Chapter Twenty-Three - The King's Justice

‘Who’s next, Royce?’

The King sat slouched in his throne, gold crown flashing around his greying temples. His hall was full, or at least as full as Sara had ever seen it; courtiers and nobles of all ambitions and standings watched the Night Throne from their place below, and the murmurance of their whispers rose in thin waves towards the galleries high above. To where Sara stood, emerald eyes fixed, with the courage of distance, to the King. The Queen’s handmaidens often found their way out onto the balcony outside her apartments during the King’s audiences, when their chores allowed, and today they were joined by a handful of others; maids of lesser birth, Keepers in dark robes, a scattering of minor nobles who knew the keep and their place in it well enough to find a viewing spot a little more secluded than the bustling floor of the hall. Here, in the eaves of the inky black shifting of the great hall’s ceiling, one could watch undisturbed as the affairs of court unfolded below, just distant enough to deny the severity of them, when such severity was warranted. So far that day, nothing particularly unpalatable. Bandits in the Westlands, now with a regiment of King’s Men on their trail. A suspicious lack of piracy on the Sea of Storms, and more coin for Lord Eorin to man his scout ships. Not all of it was so serious, of course. A fisherman from Rivertown convinced his haul was vanishing into thin air was told to spend more time paying his taxes and less making up stories. A blonde man seeking a supernatural explanation for his dark-haired babe was told to discuss the issue with his wife. There was even an old soldier who swore he’d seen an army of Northern soldiers in the Rift, shortly before he fainted into a liquor-induced stupor. Sara had smiled at that one.

‘You stare like a fish-wife at the horizon, girl.’ the Matron grumbled beside her, expressionless as always.

Sara blinked, giving her a smile.

‘Does my lack of blindness irritate you?’

‘Ooh, and prickly today, too.’ the Matron snorted dryly. Her ashen hair was bound forever in a tight bun behind her head, but it did little to tighten the sagging skin of her forehead. Sara didn’t know her name, but it wouldn’t have surprised her if the old shrew didn't have one at all. Her skin looked like it would be more at home on an old waterskin than on a woman. ‘The marsh rose has thorns.’

Over the old Keeper’s shoulder, Glada pulled a face, and Sara suppressed a laugh.

‘I can return to the Queen’s chambers, if you’d prefer?’ Sara said sweetly, smiling again. ‘Is there another task you would have me attend to?’

‘Perhaps re-polishing the Queen’s wine glasses again?’ Glada interjected, grinning.

‘I think I saw a smudge on one earlier.’ Dana added dryly.

‘Too clever, by half, the girls they send me now.’ the Matron muttered to no one in particular. ‘Proper ladies, they used to be.’

‘A proper lady knows when to hold her tongue.’ Velis added, fixing each of them in turn with a stern look. ‘Matron, dearest, allow us to watch a moment longer.’

‘I’ll leave you to your gawking.’ the Matron grumbled, then turned creakily on her heel and went off towards the doors to the Queen’s apartments, muttering.

‘She’s particularly grumpy, today.’ Glada murmured as she departed.

‘Or you’re particularly irritating.’ Velis replied, rolling her eyes.

‘I’m bored!’ Glada shot back, scowling. ‘Just standing up here watching all day. At least the Queen has a better view.’

Sara looked down towards the hall. The Queen was sitting beside the throne in an ornate chair dwarfed by the column of inky black rock beside it, but she sat with a cold poise that lent a size to her shoulders, and her black dress glittered softly in the light from the high windows behind the dais. Beside her, the King’s council were arrayed in a little row of similarly opulent seats. Lord Korin and Lady Frindella were there, corpulent and haughty respectively, and the Fox, sitting at the end of the row in a purple doublet, dark head gleaming, hunter’s eyes surveying the room around him with precise ease. Sir Varos was stood beside the King, polished to a mirrors-edge, and his Black Guard were arrayed before the throne in a row of black steel, watching the assembled throng impassively from inside their full helms. But there was another shape looming at the edge of the dais, one that Sara was doing her best not to look at. The Bloodless, silent and unmoving, ruined skull gleaming around her waxy, twisting scar. The hilt at her shoulder was bigger than most swords all on its own, and her bulbous eyes watched the hall with a kind of silent menace that filled the air with ice.

‘I wouldn’t take her Majesty’s place.’ Dana said quietly. ‘Glada might be irritating, but that’s not company I’d enter willingly.’

‘She is rather hideous, isn’t she.’ Velis agreed, frowning. ‘Wonder how far from the throne she’d be, if she wasn’t so good at killing.’

