Champion of the Rose - Kobo Ebook (30 page)

"Was he Fair?" Soren asked as
Jansette
headed toward the door.

"Who can tell? He didn't have the height. But he
looked young." She shook her curls
back, and lifted the hood of her cloak so that only the curve of jaw and
honey-stung lips remained. "That's
all I saw. Are you going to call for the
guards?"

It hadn't even occurred to Soren to do so. She should. Keep
Jansette
in Darest, question her about
the Deeping killer until there was no possibility she was keeping anything
back, and then start in on such interesting questions as who she was working
for and what she had told them. But
Jansette
had volunteered the information about Vixen. There had been nothing to stop her leaving
Darest secrets intact. Stolen kisses
aside, she had exposed herself to pass on news of the killer. It was not something Soren could ignore, even
to know who was taking such an interest in Darest.

"You wouldn't have come here if you'd thought there was
a risk," she said.

Those lips curved. "There speaks one who doesn't know me at all. But I'll take the forbearance with
thanks. I think I should dislike you for
refusing me. What's the good of being so
virtuous you won't even take the things you want, when they throw themselves in
your face? But – instead, I think I'll
give you something, just for free. The
Diamond
Couerveur
–"

"Yes?" Soren's voice was tight.

"Ask him if he's missing a knife."

-
oOo
-

"Fisk, present
my compliments to Lord Aristide and the Tzel Aviar and ask them to join the
King to breakfast. Have Lord Aristide
arrive a little earlier."

Strake's secretary might be growing used to organising the
lives of important people, but he still looked a little daunted by this
order. Strake had made it abundantly
clear that he did not like business brought to his breakfast table, and his
mood had been anything but mellow following yesterday's disappointments.

Aristide was the only one of the three awake, staring as
usual at the ceiling. She watched him
receive her message and rise, unhurriedly following his morning routine until
he was the shining pattern of perfection which was awarded the name of
Diamond. He hadn't varied his behaviour
since learning of her palace-sight, but there was something very deliberate in
his manner as he dressed, as if he could not quite forget the possibility of
observation. Still, little
difference. It made her wonder if
yesterday was the first time she'd ever seen Aristide in an unguarded moment.

Watching someone dress became embarrassing if they knew for
certain you were, so she pulled her attention away when Tzel Damaris was
woken. There was little to be learned
from watching him, anyway. Another one for
habitual masks, or did he truly feel so little about whatever task he'd been
set?

She joined Strake in his breakfast room, and found him
frowning at a larger than usual table, set for four.

"Have they made some progress?"

"No. Well, not
that they've said. This is something
else." It was a cloudless morning,
and she looked out into the garden thinking of Vixen, of the carter, and all
those who came before. She wondered how
far
Jansette
had travelled during the night. And where to.

Before Strake could work all the way up to being irritable,
Aristide was ushered in, his glitter-sweet smile leavened by genuine
curiosity. "Is there a problem,
Champion?"

"
Jansette
Denmore
called on me last night."

Strake's reaction told Soren she'd do well to avoid being
propositioned in his presence. Dark
brows snapping together, he looked briefly incredulous, then studied her face
very closely indeed. Soren affected not
to notice.

By contrast, Aristide simply smiled, on the edge of what
could well be genuine amusement. "Lady
Denmore
has been very diligently
searching for another...patron," he said blandly.

"Did you know she was a foreign spy?"

Just the faintest narrowing of Aristide's eyes told her the
answer. "You have some proof of
this?"

"Only her claim."

"
Jansette
Denmore
told you she was a spy." Rather
than being annoyed, Aristide looked appreciative. "Then I must compliment you both, for I
certainly had no inkling. Spying, yes,
but not for one of our neighbours."

"And how is this so important it warrants a morning
summons?" Strake broke in, curtly. He was still studying her face, no doubt remembering just how
Jansette
had chosen to visit him.

"Because she told me two things. One was to ask Lord Aristide whether he was
missing a knife."

This appeared to mean little to Aristide. He touched his belt knife, obviously
present. "I am not a collector,
Champion," he said. "I have
no–" And then he was caught by
'could it be?' and stopped, those fine, pale brows drawing together. "I do not have a knife which could be
stolen," he finished.

"Trump blade?" Strake asked.

"As I said, not a knife which could be
stolen." But Aristide was frowning.

"Often a proving piece for a mage leaving his
apprenticeship," Strake explained to Soren. "A knife not physically present, but
always there to be called upon in times of desperate need. Not an easy casting, and one which takes days
to reset." He looked at Aristide,
then said: "Call it."

"It is not–" Aristide stopped again, plainly not able to set himself wholly at
ease. "
I
would not be able to steal a trump blade," he said, and
reached with one hand, a small movement toward nothing. Light flared, and Soren distinctly made out
the shape of a weapon, no larger than a belt knife, with Aristide's fingers
curving around where the haft should be. Then the light went away, and so did any hint of a blade.

Aristide's fingers closed in on themselves, hiding the swirl
of the
saecstra
. He looked down at it, and the exquisite line
of his mouth flattened.

"I shall look for it between my ribs, then,"
Strake said, with a philosophical note. "I take it the thing is very identifiable?"

"It was a gift. And it would...taste of me." The mouth was still flat, his entire demeanour one of a man taking stock
of altered circumstances. Then the smile
came back, curving up from one corner of his mouth and then the other. Aristide did tend to enjoy irony. "Depending on how it was handled, the
thing would simply scream 'Aristide' to any mage who happened upon it, between
your ribs or not." He met Strake's
eyes and held them. Soren, watching in
more ways than one, saw his fingers rub across the
saecstra
mark again.

"I'll leave a counter to your devising, then,"
Strake said, and looked back to Soren. Aristide's pale lashes lowered over those star sapphire eyes, then he,
too, turned his attention to Soren, full glitter revived.

