By Divine Right (5 page)

The clothes of the dead acolyte revealed nothing to confirm my suspicions, and I promised Braben three silvers I didn’t have to hide the body and Custos for a few days. There weren’t many of the gifted in the lower merchants’ section, but Braben had decided long ago that he preferred the company of more ordinary people. He could have run a tavern two or three times the size in the upper merchants’ portion of the city and amassed a fortune, but in addition to a partial gift of helps, Braben possessed a love for simple things and plain-spoken people. Thankfully, that included me.

In his tavern the fire was lit, the food was good, and his family surrounded their patrons with tales and laughter. Walking into his inn for most of his customers was like walking into a second home. For me it was like walking into my first.

I put the thought aside, holding my hopeful return to Braben’s in the near future as a reward for exposing the plot against Laidir. The sun touched the tops of the peaks to the west as I trudged my way uphill back to the king’s tor. My shift had officially ended two hours ago. Most of my acquaintances within the city watch would be drifting toward mugs of ale and games of bones.

The nobles, along with the gifted brought to entertain them, would gather in Laidir’s court to eat and dance. Every member of the Orlan family present within the city would be there. I needed to find the man or woman who thought to make themselves ruler. Ealdor, bless him and his rundown church, had hinted at the means to do just that.

The guardroom at the base of the tor had already emptied of everyone except the prison shift for that evening and Jeb. Even standing alone, he clothed himself with the threat of violence like a cloak against the cold, though he seldom used it. The threat was more than enough.

When he saw me he laughed with the closest approximation to humor he possessed. “By my hope of heaven, Dura, you look awful.”

I’d been too busy appreciating my survival to take note of my appearance. Ordinarily, I would have joined in the jest, but something
in my face or demeanor must have warned him, because I saw him clench and unclench his fists.

“I don’t like that look, Dura,” he growled at me. “It says you’ve got a problem and you feel like you need to share it. I don’t think I’m going to enjoy hearing how you got messed up as much as I thought at first.” The rumble in his throat deepened. “Go away.”

I shook my head. “I’m sorry, sir,” I said. I hoped he could sense the genuine sentiment behind that. Even at the onset of the night shift, there were still too many sets of ears in the guardroom for my comfort. “But I can’t. I need to speak with you in private.”

A vein jumped in his forehead. “If you’re wasting my time, I’m going to make you regret it.”

“I already do.” Something in my answer must have mollified him, because he turned away from me toward the niche that served as his office carved into the rock at one side of the guardroom.

He closed the massive door behind me but didn’t bother to sit or invite me to. I didn’t mind. I’d been in there before, and the three chairs that accompanied the simple table had been selected for their lack of comfort. Jeb didn’t enjoy others’ company. “Say it quickly,” he ordered.

“Someone’s trying to duplicate King Laidir’s gift, sir. One of the Merum acolytes followed me from their cathedral and tried to put a knife through my ribs.” I paused, waiting for him to answer his own objections before I spoke again. “He tracked me to Braben’s before attacking me in the alley. He almost had me when I made the mistake of thinking he was right-handed.”

It took a couple of seconds before Jeb caught the unspoken accusation. When he did, I heard his knuckles pop. “You’re
gnath
, Dura. You don’t even have a partial gift. If you bring an accusation against the nobility without proof, you end up tied to a post and beaten for it.”

Some of the nobles in Laidir’s court treated commoners almost as equals. The Orlan family didn’t fit in that category. They regarded any one of common birth as less than human. “I can tell the castellan.”

Jeb looked at me as if I’d gone insane. “If your accusation is correct, you’ll be dead in less than a day. Castellan Baelwer is cousin to Duke Orlan and the price Laidir had to pay in order to secure the duke’s support in the last war.” He shook his head. “If you want to
prove your charge, you’re going to have to do it without the help of any of the nobles.”

“What if we went directly to the king?”

Jeb shook his head as if he were talking to a simpleton. “You can’t get to the king. Everything goes through the castellan. The guards to the doors of the court are under orders not to let anyone enter who isn’t a noble or on the castellan’s pre-approved list.”

If I had any hope of warning the king, I’d have to enlist Jeb’s aid for my desperate idea. “I could become a servant.”

Jeb looked at me, his face a mask devoid of reaction for all of two heartbeats. Then he gave a slow nod. “It’s possible, but that still won’t get you to the king. He has his own private staff.”

I quoted Ealdor. “Servants are invisible. If I can get close enough to the Orlan family, I might be able to see or hear something I can use to figure out which of them is plotting against Laidir. Then I can work my way close enough to the king to warn him.”

Jeb snorted his disgust. “That’s as thin as a Merum wafer, Dura. You’ve been listening to too many tales. Laidir’s court is a nest of vipers. Nobles don’t make stupid mistakes like that.”

I’d heard the description of court my whole life, a magical place filled with light and laughter and music, peopled by greed and ambition. Any sane man would run the other way, and here I stood arguing for the chance to put my life in danger.

Obviously, I wasn’t as smart as I’d thought.

Jeb worked his way around the table to the door. “I’ll give you an introduction to the chamberlain. He’s a friend of mine.”

That last shocked me and it must have showed on my face. “I do have friends, Dura,” Jeb said with a roll of his shoulders. “A few anyway. The war and this job have taught me to be cautious.”

