Shadows shifted on her face as she turned from the window, regarding me with steady eyes. “Any notion of what he’s so keen for me to know, my lord?”

  “Feel at leave to just call me Alwyn,” I said. “At least when we’re alone.”

  I set the water jug down and got to my feet, hands rubbing the small of my back to banish the ache. The innkeeper’s mattress needed a few more bushels of straw for my liking. Joining her at the window, I ignored her expectant gaze and looked out at the gloomy rooftops below. The persistent pall of woodsmoke thinned at night but didn’t fully dissipate, creating a drifting fog that obscured much. True to Quintrell’s word, the glow of the farrier’s chimney flickered like a beacon through the haze.

  “He was about to say something,” Juhlina persisted. “Something about the Lady. You killed him for it.”

  “I killed him because he was a vile murderer and intriguer, one who orchestrated the kidnap and torture of you and your comrades, if you recall. Not to mention the fact that he drove a schism into the Covenant that claimed hundreds of lives.”

  “I don’t mourn him. I just want to know what he was going to say.”

  “Why?”

  “I have done much at your side, under her banner. I told you once I did it for vengeance, at first. After that, because it seemed the only place I fit in this world. The Covenant Host is different from all other armies that march across this realm. It fights but it doesn’t massacre, doesn’t loot or pillage or lay waste. Some part of me felt we were doing something good, building something better.”

  “We are.”

  “Are we? Because all I see is yet more war.”

  “War that will end with the Lady’s ascendancy. Ultimately, she promises peace where all others who claim power promise nothing but the fruits of their own greed. Hold to that, if nothing else.”

  “I still need to know.” Her tone was quiet but insistent, flat in its refusal to be diverted. “You killed him for a reason. What was it?”

  I looked at the door to the adjoining room where Adlar and Quintrell slept. Neither of them were given to snoring, but I heard no indication that either was awake.

  “The reason we were taken,” I said, lowering my voice. “What happened at the Dire Keep. Arnabus and Luminant Durehl wanted to wring something from me, a tale they imagined would bring down the Risen Martyr.”

  “Were they right?”

  “Possibly, if it were true.” I paused, assailed by an urge to tell her, confess it all. For one who lives much of his life juggling varying forms of deceit, there is a terrible temptation in confidence, for the unburdening of secrets brings relief. But, a burden shared is still a burden, and I had no wish to endanger this woman with the unvarnished falsity of Evadine’s resurrection.

  “Apparently,” I went on, “they had convinced themselves there was something arcane in the Lady’s healing at Farinsahl. Arnabus was ever a gifted spinner of lies, so concocted a lurid story of unnatural Caerith rites. That’s what they wanted from me, testimony that she wasn’t a Risen Martyr at all but some creature of malevolence. Come the morn, Arnabus was going to set his torturer on you and make me watch. If Lilat hadn’t crawled out of the stonework when she did…” I trailed off into a sigh. “That’s why I killed him.”

  I perceived a measure of mollification in Juhlina’s bearing, perhaps even a mite of disappointment. Sometimes the secrets you seek amount to little. “You were there, though,” she said. “When the Lady woke.”

  “I was. Though I didn’t see the moment of her restoration. She’d been dying for days, then one morning she was well again. I can’t account for it. All I can do is accept her word. As she drifted towards death one of the Seraphile came to her. And so was she risen.”

  I sensed there was more this woman had to say, her lips tight and jaw clenched in the manner of one caging words.

  “Speak your mind,” I said. “There are few whose word I can trust.”

  “You…” she began, then hesitated, avoiding my gaze before speaking on. “You’re too close to her.”

  She’s awful jealous, Ayin had said, and I saw a portion of that in the nervous wince that passed across the Widow’s face. But mostly I saw concern. She feared for me.

  “I’ll say no more,” she said as I fumbled for a response. She lowered her face before turning back to the window. “It’s hours until dawn. You should sleep more.”

  “I think I’ve had my fill,” I said. “I’ll take the rest of the watch.”

  She didn’t argue, moving wordlessly to her bed. I averted my gaze when she started to strip, something she did with the unabashed habit of soldiers. Strangely, for the first time the glimpses of her well-muscled flesh before she slipped under the blankets lingered longer in my mind than I wanted them to.

