“It’ll certainly be useful. But the clerics are not the duke. I don’t suppose they brought a letter from him?”

  “No, but they did bring a message. Duke Viruhlis is ardent in his faith and fully supportive of my actions. Rhianvel was never as troublesome as Alundia for the Algathinets, but their rule has long been a source of resentment among many of the nobility, not least the ducal family.”

  “I’d feel more secure if he’d sent a thousand men-at-arms under his own banner rather than a few Supplicants bearing a letter he hasn’t signed.”

  “Apparently, the duke is keen to engage in negotiations before openly stating his support. Accordingly, his ambassador to the Court of King Arthin awaits you in Couravel. I trust you’ll arrange a suitably discreet meeting.”

  “Couravel? You want me to go to the capital? Now?”

  “Of course. Who else could I trust to deliver my summons to the king?”

  “To which I suspect Leannor will respond by sending you my head in a sack.”

  “She will not.” Evadine smiled, shaking her head. “Still, you don’t fully understand the nobility, Alwyn. She will receive you, hear your message, dismiss it, and send you on your way. Anything else would be improper.”

  “She didn’t seem to care about propriety when she stuck her dagger in Duke Guhlton’s neck, during a parley no less.”

  “Deeds performed on a battlefield are different, parley or no. The business of court demands the observance of strictures, if she still wishes to attach the trappings of legitimacy to her son’s rule. Besides, there is more work for you in the capital than suffering Leannor’s company. You will pay a visit to the Dulsian ambassador too. I’ve a suspicion his duke may be the most persuadable to our cause, if properly compensated.

  Also, I wish to take advantage of your insight into the common folk. Rumours abound of how hard life in the towns has become these days, what with the princess regent piling ever more excise on liquor and other comforts. Or, at least, I hear she plans to, and will flog any who dare raise their voice in objection. I am told her spies are busy compiling lists of names, those deemed troublesome or disloyal. Her brother’s fate seems to have birthed in her a great and terrible suspicion, one that may even have unbalanced an already disturbed mind. Such altered thinking in one with utmost power breeds fear, a fear that could be stoked to useful heights.”

  I arched a quizzical eyebrow. “Already disturbed?”

  “Since we’re on the subject, I recall a few rumours flitting about in the days following the death of Leannor’s husband. Lord Keville was old, certainly, but hardly infirm, despite his years. Not a man to succumb easily to illness.”

  “Leannor is a madwoman who once murdered her husband. That’s the tale you intend to spin?”

  The smile Evadine put on her lips was apologetic, but an air of command coloured her next words. “I am not the storyteller here, Alwyn. That I leave to you. And I’m confident you will find all the grist you require in Couravel.”

  She never asked me to lie before. The thought dogged me for much of the following day, and would continue to do so during the trek to Couravel. I had, of course, lied on Evadine’s behalf many times, but often without her knowledge and never with her express approval. Yet I set about my preparations with all my customary diligence.

  “Make all haste,” I told Tiler, handing him a brick-sized box. It was a sturdy contrivance edged in iron with a strong lock, as befitted its contents: every gold sovereign that could be garnered from those corners of the cathedral the Vergundians hadn’t managed to rummage. The sum value of the box was impressive but not immense, but as a signal of good intentions, gold in all its untarnished shininess is hard to surpass. It was a measure of the trust Tiler had won from me, albeit uncoloured by any affection, that I felt confident in placing this treasure in his hands. Although, I had felt obliged to send two of my most trustworthy scouts along as escorts.

  “I shall, my lord.” Tiler knuckled his forehead and secured the box amid the saddlebags of his mount.

  “She’ll ask the reason for your request,” I advised as he climbed into the saddle. “Tell her we need intelligence on the mood of the capital’s commons.”

  He settled on to his horse’s back, narrow features forming a cautious frown. “And the real reason?”

  “If you don’t know, she can’t wring it out of you.”

  “Shilva Sahken’s more one for cutting than wringing.” Tiler grimaced. “Still, nice box of coin should cool her temper.”