‘Please! If I was that big, I’d be Kar himself.’ Glada snorted. ‘Sir Aron’s blade is much faster. And easier on the eyes.’

‘The Knight of Mirrors is more interested in his hair than fighting.’ Velis scowled back. ‘I know who I’d put my coin on.’

‘All three coppers of it.’ Glada snorted through her hand as she tried to hide her laugh, drawing a few disapproving glances from the more proper denizens of the gallery. Sara barely looked up. The proceedings below had reached a natural lull whilst the next supplicant was brought forward from the anteroom with its many tapestries, and the crowd was murmuring quietly amongst themselves.

‘Can’t tear her eyes away, can she?’ Glada murmured.

Sara blushed, smiling. The King was sitting casually in the throne, toying endlessly with the moonsilver sword lying across his knees. He looked so young, from her vantage point, and for a moment she wondered how different he might have been, before the rebellion, fair-skinned and light of heart, pale eyes bright and new. She had spent long enough around him now to recognise his irritation. The Queen sat straight-backed beside him, though she, too, seemed to have little interest in what was unfolding before her. It was rare, to see them together, like this, and Sara found herself strangely uncomfortable with it.

There was a little disturbance of the huddled watchers at the foot of the dais, then, and a bald, rotund figure emerged out into the small sliver of open space at the foot of the steps. The man was wearing the simple clothes of a merchant, but there was a small gold brooch at his collar, and his cloak had the weight of fine wool. He lowered himself uncomfortably to one knee as he emerged from the throng, bowing his head.

‘Greetings, your most generous Majesty.’ he said, his voice wavering slightly. ‘Thank you for your attention.’

The King did not react, still fingering the hilt across his lap indifferently.

‘It is not given lightly.’ Lord Korin replied instead, straightening in his seat. ‘State your name and business.’

‘I… Of course, M’Lord.’ the man hesitated, rising slowly to his feet, though his head stayed a little lowered. His voice had an affectation of wealth to it, a carefully curated lilt that imitated the nobles of Uldoroth, rather than the folk of the Rings. ‘My name is Rolden, son of Ralf. I am the owner and proprietor of the Gilded Rose, like my father before me, and his father before him. Finest watering hole in the Keeper’s Circle.’

‘I have heard of the place.’ the Queen interrupted, cold eyes watching, a narrow smile on her slender lips. ‘Although from what I understand it is less gilded than it is rubble, since the fire. Terrible luck.’

There was a little rumble of mirth from the assembled nobles at that.

‘It is true, your Majesty. The Rose was in my family for generations, and now it isn’t much more than a pile of ash.’ the innkeep agreed, pursing his lips. ‘Though luck has nothing to do with it.’

‘You allege foul play?’ the Fox asked, sharp eyes twitching. The innkeep shifted a little nervously, and the lines on his bald head descended into a frown.

‘I allege nothing, M’lord. I have proof.’

The throng behind the man were watching intently, now, and a little murmur of anticipation passed through their huddled shoulders. At last, something interesting.

‘Well come on, man, out with it.’ Lord Korin demanded. He had a small voice, accented with years of the finest tutors the South Realm’s bounty could buy, and it rolled off his tongue like the whine of a creaking canvas. His jowls wobbled slightly as he spoke, and his belly continued its eternal battle with his doublet. ‘Or would you have us guess?’

‘My apologies, M’lord. Of course.’ the man that was Rolden replied, bowing his head again. ‘Now as I said, your noblenesses, the Gilded Rose has been in the family for generations. I’ve run it myself since I wasn’t much more than a lad. Times were, city was full of visitors, folk of good repute, folk who’d trade their coin for a soft bed and a mug of good ale, maybe some company, if they were of that mind.’

The man paused, looking nervously up towards the Night Throne towards the King. For his part, Dekar seemed not to be listening, still preoccupied with the sword.

‘But… but there’s a sickness the city. Not a sickness of the body. Of the mind. Lures good men out of good lodgings and into gambling and whoring and... thieving. Started slow, so slow no one would notice, but now the whole Undercity is full of his filth.’ Rolden paused, scowling. ‘Sickness has got a name. Everyone knows it, even if they don’t say it. Even if he’s too clever to work atop the Rock. Even if he doesn’t want that kind of attention.’

‘You are not serious.’ Lord Korin moaned, rolling his eyes.

‘Never been more serious, in all my life, M’lord, Makers as my witness.’ Rolden told him, making the sign of the Gods over his chest. His voice quavered a little, and his careful accent slipped, just for a moment.

Another murmur from the crowd. Sara frowned.