  Idiot, I chided myself, turning my scrutiny to the streets. As the hours wore on, I found myself wishing that a band of orthodox assassins would appear out of the gloom. At least it would give me something else to think about.

  My meeting with the Dulsian ambassador to the court of King Arthin proved to be a terse affair. Lord Therin Gasalle allowed me into his house, a modest but comfortable domicile that sat under the shadow of the palace walls, with a haste that left scant room for the usual niceties. I had requested the meeting the previous day via the conventional route of sending a servant, in this case Adlar, with an introductory letter. He returned with a verbal invitation to present myself the following morning, and to come alone. The ambassador was a tall man of scant muscle, which I felt made him resemble a stork or other wading bird. The impression was enhanced by the way he dipped his head out of his doorway, jerking it about as he surveyed the street for watchful eyes.

  “You’re the Scribe?” he said, closing the door. I expected to be led to a study or other discreet room, but we continued to stand in his narrow hallway.

  “Lord Alwyn Scribe.” I bowed. “Lord Therin, I assume? I expected to be greeted a by a servant…”

  “A servant?” He rasped out a caustic laugh. “By the Martyrs, man, are you mad? I sent all the servants away last night. We are alone.” A faint noise from outside caused him to start. It was just a cat’s distant mewing, but still it put him on edge. “Were you followed?” he demanded.

  I expect so. The princess regent has spies aplenty. Deciding it best to leave the thought unsaid, I replied in a tone of quiet confidence, “No, my lord. I assure you I was very careful.”

  “Good.” He ran a hand through the wispy hair crowning his scalp, then wiped sweat on his robe. It left dark stains in the expensive red velvet. “Now then.” He straightened, sweaty hands clutching the hem of his robe. “I believe you have a message for Duke Lermin.”

  “I do. It’s a brief thing, really. Merely the greetings and best wishes of the Risen Martyr and Anointed Lady Evadine Courlain, Ascendant of the Covenant Resurgent. She wishes Duke Lermin to know of the high regard in which she holds both him and his family. Accordingly, she extends an invitation for the duke to attend Athiltor where it will be her pleasure to bestow her blessing upon him.”

  “That is…” I watched the apple of Lord Therin’s throat bob as he swallowed “… all, then?”

  “What else would there be, my lord?”

  “I received correspondence from Duke Lermin only a few days ago. Once word reached him of the… changes in Covenant hierarchy, he expressed his confidence that a representative from the Anointed Lady would call upon me. When they did so, he instructed me to make fulsome use of all profitable opportunities.”

  I had heard folk ask for a bribe many times, usually with considerably more artistry and markedly fewer words. As yet, I had done only scant research regarding Dulsian, there being so much else to occupy my attention. I knew Duke Lermin had a reputation for avarice, but that hardly set him apart among the gaggle of venal graspers that comprise the nobility of Albermaine. Still, such stark evidence of the man’s greed was welcome. Honest bribery always made things less complicated.

  “The Lady’s sermons hold no injunctions against profit,” I said. “However, to aid our mutual understanding, perhaps my lord would be kind enough to provide an example.”

  His stork’s neck bulged again before he spoke on. “As I’m sure you know, Duke Lermin has been in dispute with the Covenant for quite some time over the disposition of grants and rights as they pertain to the fishing villages on our southern coast. More than half of these villages are either owned outright or in part by the Covenant. Furthermore, smaller trading vessels often choose to unload their cargoes through these minor ports, since the Covenant demands less in the way of excise than does the duke or the Crown.”

  “Of course,” I said, a bald lie because I knew none of this. “It strikes me as a singularly unfair state of affairs, my lord. One the Crown should have resolved many moons ago.”

  “Indeed they should. If, erm…” He coughed, as well he might for our conversation was on the cusp of slipping into outright treason. “If the Anointed Lady were to…” He stuttered to a halt, eyebrows raised in an expectant prompt. I indulged in some small sadism by putting a puzzled frown on my brow and staying silent.

  “Oh,” I said finally in apparent comprehension, causing him to sag in relief. “I’m sure something could be arranged,” I continued. “An accommodation that would benefit all parties. The Lady shall be glad to discuss the matter in detail when Duke Lermin presents himself at Athiltor.”

