The boy’s face was flat and hard, the jaw set. “Father,” Neb said, bowing slightly. “Windwir is laid to rest.”
But there is more. Petronus dropped from the horse. “You’ve done excellent work, Neb.”
Neb nodded. “Thank you, Father.”
Rudolfo climbed down as well and clapped the young man on the shoulder. “I was telling his Excellency that you have the makings of a fine captain.”
“Thank you, Lord Rudolfo,” Neb said, inclining his head to the Gypsy King. Then he fixed his stare on Petronus again. “I received a bird for you just before dawn under Androfrancine colors.” He extended a scrap of paper. “It’s from House Li Tam.”
Petronus took the note and scanned it. It was uncoded-a rarity for his old friend-and to the point.
Resolute is dead by his own hand, the note read. Sethbert is deposed and flees the delta. Petronus felt his own jaw set, and handed the note to Rudolfo. He knew he should feel some kind of relief, but didn’t. With Resolute dead and Sethbert out of power, it was only a matter of time before the war burned itself out. This was good news for Petronus, good news for all of the Named Lands. And yet, it saddened him. One more life snuffed out. And at least a part of him felt suspicion at the convenience of it.
The sober look on Neb’s face told Petronus that the young man felt the same way.
Rudolfo looked up from the note, grinning like a wolf. “If this is true, the war is over.” He handed the note back to Petronus. Then, he turned and slipped back to confer with his men.
Petronus pulled Neb aside. “Are you ready to fold it up here?”
Neb nodded and glanced north quickly. His face went wistful, and there was hesitation in his voice. “I am.”
The girl, Petronus realized. He’s seen more of her. Thirty years ago, he’d have insisted that the young man keep himself free from such entanglements. But time and change had softened him, and he couldn’t fault the boy for finding something akin to love here in the Desolation of Windwir. He put his hand on Neb’s shoulder. “You’ll have to tell me about her on the way home.”
The beginnings of a smile pulled at Neb’s mouth. “I’m not sure I can, Father.”
Petronus squeezed the shoulder and dropped his hand to his side. “In your own time, son. Meanwhile, I’m famished. Is the galley tent still up?”
“They’re cooking a digger’s feast for you,” Neb said, gesturing to the barge. “Beans and biscuits with pork gravy. The last of our stores.” A line of men stood near it, ready to shove it back into the river and work the ropes that would carry them across.
Petronus led his horse up the low ramp. Rudolfo joined him, his eyes bright. When everyone was aboard, the ferry lurched into the water.
I’ll not be accompanying you back, Rudolfo signed.
Petronus nodded. He’d wondered as much after the Gypsy King’s hurried and hushed council with his men. Riding south? he signed in reply.
“I’ve decided to do some hunting,” Rudolfo said with a smile and a flourish of his hand. Sethbert is mine.
Petronus’s fingers moved. But you’ll take him alive?
Rudolfo blanched. “Of course,” he said, his voice low. My physicians will have their opportunity to redeem him beneath their salted knives.
He felt himself frown. He did not approve of the Gypsies’ adherence to those darker forms and rituals of redemption. It was a barbaric leftover from an age when Wizard Kings doled out justice in white cutting rooms beneath couch-strewn observation decks. Where, sipping their chilled wines and eating their sliced pears, lords and ladies listened to penitent screams beneath a scattering of stars that pulsed like heartbeats in blackened sky.
It flew against everything P’Andro Whym had made.
Still, the Named Lands needed to see some kind of public justice for Sethbert’s crimes, and Petronus’s own plans served a higher aim than that. Healing would not come from justice alone. There also had to be change.
After all, Petronus thought, change is the path life takes.
He looked at Neb again and felt his heart breaking at what he knew awaited them in the Ninefold Forest.
Sethbert
Sethbert stirred beneath a pile of damp, molding hay and squinted into the shadowed barn. Daylight peeked in through gaps in the roof and walls, and he found he couldn’t distinguish between the sounds of dripping water and what he thought could be footfalls in the puddles outside. Either way, he couldn’t stay here. He sat up slowly, holding his knife with a white-knuckled hand.
It had all happened so fast. Lysias had come for him with a squad of scouts in the middle of the night, pulling him from a deep sleep. “Resolute is dead,” the general had said grimly. “He’s left behind a letter that implicates you in the destruction of Windwir and the Androfrancine Order.”
Sethbert disentangled himself from the drugged prostitute that lay tangled in his sheets. “Who killed him?”
Lysias looked away. “He killed himself.”
He wasn’t too surprised by this news. Oriv had been drunku haem" most of the last few months, a weaker man than Sethbert had thought he would be. “Fine,” Sethbert said. “Burn the letter. Keep word of his passing quiet. We-”
Lysias shook his head. “It’s too late for that, Sethbert. Word is out. Your nephew has the letter.”
“Then tell my nephew-”
When the flat of Lysias’s hand struck Sethbert’s cheek it was a resounding crack in the quiet room. “I don’t think you understand why I’m here.”
Sethbert’s hand went to his face, feeling the heat where Lysias’s blow connected. His eyes narrowed. “You’re here to arrest me, then?”
Lysias smiled. “I am.”
Sethbert’s chuckle was a bark. “Then let’s go.” He scrambled out of the large, round bed and pulled on his trousers. Lysias watched, bemused, as he shrugged into his shirt. “I don’t know what game you’re playing at, Lysias, but Erlund will see reason through whatever cloud of belly-gas you’ve squeezed into his lungs.” He looked to the portrait of his mother that hung on the far wall. “He’ll want the documents, I’m sure.”
Lysias nodded. “Yes, by all means.”
Sethbert looked around the room. At this point, the scouts had not yet drawn their weapons. They looked uncomfortable, their eyes moving from Lysias to Sethbert.
They’re still my men and they know it.
He gestured to one of the men and pointed to the large picture. “Bring down that portrait,” he said. He smiled when the scout went right to it without glancing first to Lysias for confirmation.
Behind the portrait, set firmly into the stone wall, was the round, hinged lid of a Rufello lockbox. “May I?”
Lysias shook his head. “What is the box’s cipher?”
Sethbert considered his options carefully, and finally recited the words and numbers slow enough for the scout to push the various tiles and knobs into place. With a click, the lid swung open.
The scout peered in, then turned to Lysias, his mouth tight. “Nothing, General.”
Sethbert felt his stomach lurch, and saw Lysias reaching for the hilt of his knife. Two of the scouts did the same.
Sheight="0em" width="1em" align="justify"›With a howl, Sethbert threw himself toward the window, catching the heavy curtains and pushing the thick cloth ahead of him to shield him as the glass and latticework shattered. Plunging into the midnight rain, he leaped from the small balcony and into the Whymer Maze below.
That had been hours ago. He’d used the passages beneath the maze-the ones his father had shown him when he was a boy-and made his escape. The tunnels dropped him into the more colorful quarter of the city, where he’d rolled a drunk for his tattered clothing and a pair of shoes that were too tight for his feet.