‘What are they talking about?’ she murmured to Dana beside her.

‘Shhh, listen.’ her sister replied, suddenly interested.

‘I had thought the common folk had long since given up this particular fantasy.’ Lord Korin was saying. ‘The Prince of Beggars and his legion of ne’er-do-wells, running an empire of vice from the sewers. An entertaining story for the children. Very inventive, if nothing else.’

Sara had never heard of this Prince of Beggars. She looked at Dana again, but her sister held a finger to her lips silently.

‘Please, Korin, let the man speak.’ Lady Frindella intervened below, her taut skin contorting in a smile. The Lady of Cerin-by-the-Sea was a formidable woman, by all accounts, ashen haired and imperious, cheekbones as sharp as her tongue. She had inherited the Ladyship from her father more than fifty years ago, at the tender age of twelve, and not one of a veritable horde of nieces and nephews had managed to usurp her since. ‘He says he has evidence.’

‘As you will.’ Lord Korin snorted. The Queen sat back a little in her seat, and the King continued his apparent indifference. ‘You have seen this Prince yourself, I take it?’

‘N... No, M’lord.’ the innkeep stuttered, lowering his eyes. ‘That is... he’s clever. No one ever sees him.’

‘Of course not.’ Lord Korin scowled, rolling his eyes. Beside him, the Fox frowned softly, then leaned forward in his seat.

‘Please, my good man.’ he prompted the innkeep softly. ‘The fire?’

The man flinched to be spoken to again, hesitating. ‘How well do you know the stories of the Prince, your noblenesses?’ he asked slowly.

‘Not so well as you, I wager.’ Lady Frindella replied, clasping her hands over her lap. ‘They say he has no face, and that his name is a shadow. They say he can leap like a cat and steal the wings off a fly. They say he rules an army of thieves big as a legion, and that every coin in the city has touched his fingers at least once.’

A wave of soft laughter rippled through the audience. Lord Korin rolled his eyes again.

‘So they say, M’lady.’ the innkeep went on, stuttering slightly. ‘But I was referring to his methods.’

‘I do not think it likely any of us have such… intimate knowledge of the man.’ she replied, a slightly amused look on her gaunt face. She was playing to the crowd, Sara realised, and masterfully, at that. The most careful raise of one slender eyebrow could stir a swell of laughter at the right moment, and laughter could be useful.

‘I can say I know more than most, M’lady.’ the innkeep continued. ‘It’s true what they say about the Undercity. That is… the sewers. Folk live down there. Folk that don’t have better options. The Prince, he’s been working in the tunnels quietly for years. There’s gambling dens bigger than the Temple of Ulwe, under the Rings. Nothing happens off the Rock without him knowing about it. Not a wager without his fingers on the coin, not a cask of ale without its tithe. Everyone knows it, and everyone pays their way. His men always collect, regular as Shapers’ gears.’

‘Let me guess.’ the Fox interjected. He had been sitting quietly, leaning forward in his seat, but now he straightened slightly, steepling his fingers. ‘The Gilded Rose was short on coin this month.’

Rolden hesitated, frowning. ‘I tried, M’lord, but with things the way they are…’

‘And what proof do you have that this Beggar Prince is responsible for your fire?’ Lord Korin interrupted, scowling.

‘I… The fire caught past midnight. All the hearths were dark already. Everyone was sleeping, except my boy.’ the innkeep replied. ‘He roused us all, when he saw the flames. Nothing we could do to put them out, and there wasn’t much left, after.’ He paused, swallowing. ‘But we caught the man that set them, trying to scurry off down a drain.’

‘I assume this man has been turned over to the Black Guard?’ Lady Frindella asked.

‘My apologies, M’lady, but he has not.’ the bald innkeep answered, lowering his head meekly. ‘We thought… he might tell us something useful.’

‘Like the location of this Prince’s coin?’ Lady Frindella quipped. ‘Thieves robbing thieves. How poetic.’

The crowd murmured in amusement again, and the innkeep lowered his head, abashed. Even from where she stood, with the empty aching of the hall’s vastness between them, Sara could see a sheen of gleaming sweat on his bald head.

‘My humblest apologies, M’lady. I only thought to recover what the fire took. No more than that, I swear it. By the Makers, I swear it.’

‘And where is this man, now?’ Lord Korin asked.

‘He… my boys are watching him.’ the innkeep did not raise his eyes.

‘He must be turned over to the Black Guard immediately.’ Lord Korin demanded, chubby balled fist thudding against the arm of his chair. ‘And this man, this… vigilante thrown into the cell with him!’

