THREE

“I think it would be best,” said Albern Highmount, “if you allowed me to do most of the talking, Your Highness.”

Big surprise, that. Highmount barely trusted Liam to dress himself, let alone run a council meeting. He obviously thought his prince an irredeemable idiot—which verdict, to be fair, Liam probably wouldn’t dispute just now. After all, he’d just let his wife ride off into mortal peril without him. Again. Only this time, he’d sent her forth not with a love letter, but with fatal doubts about their marriage. Bloody brilliant. Happy endings sure to follow.

“I sense I do not have your undivided attention, Your Highness,” Highmount said.

“Yeah, well, you’ll have to forgive me,” Liam said tartly. “I’ve had a bit of a rough morning.”

The chancellor was unmoved. “Her Highness is exceedingly capable. If anyone can accomplish this task, it is she.”

“For what it’s worth,” Rona Brown put in, “I agree.”

Liam sighed and shoved a hand through his hair, forcing himself to focus on the matter at hand. His gaze roamed over the oratorium, all stately pillars and polished stone and stained-glass windows. He could scarcely fathom a more intimidating room, yet Erik had always commanded it from the moment he walked through the door. Liam would have to find a way to do the same, even if he was only half the man his brother had been. Half the man he is, he corrected himself. Erik wasn’t lost, not yet. Alix would fix this. Liam needed to believe that on so many levels.

The guardsman Pollard appeared at the door. “Ready, Your Highness?”

Liam looked at Highmount and Rona, the only two council members who knew the truth about Erik’s condition. Could they hide it? Glancing from one steady gaze to the other, he thought, Who are you kidding? A chancellor and a banner lady, born and bred at court. He, on the other hand . . . If anyone’s going to cock it up, it’s you.

Green was the first to enter, as always, the rest of the lords and ladies following in the strict order protocol demanded. Liam found himself taking them in as if for the first time, measuring them up, deciding if they’d be friend or foe in the days and weeks to come.

Raibert Green. Cousin to Liam’s fallen mentor, Arran Green. First among the banner lords. Green, at least, Liam knew he could trust. Or can you? Green was a good man, fiercely loyal to the king. If he thinks you’ve betrayed Erik . . . Next came Norvin Gold. Liam knew nothing about him save his rank as banner lord. Still less of Lady Stonegate, or Lord Swiftcurrent . . .

And then there was Sirin Grey.

She met Liam’s gaze from across the room. Curiosity lit her blue eyes, but it was a cold curiosity, unpredictable and dangerous, like sunlight on a glacier. Doing some measuring up of her own, Liam thought. He had no idea where he stood with her. They didn’t have much history together, but what they did have could hardly have filled Sirin with warm, cuddly feelings. Liam had been there the day her lover was executed—her lover, Tomald White, brother to Erik and traitor to the crown. It was Liam who’d caught her when she swooned, overcome by the sight of the Raven’s blood running in rivulets between the flagstones. It was Liam who’d taken the Raven’s place as Erik’s heir. Meanwhile, her brother Roswald’s role in the plot had cast Sirin’s family into disgrace. Half their lands had been confiscated, their men-at-arms disbanded. By the time Erik and Highmount were done, their banner was all the Greys had left—and they were lucky to keep that.

Sirin Grey, Liam decided, had no reason to love him.

Which meant he had two, at most three, firm allies on a council of eight. Bad news.

“Thank you for coming, my lords,” Highmount said when they had taken their seats. “Before we begin, are there any other items to be added to the agenda?”

Sirin Grey arched a delicate eyebrow. “You mean besides the absence of the king?”

“His Majesty sends his regrets,” Highmount said. “Unfortunately, he has a touch of fever left over from his voyage to Harram.” He might have been reporting the weather, so banal was his tone.

“A touch of fever?” Sirin’s eyebrow climbed to perilous heights. “Is that why you have the corridor to the royal apartments sealed off?”

Cocked heads and bemused frowns rippled round the table. Lady Sirin was obviously better informed than most. Bad news, volume two.

