed by the couches was strewn with an assortment of breakfast items, the decorative throw blankets had been put to actual use, and Lina was lying with her feet in Alys's lap.
Fitz, who had been lying on the adjacent couch, sat up. Numair gave the man a hard once-over. He only vaguely remembered him from when he’d been Verol’s apprentice. He was several years older than Numair, and since Verol hadn’t been much in the public eye at that time, Fitz hadn’t been either.
Numair had never really given the man much thought, save a vague curiosity when he’d returned to Veralna last year. In that time, it was almost like Fitz had retreated into the role of the apprentice he no longer was. Like he’d been lost and come home, but still hadn’t found himself.
After what Numair had heard between Alys and Clare the other night, he found his curiosity had increased. What had Fitz done to Clare that could drive a man who’d always struck Numair as cold and indifferent to not even be willing to be in the same sphere as her without her permission?