‘Hold a moment, my Lord.’ Lord Royce interjected. He had been conspicuously quiet, hunter’s eyes watching the flustered innkeep with the appetite of a ravenous hawk. Now that he spoke, they softened, and his deep voice became soft as heavy silk. ‘This man has come here willingly to confess obstructing the King’s justice, as well as this… kidnapping, albeit of a criminal. Perhaps we should listen to what he discovered.’

‘You, too, Royce?’ Lord Korin replied, snorting. ‘The Fox, chasing the commonfolk’s fireside stories?’

‘Lord Royce is right, Korin.’ Lady Frindella said coolly, fixing the corpulent Lord of the South Realm with a withering eye. ‘This man has risked much. His purpose must be of some importance.’ She paused, looking down at the innkeep with a kind smile stretched over her creased lips. ‘Would I be correct in assuming this prisoner of yours is nearby?’

‘He is outside, M’lady.’ The hall murmured excitedly, and Lord Korin made a little sound of disbelief.

Stolen story; please report.

‘Why did you not reveal this immediately?’ he demanded, chins wobbling.

‘If I’d said... meaning no disrespect, M’lord... I’d have been in irons before I got three words out.’ the innkeep said quietly, lowering his eyes.

Lady Frindella laughed, and Sara saw a small smile flicker over the Fox’s smooth, dark face.

‘He is quite right, Korin.’

‘Rightly so, by my measure.’ Lord Korin muttered, cheeks flushing a little redder.

‘Bring him in.’

The hall froze. It was the King that had spoken. He did not look up from his lap, and his voice had not been raised, but it cut keener than a knife, setting a ripple through the throng of noblefolk. The sword across his knees gleamed, catching the light of the windows. A moment’s hesitation later, one of the Black Guard hurried away towards the end of the suddenly silent hall, armour clinking on the stones. A few moments of quietness followed as the King’s Council waited for another sound, and the innkeep squirmed uncomfortably, eyes fixed on the floor. He produced a small, stained handkerchief from somewhere about his person and dabbed it at his damp forehead, blinking. The hall felt every inch of its size, again, then, full of empty air, heavy with the weight of ancient stone. Sara saw the Queen lean towards her husband’s ear, mouth moving soundlessly. She frowned.

‘Prince of Beggars!’ Velis muttered, rolling her eyes. ‘Thought I’d heard everything.’

‘Oh, come now, Velis, where’s your sense of adventure?’ Glada whispered, grinning. ‘A magical thief running the city from the sewers. It’s all very exciting.’

‘It is that.’ Dana murmured.

‘How have I never heard of this Beggar Prince?’ Sara asked them, looking away from the hall.

‘It’s not the sort of story little ladies hear from court bards.’ Dana told her quietly. ‘Or the sort of story the King likes being told in his halls, at all.’

‘Surely no one would ever believe something so ridiculous!’ Sara scoffed.

‘People love a good story. Truth has a nasty habit of getting in the way.’ Velis replied.

There was a sudden commotion in the hall below as two guards reappeared from the back of the chamber, dragging a third man between them. The prisoner was bound hand and foot, and his boots scrabbled uselessly across the polished floor as they pulled him forward. There was a sackcloth bag over his head, stained with something dark in a dozen different places, browned like a cooked ham. Despite his struggling, he made no sound, and the crowd peeled back in an eerie quiet as he was dragged towards the dais. Two more of the Black Guard came close behind him, bright swords bare and ready in their gauntleted hands.

‘Is binding his feet entirely necessary?’ Lady Frindella asked as the trio approached.

‘Never can be sure with the Prince’s men, M’lady. Very slippery.’ the innkeep replied, holding his hands up apologetically.

‘Ulwe’s beard.’ Lord Korin muttered wearily. The group arrived at the foot of the dais, and the guards yanked their prisoner upright in front of the King, bound legs swaying unsteadily. The King was sat back in the shifting jet of the Night Throne, fingers trailing across the moonsilver blade at his knee, watching the developing scene coolly. The Queen beside him did not stir.

‘May we see him?’ the Fox asked after a moment, gesturing.

One of the guards reached up and snatched the sackcloth hood off the man’s head. The prisoner recoiled from the sudden light, squinting his eyes shut. His skin was pale, almost unnaturally so, fair hair almost white, shorn short with a rough blade, and his cheeks were dusted with pale stubble. He might have been thirty. His face was marked with a patchwork of ugly, purpling bruises, and the skin had broken in several places into scarlet gashes, tracing ribbon-red lines of dribbled blood over his chin and jaw. His eyes, when he managed to open them, were large and dark, and, in spite of the ruin of his face, they were clear. Watching eyes. He stood, hung like raw meat between his captors from well-muscled arms, and made no move to speak, dark eyes stony.