  “When she gives you what you need, get yourself to Couravel, quick as you can. Keep to the shadows and find me when you’ve made the necessary introductions.”

  Tiler knuckled his forehead again and kicked his heels, he and his pair of escorts galloping off along the westward road.

  I spent the evening going over the histories of the Keville family provided by Senior Librarian Corlina. To my annoyance, there was nothing of particular interest, the only marked anomaly being the untimely death of Lord Alferd Keville, father to our current boy king.

  Sihlda said you deserved a better bride, my lord, I thought, tapping a finger to Lord Alferd’s name. What little I had gleaned about Leannor’s betrothal and subsequent marriage to a man over twenty years her senior made it plain it hadn’t been a love match. The nobility, Sihlda once told me, marry almost exclusively for advantage. Love is ever a petty concern to them.

  I saw from the text below Leannor’s entry that she had been only fifteen when married to Lord Alferd. Little more than a child forced into the bed of a man who must have appeared ancient. Leannor had never struck me as lacking in either wilfulness or spite, and this particular arrangement seemed fertile ground for both. My eye tracked to Lord Alferd’s name once again and the date of his death inscribed beneath it. Old but still hale, so they said. An untimely end, unless someone helped him on his way.

  I decided to risk taking the whole Scout Company along, at least part of the way, reasoning I may well have use of them should a hasty retreat from Couravel prove necessary. Eamond rode with us once again, recently returned from his mission to summon the Covenant Host. The former novice, now formally named a Supplicant by Evadine, sported a few grazes from his adventures in Couravel and the subsequent journey north. Moreover, I saw less of the keen, idealistic youth I had trained the previous spring in this battle-hardened soldier. His ardency in Evadine’s cause remained, but there was a new caution to his gaze that bespoke a soul repeatedly exposed to violence. After some shameful wrangling of conscience, I also asked Ayin to join us. Athiltor no longer struck me as the safe refuge for her I had imagined it to be. Lilat once again followed wherever I went, despite my urgings that she go home.

  “The Eithlisch gave me a task,” she said, shrugging. “It’s not yet done.”

  “Your task was to find the Doenlisch,” I reminded her. “Yet all you do is traipse around after me.” My tone held a forced harshness, designed to stir enough pique for her to forsake whatever alliance she felt existed between us. Instead, it only served to amuse her.

  “Your woman said very bad things about my people,” she said, mouth quirking in a restrained smile. “That must have made you angry.”

  Lilat tended to refer to Evadine as “your woman”, or sometimes “the woman who speaks a lot”. Mostly, she regarded the Anointed Lady with a vague sense of bemusement, an expression that deepened when surveying the crowds of people who came to hear the sermons of the Risen Martyr. “She doesn’t do anything,” Lilat said when I asked her about this apparent mystification. “She only talks. Words are just air.” This she said in Caerith, phrased in a manner that made me conclude it must be an oft-repeated saying among her people.

  “The Caerith are wise in many ways,” I said. “But in this, they are utterly wrong.”

  I pondered the wisdom of leaving Quintrell and Adlar behind. The minstrel and his wayward allegiances were a complication I could well do without. Also, despite the man’s objections, I still didn’t fully trust his juggling companion, sworn soldier to the Covenant Host though he was. In the event, they made the decision for me by simply saddling up and falling in with the others come the morning of our departure. Quintrell met my enquiring glance with a customary grin while Adlar exchanged a joke with Ayin.

  “You know Couravel well, Master Quintrell?” I asked, climbing on to Blackfoot’s back.

  “Better than I’d like, my lord. It’s the worst maze of shit-stinking rat runs I’ve ever encountered, and I’ve travelled far, as you know.”

  “Ever play for the royal court?”

  “Can’t say I’ve had the honour.”