  Lord Therin frowned at this. Although, after some internal debate, all played out on his gaunt, moistened face in stark clarity, he consented to nod. “I shall, with all discretion, convey your message to the duke, my lord.”

  “Excellent.” We stood in silence until I gestured to the door, which he duly opened, once again dipping his head out to check our surroundings.

  “All seems clear…” he whispered.

  “Glad to hear it, my lord!” I said, voice echoing along the street. I clapped him on the shoulder as I exited the house. “My heartfelt thanks for such an agreeable meeting!” I bowed with florid appreciation, then looked up to regard a slamming door.

  Walking away, I wondered if my theatrics might have scuppered this tacit agreement and found I didn’t much care. If Duke Lermin’s representative to the royal court was a man of such unimpressive character, it didn’t speak well of his master.

  Lord Jacquel Ebrin was a half-foot shorter than his Dulsian counterpart but made a far more noteworthy impression. A stocky man with a copious beard of dense copper curls, the Rhianvelan ambassador to the court of King Arthin greeted me with a raised tankard the moment I entered the tavern. The place had been of his choosing, no fearful, clumsy bargaining in a hallway for him. Instead, Lord Jacquel felt no compunction in calling out my name and clapping a hand to my shoulder in full view of the establishment’s rowdy clientele.

  “The Scribe himself, by the Martyrs’ many arses!” He gripped my shoulder in fierce comradeship before turning to address the tavern entire, ale spilling from his tankard as he raised it high. “Behold, you sodden curs, a true hero of the Pretender’s War! Drink to his health, or may the Malecite damn your souls!”

  The man was evidently well known here, the crowd responding with a hearty cheer and raised vessels, although I detected a few ribald insults and boos among the general din. Lord Jacquel himself let out a hearty cry before downing the remaining ale in his tankard with a few hefty gulps.

  “More, good lass,” he said, handing the empty receptacle to a serving maid. “And one for Lord Alwyn. Also—” he winked, leaning closer to her “—a cup of brandy to go with ’em, eh? All on my slate, mind. This man pays for nothing under this roof.”

  After the girl scurried off he turned to me, both hands gripping my shoulders now, eyes tracking me from feet to face. “Scribe doesn’t suit you, m’boy,” he told me, squinting in appraisal. “I was expecting a pinch-faced bundle of sticks. Should’ve known better, I s’pose. No mere scribbler could’ve humbled the Pretender. Come.” He pushed his way through the throng, jerking his head for me to follow. “Let’s play some dice. Hope you brought coin, m’boy. I’ll stand for your drinks but not your wagers.”

  I followed him to a quiet alcove with a table and chairs. Despite the liveliness of the place, it was noteworthy that this comfortable and relatively quiet spot remained unoccupied. A set of dice and a cup sat atop the table, swiftly scooped up by Lord Jacquel as he took his seat.

  “Cat’s Claw,” he said, rattling the dice. “I trust you know how to play?”

  “I do, my lord.” I sat and nodded my thanks to the serving maid who had been swift in bringing our drinks. “Though I’ve never been one for games of chance.”

  “Really?” Jacquel raised a thick eyebrow in surprise. “Thought all outlaws loved a wager.” He slammed the cup down on the table and held it there, looking at me in expectation.

  “Two,” I said.

  “Four,” he countered before raising the cup. The upper faces of the revealed dice, six in all, showed three cats, one mouse and two foxes, making our opening gambits a tie.

  “Dealer’s privilege,” I said, adding, “Outlaws who gamble are also the most likely to fight among themselves. The band I ran with had very strict rules about such things.”

  “Deckin’s lot, wasn’t it?” Jacquel left the cats where they were and scooped the remaining dice into the cup. “Heard of him. Outlaw King of the Shavine Woods, or some such.”

  “Some called him that, including himself.”

  “There’s a rumour he was your father.” Jacquel rattled the dice and slammed the cup down again before placing two sheks alongside it. A smart bet given the modest odds. “That true?”

  “No. Though I’m told he was fond of the whorehouse where I was born. Hence the rumours.” I matched his bet with two sheks of my own, then added a third.