Raibert Green glanced about as if noticing something for the first time. “And where is Lady Alix?”

“Sick,” Liam said—maybe a touch too quickly.

“Hardly surprising,” Highmount said, “given how much time she spends with His Majesty. Difficult to say which of them infected the other, but the illness is unmistakably contagious, which is why we have sealed off the royal apartments.” He flashed a bland smile. “A precaution, at His Majesty’s own insistence.”

Norvin Gold harrumphed, as if personally inconvenienced. “Who has the Blacks’ proxy?”

“I do,” said Highmount, “as before. Now, if there are no more questions, perhaps we can begin—”

“I’m sorry, Chancellor, but I’m afraid I do still have questions, if you will indulge me.”

Sirin Grey again. Liam forced himself not to react. Highmount, for his part, adopted a mildly annoyed expression, and Rona Brown looked just plain bored. Professionals, these two, Liam thought.

“Sealing off the royal apartments seems a bit drastic for a touch of fever, don’t you think? In fact, I’m surprised His Majesty would forgo the first council meeting since his return for such a trifle. King Erik is not known for being delicate with his health. If anything, he tends to push himself too hard.”

Liam cursed inwardly. Sirin Grey had been engaged to Erik for years; she knew him better than just about anyone in the room. She’s dangerous, this one. Fatal, even, were she to expose them. He and Highmount had locked the king in his chambers and usurped his crown. How would they ever explain that to the council? They couldn’t possibly, not before Erik had their heads off. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d executed a brother for treason.

The image came back to Liam, as vivid as if it were yesterday: the Raven’s blood on the flagstones, Erik’s bloodblade buried deep in the wood block that had cradled his brother’s head . . .

A sheen of sweat broke out along Liam’s scalp.

“He does tend to push himself too hard,” Highmount said smoothly, “which is how he fell ill in the first place. To be frank, had Her Highness Lady Alix not also succumbed, I suspect we would not have been able to convince him to remain abed. In the event, however, I was able to appeal to his reason, by pointing out how very irresponsible it would be to risk infecting the entire council.”

“That,” said Rona Brown, “would certainly have been a disaster at a time like this.”

“Indeed,” said Lady Stonegate. “I have only just recovered from my own illness of last week. I thank you, Chancellor, for sparing me a repetition of that.”

Sirin Grey started to say something, but Liam decided at that moment he’d had enough of being a spectator. “My lords,” he said, cutting her off, “I’ve got rather a lot to do today, including looking after my wife, so if we could get under way?” He didn’t mind playing the part of Petulant Prince. These people barely knew him; he could cast himself in any role he liked and no one would know the difference. A trick he’d picked up while playing the diplomat in Onnan, slithering around with the rest of the vipers. At least some good had come out of that gods-cursed trip.

“I do apologise, Your Highness,” Highmount said, sounding almost sincere enough to give himself away. The chancellor had never apologised to Liam in his life. “I will endeavour to keep this meeting moving smoothly. And now, my lords, if we may begin . . .”

Liam watched Sirin Grey as Highmount unfurled the agenda and began reading it aloud. She sat perfectly poised in her chair, spine straight, silk gloves folded primly in her lap. Dark braids framed a face as coolly beautiful as a statue, a gaze as coolly calculating as a moneylender’s.

As though sensing she was being watched, Sirin looked over. Her eyes met Liam’s, and she did not look away. He held her glance just long enough to make it clear that he had nothing to fear. Then he looked back at Highmount, straining to hear the chancellor’s words over the dull roar of his own blood.

*   *   *

“Really,” Liam said disgustedly. “In the rose garden. You couldn’t wait half a heartbeat until we were back in the courtyard.” Rudi just looked up at him, nub of a tail wagging, apparently finding nothing amiss in leaving a nasty gift on the sparkling white gravel.

Liam was trying to decide what to do with the mess when the wolfhound’s ears perked up and he took a halting step forward, growling. Liam tensed, hand going instinctively to his bloodblade. Ridiculously, his first thought was of Sirin Grey, but it was not her slender form that rounded the rosebushes; instead it was an unfamiliar figure in a dark hood. Rudi’s teeth flashed into a snarl and the figure froze, one hand raised in a warding gesture.