Inside I nodded my agreement. The myriad lessons of war ran deep in the kingdom and through the men and women that survived it.

An hour later I was dressed in servant’s livery, black hose covered by a long blue tunic and topped by a red vest. It hurt my eyes to look at it. I still had my boots, and I bent to check the knife strapped to the inside of the right one. Its presence comforted and frightened me at the same time. If I drew it in anger in the presence of the nobles, they’d kill me on the spot.

The chamberlain, a man almost as big as Jeb and as threatening in his own way drew close. “Jeb saved my life, but if you bring me
any unwanted attention from the king, I’ll make sure you suffer for it ten times over.”

I nodded. “What do I need to know?”

The chamberlain laughed at me, a discomforting bark that sounded like rocks crashing together. “Have you ever been in court before?”

I shook my head.

“There’s only one rule for the servants, Dura. Bring them food and drink and do whatever they tell you. The new servants start with wine—it’s simplest. For heaven’s sake and your own, don’t spill anything on them or they’ll beat you black.” His smile mocked me. “Try not to get distracted.”

I walked into court with a flagon of wine cradled in my hands. To my left at the far end of court on a raised dais, Laidir sat on his throne, flanked by Queen Cailin and their son. My king and queen looked bored or abstracted, I couldn’t tell which, but Prince Brod, hardly more than two or three years of age, watched the panoply of court in wide-eyed wonder, chewing on a chubby fist.

If I failed to prevent Laidir’s murder, Cailin and Brod were unlikely to survive him. Something, steps or nerves, sent ripples across the wine I carried like a stone dropped into the center of a pond. The chamberlain hadn’t warned me about the room itself. High arched windows of stained glass lined the long broad hall with scenes of unsurpassed beauty depicting war and love. Between the buttresses that supported the roof, entertainers vied for the attention of bored nobles. Singers declaimed tales of love and heartbreak in soaring tones that could shatter glass, if not the hearts of the nobles they sang to.

In one broad alcove a juggler in garish colors managed to keep seven daggers aloft while balancing on a ball atop elevated blocks of wood. I stared in wonder, transfixed, as he managed to keep the ball from slipping off the ridiculously small topmost block without the appearance of effort. With a flourish, he leapt from the ball, toward the weave of daggers, which seemed to vanish in midair and landed neatly on the ground with a casual brush at his sleeve. He bowed to negligent applause, then gathered his ball and turned to mount his makeshift tower once more.

I shook my head in amazement at the intersection of the juggler’s gift of beauty and talent of motion. I’d never seen anything to compare to it, but the intersection of gift and talent most on display belonged to the musicians. The most accomplished in the kingdom—those like Ian, whose gifts were pure or almost so—played a variety of instruments, their fingers a blur across the strings of the lute or mandolin or flute, each played deftly, merging their music with the melody around them.

I’d never heard any sound so beautiful in my life, and I wanted to weep with it.

In the center of the hall, two concentric rings of nobles danced, women in the center ring rotating in the opposite direction of the men in the outer ring. Scattered around them stood clusters of other nobles in groups of four or more, their expressions betraying the content of their speech.

In that moment, surrounded by the scents and sights and sounds of more beauty than I’d ever witnessed, the nobles made me aware of my danger. Not one among the hundreds assembled there in the giant hall offered any recognition or acknowledgement of the mastery on display for their benefit. Their gazes remained fixed upon the other nobles, either dancing or speaking, or the king himself, who sat an ornate throne on the raised dais at the far end of the hall.

Like eels waiting to strike.

I circulated with my flagon, refilling the goblets of those who held them out to me, and searched for the Orlan family.

A voice accompanied by the sound of fingernails tapping against the rim of a glass interrupted my search. “Here, please.”

The tones were slightly deeper than most women owned, but all the more beautiful for the caress of sound they laid upon my ear. I turned with my flagon already raised, and found myself face-to-face with her.

Many women were fair, their features attractive in the current fashion, which celebrated daintiness instead of strength. Lady Gael, a woman I’d noticed from afar any number of times, would never be one of those. Her nose was slightly too large for current tastes, but I saw harmony between it and the curve of her jawline that age would never diminish. Too tall for most men, her eyebrows, dark above eyes of a cerulean blue, hinted at insights available only to the
mind behind them, and I stole a moment to wonder at the thoughts she reserved for herself alone.

I bowed my apologies for my inattention, ducking my head so that I wouldn’t be caught staring at her lips, full and expressive, that had a way of shaping speech where others merely spoke it.

“Your pardon, lady,” I murmured.

“For what, good servant?” she laughed. “I would expect no man to anticipate my desires.”

“Then that is every man’s loss,” I said without thinking.

A woman at her side laughed. “Servants are rarely so glib.” She stepped forward and patted me on the arm. “Nicely spoken.” She made a show of looking me over until my face matched the vest I wore. “Let us play our game with this one, sister. Tell me what you see.”

Lady Gael’s lips curved with pleasure even as she shook her head. “Give me a moment, Kera.” She spared a glance for me before she lifted her shoulders. “He’s obviously ordinary.”

I straightened, looking back and forth between the two women, desperate to keep my gaze from lingering on Lady Gael. No reason existed to take offense at the opinion of one raised in wealth and comfort. “It would be sinful to deny what is evident, my lady. My features serve me well enough, plain though they may be.”