  “Trying to buy the pot, eh?” Jacquel’s beard parted in a smile. If he matched my counter bet, he would raise the cup and the game would be decided on the value of the revealed dice. If he didn’t, he would forfeit and the coins were mine.

  “Play the dice as they fall.” I smiled back. “Not as you want them to fall.”

  “Deckin teach you that?”

  “No. That I learned for myself after they cut his head off.”

  The Rhianvelan grunted and added a shek to the pot before lifting the cup with a flourish. To win, all the dice on the table needed to show four or more cats. He had five.

  “Should’ve bet a full tiel,” Jacquel grumbled, sweeping the coins into his purse. “Another game?”

  “Certainly, my lord.”

  We played a dozen games all told, during which time Lord Jacquel consumed two tankards of ale and three cups of brandy. I didn’t bother trying to match him, divining quickly that this was that rare breed of man whose wits don’t dull when drunk. It was a trick I had never acquired. Evidence of his apparent immunity to the effects of liquor was demonstrated by the time we completed our twelfth game, whereupon my purse was notably lighter and his heavier. I suspected weighted dice, but when I held them I felt no lean to the cubes of carved and polished bone. This fellow was both lucky and careful in his wagers.

  “My lord duke never gambles, y’know,” Jacquel commented, wiping froth from his beard. He had requested the maid bring a bowl of dates and popped them into his mouth between gulps. “His piety won’t allow it. Not like his father. There was a man who would happily play cards, dice, and all manner of games from dawn till dusk, when he wasn’t sticking his ducal member into anything of woman born. Useless, daft old reprobate. I miss him terribly.” He let out a nostalgic sigh and sipped from his brandy cup. “By the time Lord Viruhlis inherited the duchy, much of it was owed to others. All Rhianvel damn near impoverished by the vice of its own duke. I wasn’t much older than you then, m’boy. It’s been a long road back for us, what with all the wars and such. But, thanks to our pious duke and his peerless head for finance, we’re about as rich as we’re ever going to get.”

  As he dropped the dice into the cup and passed it to me, I saw the humour on his face supplanted by a certain gravitas. It seemed we were about to get to the point.

  “So, there’s little the Anointed Lady can offer,” I said, rattling the dice and upending the cup. “Two.”

  Jacquel’s expression didn’t change, regarding me with unblinking focus as he teased fingers through his ale-sodden beard. “Three.”

  The raised cup revealed two cats, my first stroke of real luck in this entire game. “The Anointed Lady’s blessing is not nothing,” I went on, leaving the cats in place and returning the other four dice to the cup. “As those ardently devoted Rhianvelan Supplicants who turned up in Athiltor recently were keen to attest.” I set the cup down and placed five sheks alongside it. “Or does your duke’s piety not match theirs?”

  “I’d match his piety against anyone who calls themselves a devotee of the Covenant, except perhaps your Lady.” He reached into his purse and extracted a full tiel, placing it alongside my sheks, then adding another. “That is not the subject of this evening’s conversation, m’boy.”

  “Then what is?”

  Jacquel reclined in his chair, tankard in hand, but, for once, he didn’t drink from it. Instead, he spent a prolonged interval shifting his gaze from me to the cup and coins on the table. “An utterly foolish bet, wouldn’t you say?” he asked me eventually. “The odds stand squarely in your favour. And yet, here I am, risking a goodly portion of my purse’s contents on the unlikely outcome that there will be no more than one cat revealed when we lift up this cup. It’s the kind of bet Lord Viruhlis’s father made all the time. Now your Lady asks my lord to make another, with no less than his life and entire duchy as the stakes.”

  “She merely offers a blessing. The blessing of a Risen Martyr who has actually felt the touch of the Seraphile. What faithful soul could ever refuse such a thing?”

  “A blessing can become a curse quickly enough, lad.” He jerked his head at the cup and coins. “Are you going to match my bet?”

  “I will.” I opened my purse and extracted the required funds, setting them down. “I’ll also sweeten the pot. It’s my understanding that, some twenty-three years ago, King Mathis ruled in favour of Duke Guhlton of Althiene regarding a longstanding border dispute with Rhianvel. Something to do with a silver mine in a particular valley, I believe.”