“I wouldn’t be too sure,” I said. “I’m sure you must know a few mourning dirges.”

  “They didn’t take our weapons,” the Widow pointed out, hefting her warhammer. “That’s hopeful.” The rarely seen grin on her lips faded in the face of my inexpressive glance. “What do I do if they take you?” she asked.

  “Let them.”

  I saw her hands tighten on the warhammer’s haft. “I won’t be a captive again.”

  “You will, because I order it.”

  Her glare of resentful defiance might well have led to raised voices if the lock in the far doors hadn’t rattled afresh. They swung open to reveal a large man in a doublet bearing the Algathinet crest, a longsword at his belt. He stood there for a moment, grim, bearded features regarding me in silence with no regard for my companions.

  “Scribe,” he said, voice little more than a gruff mutter.

  “Lord Ehlbert,” I responded, offering a bow of appropriate depth. Quintrell and Adlar both immediately sank to one knee while the Widow adopted a combative stance, raising her weapon and setting her feet. It was an outrageous breach of etiquette and a brazen challenge, one Sir Ehlbert barely seemed to notice.

  His gaze flicked to the Widow for the briefest second before fixing upon me once again. “Come with me,” he said. “These others are to wait here.”

  “With some comfort and refreshment, I trust,” I said as he turned away. “Or has all civility vanished from this palace?”

  “Civility?” Ehlbert’s beard, thicker and less well kept than I remembered, bunched in amusement. “Bring chairs,” he told the guards posted at the door. “And some wine for our honoured guests.”

  Standing aside, he gestured to the long corridor beyond. “Your audience has been granted, Lord Scribe. I advise you not to waste any more time.”

  Before coming here, I had wondered if Leannor would receive the Anointed Lady’s ambassador in full view of her assembled court, the better to disparage and dismiss his message. Instead, I took solace from the fact that she chose to meet me alone, save for Sir Ehlbert. He led me through yet another set of doors to an ascending stairwell, presumably located within one of the palace’s many towers. Leannor waited in the small, shadowed chamber at the top of the steps.

  The narrow windows were shuttered and most of the light came from the blaze in the hearth and a few oil lanterns. She sat in a high-backed chair with a kitten in her lap. Next to her was a table upon which sat a mass of papers. I noted how the various scrolls and stacked documents were neatly arranged at the far end of the table, but this orderliness dissipated the closer the papers were to Leannor. The fine rug beneath her chair was littered with scraps of paper which provided amusement for the two other kittens at play there. I also saw that the stones surrounding the fireplace were stained dark with the ash that results from burnt parchment.

  “Your Majesty,” I said, taking the knee before her, head lowered in the customary position of a knight greeting one of the highest station. “I bring tidings from the Anointed Lady and Risen Martyr…”

  “I know why you’re here, Scribe.” Leannor’s voice was only marginally less of a mutter than Lord Ehlbert’s. “Get up.”

  Standing, I spared a glance at Ehlbert who had positioned himself with his back to a window. The shadows made it impossible to read his face. They also might offer an advantage should he choose to draw his sword. The fact that I had been permitted to keep mine offered no consolation at all.

  “I like cats,” Leannor said, recapturing my attention. She lifted the kitten from her lap, holding it close to her face, smiling as its small paws batted her chin. “They’re straightforward creatures, you see. Despite a reputation for cunning, they are in fact completely trustworthy and affectionate. All you need do is feed them, play with them, scratch them in the right places…” she paused to tickle the kitten’s belly, provoking an appreciative purr “… and they love you. Until you die, that is. Then they’ll probably eat your corpse before going off to find someone else to provide food and scratches. Cats, I find, are both loyal and uncomplicated.”

  She stooped to place the cat at her feet, sparing a moment to smile as the trio instantly entangled themselves in a stumbling play-fight. “Three cats at war,” she said, looking up at me. “A fitting metaphor for this realm at present, eh, Scribe?”

  “I have learned that war is never an inevitability, Your Majesty. In the end, it is a choice.”

  “One you and the Anointed Lady appear to be enraptured by. Unless I mistake your recent actions.”