‘Gods. How long has this man been… in your care, keeper?’ Lord Korin asked.

‘I… A week, M’lord. You must forgive my boys, M’lord. It’s a hard thing to take, seeing your home burn.’

‘Why does he not speak?’ Lord Korin demanded, ignoring his protests.

The prisoner did not blink, staring back at Lord Korin as he spoke.

‘He… has not spoken since we took him, M’lord.’ the innkeep replied.

‘Then you never did find the Prince’s vaults of gold. More’s the pity.’ Lady Frindella mused dryly. ‘How do we know he is who you say he is?’

‘He’s a Prince’s man, M’lady, Makers’ truth.’

‘How do you know this?’ the Fox interjected. The innkeep hesitated.

‘He’s… branded, M’lord.’

‘Branded?’ Lady Frindella asked.

The innkeep looked back over his shoulder, nodding. One of the Black Guard pulled a knife from his belt and cut the prisoner’s stained shirt away. On the pale, bruised skin of the man’s well-built chest, outlined like silver wax against paper, there was a mark about the width of an apple. A brand, its edges puckered with old pain, a scar in the shape of a thorned crown. The Queen leaned close to the King’s ear again, lips shifting.

‘Gods.’ Lord Korin muttered.

‘The Prince’s mark, Your Majesty.’ the innkeep said, pointing at the man’s bare chest. ‘I spoke true.’

‘How uncharacteristically careless.’ Lady Frindella said quietly. ‘For one of this Prince’s men to let himself be captured.’

‘Folk say they’re getting jumpy, M’lady.’ Rolden replied. ‘Word is the Prince has let them off his leash. Or he’s not holding it, anymore, at all.’

‘An unusual scar, I’ll admit.’ Lord Korin interjected quietly, then gathered his wits and frowned. ‘Why does he not speak in his own defense? Do you not wish to refute these claims, man?’

‘He will not speak, M’lord.’ Rolden said quietly.

‘Does this Prince of Beggars have a habit of employing mutes?’ Lord Korin demanded, thumping a fist on his knee.

‘I do not believe so, M’lord.’

‘What are you not telling us, Keeper?’ the Fox asked, raising an eyebrow.

The innkeep hesitated, dabbing at his forehead again.

‘Out with it, man.’ Lord Korin ordered.

‘He bit off his own tongue.’ the innkeep replied. The hall bristled, wincing.

‘I do not believe it.’ Lady Frindella scowled.

The innkeep did not reply. He nodded to the guards again, and one of them took hold of the prisoner’s chin, wrenching his mouth open. There were several audible gasps from the nobles near enough to see inside it. Lady Frindella closed her eyes, frowning. The Fox watched with cold interest, almost smiling. The Bloodless stared down from the edge of the dais, unblinking. The Queen whispered something in her husband’s ear, but the King did not stir. Sara frowned again. It was strange, seeing them so close.

‘Why would a man do such a thing to himself?’ Lord Korin asked, voice a little shaky.

‘Fear, M’lord.’ the innkeep replied, pursing his thick lips. ‘Any man that knows the Undercity knows that to give up the Prince’s secrets is worse than death. They’ve got their own tongue down there, too. Easier to keep secrets if no one knows what you’re saying.’

A silence fell over the hall. The Black Guard let go of the prisoner’s jaw, and his mouth fell closed again. The man seemed almost not to notice, dark eyes watching the dais with an empty intensity that left an uncomfortable knot in Sara’s stomach, even at this distance. He had the torso of a brawler, lean as venison, but his dark eyes were cold as ice.

‘Very good.’

Sara started. It was the King that had spoken. Even his council seemed surprised; she was certain she saw Korin flinch.

‘A colourful story, Rolden son of Ralf.’ the King continued, lifting the sword from his knee idly and setting the point at his feet. ‘But I will not waste men by sending them into the sewers to chase fireside stories.’

A moment more of silence, then a little shimmer of uneasy laughter from the hall. Sara frowned.

‘But, Your Majesty…’

‘Do not interrupt your King, Keeper.’ Lord Korin barked, voice dripping with venom. Sara blinked. He had recovered quickly from his hesitation. Perhaps there was more steel in him than it seemed. ‘Or you, too, will go without your tongue.’

