“How did they find you?” Myles’s voice broke. Scholar had been a friend.
“Anci,” Marek whispered, gritting his teeth as Kuri probed the wound in his side. “She brought them in.”
“Your lady?” Myles asked, horrified.
Marek nodded. “Claw told her one of us sold ’im to the Provost. She gave us over because we broke Rogue’s Law.”
Kuri stitched Marek’s wounds quickly and went to Rispah. The redhead who’d promised her heart to Coram bore a long gash on her left arm from shoulder to wrist. Kuri went to work as Rispah fought to keep still.
“I hope someone did turn that crazy bastard over,” she snapped, her voice tight with pain. “Since he tried for George last Midwinter, more than a hundred of us’ve died. And it hasn’t mattered if the dead was for him or against him or innocent altogether. I haven’t forgotten the Market Day fight. Who could? With Claw loose, we don’t need any Lord Provost to weed us out!”
“What if Claw’s not wrong entirely?” George had come at last, hooded and cloaked like the Bazhir to escape detection. “What if I made sure he and his people were taken up before they killed Jonathan? What then?”
The room was silent as everyone but Eleni and Ercole stared at him. Then Myles whispered, “Regicide.” Kuri made the Sign.
“Remember the tale of Oswan that murdered King Adar the Weak?” Rispah asked. “The law said he wasn’t to be let die till he was tortured three days, dawn to dark. The gods turned their faces from him and he lived six days.”
“Royal dynasties get their right from the gods. Only the gods can take it back—not men,” Kuri added softly.
“I don’t know if you did right, George.” Marek lay back, his face white. “I only wish you’d’a shivved Claw yourself afore lettin’ him escape my lord.”
The room was a parlor decorated in pale green and cream, perfect for the emerald-eyed brunette on the sofa, less perfect for the striking blonde beside her. A swarthy nobleman lounged in an armchair. It was a room meant for chatter and flirtation. The fourth man, with his battered clothes and ravaged face, was wrong here. He stood before the cold hearth, hands jammed into pockets.
“We erred in letting you join us, Ralon,” Delia of Eldorne said coldy. “Last fall you said you would be Rogue in a matter of weeks. You are still not master among the thieves. You tell us, leave the killing of a certain prince to you. Now the Provost has your people who were to handle the matter, and Jonathan is alerted to his danger.”
“I was betrayed!” Ralon of Malven was rigid with fury. “No one knew Cooper would—”
“I’m not finished!” Delia rapped out. “Explain this!” She thrust a parchment at him.
The drawing was clearly one of Ralon. Beneath it was written:
WANTED BY MY LORD PROVOST
FOR TREASON AGAINST THE CROWN
ONE CLAW, BORN RALON OF MALVEN
REWARD: ONE THOUSAND GOLD NOBLES
It described him in detail. “How did they learn my name?” he whispered in horror.
“That is immaterial,” Princess Josiane said coldly.
“You’re useless to us,” Alex of Tirragen pointed out. “More than useless—you are a danger.”
“No!” Claw yelled. “You need me—”
The door slammed open. Alex stood, sword unsheathed; Claw’s hands were filled with two sharp knives. Roger of Conté swept in, followed by a frightened guard. “My lady, I couldn’t stop him, not him—” the guard stammered.
“Return to your post,” ordered Delia, and he obeyed. Delia, who’d once been Roger’s mistress, rose to curtsey to the Duke. “Roger, this is a pleasant surprise—”
“I wanted no independent action on your parts.” They stared at him, seeing he was in a rage, and were suddenly afraid. “Do you think you assisted me? Now the king-to-be watches me; my Lord Provost suspects me. And I find I owe this happiness to you four.”
Delia sank prettily to her knees, skirts billowing. Reaching up, she touched his hand. “Forgive our enthusiasm, dear lord,” she murmured. “We meant to bring you to your rightful throne—”
“Enough.” He dragged her to her feet. “You cherished dreams once of becoming my consort. Unless you wish to be the consort of Carthaki snake-breeders, you will await my orders.” He threw her into Alex’s hold and turned to Josiane.
“Josiane of the Copper Isles, I have known you only since my return from the dead, but I understand you well. Jonathan courted you to spite Alanna of Trebond. Still, you might have kept him, with some restraint on your part. Now you want to punish him, and so you meddle with things that do not concern you. I am not your pawn. Stay out of my affairs. If you wish to be a part of this, you will await my commands—either here, or on the river bottom. Do not cross me again!”
He looked at the thief. “Ralon of Malven. The present Rogue is worth twenty of you. Your choice of tools is bad, Delia. He’ll betray you when he’s done with the thieves.”
Turning to Alex, the fury in Roger’s sapphire eyes faded to puzzlement. “I am surprised at you, my former squire.”
“I told them to do nothing,” Alex shrugged. “I said you’d have different plans. They thought matters could be … hastened. Frankly, I didn’t think it was important enough to bother you for.”
Roger smiled grimly. “You might have been right. The trouble with ambitious plots is that those who are not involved get wind of them—as they did this time. That person, or those persons, took what they heard to Jonathan, and he took their information to my Lord Provost. But you—I know you are not a plotter, and I know you are not ambitious. What do you want from this?”
Alex met his eyes for a long moment; then, smiling slightly, he bowed. He knew Roger would guess what he desired of any plan to take Jonathan from the throne.
Roger tugged his beard. “We shall see. Perhaps … You haven’t changed. As for you others,” he said, looking at them, “no more plots. No more assassins. Steal nothing for me, bribe no servants for me. My plans are my own, and you will await my instructions. I warn you this once.”
He raised a hand. Slowly blood-colored fire—the fire of magic—collected in his palm. With a savage gesture he hurled it at a small table, which exploded into chips of burning wood and molten pieces of brass and porcelain.
In the silence that followed, Roger whispered, “Don’t think to disobey me.” Turning, he walked out.
Delia was ashen. “But his Gift was bright orange …”
Alex picked up a cooling bit of glass in his handkerchief. He looked it over and began to smile.
6
HOMECOMING
THE TRAVELERS SET OUT FROM PORT CAYNN immediately after landing, eager to reach their destination. Riding slowly, to reaccustom themselves after several weeks out of the saddle, they would be in Corus before nightfall. They halted shortly after midday at an inn Alanna and Raoul remembered, where the squires had often stopped on trips to Caynn. The food was good, the place so quiet that a rest seemed in order. Buri and Thayet napped; the men played chess. Alanna took Faithful to sit under a courtyard tree, scratching his ears and enjoying the sun. She was half drowsing when she heard an approaching rider.
Someone in a hurry, the sleepy Faithful remarked. Alanna nodded, refusing to open her eyes. The buzz of summer crickets was soothing after days of waves and gulls. Never would she board a water vessel again!