Thief of Light (24 page)

“No need,” growled Erik. “I’ll be there, remember?”

“The Open Cabal is not for the fainthearted.” This time, there was no heat in Dai’s assessing gaze, only challenge. “You’re big enough, but what use are you?”

Erik tossed the towel aside. A swift step and he had Dai in a choke hold, a brawny forearm clamped across his throat, long fingers clamped over the wrist of his dagger hand.

“Not bad.” Standing perfectly still, Dai gave a muffled laugh. “Look down.”

The blade was so small it was lost in the man’s left hand. But the tip glittered wickedly, poised over the big artery between Erik’s hip and thigh.

“Hmpf.” Slowly, Erik released him.

Dai raised a hand and massaged his throat. “What are you best at?”

Erik showed his teeth. “Brawling. Fists.”

“Blades?”

He shrugged. “A little better than average. No more.”

“Hmm. Show me your sword hand.”

When Erik held it out, Dai turned it palm up for an impersonal examination. “Calluses. You practice?”

“When I can.” Honesty compelled him to add, “For the stage.”

Dai looked him in the eye. “Tell me, singer, have you killed?”

When Erik slanted a wary glance at Prue, she spun on her heel. “Sister save me,” she muttered. “I don’t want to hear.” She set off toward the Main Pavilion at a brisk trot.

Erik turned back to Dai. “Twice. I hated it.” He shrugged. “But there was no choice. We were attacked on the road. It’s a risk the Company takes, traveling.”

Dai stared into his eyes, not at all embarrassed because he had to look up a few inches to do it. His gaze was very steady, and a little grim. “All right,” he said at last. “We all go to the Open Cabal. I’ve got your back, singer.” He held out a strong, slim hand. “Agreed?”

Without hesitation, Erik took it in a firm grip. “You’re no courtesan.”

When Dai grinned, his eyes sparkled green gold like a cat’s. “That’s not quite what Walker says.” He released Erik’s hand. “What I am is a sword for hire, the second best in the Queendom.” The grin became wry. “According to Walker.”

“Grab my belt and hang on tight.” Erik took one look at the crowd streaming into the Audience Hall and shoved Prue behind him. Blessing the gods for bulk and heft, he shoved a ruthless path forward, Dai placidly keeping pace one step to the left. By the time he’d secured a vantage spot near the great semicircular table at the far end of the chamber, he’d lost count of the toes he’d crushed, the curses hurled at his back.

A sour mist of excitement, fear and sweat swirled toward the coffered ceiling. His nose was stuffed with it.

A paradise for pickpockets. Suddenly, he was immensely relieved Florien was back at the theater helping with props. Lord and Lady be praised though, the lad had kept his promise and gone straight back to the boarding house last night. Bettsa had checked. Well, well. Progress, of a sort. A smile tugged at his mouth. What would a slum rat like Florien make of the seelies? Gods, what he’d give to see the lad’s face!

Breathing hard, Erik set Prue before him, an arm tight around her waist. Only a double strand of rope separated the ordinary folk of Caracole from their betters. Not that the members of the Cabal were yet in evidence. The vast chamber was awash with noise, shouted conversations bouncing off the polished, sandy pink seastone of the walls, while in a minstrels’ gallery set high on a mezzanine, a group of unhappy musicians sawed away at their instruments, adding to the unholy din.

“Now what?” he said in Prue’s ear, inhaling her crisp, clean scent with gratitude.

She fished a small wooden square out of her pocket. “Once the ministers are seated, the Open Cabal begins. We wait for the number on our chit to be called.”

“What number do they start with?” he asked, his heart sinking.

“One, usually,” said Dai at his elbow.

Wordlessly, Prue held up the chit. Sixty-seven.

“But I have to speak to someone today. I
have
to! Who knows how long—”

Prue dug an elbow into his ribs. “Shush now, they’re coming. And I have an idea.”

Someone was playing a trumpet voluntary, quite well really, the long, gleaming notes insisting on the courtesy of silence. A Guard sergeant with a chestful of medals sprang to attention, holding back a heavy curtain. From behind it strolled a group of oddly assorted but richly dressed people, deep in conversation. Ignoring the neck-craning and the whispers of the crowd, they fanned out behind the heavy table on the dais and took their places. Only two of the high, bro caded chairs remained empty, the grandest one in the center, which was clearly a throne, and another on its left.

“Where’s the queen?” whispered Erik.

“Only hears the most serious cases,” said Dai quietly. “But see the man seated to the right of the throne?”

Erik nodded.

“Uyeda, the Queen’s Right Hand. He who carries out the will of the queen.”

Uyeda sat bolt upright, his hands folded in the capacious sleeves of a severely cut, formal robe. Although his hair was iron gray, the bones of his face were broad and starkly elegant. Intelligence shone in the faded blue of his eyes, only the shadows beneath betrayed the strain of his office.

Erik’s gaze traveled to the empty throne and the seat beyond it. “And on the queen’s left?”

A soundless chuckle from Dai. “The Queen’s Left Hand, he who executes the will of the queen unseen. Her spymaster.”

“Who is he?”

Prue shrugged. “No one knows, that’s the point. It’s all about the separation of powers. He—or she—could be anyone. Anywhere.”

Comprehension dawned. Erik fought the desire to laugh. “You mean the Right Hand doesn’t know what the Left Hand is doing?

