“I know of Ilenna, sir.”
Murtagh gestured as if that were of no matter. “And you no doubt might command her attention, by reason of your position, yes?”
The youth puffed out his chest slightly. “Why yes, sir. I suppose I might.”
“Excellent.” Murtagh held out a square of folded parchment sealed with a blob of melted tallow. “Then I charge you to convey this message to the estimable Ilenna, and with it my urgent desire to have words with her at the soonest convenience. Along with my request, I offer this gift to Ilenna, as a sign of my deep respect.” He motioned to the cage by his feet.
The page eyed the cage and parchment. “If I do find her, sir—”
“Then return with alacrity, boy, and let me know her response. This is a matter of urgency.” The page hesitantly accepted the parchment, and Murtagh said, as if he’d forgotten until that very moment, “Oh yes, and for your troubles.” He handed over a tarnished coin. “A silver now, and a crown when you return.”
The page’s face brightened. “Sir, yes sir!”
A crown was more than the youth likely saw in a year. An expensive bribe, but worth it, although the cost left Murtagh’s purse sadly depleted.
If this keeps up, I might have to seek gainful employment, he thought, sardonic. Perhaps as a mercenary or a chirurgeon.
As the youth scooped up the cage, the finch inside warbled with sleepy protest. “I’ll be back as soon as I can, sir.”
Murtagh nodded, again wrapping himself in his cloak. “I shall wait until such time as I hear Ilenna’s response. Now go! And swift fate guide you.”
The page turned and trotted toward the castle, holding the cage in one hand and his half-eaten pie in the other.
Murtagh shook his head as he watched the youth depart. Pages had formed an essential, if inefficient, means of communication in Galbatorix’s court. Not only that, they usually knew more of what was going on than even the spymaster himself. He just hoped that the promise of gold would keep the youth focused on his task.
While he waited, Murtagh passed the time by watching the people of Gil’ead. There were soldiers in shirts of rusted mail, with spears resting at a jaunty angle on their shoulders. Officers trotting past on well-groomed horses with braided manes. Merchants with plumed hats and clothes made of rich fabrics. Nobles—or would-be nobles drawn from the upper ranks of the Varden—attempting to avoid splattering mud on their finery, often with a line of trailing servants carrying bundles of purchases. Many of the more important personages made use of covered chairs carried by porters who trotted through the streets at a brisk pace, conveying the impression that whoever was inside had the most urgent business.
In reality, Murtagh knew the porters couldn’t maintain such a pace, and most of the trips were of the most mundane variety. But as always, appearances had to be upheld.
He glanced at the muddy hem of his cloak. As much as he liked order and cleanliness, he didn’t miss the never-ending drive to present a perfect image to the world. Now that he’d had time away from court, that pressure seemed a form of temporary insanity.
At the end of the street, opposite the fortress, he could see into the main square. Lively music sounded among the buildings, and through a crowd of shifting bodies, he caught glimpses of a harvest dance: men and women circling each other, arms interlinked, feet lifting high to the rapid beat.
Murtagh found himself tapping his own foot. Dancing had been the one thing he’d enjoyed at court, although everything surrounding the dances—the politics and machinations and general villainy—had been miserable. But the dances themselves, ah, those had been a special pleasure. He’d mastered even the most complicated sequence of steps, and it had served him in good stead in his swordplay. Footwork was everything in dance and war, whether on an individual level or on the level of armies and nations. The right move at the right moment was the difference between victory and defeat, and the right move wasn’t always the expected one.
A face across the street caught Murtagh’s attention. A flash of pale cheek, the line of a jaw, the distinctive silhouette of a nose…Murtagh stiffened as he eyed the profile of a youngish man walking amid a knot of five guards.
It can’t be. Lyreth? The oldest son of Lord Thaven, who had served as commander of Galbatorix’s navy? Lyreth was four years older than Murtagh. He’d always been larger and stronger while growing up and hadn’t been shy about using that to his advantage.
Now that Murtagh thought about it, he hadn’t seen Lyreth in Urû’baen during his last stay in the capital. Thaven’s son had been smart enough to avoid appearing at court while Murtagh was there as a Rider.
What’s he doing here now? Lyreth turned his head to look at something on the other side of the street, and Murtagh sank farther back into the alley. Lyreth, of all people, would have no difficulty recognizing him. I shouldn’t have shaved.
But no reaction altered Lyreth’s expression, and he continued on his way at the same brisk pace.
Murtagh let out his breath and retreated to the corner of the building. Lyreth probably had even more cause to avoid being recognized in public. All of the noble families who had served under Galbatorix—families who had accumulated enormous wealth and power during his century-long tenure on the throne—had lost their positions, and many of them had been executed or exiled. But loyalties ran deep, and wealth bought protection. As with Yarek, Murtagh knew that some not-inconsiderable number of Galbatorix’s followers were living in gilded secrecy.
He didn’t envy Nasuada having to deal with their undermining influence.
Murtagh wasn’t sure how long he stood on the street corner, watching. By the sun, he guessed it was near an hour. He felt a faint tingle in the center of his right palm—as if his hand had fallen partially asleep—and he scratched it without thinking.
He froze. His right palm was where his gedwëy ignasia lay: the silvery, scar-like blotch that marked where he’d first touched Thorn as a hatchling. And it often itched or tingled when there was danger nearby.
The feeling wasn’t infallible, but it had saved his skin more than once.
Again alert, he glanced around. There. Soldiers slipping out of the fortress entrance and gathering by the corner of a house. He’d been too distracted; he’d missed the first few.
And with the soldiers…a man in a black, purple-trimmed robe, hood thrown back to reveal a head of hair so pale it was nearly white. On the breast of his robe was embroidered a golden symbol, a heraldic standard: in the top half, a crown with rays spreading from the points. A fess, then, dividing the standard in half, and below it, a cockatrice statant, with an iron band around each scaled ankle.
Murtagh knew it well. The coat of arms of Du Vrangr Gata, the guild of magicians who served Nasuada, and who enforced her laws prohibiting unauthorized and unaffiliated magic throughout not just her realm but also the southern kingdom of Surda. Every human spellcaster was required to join the guild, or else submit to drugs and spells that would prevent them from using magic without permission.
Murtagh had yet to agree to either provision, and he never would.
Which meant the blond-haired man was a threat. Given the opportunity, he would seek to chain Murtagh in one manner or another, and even a weak magician could prove to be a formidable opponent in one-on-one combat, for fights between magicians were rarely resolved with spells alone. Mental prowess mattered, and if you could gain control of your foe’s mind, they would be at your mercy, no matter their skill, strength, or wards.