The innkeep bowed his head apologetically, and a small smile touched the King’s lips. He raised a hand to his crown, fingers dancing over the intricate gold vines at his brow, thick with the red gleam of jewels.

‘In light of the circumstances, we will forgive your imprisoning of this man, and your treatment of him. He will hang. Take the arsonist away.’ he began, sagging back casually into the great black face of the throne. The Black Guards lifted the mute man upright again and began to drag him away from the dais. For his part, he seemed quite undisturbed by this recent change in fortunes, dark eyes staring straight ahead as he was ragged shirtless from the hall.

‘For the obstruction of justice,’ the King continued, staring down at the innkeep. ‘And the spreading of these lies, you will pay a fine to the crown. Twenty gold vals should suffice.’

‘But, Your Majesty, I cannot…’

‘I am not finished.’ the King interrupted, and the man fell silent in a breath. Dekar’s eyes watched him from a face as blank as stone. ‘For the acts of violence against this prisoner, including the removal of his tongue… I will take your hand.’

‘Your Majesty, please, I did not…’

‘As their father, your punishment will suffice for the crimes of your sons, also.’ the King cut him off. ‘Or would you rather I had dragged in here, too.’

The innkeep stared up towards the Night Throne in horror, blinking, then sagged to his knees, suddenly limp.

‘I will not allow such crimes to go unpunished.’ the King went on, unperturbed, looking towards his council. ‘We cannot allow lawlessness and vigilantism to plague our city. No matter how tall the tale.’

‘Of course, Your Majesty.’ Lord Korin agreed quietly. Lady Frindella nodded her agreement, a little more reluctantly. The Fox, too, inclined his head, watcher’s eyes unmoving.

‘Sir Varos?’ the King said softly. The Silver Wolf turned to look up at the dais, hesitating, and the King scowled.

‘Trela, you do it.’

Unlike the old warrior, the Bloodless did not hesitate. She loomed silently out of her place in the shadows beside the throne, swollen head bulging with blue veins. Rolden the innkeep began to wail, his round face the colour of beetroot, sweat dripping from his chins. He scrambled to his feet, whirling towards the hall desperately, but the Black Guard hemmed him in, a wall of black steel. The Bloodless towered over him, scarred face gleaming like wax. The innkeep backed away from the giant, hands held up feebly, scrabbling against her leather-armoured chest. Then two of the Black Guard stepped forward, taking hold of him by the arms as a third set a block at his feet. Nightwood, polished smooth, black as scorched oak. Sara found herself oddly transfixed by the smoothness of it. The hall had fallen into a deep, heavy silence, the kind that waits in fear of sound. Those nearest the dais had taken an unconscious step back. The King watched, cool as winter, with the barest hint of a smile on his lips, and the Queen beside him looked down from the dais with eyes a wolf might give a wounded rabbit, black dress glinting. At the foot of the dais, Sir Varos watched, still frozen, eyes unreadable.

‘Look away, Sara.’ Dana murmured, but Sara could not. The innkeep’s words had failed him now, as well as his affluent accent, and he began to blubber incoherently, mouth opening and closing like a stuck fish. The guards forced him to his knees, pinning his wrist to the block, and he wailed all the louder, tears streaming openly down his cheeks. The Bloodless drew the huge sword from her back, and the ring of it cut shivers through the quiet as the blade sailed in a broad arc over her hairless head, gleaming. There was an odd sound then, a wet-cut sound like soaked wool slapping against stone. The innkeep screamed.

‘Gods.’ Glada murmured.

The Black Guard hauled Rolden the innkeep to his feet, and he held out his handless arm before him, staring at the bloody stump as it sprayed blood in crimson strings over his cheeks. He screamed again. Sara watched it all without a sound.

‘Take him to the healers.’ the King told his men, waving them away. ‘I’ll not have him die before his debt is paid.’

The guard’s turned away from the dais, dragging the innkeep between them, leaving a trail of blood strung out across the perfect stone. Rolden had fallen quiet, slumped in their arms, eyes lolled listlessly in his skull. The Bloodless wiped her sword on a rag at her waist, then returned it to the sheath over her shoulder, stepping back into place beside the silent council members. One of the Black Guard carried away the block, and a keeper in dark robes hurried after him, snatching up something from the bloody floor into a little sack. As they disappeared into the recesses at the side of the hall, Sara saw that there were little splashes of red dripping from the bottom of the bag, ink splotts on the pale stone. Overhead, the vast nightglass ceiling shifted, and the Night Throne shifted with it, watching in silence.

‘Royce.’ the King said brusquely as the innkeep vanished from the chamber, turning his eyes towards the Fox. ‘Continue.’