  “Then let’s see if we can rectify that.” I touched my heels to Blackfoot’s flanks, nudging him to a walk and guiding him towards the southward road. “Though I warn you, the princess regent is likely to be parsimonious in her applause.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  Ayin and Eamond made a surprisingly convincing couple. Quintrell took on the job of concocting their disguise, deftly altering their garb and appearance to create the picture of dispossessed newly-weds forced from their homes by the storms of war. They were shorn of all accoutrements that might signal membership of the Covenant Host, or sympathy for the Anointed Lady, their weapons limited to well-concealed daggers.

  “You understand your task?” I asked, after surveying their appearance to my satisfaction.

  “Ascertain the mood of the commons in Couravel,” Eamond responded promptly. “Seek out pockets of discontent and identify the leaders.”

  “I’ll make a list, shall I?” Ayin suggested with helpful earnestness.

  “No lists,” I told her. “As far as anyone will know, you can neither read nor figure numbers. Keep any names in your head.”

  “Couravel is a city beset by the foulest poverty, my lord,” Eamond said. “A mass of folk ripe for the Lady’s message…”

  “No preaching either.” I swallowed a sigh of exasperation. These two were not the best choice for this, but my most skilled spy was off on his mission to the Shavine Marches. I doubted Quintrell would have had any difficulty slipping into the required role, yet resisted making the request. Outlaw instinct told me it would be best to keep that one well within my sight.

  “Feel free to appear as devoted as you like,” I told Eamond. “But make no mention of the Lady. If the subject comes up, act confused, ask questions. It’s important we know how they feel about the Risen Martyr. But—” I raised a finger for emphasis “—no preaching. Understood?”

  Receiving a firm nod from Eamond and a shrug of agreement from Ayin, I surveyed the crossroads where we had encamped the night before, finding it gratifyingly empty. The hour was early and the ground covered in a fine mist, late autumn making our breath steam. The Scout Company was secluded in the forest, far enough away from the road that their fires wouldn’t be noticed. The crossroads lay ten miles west of Couravel, a meeting of minor cart tracks rather than the busier junctions of the King’s Road.

  “You’ll go on ahead,” I told them. “We’ll meet back here in seven days. If any of us don’t return by the dawn of the eleventh day, make all haste to Athiltor and convey your tidings to Lady Evadine.”

  “Why wouldn’t you be here?” Ayin asked, a concerned frown creasing her brow. “You’re just going to talk to the princess, aren’t you?”

  After which she may well decide to hang me, I didn’t say, vexed as I was by visions of Magnis Lochlain’s demise. Or worse. “I have other business that may delay me,” I told her. Fixing each of them with an intent eye, I went on, “Remember, listen more than you talk. Watch but don’t act. If you’re threatened, play the craven and run away. Kill only if your mission is discovered. And—” I focused my attention on Ayin “—bad men are to be shunned in all respects. I don’t care how bad they are.”

  She responded with a weary roll of her eyes. “I don’t do that any more.”

  “Good. Keep it that way.” I nodded to the westward track. “Time to go.”

  Lilat required no disguise for her mission, given that it involved staying out of the city completely. I sensed a forced air to her protestations, the obligation to stay at my side competing with her detestation of towns and cities. Even from this distance she complained of a foul stench and her mood had darkened with every mile we drew closer to Couravel.

  “When we leave,” I told her, “I’ll try to do so by the northern gate, but that may not be possible. If so, you’ll have to track us.”

  This earned me a puzzled look and a shrug. “So I shall.”

  “Stay hidden. Take no more game than you need, keep a careful watch on the roads. Should a large body of warriors appear from any direction, I must have word of it. Meaning you’ll have to find us in the city. Do you think you can do that?”

  No shrug this time. Instead, her face twitched in disgust and she gave a resigned nod. “Why not? I’ve crawled through stink and shit to save you before.”