  “The Covenant of Martyrs was seized by the despotic heretic Arnabus, a man with whom we were both familiar. I find it hard to credit that Your Majesty regrets his passing.”

  “I do not. In fact, I should greatly have liked to see it. You killed him yourself, did you not?”

  The clang of the sword on the marble dais. The dark gush that painted the altar. The Widow asking, “What did he mean…?” “Justice was done by my hand,” I said, unable to keep the defensive stiffness from my voice. Leannor, of course, failed to miss it.

  “Swiftly too.” She raised her eyebrows in apparent consternation. “So swiftly, much has been lost to history as regards the Great Heretic’s motivations. Surely there was a good deal he could have told us.”

  “A regrettable loss to scholarship, but there could only ever be one end for so corrupted a soul.”

  We fell into a silence broken only by the mewling of her kittens until I attempted a change of tack. “I should like to enquire as to the well-being of Lady Ducinda.”

  “She’s as happy and healthy as a girl her age should be,” Leannor told me. “And a great comfort to my heart these trying days. I did always wish for a daughter. She and Arthin play together a good deal, as they should. A bond forged in childhood will serve them well when the rule of all Albermaine falls upon their shoulders.”

  “I should greatly like to see Lady Ducinda, Your Majesty. If you would grant me the boon.”

  “Why? Do you imagine I lie? That, in truth, her ladyship spends her days confined to a cold dungeon and fed scraps?”

  “Of course not.” I didn’t elaborate but Leannor’s insight was keen today.

  “So, you feel a rescuer’s obligation, Lord Scribe.” She let out a faint laugh and shook her head. “Such a mass of contradictions you are. A cut-throat outlaw of savage reputation who can wield a quill as well as he can a blade. A man of great knowledge matched only by his facility for deceit. He has done the foulest deeds in service to a woman who’s as mad as the most rabid bitch, yet he harbours concern for a little girl he once saved.”

  Her humour evaporated quickly and she turned to pluck one of the scrolls massed on the table at her side. “Here,” she said, holding it out to me. “I should appreciate your peerless acumen as regards this missive, my lord.”

  The scroll was a letter, inscribed in a hand so clumsy that I felt scant surprise when reading the signature: “Your humble and most loyal servant, Lord Archel Shelvane, Governor of Althiene”. The contents were a poorly phrased but, I must admit, mostly accurate account of my conversation with Archel. His memory played him false in the number of Covenant soldiers promised to his garrison, a thousand instead of five hundred, but this may have been an unsubtle attempt to gild his tattling.

  “I met with Lord Shelvane,” I said. “The meeting was no secret. Lady Evadine is keen to offer her blessing to all who will accept it.”

  Leannor’s gaze was unwavering. “On the promise of soldiers, apparently.”

  “Lord Shelvane was fulsome in describing his current difficulties. It is the role of the Covenant Resurgent to succour the faithful in their hour of need.”

  “I understand you also paid a call on Duke Lohrent in the Cordwain. No letter from him yet, but I expect it soon. Care to share what he told you?”

  “We engaged in a lively discussion regarding our differing views on the correct form of Covenant belief, Your Majesty.”

  “Told you piss right off, you mean. It seems your lady’s ledger is somewhat bare when it comes to allies, Scribe.”

  “The Seraphile are the only allies my lady requires. However,” I went on to forestall her rejoinder, bowing again, “you must know that she greatly cherishes the regard and favour of your house above all. Accordingly, I come bearing an invitation. Your Majesty, I enjoin you to make a grand procession to Athiltor. All will be joy and celebration when the princess regent and the king tread upon the steps of the holiest shrine in Covenant-dom, there to receive the Anointed Lady’s blessing.”

  Despite her guile, Leannor had never been especially gifted in masking her emotions. Now, however, her face took on the most impassive aspect I could recall. She stared at me in unblinking, apparently passionless scrutiny. It was an expression that made me distinctly nervous, for I had seen it before: the face worn by very dangerous folk when they’re deciding if they’re going to kill you. While the princess regent continued to stare, I resisted the impulse to let my gaze stray to Ehlbert, though my ears were alive to the smallest sound that might indicate the scrape of steel on scabbard.

