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“Mmm,” said Merren. “Really? More so than any other criminal?” He turned to Kel, ignoring Ji-An’s surprised look. “Was that what you wanted with Andreyen? To tell him about Beck?”
“More to confirm that he was gone,” said Kel. “Andreyen came to me asking me to look into Prosper Beck. But that investigation seems finished. So—”
“So you’re done,” said Merren. “Now that Prosper Beck is gone, you’re done with us and the Black Mansion?”
“I think Andreyen hoped for more from Kel than just that,” Ji-An said, clearly aware that Kel was watching her, but addressing her comments to Merren. “He said there was more for Kel to do on the Hill. That he wasn’t finished.”
“And yet,” said Kel, “I find myself tired of tangling with business in the city and on the Hill. My loyalty is with the Palace. With Conor. I should never have tried to do more than that.”
Merren raised his face to the sun. “I admit,” he said, quietly, “I hoped you might know something about Artal Gremont. About when he was coming back.”
Kel wondered for a moment if he should mention what Jerrod had said about Gremont—but if Artal had other enemies, he doubted that was something Merren didn’t already know. “I can get word to you as soon as I hear of his return,” he said. “But that’s all.”
He thought of Roverge, of the wine, of Antonetta’s locket, of Sardou’s peculiar overtures. But it had all taken on the quality of chasing clouds or shadows. There would always be another nobleman exhibiting suspicious behavior. Another scheme on the Hill, another corrupt secret to be uncovered. It was the way things had always been. Power and money, the getting and the keeping of them, was the realm of kings and princes—those on the Hill, or down in the city. They were not his realm, and the further he went down this path, the further it would take him from Conor.
“I am sorry,” Kel said to Merren, “that I tried to poison myself in front of you. It was discourteous.” Merren looked surprised as Kel turned to Ji-An. “And I am sorry if I pried into your personal business. We all have our secrets and are entitled to them.”
Ji-An smiled, just the corner of a luminous smile, like a glimpse of the moon through clouds. “A carriage drawn by black swans,” she said, “does sound glamorous.”
Kel bowed to them both—the sort of sweeping bow he would have offered to a foreign dignitary. “Good luck,” he said, “with your criminal endeavors. And give my regards to Morettus.”
As he left the square, he was aware of Ji-An and Merren watching him go. He wondered if he should have said something about Jerrod’s intention to seek employment at the Black Mansion, but suspected that there would be many such seekers in the next days, as the world of the city—and perhaps the Hill, as well, in ways unseen—rearranged itself around the absence of Prosper Beck.
In the vision of Makabi, Queen Adassa showed herself to him, and he was aware immediately that she who he had once known as a human woman had become something else. She appeared in the shape of a maiden, but a maiden woven ofgematry,of shimmering words and equations like chains of silver. And she said to him, “Do not despair. You have wandered in the wilderness for so long, but you are not unprotected. I am no longer your Queen, but your Goddess.
“My earthly body was destroyed but I am transfigured. I will watch over you and protect you, for you are my chosen people.”
And she showed to him a sword, upon whose cross guard was etched the image of a raven, the wise bird whose shape Makabi had once taken at the behest of her who stood before him now. “Tell all my people what I have told you, and that I will prove myself to them: Go forth tomorrow against this interloper King and face his army. and you will be victorious, for I will be with you.”
And when the sun rose the next day, Makabi rode at the head of the army of Aram once more, and the Aramites were victorious, though they were outnumbered ten to one.
—Book of Makabi
Kel decided to take the long way back to the Palace to give himself a chance to think. This meant the Sea Path. As the city fell away below, Kel could not help thinking of what Jerrod had said:You’re thinking too small, Anjuman. You’re thinking about your Prince and your House Aurelian, like you always do.
Jerrod had meant it as a criticism, but to Kel it had been almost a relief to hear. A reaffirmation of his purpose, which was to protect Conor. His place was by Conor’s side, and both the Ragpicker King and Prosper Beck had tried to bend that loyalty and duty to further their own ends. His proximity to the Prince would always prove appealing to those looking for an advantage; he wished he’d been taught to guard against that sort of approach the way he’d been taught to guard against swords and daggers.
He had not realized that there was a gap in his armor: not the desire to involve himself in matters on the Hill, but rather the desire to be around people who knew him, knew him as hereallywas—not as Conor’s false cousin, not as a suit of armor that sometimes wore the Prince’s face, but as Kel—orphan, observer, Sword Catcher. It was a need he had never known he had. A dangerous need to have…
He had reached the part of the path where it curved around the side of the hill, hiding the city behind it. Kel was always struck by the beauty of this part of the trail, where the green hill fell away to the sea. The ocean was an ink-blue road today, flecked with small boats. They cut white paths through the water, Tyndaris rising behind them, its towers like the fingers of a hand reaching out of the sea. The air tasted of salt and promise.
He thought of Vienne then, and how she had said that he guarded Conor as she guarded Luisa. As if she had sensed some quality about him that betrayed his true work—a quality that Falconet and the others, for all the years they had known him, had never observed.
The path slanted steeply upward here, the last quarter mile to Marivent, and Kel could see the sea cliffs appear, and far above him, the shadow of the walls. And then, below the path, appeared a strange sight. A wooden platform, cantilevered over the sea, jutted from the hill below him. The Sea Path continued above it and the space below the path was recessed, meaning the platform must emerge from a hollow dug into the mountain. Kel did not recall seeing the platform before, but surely it could not just haveappearedout of the mountain?
There was a flash of red and gold—the uniforms of Castelguards, bright as flames. Two of them appeared on the platform, as if they had simply walked out of the mountain. Pinned between them was a struggling man, his arms bound behind him. His hair was a wild tangle, his straggling beard matted with blood. His face was bruised, his eyes swollen half shut, but he wore his fine cloak, embroidered with tiny beads that glittered in the sunlight. Beads that marked out the shapes of constellations: the Lion, the Harp, the Twins.
It was Fausten.
He must have been dragged here from the Trick. Perhaps he had fought the guards who came for him. Perhaps he had expected them, and they had beaten him regardless.
The guards turned to each other, speaking in quiet voices; the wind off the sea muffled the sound, in any case. Kel could hear his own breath, harsh in his ears, but nothing more.
He crouched down behind a scrubby growth of thyme. He could try to scrabble up the path or down it, but that would bring him more plainly in view of the platform below. He was hidden here, his own verdant clothes camouflaged among the hill’s greenery.
His view, straight down, was clear. He almost wished it wasn’t. Fausten was struggling, though he made no sound. He kicked out at one of the guardrails, then froze, his terrified eyes darting to and fro as a new figure stepped out onto the platform.
King Markus. He looked very big against the sun, his gold circlet glittering against his pale hair. His cloak was clasped at the shoulder with a heavy silver brooch, and his hands were, as always, covered with black gloves. A pace behind him came Jolivet, his posture rigid, his face expressionless.