  The banner hung over the great edifice of the cathedral of Couravael in a shimmering blaze of white and black. An impressive, and assuredly expensive, assemblage of silk panels arranged into a rectangle at least fifty feet long. The symbology was a modified version of that emblazoned on the banner Danick Thessil had wielded during his final stand in Athiltor: a cup surrounded by a circle of fire. The motif was archaic in origin but still familiar to anyone with more than a passing knowledge of Covenant lore. The cup symbolised Martyr Stevanos, the first Martyr, a humble potter by trade. The flames represented the form of his martyrdom, burned to death for the crime of preaching love in a time of hate. My scholar’s memory told me the design had been popular during the foundation of the Covenant, but these days such things tended to be viewed as frippery. Apparently, this had been one of the core tenets of the Most Favoured pilgrimage sect the Widow had spent much of her prior life following.

  Regarding the silken assemblage with muted curiosity rather than outrage, Juhlina felt moved to offer an apposite quotation: “Those who are true in their Devotion require no trappings, nor baubles, nor anything save a soul open to the Martyrs’ example.”

  “Martyr Ahlianna?” I asked, finding the passage unfamiliar.

  “Melliah,” she said, arching an eyebrow at me. “My lord’s scriptural knowledge is lacking.”

  “There are a lot of scrolls.”

  We viewed the cathedral from across the central plaza that dominated this most favoured quarter of the city. The towering, much-buttressed structure sat directly opposite the royal palace. The cathedral’s spire rose higher than any portion of the monarch’s domain by a considerable measure. Further contrast came in the fact that the palace was surrounded by tall and sturdy walls, while the cathedral was ever open to receive the faithful. I had pondered before if this place had been constructed to emphasise the eternal paradox of antipathy and alliance that characterised the relationship between Crown and Covenant. If so, the fact that the banner’s presence had been tolerated thus far told me that the attitude of the palace’s occupants now tended more towards concordance than conflict. A shared enemy will often forge strong bonds.

  “Can I assume,” Quintrell ventured, “that we will not find a resting place within the cathedral precincts this evening?”

  “Not unless you’re keen to wake up with your throat cut.” I tugged Blackfoot’s reins, turning his head towards the palace.

  Gaining access to royal personages is ever a tedious and protracted business, made more so when one presents oneself as the ambassador of a woman apparently intent on defying or usurping Crown authority at every turn. All the functionaries who greeted us, from the guards at the palace gate to the various courtiers encountered during the subsequent prolonged journey, showed expressions of either outright disdain or glowering suspicion. Added to this were the clerics, for the palace seemed far busier with them than during my infrequent prior visits. Supplicants, Aspirants and a few Ascendants witnessed our passage through multiple corridors and halls with expressions set in naked hostility. I was quick to notice that all wore a robe bearing the cup and flame symbol on their breast.

  Eventually, we were conveyed to a tall, narrow chamber with a chequerboard marble floor, bare of any seating, with windows too high to offer an easy escape. “You will wait here, my lord,” the stern-faced courtier escorting us said with a barely perceptible bow before exiting the room. Our escort of a dozen kingsmen placed themselves outside the doors at each end of the chamber. They closed with a loud, booming echo followed by the clatter of keys turning in locks.

  “They might’ve left us somewhere with a fireplace, at least,” Quintrell griped, pulling his cloak about his shoulders. His absence of awe at his surroundings made me doubt his earlier claim that he had never been here before. By contrast, Adlar was all bright-eyed wonder. During the journey through the palace, he had stared at the passing finery and opulence with unabashed fascination, which he now focused upon the wooden relief carvings decorating the panelled walls of this chamber.

  “Such artistry,” he whispered, pointing to a particular scene. It showed a hunting party, a king on horseback, presumably one of the early Mathises or Arthins, long spear held aloft as he pursued a boar through the woods. “Have you ever seen the like, Master Quin? The detail is extraordinary.”

  Quintrell sniffed. “There are marble reliefs in the eastern Free Ports that make this look like the whittlings of a blind dull-wit.” I saw a previously unsuspected nervousness in the way his hand fidgeted on his mandolin, something he covered by strumming a few notes. “Judging by our welcome,” he said, “I don’t suppose I’ll get to play for the court after all, eh, my lord?”