“Yes; I read them Ammerlin’s message. I didn’t tell Manthar and Belin.”
“Verrakai never liked Phelan,” Beclan said. “He always resented him, and I suppose it was just too much—but ignoring a royal pass—”
“I wonder if that family has held on to any of the old magery,” the Marshal-Judicar said. “That could be … difficult.”
“Illegal,” Beclan said. “But no one’s seen anything like that since the Girdish wars. Surely you don’t think they’ve managed to conceal it all this time?”
“My father says they had it longer than anyone,” Juris Marrakai said. “He said that’s why our families have always been at odds. We lost the magery early, and they didn’t—they scorned us for that. Said we’d intermarried with stupid peasants.”
“Leaving that aside,” the Marshal-Judicar said, “the question is what resources does Verrakai have here and now. Which of the family are in the palace now, tonight, and what Verrakai retainers—”
“Or agents,” the Knight-Commander said.
“Or agents. Which are here now, an immediate threat, and where might they be? I know the Duke maintains a house in Vérella; gods grant he’s there, and not here.”
“And gods grant he doesn’t yet know that we know, that the attack failed and we have a message from Ammerlin.” The Knight-Commander pulled his feet off the footstool with a sigh and looked around at his boots. “Not dry yet, I’ll wager … but the palace plans, such as they are, are up in the library—”
“I’ll go,” Serrostin said. “I know exactly where they are. Do you need anything else?”
The Knight-Commander sat back. “Yes, Rolyan, if you wouldn’t mind. The chapter secretary may still be somewhere about; if he is, ask him to attend me here. I don’t suppose another few minutes of warm feet will matter.”
“And beware,” the prince said. “We don’t know what the situation is, Roly, so be careful.”
“I will,” Rolyan said with a grin, patting the hilt of his sword.
In the quiet after Rolyan left, the prince wanted to leap up again and do something, anything. When would the other men come, those he was sure—almost sure—he could trust? How long would it take—how long had it been already? Just as he was ready to spring to his feet again, Juris Marrakai sat, with a sigh, in the other chair.
“I never liked Verrakaien, you know that, but I still have trouble believing any peer of the realm would act like this. Thieves, surely, but—”
“Those who follow evil gods become evil themselves,” the Marshal-Judicar said. He struggled out from under his lap robe, and padded sock-footed across to a cabinet. “We need sib, Knight-Commander; my mind at least is clouded by supper and wine; I’ll brew some.” He poured water from a jug into another warming can, and set that on the hearth, pushing it close to the fire with a poker, and poured in a packet of dried roots and herbs. He sat down, pulling the lap robe back over his legs. “You young men don’t feel the cold as much as we do, and you don’t get as fuzzled with a little mulled wine, either.”
“We have how many Verrakaien to worry about?” Beclan said. “The Duke, obviously, and his brother, who called that challenge on Phelan.”
“All of them,” Donag said, closing his eyes for a moment. “Your Highness, until they’ve been examined, we do not know how many still have, and use, the ancient magery, and if they do use it, with what purpose. It’s possible that more—even women and children—are as guilty as the Duke. You must issue an Order of Attainder.”
“The Council will have to approve,” the Knight-Commander pointed out. “The prince can’t issue an order like that without Council approval until he’s crowned.”
“Attainder!” Mikeli said. “It’s not the fault of the whole family if one person goes wrong—that’s what the Code of Gird says.” And the youngest Verrakai boy at court was a close friend of his own younger brother, Camwyn. Camwyn would be furious if Egan was imprisoned.
“The Code of Gird does not forbid attainder in cases of high treason, Your Highness,” said the Marshal-Judicar. “Your safe conduct was a direct order: defying your authority is sufficient. So is using magery in defiance of your orders. Every member of the family must be seized and examined; someone you did not suspect might start a rebellion.”
“Or assassinate you and your family,” the Knight-Commander said. “Treason is always a conspiracy; it’s too big a task for one man, and throughout history has been the work of groups.”
Mikeli wanted to jump up again but made himself sit still. Kings did not fidget.
4
Rolyan Serrostin passed through the Knight-Commander’s outer office to the corridor and moved swiftly to the Grange Hall itself—empty, no light showing under the door to the armory or the records office—then back to the main part of the palace, up a flight to the royal library. No one challenged him, though he heard a subdued bustle in the distance, the faint echoes of hurrying feet.
In the library, once he had lit the lamps, he saw at once what he needed. One set of plans hung from its pole on the wall beside the librarian’s desk, and another lay loosely rolled on the table nearby. He lifted down the heavy pole and rolled that set of plans carefully, setting it beside the other. The High Marshal would want both, no doubt; notations might have been made on the second set of plans—Rolyan unrolled it a little, and saw fresh markings. Stacks of wax tablets in their wooden frames, quills, sheets of parchment, and a stoppered ink bottle littered the tabletop. One of the wax tablets, open, had other notes, something to do with tunnels. He might as well take as much as he could at once. Rolyan rolled both sets of plans tightly on their poles, secured them with leather thongs, tucked the poles under his right arm, and gathered up a double handful of wax tablets. Quills and ink he was sure he could find in the Knight-Commander’s outer office.
On his way back to the Knight-Commander’s chambers, he caught a glimpse down a side passage of Dukes Marrakai and Mahieran, men he knew well, hurrying in the other direction—to their own quarters to arm themselves, no doubt, before coming to the Knight-Commander’s. He wondered for a moment if the prince’s cousin had told them any details. Treason. He could not really imagine it. Nobles intrigued against one another—everyone sought advantage—but treason was—was something else, something beyond that.
Outside the Knight-Commander’s door, the sentry looked alert but very nervous. “Anyone else arrived?” Rolyan asked.
“Just m’lord Marrakai,” the sentry said. “And—and I feel something’s going to happen.”
Rolyan felt his skin draw up in prickles. “Marrakai—but I just saw him down there—” He jerked his head back down the passage. “Get help,” he said. “Something’s wrong.” With that he opened the door of the outer office—hurried across it, but silently—and through the open door of the inner rooms saw the back of a man—the wrong height and shape for Marrakai—in Verrakai blue and silver. The blood smell raised the hair on his arms before he quite realized what he saw.
Across from him, by the fire, the Marshal-Judicar sprawled on the floor and the Knight-Commander of the Bells slumped in his chair, a look of horror on his face and blood soaking the front of his robe. The prince and Juris Marrakai both sat still as if carved in stone. A bloody sword hung in the air, moving slowly toward the prince, and the room seemed full of some pressure other than air. Magery! It must be Duke Verrakai …