“I should be grateful, Your Highness, if you could keep that beast at bay,” said a rasping voice.

“Why should I do that?” In spite of his words, Liam rested a hand on Rudi’s head. He’d seen what the wolfhound could do to a man, and he didn’t fancy scraping guts off the gravel as well as shite. “Whoever you are, I’m fairly certain you’re not supposed to be here.”

“True enough, but I flatter myself to think your lady wife would be somewhat put out by my untimely demise.”

Liam scowled. “Name?”

“Forgive me, but I would rather not say. Besides, I suspect you’ve already worked that out.”

Liam thought so too, but just to be sure, he said, “Saxon?”

The man winced. “It is little better if you say it, Your Highness, the objective being that it isn’t overheard.”

“My objective is to know whom I’m talking to.”

“And now that you do, perhaps you could see fit to quell your hound?”

Liam hadn’t even noticed that Rudi was still snarling away. He had to give the spy credit; not every man would stand his ground in the face of those fangs. “Quiet, you.” The wolfhound subsided, though he kept his yellow eyes riveted on the spy. Liam did the same, taking in the man’s unremarkable form—middling height, medium build, commonplace clothing. Alix had always had trouble describing her spy, and Liam could see why. Aside from his grating voice, the man was utterly ordinary. “If there’s someone nearby to overhear,” Liam said, “we’ve got bigger problems than your name.”

“True enough, I suppose.”

“What do you want?”

“To remind you of my presence, Your Highness, and my devoted service.” His tone wasn’t sarcastic, exactly, but there was something vaguely mocking about it. Alix had mentioned something about that too, Liam recalled.

“Your service to my wife, you mean.” Considering Saxon’s role in the assassination of Varad, Liam didn’t fancy himself part of their little arrangement.

“Were my notes on Onnan not helpful to you?”

“I guess,” Liam said, a little ungraciously. “Didn’t keep me from flaming out—literally. I’m sure you heard what happened to the Onnani fleet.”

“Torched, down to the last galley.” The spy nodded gravely. “I heard. Though I doubt there was much you could have done. From what I’ve been told, the dockies had been planning that action for months. The only reason they delayed as long as they did was to try to exact concessions from the Republicana. That”—his mouth twisted wryly—“and they wished to put on a show.”

“Yeah, well, they did. A big, fiery show. And for an encore, they got themselves thrown in the dungeons, leaving a bunch of inexperienced whelps working the docks. So if we’re lucky, the fleet might be ready in, oh, eight months. By which time we’ll all be speaking Oridian.”

“So pessimistic?”

“Haven’t had a lot of good luck lately.”

“I am sorry to hear it, Your Highness, especially since it seems I must add to your woes.”

Wonderful. “And how’s that?”

“This morning’s council meeting was the flipping of a timeglass. The sand is running, and it will not last long.”

“What are you talking about?”

“His Majesty’s condition.”

Liam stiffened. Beside him, Rudi growled.

“A loyal beast,” Saxon said dryly. “He is most attuned to you.”

“Why should Erik’s fever add to my woes?”

The spy’s mouth took a sour turn. “Please, Your Highness, don’t insult me.” He dropped his voice until it was barely above a whisper, a rasp of flint on tinder. “We both know His Majesty is not suffering from fever.”

“I don’t know any such thing.”

Saxon sighed impatiently. “Really, this is going to take far too long if we continue this pointless shadowfencing. I am a spy, Your Highness. Knowing secrets is my business. Lady Black rode out before dawn this morning, accompanied by two of your own White Wolves. I know your lady wife, and she would never leave the king’s side were she not compelled by the utmost urgency. That, combined with earlier rumours about His Majesty’s erratic behaviour . . .”

“There are rumours about Erik’s behaviour?” This just keeps getting better.

