Once again, Jacquel’s expression didn’t change. “My lord is well informed.”

  “Thank you. I’m no scholar of law, but even a cursory reading of the petitions and judgement make it clear the matter had assuredly not been decided in accordance with Crown statute or accepted precedent.”

  “Guhlton was always the Algathinets’ most loyal dog.” Jacquel consented to smile. “Until the day he wasn’t.”

  “Favouritism and base corruption are not the Lady’s way. I should like Duke Viruhlis to know that, if this matter ever falls to Lady Evadine’s judgement, it will be decided purely on its merits.”

  Jacquel finally drank from his tankard, draining it dry with practised swiftness. Setting the vessel down, he rested his elbows on the table, leaning forward. “A silver mine is a rich addition to any pot,” he said. “But merely a trinket compared to the price my duchy would end up paying should your Lady find herself evicted from Athiltor. The Covenant now exists as a broken thing, but even the shards of a shattered vessel can cut.”

  He fell silent and nodded to the upturned cup. Lifting it, I beheld two foxes, an owl and a mouse. No more cats.

  “My thanks for a very enjoyable evening, my lord,” Jacquel said, sweeping the winnings into his purse and getting to his feet.

  “An evening without apparent resolution,” I pointed out.

  “Oh, I wouldn’t say that. I’m resolved to tell the duke that you are a very poor dice player. All other resolutions will have to wait upon his word.” He pulled his cloak over his shoulders, buckling it at the neck before pausing to favour me with a grin of surprising warmth. “Don’t worry overmuch, m’boy. He’s his own man and doesn’t put the same stock in my advice as his father did. Besides, he’s besotted with your Risen Martyr, even though he’s never met her.”

  Lord Jacquel Ebrin afforded me a respectful bow, then turned and began pushing his way through the crowd. Left alone in the alcove, I pondered the dice and my mostly empty purse, unable to decide if I had been robbed or favoured this night.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  By now, cherished reader, you will know me as a soul with old and unpleasant memories of whoremasters. Therefore, when greeting the man Tiler led me to on the fourth night of our stay in Couravel, forcing myself to adopt civil manners was no easy thing.

  “Knew Deckin, did ya?” the fellow demanded, leering close enough to let me catch his stink of unwashed skin, liquor staining both breath and garb, and the wit-addling brand of pipe smoke. Even if Tiler hadn’t made me aware of this man’s profession, I would have known it instantly. To be a master of whores is to be the worst of bullies, employing habits no doubt learned in childhood, but refined and magnified to the point where they become profitable. Surveying his blunt, mutton-chopped features, besmirched and near-ragged leather jerkin cladding a meaty form, more fat than muscle but plenty of both, I felt a familiar itch in the hand closest to my dagger.

  “That I did,” I said, crediting myself with the flatness of my tone.

  “Me too.” The fellow straightened a little. “Ran with him for a full season when I was a lad.”

  I knew this instantly as a boastful lie, but not one I was willing to gainsay, at least not yet. “Is she inside?” I asked, nodding to the door behind him. Tiler had led me to this cramped street in the city’s south-eastern quarter shortly after finding me at the inn. His swiftness in seeking me out was no surprise, since such things were ingrained in the outlaw’s soul. Here, the smoke sat thicker over the rooftops, allowing for meagre light even during the day. At night, it was a gloom-shrouded maze, the thick shadows broken only by the occasional glimmer from between closed shutters. Even the drinking dens were quiet, havens for those for whom liquor rather than merriment was their principal aim. By now I had seen enough of cities to know that they all have places such as this, a street or a whole quarter given over to those the more fortunate like to pretend do not exist.

  “She’s waiting.” The whoremaster’s eyes shifted between Tiler and I. “Her time’s precious, even if it’s just talking you’re after. That’s what Shilva’s man here said. You just want what she knows about…” He fell silent, glancing about in a manner that told me he was just bright enough to recognise the danger of secrets as well as their value. “Her late customer,” he finished with a grin of self-congratulation for his own clever circumspection.

  “That’s right,” I said. Could just knife him, I thought as I took the silver sovereign from my pocket. But, according to Tiler, this fellow was affiliated with Shilva in certain criminal matters. Leaving him dead on the steps of his own brothel would therefore not bode well for my future dealings with a woman who had become what Deckin never could, a true monarch of outlaws.

  The whoremaster turned the sovereign over in his fingers before consigning it to his own pocket, hunching as he did so, as if fearing an attempt to take it back. “Another when you’re done, right?”

  “Right,” I replied, voice clipped by thinning patience.