  “Tell me, Lord Alwyn,” Leannor said finally, “are you as mad as she is, or is this all some grand design of yours I’ve yet to properly divine?”

  Nervous as I was, I couldn’t help bristling. “My lady is not mad.”

  Leannor shifted then, eyes narrowing, a fox catching the rabbit’s scent. She allowed her scrutiny to linger for a second before letting out a soft hiss. “So that’s it,” she said. “Whatever your love for her, it’s meaningless. You think because she soils herself with your churl’s cock it means anything? You pitiable, idiotic fool. A woman such as her has no need of love. I have known Evadine Courlain since childhood and never have I encountered a soul more dangerous, more lost in manipulation. It’s set so deep in her bones she doesn’t even know she’s doing it.”

  I let the rage boil, saying nothing as it steamed then simmered, resisting the urge to spill forth all manner of caustic observations on her own character. In retrospect, the fact that a personage as aware of her own failings as Leannor felt justified in passing judgement on another should have told me something. There were questions I should have asked. Questions about her childhood encounters with Evadine, about her knowledge of the Courlain family. Yet I didn’t. I just stood and suffered through the rage that only the blindest form of devotion can stir.

  Eventually, after much grinding of teeth, I managed to grate out a reply, “The chance for peace stands before you, Your Majesty. Do you truly imagine this realm can withstand another war without fracturing from end to end?”

  As far as my best research can establish, there is but one painting depicting this meeting. It is clearly the work of a skilled hand, but, as ever seems to be the case, one biased by Algathinet sympathies. It captures the chamber in all its gloominess with an uncanny accuracy not shown to its principal subjects. In this rendering, I am but a squint-eyed conniver leering in patent duplicity and lust at a poised and resolute princess regent, her features stricken by inner turmoil. In fact, her expression at that most critical moment was one of grim but reluctant necessity. For once, my gift for reading faces deserted me, for I saw regret in the cast of Leannor’s eyes, when I should have seen decision.

  “Your message has been received, Lord Scribe,” she said, reaching down to pick up one of the kittens when it began to nibble at her slippers. “And we will think upon it. I have much to ponder and many advisers to consult. If you would be good enough to await my response, I shall provide it within the week. We shall be happy to provide lodgings for your party, if you so desire.”

  “Most generous, Your Majesty.” I bowed, still angry but stripping my tone bare of anything but bland gratitude. “But I shall make my own arrangements.”

  “Best steer clear of the cathedral.” Leannor didn’t look up from the kitten in her lap, smiling as she tickled it between the ears. “And, while I will, of course, publicly state that you enjoy our protection, I am unable to furnish guards or guarantee your safety in this city.”

  This brought a surprising laugh to my lips, and I felt my anger dissipate. “My safety has never been guaranteed anywhere, Your Majesty. Why should Couravel be any different?”

  Quintrell guided us to an inn of his acquaintance which, he promised, was suitably appointed to provide both protection and discretion. I deduced from the warm welcome the minstrel received from the generously proportioned proprietress that he was no stranger to this small but comfortable repose. It sat at the apex of a bend in the river, overlooking a bridge that connected this mostly residential quarter to the workshops that dominated the south-eastern parts of the city. The building sported three storeys, so stood a good deal higher than the surrounding maze of rooftop and chimney. At Quintrell’s urging, we took the two rooms on the upper floor. I had misgivings about occupying so high a place, since it would likely complicate matters should a swift escape prove necessary. However, the minstrel argued that the benefits of a decent vantage point outweighed the risks. Besides, it transpired he had made provision for this very circumstance.

  “Good and strong,” he said, lifting one of the floorboards beneath the window of the larger room. The revealed coil of rope was thick, one end secured to a sturdy oak beam. “Placed here with Mistress Radget’s permission many moons ago. It’ll reach all the way to the street, though I usually find it’s best to abscond via the rooftops, don’t you, my lord?”

  “Never thieved nor spied in a city before,” I said. “So I bow to your greater knowledge, Master Quintrell.”