“King Erik White is above all things a charmer, a gracious young man known for his charisma and political acumen. Yet he offends the King of Harram so badly that our allies turn him away without so much as a single legion to aid our cause. Not only that, His Majesty returns to us peevish and paranoid, suddenly the sort of king who upbraids his own chancellor in full view of the entire palace.”

“Erik nearly died on that mission. The mountain tribes took him captive, and Alix too. He was barely able to talk his way out of being executed. Naturally he was rattled by the time he got to Ost, the more so when King Omaïd turned him away.”

Saxon wasn’t fooled. “Something happened to His Majesty in those mountains. Something dire. And now Lady Alix is trying to fix it.” He paused, shrugging. “I am likely to put this together faster than most. But others will work it through eventually, and when they do, your neck will be on the block. Yours, and my lord chancellor’s.”

Liam’s throat felt suddenly tight, as though his neck were already on the block. But he forced his voice to remain steady as he said, “I don’t know what you think you’ve worked through, but you’re wrong. Erik is ill. End of story. Alix rode out this morning, it’s true, but there’s nothing remarkable in that. She’s going to see her brother, that’s all.”

“And yet you troubled to lie to the council about it.”

Liam tensed again.

“Did Lady Black not tell you I had a tick on the council?” The spy laughed. “Really, do the two of you not speak?”

It was a little too close to the mark. “I’d go gently, if I were you,” Liam growled. “It’d be a shame for the gardeners to have to scrub your blood off the king’s nice white gravel.” He was bluffing, of course. Probably.

“I am here to help, Your Highness. The sword is already balanced above your neck, whether you realise it or not. Certain facts are out in the open, which, though not terribly damning in isolation, are going to be woven together all too soon. And while the picture that emerges may not reveal the whole truth—I doubt even I have guessed that—it will be enough to land you in the Red Tower, or worse. Most of the council has not yet heard the rumours of His Majesty’s erratic behaviour, but when they do—as they are certain to, for gossip is the very air the court breathes—they will begin to suspect. Should they discover Lady Black is gone, it will only deepen their suspicions. Your time is limited, Your Highness, so whatever you and your lady wife are about, I strongly suggest you take care of it quickly.”

Liam turned his back on the spy, rubbing his jaw roughly. Saxon was right. He might not have guessed the whole truth, but he knew enough, and it had taken him less than a day to work it out. How long did they really think they could keep something like this from getting out? And when it did . . .

Blood on the flagstones.

When the spy spoke again, the mocking tone was gone. “Let me help, Your Highness. I daresay you need it.”

Liam glanced over his shoulder. “How?”

“My tick on the council will feed me information. That will help us keep an eye on their mood.”

Liam nodded resignedly. He felt dirty.

“Not all of them are your friends, Your Highness.”

“You don’t say. Most of them see me as a bastard or a fool or both. I don’t care about that right now. What I am worried about”—he dropped his voice—“is Sirin Grey.”

A pause. The spy considered him from the shadowed depths of his hood. “It is true, Your Highness, you do have something of a reputation for being glib. The assumption is that your political instincts are not strong.”

“That’s not an assumption, it’s a fact.”

“Hmm. I am inclined to doubt that.”

“Because you know me so well.”

“A man does not last long in my trade if he is not a good judge of character. You give yourself too little credit, I think. As do many others, and you can use that to your advantage. Let them underestimate you while you play the Hew-tongued fool. Meanwhile, I will feed you whatever I get from my tick on the council. That way, we will hopefully be forewarned when they begin to suspect.”

When, not if.

“I should not linger here,” Saxon said. “It would not help matters if you were seen with a spy. If you need me, leave a rose on your windowsill. I will find you.”

“How romantic.”

A smile drifted across the spy’s face. “You are terribly well suited, I think, you and Lady Black.”

The words were like a knife in Liam’s belly. “That’s really none of your business,” he said coldly.

“As you like. Take care, Your Highness. You are being watched, and I am not the only spy at court. Even a single ill-considered word could get you killed. From now on, treat everything you say, everything you do, as a matter of life and death.”

So saying, the spy headed up the path and turned, cloak flapping, to disappear behind the roses.