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“Very well,” she said. “But do be sure to tell him that I wasn’t the least bit grateful.”
The guard nodded as Lin clambered angrily into the velvet-lined carriage. He looked more than a little alarmed but said nothing. Clearly he had decided that, whatever was going on, he wanted no part of it.
In the guise of a raven, Judah Makabi flew through the nights and days to the land of Darat, where he hid himself in Suleman’s garden. He saw how, in the palace, all was peace and beauty, while outside its walls the flames of war scored the ground with Sunderglass.
Exhausted, his wings heavy with dust, Makabi the raven listened as the Sorcerer-Kings and Sorcerer-Queens of Dannemore gathered beneath the branches of a sycamore tree and spoke together of their avarice and greed for power. They told one another that they would band together to attack Aram, for its Queen was young and untutored, and could not stand against their combined forces.
“I thought you had intended to seduce her to bring her under your sway,” said one of the Sorcerer-Queens to Suleman.
“I find I grow tired of waiting,” Suleman replied, and the Source-Stone at his belt flashed like an eye. “Perhaps, if she learns obedience, she will be Queen of Darat one day. But it seems unlikely.”
Makabi flew back to Aram with a heavy heart.
—Tales of the Sorcerer-Kings,Laocantus Aurus Iovit III
The day after Lin’s visit to Marivent, Kel duly presented himself at the Black Mansion, note in hand. Unusually, Conor had asked where he was taking himself off to and, scrambling, Kel had invented a new fighting style that was being taught at the Arena. “Something a Sword Catcher should know about,” he’d said, and Conor had agreed. Kel was left to hope that Conor would not demand a demonstration of the technique later.
Kel had often looked down on the Black Mansion from the West Tower; it stood out among the other buildings of the Warren like a dollop of jet-black paint splashed onto an ochre canvas. No one knew who had built the place; it had existed as long as there had been a Ragpicker King to occupy it, which was longer than anyone alive could recall.
He mounted the black stairs to find the famous scarlet door guarded by a mustachioed man so heavily muscled he seemed top-heavy, like an inverted pyramid. He wore an elaborate uniform of red and black, with braiding on the shoulders as if he were a member of the Arrow Squadron.
“Morettus,” Kel said, feeling a bit silly, as if he were in a Story-Spinner tale involving spies and passwords.
“Fine,” said the guard. He didn’t move.
“…Now?” said Kel, after a long pause.
“Fine.” The guard nodded.
“Right,” Kel said. “I’m going to open the door now. And go in.”
“Fine,” the guard said.
Kel gave up. He had his hand on the door latch when it swung open from inside. Ji-An stood on the threshold, a slight smirk on her face. She wore her foxglove-purple coat, her hair pinned up with jade clips. “That was agonizing to watch,” she said, gesturing for him to enter the mansion. “You’re going to need to learn to be more assertive.”
“Does he say anything butfine?” Kel asked as soon as the door had shut behind them.
“Not really.” They were walking down a wood-paneled corridor that seemed to snake through the interior of the Black Mansion like a vein of gold in a mine. Paintings of scenes from around Castellane hung on the walls between closed doors. “But he once dispatched an assassin with a spool of thread and a butter knife, so Andreyen keeps him around. One never knows.”
“What about you?” Kel said.
Ji-An looked straight ahead. “What about me?”
“You saved my life,” Kel said. “Why? I didn’t get the impression you were fond of me.”
“Please don’t fuss about it. I was nearby because Andreyen asked me to follow you and report back.”
“Did he,” Kel muttered under his breath.
“Don’t bother being offended. It was very dull, following you. You barely leave Marivent. Then when you finally did, you went to Merren’s, of all places. At which point I realized that I wasn’t the only one following you.”
“The Crawlers,” Kel said, and Ji-An nodded. “You could have let me bleed out on the street, though.”
“Andreyen wouldn’t have liked that,” Ji-An said as the corridor opened out into a sort of great room, the kind nobles tended tomaintain in their country retreats. Half a dozen armchairs and low sofas were scattered in a haphazard circle beneath a ceiling like an inverted bowl. The furniture was mismatched—a black lacquer cabinet here, a tiled Valdish table there. Merren was sprawled in one of the chairs, reading. Despite the heat of the day outside, a fire burned in the enormous grate that dominated one wall. “Is there some specific reason you’ve come to talk to Andreyen? I might as well know before I go fetch him, in case it’s something he couldn’t possibly find interesting.”
So the Ragpicker King hadn’t told his loyal assassin about the message he’d sent to Kel. Interesting. Perhaps he’d wanted it to be a secret, though why, Kel couldn’t imagine.
He thought back over the last few days, the bits of gossip he’d caught wind of as he wandered around Marivent. “Tell him I have a question about Artal Gremont.”