  He slotted the board back in place and gestured for me to join him at the window. “See there?” Quintrell pointed to a dim shape rising from the perennial cloud of woodsmoke towards the city’s eastern edge. Some squinting revealed it as a chimney, taller than most others. “The stack of Couravel’s busiest farriers,” the minstrel explained. “The one point in the city entire that remains visible from roof height regardless of the hour, since the forge master keeps his furnace blazing at all times. Every alley betwixt here and there is narrow enough to leap and the farrier’s workshop is just a stone’s throw from the east-facing wall.”

  “A wall which will surely be patrolled,” I pointed out.

  “There’s a way through.” Quintrell gave one his grins and I divined he had just ensured his own survival should this mission have a dire outcome: I wouldn’t leave him behind if he knew the only avenue of escape.

  I grunted and turned to the Widow and Adlar. “I’ve a sense the princess regent is affording our Lady’s invite more consideration than I expected. We’re obliged to wait here for her reply.”

  “You think she’ll actually do it?” Juhlina asked. “Go to Athiltor and humble herself to the Lady?”

  “No. But Leannor is accustomed to negotiation. I suspect she’ll counter with some form of compromise. A meeting away from Athiltor, something suitably ceremonial that avoids any suggestion the king or his mother have abased themselves. Leannor will paint herself as the peacemaker, attempting to heal the rift in the Covenant.”

  “You think the Lady will accept such a compromise?” The Widow’s question had a weight to it I didn’t like, her tone almost accusatory.

  “I’ll find out when I relate the princess regent’s response,” I said, glancing over my shoulder at the close-packed streets below. “In any event, we must be wary. The court has proclaimed our protected status, but I’d lay odds there are a dozen or more orthodox fanatics currently sharpening their knives. We’ll keep watch through the night. Spinner, you first, then Master Quintrell, then Trooper Juhlina. I’ll take the early shift.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  I slept poorly, beset by dreams distressing enough to jar me awake long before my shift on watch. I blinked at the darkened room, the dregs of the nightmare fading too quickly to catch any details. Despite the sweat beading my skin and the thump of my heart, I felt a modicum of relief that Erchel hadn’t been a feature of this night-time visitation. Him, I always remembered. But, since Arnabus was no longer alive to invade my slumber, the wretch had been absent for some time now.

  “Unpleasant dreams?”

  Sitting up on my bed, I wiped grit from my eyes and made out Juhlina standing at the window. Her profile was outlined in the dim glow from beyond the half-open shutters. It had never struck me before how regular her features were, how well proportioned. Viewed from this angle she appeared a comely woman of nigh thirty years, the shadows concealing the nicks and scars that marred all of us who marched under the Lady’s banner.

  “I don’t remember,” I said, reaching for the water jug sitting beside the bed and downing a hefty gulp. The innkeeper had offered wine along with our evening meal, but I declined, keen to keep a clear head. It hadn’t saved me from bad dreams or an aggravating headache. The Eithlisch’s arcane healing of my damaged skull made them a rare occurrence, and all the more taxing for their rarity.

  “No decapitated Great Heretics then?” the Widow persisted. Her profile dipped, voice softening. “Wish I could say the same.”

  “You have nightmares?” I knew it a foolish question the instant it escaped my lips. She watched a bunch of fanatics slit her little girl’s throat. Of course she has nightmares. Still, the notion of her dreaming about Arnabus troubled me.

  “Sometimes,” she said. “I dream of Lysotte, but less so now, for which I’m grateful. She is never happy in dreams, only in my waking memory. The Great Heretic is a new addition. It’s always in the cathedral, after you left to find the Lady. His body starts to move. It sits up and reaches for its head, blood still pumping from the stump. Strangely, I do nothing. I don’t scream or run. I just stand and watch as a dead man tries to fix his head back atop his shoulders. I know he has something to tell me, something I need to hear. But he never quite manages to make the head fit. Still it talks, that head, all dribbled blood and mumbling, but I can never make out what it’s saying. It wears a terribly earnest expression; desperate you might say.”