“Actually, I think we have a more pressing issue directly before us,” Bishop Saldur said. The elderly cleric was a mess. Wet with rain, his thin hair melted to his skull, and the soot on his face bled down from his forehead in tears of black. He looked like a corpse found floating in a river. “Before we start down any path, we need to decide who will take the helm of this kingdom. With the royal family dead, it is-”
“The princess survived,” Valin pointed out a little too quickly and loudly for Braga’s taste. The old man had been a mouse at all previous meetings, yet now he discovered his voice.
“Of course, of course, but she’s twelve,” the bishop said in his affable, warm tone while patting Valin’s hand, which the marquis withdrew. No one likes to have a corpse touch them no matter how friendly he sounds. “She can’t rule. Maybe someday, but not now. We need to designate a regent until she comes of age.”
“Lord Valin is the ranking nobleman,” Ecton spoke up. “And he’s a descendant of the charter. Clearly you should be-”
“The law states that the chancellor shall act as steward until the next king is crowned,” Chamberlain Julius declared. “This is indisputable. Lord Braga is a brother to the king.”
“Through marriage only,” Ecton replied.
“Lord Chancellor?” Wylin appeared in the doorway, where people had been coming and going all morning. Wylin was acting captain, now that Lawrence had been officially pronounced dead-found partially crushed by a fallen timber in what used to be the drawing room. Wylin was dripping wet and filthier than all of them. His hands and arms black up to his elbows.
“What is it?” Braga asked.
“We have an early tally on the dead, my lord. And, my lord”-he paused, looking at each of their faces-“things may not be as dire as we had thought. We have not found the king among the wreckage.”
“Are you certain?” Saldur asked. “Surely you have-he’s probably burned recognition.”
“No, Your Grace. I do not believe so. We’ve found”-he hesitated-“the fire did little to the king’s bedchamber or the chapel. Queen Ann still lies on her bed undisturbed. She likely succumbed to the smoke while sleeping, but the king was not there. Nor have we found the prince. The scribe is in the stable, writing up the official tally. He’ll have it to you directly, but I thought you’d like to know about the king right away.”
“Yes, yes, thank you, Lieu-ah, Captain.”
“Such hopeful news,” Saldur said with a beaming smile.
“What does this mean? Where could the king be?” Lord Valin asked. “Did Exeter’s men abduct him?”
“Looks like we can suspend all this talk about picking a new ruler.” The chancellor stood, slipping out from most of the blankets but keeping one over his shoulders. “Excuse me, as I have a chaos to order.” He squeezed out of the barracks.
Wagons filled with stacked bodies were rolling through the courtyard recently turned to mud. He stood under the barracks porch eaves to survey the disaster he’d been granted.
The sound of horns drew Braga’s attention.
“The king! The king!”
Horses entered the gate. King Amrath trotted in alongside Count Pickering. Behind them came the prince and the Pickering boys all sodden with rain, all eyes staring up at the blackened castle. Those in the barracks rushed out with smiles brimming on their faces.
“You’re alive!” Braga shouted. “And the boys…”
“Caught them on the road this morning,” Leo explained, his voice detached, his eyes unable to leave the ruins of the castle. “They slipped out to go hunting.”
Amrath said nothing as he dismounted in front of the chancellor, rain dripping from his beard. “What’s happened, Percy? Where’s Ann and Arista?”
At that moment, given the choice, Braga would have traded places with the Hilfred boy rather than have to be the one to answer that question.
Albert had spent the night at Lord Daref’s Medford home in the northwest of the Gentry Quarter-a posh three-story brick and stone home outfitted with fireplaces on every floor and dainty flowerboxes under the windows. Daref also had a modest holding in Asper, but he visited it only twice a year to check on things. As his friend explained, “living in the country made it impossible to stay current and remain relevant,” which Albert understood to mean it was boring. In the city, Daref lived alone but kept a staff of six servants. The lack of a wife had sparked rumors for years, rumors that were heightened by the young man with fair hair who lived with him. Daref called him Neddy and introduced him as his nephew, but Albert had been to the wedding of Daref’s niece and knew she didn’t have any siblings. Albert found it odd that his friend went to such lengths when most of the gentry had real secrets, but perhaps that was the point; Lord Daref felt left out of the controversy.
Daref and Albert had left the party just after the fire broke out. Neither possessed the stomach for gawking at tragedy. While others stood around in the cold all night or worked bucket brigades, they slept comfortably. It was the first decent accommodation Albert had come across in the last two years. He was grateful for it and for the savory breakfast the three of them were enjoying.
A knock at the door brought a messenger and news that the fire hadn’t been an accident. The blaze was set with the intent of killing the royal family. The king and his children were spared, but the queen perished. Perhaps even more surprising, the traitor responsible, the Lord High Constable Simon Exeter, was also killed. His body found butchered in Gentry Square. The identity of his murderer remained a mystery.
The news sparked a lively conversation between Daref and Neddy about the possible implications of a conspiracy and the effect it would have on members of the court. Albert hadn’t heard a word of their conversation; he was too fixated on the word butchered.
When Royce and Hadrian had offered him an opportunity to escape his humiliating poverty, he’d jumped at the chance. Now he wondered if that had been wise. He’d expected some good-humored embarrassments, such as what he had planned for Baron McMannis. But this-he was an accomplice in the death of a man, a high-ranking noble.
Albert couldn’t finish his second helping of sausage and eggs.
Would the guards remember him? Had Vince told the chancellor or the king about the viscount who delivered an odd message to Exeter? Would he recall the name Winslow? Might they think he was part of the plot? Regicide had a way of inciting hysteria and the executioner’s axe swung liberally, doling out the same sentence to the guilty as well as those unfortunate enough to be caught up in the events.
Everyone knew he had arrived with Daref. The castle guard could be on their way at that moment. He needed to disappear. Albert felt the coin in his purse. Lady Lillian had given Lady Constance twenty-five tenents to arrange for the theft of her earrings. He had clothes, gold, and as close to a full stomach as he could manage. He could walk out through the city gates and vanish. The coin would go a long way-perhaps as far as Calis, where no one would have ever heard the name Lord Simon Exeter.
“I need to be leaving,” Albert interrupted Neddy, who was speculating whether the Wintertide festival would be forgone this season.
Daref looked out at the rain and smirked. “You always were a skittish coward.”
Albert’s heart skipped; then he smiled. It was only a joke.
“I suspect several people will be leaving the city after last night, as if the fire and murder were the work of a plague. Like you, they will hole up in their respective country estates and wait out the next few weeks to see what matures.”