“Exactly,” said Prue. “Only the monarch knows that.”

The sergeant strode to the center of the floor, grounding the hilt of his halberd with a ringing impact on the stone flags. “
One
!” he intoned in a stentorian bellow, and two women stepped forward, already deep in what was clearly an ongoing argument, hands flying with the intensity of their feelings. Six pairs of eyes gazed down at them from the Queen’s table with varying degrees of disapproval, boredom or interest.

“Who are the others?” asked Erik.

Rising on tiptoe, Prue explained in an undertone. If he hadn’t been so tense, Erik would have enjoyed her proximity. As it was, he tightened his arm around her supple waist, bending his head to brush his cheek against her hair while he listened and watched.

The Queen’s Money was the middle-aged man at the far left, frowning down at the papers in his hand. Behind him stood a harried-looking clerk with an armload of scrolls and bound ledgers. Lounging back in the next chair, the Navy shared a joke with her swarthy, hawkish neighbor, the Queen’s City.

On the far side of Uyeda, the Right Hand, a small, plump man surveyed the great unwashed of Caracole with bright, birdlike interest. The Queen’s Knowledge. As far as Erik could make out from Prue’s hurried whispers, the office required a combination of archivist, librarian and research scholar. It seemed that the Knowledge was a learned man.

Which left the Army, with his dress uniform, his brush of grizzled hair and the scar under his eye. Erik studied the man’s thick fingers drumming an impatient tattoo on the table.

In fact, apart from the Right Hand and the Knowledge, none of the Cabal appeared to be even remotely interested in the proceedings.

Lord’s balls!

Erik filled his chest with a preparatory breath and Prue whirled about in his arms, slapping a small hand over his mouth. “No,” she hissed, her eyes gem-bright with urgency. “They’ll throw us out if you speak out of turn. You’ve got to trust me, Erik. This is why I’m here.”

Trust me.
Trust me
.

The echoes of his own desperate voice.

Swallowing, Erik nodded.

Absently, Prue patted his cheek. “Good.”

Rummaging in her belt pouch, she produced a coin, a full cred it looked like, and a small notebook with a pencil attached. Busily, she scribbled a few lines in her neat upright script. Tearing off the page, she wrapped it around the chit and handed the whole thing, together with the money, to Dai.

Dai raised a brow. “The Queen’s Money? You sure, Mistress?”

“Yes.” She gave him a little push. “Go, go!”

“Ah well,” said Dai. “Isn’t it lucky Rhiomard owes me?” He melted into the crowd.

Fifteen minutes later, the two women having been replaced with a plump, disgruntled tavern keeper, Erik saw Dai standing behind a fluted pillar on the other side of the Hall, deep in conversation with the much-decorated sergeant. Rhiomard, presumably.

The sergeant flicked a glance in their direction, and his hard mouth tipped up at the sight of Prue. One eyelid fluttered shut in an unmistakable wink. Erik tightened his grip. “A client?” he growled.

Prue shot him a dark glance. “Yes,” she said. “Of The Garden. Not that it’s any business of yours.” She pressed her lips together, spots of color on her cheeks.

Unobtrusively, the sergeant drew the Money’s clerk aside for a low-voiced discussion in the shadows.

From behind, Dai murmured, “Any minute now. Watch.”

The clerk handed a small square of paper to the Queen’s Money. Erik saw the minister’s brows rise, his mouth twitch. He raised his head. “Enough,” said the Money, and the hum of the crowd ceased.

The tavern keeper barely paused for breath. “But, Noblelord,” he babbled, “all I ask for is an extra month. No more. It’s not unreasonable, not with the way business . . .”

Catching sight of the Money’s face, the man trailed off. In the sudden silence, he wiped his brow with his sleeve.

“Correct me if I’m wrong.” Without turning his head, the minister held out a hand, and the clerk placed a sheet of paper in it. “You own not one, but three taverns in the Melting Pot?” He glanced at the figures.

“Yes, Noblelord.” The man wiped his forehead with his sleeve.

The Queen’s Money took a small silver gavel from his clerk and poised it over the dark pattern inlaid in the surface of the table, directly in front of him. A five-pointed star, a Pentacle. “You own them outright?”

The tavern keeper’s face took on a greenish hue. “Yes, Noblelord, but—”

The sound of the gavel striking the Pentacle echoed through the Audience Hall, pure and vast, like the voice of the space winds. Gods, the dark material was novarine! Erik shut his mouth with a snap. Eight Pentacles around the table, each carved from the heartstuff of an exploded star. The table was worth more than the entire Hall and every person in it.

“Petition denied.” The Money’s eyes gleamed. “Nonetheless, my friend, I will help you.”

The tavern owner did not look in the least comforted.

Turning to his clerk, the official said, “Make a note to send a tax officer to assist this citizen with his books. Every day until it is done and Her Majesty is paid the money she’s owed.”

Someone in the crowd snickered, another laughed. Out of the corner of his eye, Erik saw a young mother pull a bag of candied fruit from her pocket and pop a piece into the mouth of the child in her arms.

“Silence!” roared Sergeant Rhiomard. “Judgment has been made.”

“For the gods’ sake, man,” snapped the City, leaning forward. “Get on with it. Who’s next?”

Rhiomard glanced at the Money and received a barely perceptible nod in return. “Mistress Prue McGuire!”