But could he? If a councilor could turn traitor, anyone might. He looked again at the papers—for now he saw there were two. One from Ammerlin, commander of the Royal Guard unit he had sent with Phelan, and one from Phelan himself. He held up his hand, and his guests stayed where they were, silent.
The second note, in Phelan’s clear, even script, said much the same, more briefly and pointedly.
And I beg you, sire, that you take all precautions. A man who will so disobey your express order at the margin of your realm will have designs on your reign. I have seen this too often in Aarenis to doubt it. Forgive my presumption; I speak now as one king to another: you must not fail to destroy this threat, at once. For the sake of both our realms.
As one king to another: treating him as fully adult, as an equal; that respect steadied his pulse. For the sake of both their realms. Long at peace, but for minor incursions along the northern border, Tsaia had trusted in the stability of its neighbors to east and west. If Lyonya fell, if he himself fell, both kingdoms would be in peril. Verrakai’s troops had used magery, Ammerlin said. Used the power of evil priests of an evil deity, the same who had tormented a paladin day after day beneath the city. Despite himself, the prince shivered. For a moment, he allowed the thought Why me? Why in my reign? but then thrust it aside. This was what kings did—dealt with whatever came. Kieri Phelan, thirty years his senior, believed he could do it: he must.
“What did you say to the captain of the guard?” he asked the messenger.
“Nothing, Your Highness. Never saw him. Just told the guard at the gate I had to see you, it was urgent, I had dispatches under the seal of Gird.”
Mikeli paused to order his thoughts. If he called out, someone would come, but in a bustle; time would be wasted. He had messengers here whom every palace guard knew.
“Manthar.” Manthar Kostvan stepped forward. “Take this note—” He scrawled rapidly, poured on hot wax, stamped it with his seal ring. “—to the officer of the guard. I want the palace gates closed to all—no one to enter or leave, no matter what rank. He must alert the palace guard inside, but quietly. We want no panic, no confusion in which someone might be missed. Then find your father and ask him to come to—” He paused. Meet where? Where was safe? Who else would he need? The Knights of the Bells, certainly. “In the Knight-Commander’s chambers, near the Grange Hall. I’m going there now. Go swiftly, but do not raise an alarm.” Manthar nodded and hurried out the door. “Belin.” Mikeli scrawled another note, and sealed it, as Belin nodded. “Escort Piter here to the steward, make sure he gets a meal and that someone takes charge of him, lest the traitor strike him down, then go for your father with the same message.” He handed Belin that note; Belin and the messenger left.
Mikeli looked at the three dukes’ sons still standing at his table. They all looked back, brows bunched a little as they tried to puzzle out what was going on.
“Gentlemen—you deserve to know what is amiss. Let me read this to you.” He read Ammerlin’s message, glancing up from line to line to gauge their reactions. Shock, horror, disgust, anger. When he finished, and let the scroll curl up, they burst into speech.
“I can’t believe they would—”
“After the paladin proved Duke Phelan—the king—was the king—”
“Even a Verrakai—”
“But what can we do?” Rolyan Serrostin, practical as ever, said it first.
“Are all your fathers in the palace this night?” Mikeli asked.
His cousin and Juris Marrakai nodded; Rolyan shook his head.
“My father isn’t far away,” he said. “He only went to have dinner with my great-uncle, a few streets west. I could fetch him—”
“There isn’t time,” the prince said. “And I’ve already ordered the gates closed. Roly, you stick with me. You two, go find your fathers.”
“You need more than one of us with you,” Juris Marrakai said. “My father’s dining with Duke Mahieran—Rothlin or I could find both—”
“I’ll go,” Rothlin said. “My father was going to take yours to the stable afterwards, to talk horses—you know how they are when they get started. I know which stall they’ll be hanging on the door of, if they’re not still at table.”
“I’ll stay, then,” Juris said.
“Tell your fathers I must meet them urgently,” the prince said. “If they are alone, tell them it’s a matter of treason, and who, but otherwise, only that it’s urgent. Go now, and quickly. If any of you come to the Knight-Commander’s chambers before I do, let him know there’s trouble and I’m on the way. Roly? Juris? Let’s go.”
“Not without arming,” Juris said, nodding to the prince’s private chambers.
In moments, Mikeli had belted on his sword and the young men had retrieved theirs from the racks. Roly and Juris each checked that their saveblades were in place. Roly’s, Mikeli remembered, was an ancient stone-bladed knife, supposedly brought all the way from Old Aare when his ancestors came over the sea. His own—he checked it—had been his father’s, given to him after his father’s death.
As they went into the passage, Mikeli felt his skin tighten on his body as if he had gone out in midwinter in summer clothes. For the first time in his life, he thought he knew how the older men felt, who had faced death. His training, he realized, had been only a shadow of the real thing. Kieri Phelan had been in danger, and so had others, but he himself had always been protected.
In the Knight-Commander’s chambers, they found Beclan Mahieran, Knight-Commander of the Bells, and Donag Veragsson, Marshal-Judicar of Tsaia, enjoying mulled wine and pipes and toasting their sock-clad feet before a crackling fire. Their damp boots stood propped on bootholds a careful distance from the hearth.
“You look grim, nephew,” Beclan said. He didn’t rise, but raised a hand in salute. “What’s amiss to bring three of you young rascals here this time of night?”
“There’s trouble,” Mikeli said. The two older men didn’t move, but for Beclan nodding at the other two chairs, an invitation to sit. “It’s serious,” Mikeli said. He didn’t want to sit down; he had to move, and strode to the far end of the room, to the table where Beclan kept a copy of the Code of Gird, before whirling and striding back. “It’s treason. We must raise the Order of the Bells, uncle, immediately.”
“Treason!” Both the older men sat up straighter at that. “What do you mean?” The Knight-Commander got it out first.
“A messenger arrived just now, from the east. Kieri Phelan was attacked by a contingent of Verrakai troops, joined with some from Pargun, and they used magery and had a priest of Liart—”
“But you gave a warrant of safe passage—and the Royal Guard escort—”
“This is from Sir Ammerlin,” Mikeli said, handing the larger scroll to the Knight-Commander. “And this from Phelan—” He handed that one to the Marshal-Judicar. As they read, he moved around the room, noting the sword rack with Beclan’s weapons, Donag’s belt and sword hung on a wall peg, the men’s damp cloaks hanging on adjoining pegs. They must have been out in the city together, he realized, checking what progress the Marshals had made in uncovering Thieves’ Guild hideouts and secret passages.
“Sit down, will you? My neck hurts having to follow you around.” Beclan rolled his head; the prince could hear the crackle. “Striding around in here won’t accomplish anything. What have you done so far?”
Mikeli threw himself into one of the chairs; his friends remained standing. “I was at dinner—” He told them what he had done. “And then I came here.”
“Good beginning. Though as we’ve been finding out, this palace isn’t as secure as it could be.”
“I suppose someone could come in over the walls—”
The Knight-Commander shook his head. “Not that way. Underground: it’s a warren, with some parts left from Gird’s day, additions and demolitions, no rational plan. I asked the steward to look into it, because I know some of the lads in training have secret passages to get from the barracks to the training hall and it occurred to me that the Thieves’ Guild would no doubt benefit by a way in. I never thought of one of the nobles—” He glanced at the other two. “Do they know who—?”