The Fox hesitated, staring at the bloody floor for a moment, then straightened, gesturing to one of the Keepers, and the man took off towards the far end of the hall, tracing the line of blood away through the crowd of uneasy nobles. Sara felt a hand on her shoulder.

‘You didn’t need to see that.’ Dana whispered.

‘Yes, I did.’ Sara murmured back. She looked down over the ancient hall, tracing the hard, strong lines of the King’s face.

‘I think I’m going to be sick.’ Glada mumbled thickly.

‘Hardly unexpected.’ Velis told them, unmoved. ‘No one is above the King’s justice.’

‘You really are a cold bitch, sometimes, you know.’ Glada replied, holding a hand to her mouth queasily.

Below, the door had opened again, and the crowd was peeling back from the latest supplicant. A farmer from the northern reaches of the Arq, seeking compensation for his property, lost to bandits this past summer. He left with a purse full of silver vals and a promise of more patrols along the lower lengths of the river. Next, two landed brothers in dispute over their father’s inheritance. One left with a writ, the other in irons after the Fox discerned that he had poisoned his father. A vineyard plagued by robbers, a forest cursed by a witch over stolen bread, a ship’s captain accused of smuggling spices from Dal past the customs officials in Arinath. The council did most of the heavy lifting, now that the bloody business was done, and the King was mostly quiet, watching his subjects from the enormous shadow of the Night Throne with the kind of distracted distance that comes with years of rule.

The lethargy that had settled over the hall was briefly upended by the arrival of the newest member of the Black Guard, come to pledge his sword to the King. A little hum of excitement stirred the supplicant nobles as the newcomer emerged, black-greaved and shining, from the anonymity of the patterned recesses of the hall. Glada was at the balustrade in a moment, suddenly interested, and Sara looked down to find a tall man in the armour of the Black Guard emerging from the crowd at the foot of the dais. Sir Aron of Stormvalley moved with the smoothness of a dancer, and his black helm was at his hip, leaving the strong, handsome lines of his face unhidden beneath a resplendent sweep of blond hair. Perhaps twenty, and bearing the heavy weight of his new armour as though it were silk. There was a hilt at his hip, worked with an ample flash of gold, despite the modest means of his house. Sara raised her eyebrows. The Knight of Mirrors certainly lived up to his reputation. Even Velis and Dana seemed to perk up at his arrival. Presently, the newcomer lowered himself smoothly onto one knee at the foot of the dais, dipping his eyes respectfully, and said the words as he was prompted by a reverent Sir Varos. Formalities over, the Knight of Mirrors took his place with the rest of the Black Guard on the dais, and the steady procession of beggars and sycophants began again as the sun started to dip around the edges of the high windows behind the dais. The afternoon was sliding slowly towards evening when the last was guided out.

‘That is the last of them, Your Majesty.’ the Fox announced.

There was a just audible sigh of breath from the audience. Even the most ambitious of favour curriers had only so much stamina for a day of the King’s justice. Sara and the other maidens might have the benefit of a railing to lean on, high in their perch, but the nobles and noblewomen, dwarfed by the hall below, had no such luck. Some of them turned to go, and the crowd began to dissipate. The King waved Sir Varos up to the throne, murmuring something into his ear, and the old warrior departed towards the other end of the hall, clinking in his black armour. Sara could have sworn he was frowning.

‘There is… One more item we must discuss, Royce.’ the King said, holding up a hand.

The more eager of the departing nobles turned quickly back to face the throne, and the council members froze in their seats. The Fox turned slowly to face the King, a fleeting shadow of surprise passing over his smooth, dark face.

‘Word this morning from Dal.’ the King began, reaching a hand out into the air beside the Night Throne. A Keeper hurried forward, holding out a little scroll bound with black leather, and the King snatched it, holding it out for the hall to see. ‘The Eye... is dead.’

A gasp went through the crowd, a rippled sound like wind over wheat. Sara frowned. This particular Eye of Dal had ruled the Golden City across the sea since before she was born, and his reign had not been without controversy in Valia. Her father had cursed him as though he held back the spring rains himself. A shrewd man, by all accounts; it was whispered that the piracy that had plagued the Sea of the Maker these past twenty years had added a pound of gold to his coffers for every two it removed from the purses of Valian ships.

‘It is no secret that relations between Valia and the Golden City have long been strained,’ the King went on, lowering the scroll. ‘But I am told it will take some time to elect a new Eye. As much as a year, maybe. Time, it is said, can make friends of all men.’

‘You mean to seize this opportunity, Your Majesty?’ Lady Frindella asked.

