“This is what you were talking about last night,” Lynan said. “About the scavengers gathering for the feast.”
Kumul nodded. “They can hardly wait for the queen to pass on so that they can press their claims with a new and untried king.”
“Berayma will not be so easily swayed, I think.”
“No. He has made his friends within the Twenty Houses. The old aristocracy welcomes him with open arms. Milgrom Kolls was, after all, one of them, and pushed on the queen in exchange for their support in the early days of her reign.”
As the son of the man the members of the Twenty Houses hated so much, and now a victim of their spite as well, Lynan sympathized with Kumul’s concerns. “They would have applauded last night if those thieves had been successful.”
“Thieves?” Kumul looked at him in wonder. “Even you could not be so naive.”
Lynan felt a twinge of anger. Surely no one, not even among those in the Twenty Houses who hated him the most, would arrange for him to be killed. The risks of being found out would be too great. He looked around the room again. Perhaps the risk might be worth it if there would soon be a succession.
“Are you certain?” Lynan could not help the tingle that traveled down his spine, and he glanced nervously over one shoulder and then the other.
“Not yet. I have my people working on it. But there are others who would see you out of the way, even if they hold no personal animosity toward you. Assassinating a prince, even a prince as lowly as yourself, must unsettle your mother, and that would serve to unsettle the kingdom. This is why you must not leave the palace at night by yourself. Whoever tried to have you killed last evening may try again.”
As soon as the throne room had cleared, the members of the court returning to their offices, guild halls, or commissions, Kumul returned to his quarters to check on Ager’s progress.
The crookback was sitting up in bed and gulping broth from a huge mug. Kumul was surprised to see how well his friend looked. Ager put down the mug and offered him a huge smile, his single gray eye twinkling.
“I did not expect to see you awake so soon,” Kumul said.
“And last night I did not expect to ever wake up again,” Ager replied. He turned aside and lifted the nightshirt to show Kumul his wound. It was nothing more than a raised white scar. “How did this happen?”
“The queen herself performed this service for you.”
Ager swallowed. “Usharna? Here, in this room with me?” Kumul nodded. “What did she do?”
“She used the Key of the Heart,” Kumul said, his voice subdued.
“On me? But why?”
“Have you already forgotten the youth who was the cause of all our trouble last night?”
Ager frowned in thought. “Of course I remember him. He was asking all those questions about the battle of Deep River…” His voice faded away, and his gaze lifted to Kumul. “There was something about him… I dreamed it last night in my fever. His face turned into the general’s face, and I thought…”
“You still haven’t put it together, have you?”
Ager’s frown grew deeper. “I thought I had, but I can barely remember all that happened after I was knifed. The youth was called Pirem—no, that was his servant’s name. I heard you call him Lynan, and… my God, that was the name of the general’s son!”
Kumul nodded. “So now you understand the queen’s interest.”
Ager’s mouth dropped. “A prince of the realm bought me a drink? Chatted to me like a young soldier talking to an old sergeant?”
“Is all the pain gone?”
Ager laughed. “Gone? Not only do I not feel the wound, but it is the first time in fifteen years I’ve felt no pain at all, not even in my back. And my empty eye socket doesn’t itch anymore. I feel like a new man.”
“Well, your shoulder is still raised, I’m afraid. It would take more than even the queen’s power to rid you of that.”
Ager shrugged. “I got used to being a one-eyed crookback, but I never got used to the pain.”
“I’ve been thinking about what to do with you.”
Ager looked suspiciously at Kumul. “Do with me? I’m no beggar, Kumul. I can make my own way in the world.”
“I’ve no doubt about that. But I need your services.”
Ager still looked suspicious. “My services? You need my experience as a bookkeeper?”
Kumul smiled. “No. I need your experience as a soldier. Most of my troops are too young to have fought in the Slaver War. Since then, Kendra has been at peace, thank God and the wise head of Queen Usharna. But I need old blood as well as new in the Royal Guards. I’d like you to take over my training duties.”
“What’s the pay like?”
“Captain’s pay. Keep and board, and tenpence a day.”
Ager looked impressed. “Better than I ever got in the Kendra Spears.”
“You’ll work for it, mind. The Royal Guards are the best Kendra has.”
“As good as the Red Shields?”
Kumul snorted. “No regiment will ever be as good as the Red Shields. We had the general back then. Well, what do you say?”
“I’ll need time to think about it, Kumul. I’ve been a wanderer for thirteen years. It will be hard to give that up.”
“How much time?”
The crookback paused in thought. After a minute he said: “That was plenty of time. I actually hate the roving life. Do you think you can get a uniform to fit over my hump?”
Chapter 4
The summer dragged on in Kendra like a slow ox ploughing a field of clay. On the hottest days the city entered a great torpor. Sailors rested over hawsers and stared at the blue waters of the harbor, dock workers lounged in the shade of unmoved bales of hay and kegs of grain, soldiers drooped over their spears, and craft workers and stall owners did their best to ply their trade with minimum effort. Stray dogs lay in whatever shade they could find and panted desperately. Even in the palace, where work only became more urgent the longer it was left unattended, members of the court moved with sullen obstinacy, and the queen and her bureaucracy struggled through the mountain of appeals and offers, trading licenses and administrative minutiae. And on those few days that were relatively cool, the people spent their time recovering their energy and enthusiasm, and then husbanding it against the next heat wave.
Just after midday on one of the hottest days of the year, tucked into the corner of the second floor in a low stone building not far from the docks, Jenrosa Alucar slammed shut the book she had been reading—ignoring the clump of dust that geysered into the air—and stood up from her desk.
The Magister Instruction of the Theurgia of Stars, a long strip of a man wizened by age and alcohol, looked up in surprise. The other four students in the room kept their noses down but their ears pricked open.
“Student Alucar? Is there a problem?”
Jenrosa actually seemed to consider the question, an event rare in the Magister’s experience, and finally nodded. “Yes.”
“Is it something I can help you with?”
“I doubt it,” she said flatly.
“I see. Is it something, perhaps, that the maleficum himself could help you with?”
“I do not think either you or the head of our order can help me.”
It was the magister’s turn to pause in consideration. With something like exasperation he regarded the young woman with the sandy hair and spray of freckles across her too-short nose. She stood with legs apart as if steadying herself in expectation of trouble. She looked as pugnacious as she really was.