"And what other gem did Lady
Denmore
choose to share?"

Soren held up a belaying hand, and waited as Fisk knocked on
the door and the Tzel Aviar came in. She
saw them all seated before explaining, and they listened without
interrupting. Further questions could
only be countered with
Jansette's
claim of having
nothing more and Soren was conscious of their dissatisfaction at not being able
to interrogate the woman herself. But
they did not push her on the point, and sat back to consider the development.

Aristide broke the silence. "Mage assassin?"

"Something less structured," the Tzel Aviar
replied, in his unhurried manner. "This reinforces the impression of a natural defence. The Deeping births strange creatures at
times."

"This one wears the form of a man," Strake
said. He sat very upright, staring
across the table at the Tzel Aviar. He
hadn't expected this kind of killer. "The garb of a man. Can we
rule out the motives of men?" Or
Fae. He did not say it.

Tzel Damaris merely inclined his head, making no attempt to
refute Strake's imputation. "We
have gained no great advantage, knowing the killer is visible, or invisible, in
moonlight. And any foe which falls within
Selune's
demesne will not be easily defeated."

It was true. None of
the men had received Soren's news with relief. They could post the description, vague as it was, but where would that
get them? A few slaughtered guardsmen,
most likely. And the factor of moonlight
was the worst. Birth and death were the
Moon's, and Soren could not keep back an image of the killer as some
soft-footed avatar of the goddess, intent on avenging an insult Darest, or its
Rathens
, had not even realised they had made. You could not hope to win, fighting a god.

"Will any of this assist you in tracking it by
magic?" Strake asked, voice tight. The need to do something sat clear and square on him. Did it make it worse, to know that his
family, his lover, had been killed by man and not beast?

"Little." The Tzel Aviar was not one to soften a harsh truth. "Experimentation on a subject which is
not even present, to overcome such formidable protections, may be
possible. Given weeks, months."

The Deeping man didn't press his point, didn't urge or warn
or do anything but wait. And Strake
said: "Very well."

Then they began to plan exactly what Soren did not
want. Bait to trap a killer.

Chapter Twenty-One

"I still think this is woefully inadequate."

"So you've made clear." Putting himself at risk had improved Strake's
temper immeasurably. He even gave her a glimmer
of a smile between scanning the horizon for glass-clawed killers.

Soren shrugged under the weight of the Champion's Sword, and
took a moment to try and believe that they could just march out to
Vostal
Hill with a handful of crack guards and bring down
the Deeping killer. No casualties, no
tears, and happily ever after.

There was a possibility it might work. The thing – the man – had shown himself
capable of locating the hunting party even in the depths of the Tongue, and if
Strake truly was his target would surely leap at the chance to catch him
outside the palace defences. The
difficulty, of course, was exposing Strake just enough and no more. Too many guards and the assassin would have
to be mad to make the attempt. Too few
and they would be...too few. But none of
Soren's carefully reasoned objections had swayed Strake's determination, and
neither Aristide nor Tzel Damaris had supported her. Why was it they had to rely on two men whose
motives could only be suspect?

All three claimed she was to be their trump card. Aristide had said that with a particularly
curling smile, to remind them all of missing knives and phantom plots. His point was that the Rose, unlike mages,
seemed perfectly able to track the location of the assassin. Not only could Damaris and Aristide observe
and attempt to discover why, but Soren could point out the killer's exact
location and they would see if he was as immune to crossbow bolts as magic.

And so they were walking out on
Vostal
Hill, ostensibly to watch the sunset. A
mere half-dozen crossbowmen flanked them and a less-than-pleased Captain of the
Guard was bringing up the rear. For
Autumn the day had been quite pleasant, and Soren was busy being astonished at
how many birds were lurking about a treeless hill, ready to explode into the
air as they approached, and shriek or chirp or carol. But none of them sounded remotely like larks,
and she'd stopped jumping whenever the latest flurry of feathers launched
itself into the bleeding sky.

"Why let her go, Champion?"

Eyes made dark by the failing light, Aristide had trailed
the question out like a hook for a fish.

"Because I chose to," Soren replied, shortly. She was not the one to be baited this
evening. "What information she had
gathered she already had ample opportunity to pass on. Her employer – well, could it be someone we
didn't already think was taking an interest?"

"You can put the next spy to the question," Strake
said, in mock consolation.

"I shall hope for one Lady
Denmore's
equal."

Strake smiled again; Aristide's darts never seemed to do
more than entertain him. But then he was
back to raking hill and shoreline for something which could not be seen. Aristide considered his profile a moment
longer, then looked past King and Champion to the quietly composed figure
walking at Soren's side.

Without palace-sight, she could not continue to study their
faces without it being remarked upon. It
made her feel like she was trying to tie a knot one-handed. When had that barrage of images become so
much a part of her? What was the Rose
making her into?

The Rose was, of course, the critical factor and one Soren
thought Strake was wilfully ignoring. It
had shown itself less than inclined to come to his aid in the Tongue, which
made relying on a warning from it dubious strategy indeed. But Strake wouldn't accept her argument when
she'd raised it out of Tzel Damaris and Aristide's presence. The Rose, he said, would be warning her, not
him, and that would be sufficient.

Soren could only hope the Deeping assassin didn't come.

"Belsen Cove," Strake said, stopping on the crown
of the hill to point across the bay. With the sun setting at their backs, the far shore became a raft of
warmth: burnished gold and yellow-green above dark blue water. "It's a little further south than
immediately convenient," Strake continued. "But if you're serious about those ships, that seems the ideal
location."

"We need craftsmen more than a site, Your
Majesty."

"And, of course, when that clutter in the dock area is
cleared out, it would be natural for the city to expand south to meet your
ship-builders."