‘I mean to make an ally, where one might be made.’ the King replied. ‘Valia should not be absent the table, when the new Eye is chosen.’

‘Very wise, Your Majesty’ Lord Korin agreed, nodding thoughtfully. ‘But who will you send on this most important of missions?’

‘It should be someone with knowledge of Dal and its people.’ Lady Frindella agreed, frowning. ‘Perhaps the Master of Merchants?’

‘Knowledge he may have, but blood, he does not.’ Lord Korin replied, rubbing one of his chins. ‘No, it must be someone else.’ He paused, then made a small, happy sound, turning towards the Fox. ‘Royce, you were born in Dal, were you not?’

The Fox had been watching the little display of theatre unfolding with ice in his eyes, but now he smiled lightly, and his voice was cool and measured. ‘Why, yes, Lord Korin. My father was Western, as you know, from the Great Sands.’

‘Do you not also still hold some property, over the sea?’ Lady Frindella asked him.

‘I do, M’lady.’

‘Well then!’ Lord Korin exclaimed triumphantly, clapping as hand to his thigh. ‘The experience, the title. The blood. I propose Lord Royce make the journey.’

‘There is no one better.’ Lady Frindella agreed coolly. Her eyes met Royce’s for a moment, and then they turned towards the King. ‘What do you think, Your Majesty.’

‘I am loathe to lose such a faithful Keeper of My Hall.’ the King said thoughtfully, looking towards the Fox. He turned to Eliana, frowning. ‘What do you think, my Queen?’

‘Lord Royce has served this hall well.’ the Queen replied, and though she did not raise her voice, Sara heard every word clear as day on the gallery. ‘But the events in Dal present an opportunity, and there is no better man. Who else would know his own people better?’

Sara frowned. There was something cold knotting in her gut, and she looked nervously at Lord Royce. The darkness of his skin, shaved smooth over his colourful doublet, was suddenly stark against the pale faces of the King’s Hall.

‘Wise counsel, my Queen. What say you, Lord Royce?’

The Fox had not stirred as the discussion continued, and neither did he flinch when the eyes of the room turned towards him then like a swarm of hungry crows. He rose slowly to his feet.

‘Has my service disappointed you, Your Majesty?’ he asked quietly.

‘You have served as well as a man of your background could be expected to.’ the King replied, meeting his eyes cooly. ‘And you are not the only man to fail entreating with Ragnolf, these past years.’

‘The Northmen have long memories, my King.’

The King stared down from the throne, eyes flashing, and the Fox stared back, unflinching.

‘Ragnolf will be dealt with, in good time.’ the King said at last. ‘Think of it as going home.’

‘My home is here, Your Majesty.’ the Fox replied, dark face unmoving. The King looked back at him from the great black shadow of the throne, fingers brushing the bare, grey blade across his knees.

‘Will you refuse this request?’

Another moment of silence. Then the Fox lowered his dark eyes.

‘It would be an honour to represent the Night Throne beyond the Sea of the Maker, Your Majesty.’ he replied at last, bowing his head.

‘So be it, then.’ the King told him, nodding. ‘You will leave the day after tomorrow. I will send birds to Arinath. Your ship will sail in two weeks.’

‘So soon, Your Majesty?’ the Fox began. ‘I would…’

‘The day after tomorrow, Royce.’ the King told him. ‘There is no telling how soon a new Eye will be chosen. There isn’t a moment to lose.’

‘Of… Of course, Your Majesty.’ the Fox bowed his head again. ‘You must excuse me, Your Majesty. There is much to prepare.’

‘You may take your leave.’ the King replied, waving a hand at him and sitting back in the throne. The Fox hesitated a moment longer, watching the King quietly. Then he turned and left without a word, not sparing an eye for the curious glances of the crowd. Sara was too far away to be sure, but she thought she could see the faintest flicker of a smile on his lips.

‘Well.’ Velis mused quietly. ‘That was unexpected.’

‘One less admirer, little rose.’ Dana murmured.

Sara pursed her lips. The cold knot in her gut had not left her, but there was no sadness. As the Fox disappeared through the door of the King’s Hall, and the crowd began to disperse behind him, there was only mild surprise.

‘Lady Sara.’

She blinked, turning to find Sir Varos standing behind her, somehow unbothered from his armoured climb to the gallery. Sara smiled.

‘The King requests your presence.’ the old warrior told her softly, face unreadable. Somewhere behind her, Glada snorted. Sara hesitated, forcing herself not to blush, then nodded.

‘Of course, Sir Varos.’