  He bristled a little at the unspoken challenge, but wisely shuffled aside, jerking his head at the door. “The room at the top. Can give you one turn of the glass only. She’s gotta earn her keep like all the rest.”

  This was so reminiscent of the whoremaster who had so dominated my boyhood that I found my hand halt as it touched the latch, letting it fall to my dagger. Tiler, attuned to the shifts in mood that indicate impending violence, quickly stepped to my side.

  “I’ll watch the street, my lord,” he said, smiling tightly but with a warning glint to his eye. This was not our place, after all, and who knew what friends this brutish stinker had lurking in the surrounding shadows.

  “Come and get me if there’s trouble,” I told him, pushing the door open and stepping inside.

  The woman who greeted me in the room at the top of the house was surprising in many ways. Her smile more cheerful and lacking in artifice than I expected. Her face was painted but in artful enhancement rather than concealment. Her hair was a cascade of blonde curls and ringlets contrasting well with the black silken gown that clad her fleshy but undeniably enticing form.

  “My lord Scribe, is it not?” she enquired in an accent possessing only a faint echo of an Alundian burr.

  “At your service, good mistress,” I said, bowing before stepping into the room and closing the door behind me. I found the place neatly arranged with various small ornamentations and perfume bottles clustering on the dresser and shelves. My practised eye picked out some items of genuine value among the bric-a-brac, something the whoremaster had either missed or didn’t care about.

  “You’ll service me, will you?” Her cleavage jiggled as she laughed, reclining on the large bed that was the room’s principal feature. “Usually the other way around for poor Nuala.”

  “Is that your real name?”

  “Martyrs no.” She laughed again. “I learned early in my career that people would pay more to fuck Nuala than they would plain old Magrid, daughter of the vineyard washerwoman. Strange isn’t it, the importance we attach to names?”

  “I’ve often thought so.” I gestured to a comfortable-looking chair padded in velvet. “May I sit?”

  “You’re paying, my lord. Do as you please.”

  I shifted my sword belt to a more comfortable angle and sat, regarding a woman who returned my scrutiny with a complete absence of trepidation or uncertainty. “What name did King Tomas know you by?” I asked her.

  I hoped for some measure of shock, but she merely let out a languid sigh, her robe slipping from a pale thigh as she raised it to rest an arm on her knee. “I thought as much. To know a king’s secrets, seek out his whore. That’s your intent, is it not?”

  “It is my understanding that King Tomas visited you regularly, back when you lived in a far nicer house in a far nicer street. If you are privy to certain information of use to me, I will pay you well to share it. A business arrangement of mutual benefit.”

  “I think I like you, my lord. Your directness is refreshing.” Nuala sat up, adjusting her robe into a semblance of modesty. Rising from the bed, she went to a dresser and plucked the glass stopper from a decanter of wine. “Care to join me?” she asked, pouring a generous measure into a crystal goblet. “It’s good stuff, all the way from home. Harder to get these days since your armies ravaged the place.”

  “I was absent for the ravaging,” I told her. “And I’ll forgo the wine, thank you.”

  “To business then.” Nuala took a sip of wine and perched on the edge of her bed. “My profession has provided me the gift of divining others’ intentions, especially men. You are harder to read than most, but not impossibly so. It is my deduction that you used your outlaw connections to seek out anyone who might know a hidden tale or two about the Algathinets. I expect you hoped to find a maid or other servant with a grievance, some outcast from the royal household willing to sell the gossip they accrued. Instead, your search led you to me, King Tomas’s only whore. At least, so he told me and I’ve no reason to doubt him. For a king, I must say he was a terrible liar. But a kind man, in his way, who was always good to me.” She paused to take another sip of wine. “Do I miscalculate, my lord?”

  “No.” I knew then this was a hopeless enterprise. This woman might have secrets aplenty in her clever head, but she had no intention of sharing them, not with me in any case. “This—” I flicked a hand at the room “—hardly seems a fitting abode for one who once enjoyed royal favour. Doesn’t that strike you as unfair?”

  “Tomas paid me what I asked for, no more, no less. It is how I like things, my lord. Good business is done on the basis of a simple compact, an understanding that what passes between both parties is private. I have no secrets for you, regardless of the price.”

  “The price would be enough to get you out of this house, away from that filth downstairs.”

  She smiled and shook her head. “I don’t work for that filth downstairs. He works for me, although he’s paid to pretend it’s the other way around. Keeps the gangs away. However, this house is mine. Admittedly, I’ve had more lucrative periods in the past, but my earnings are sufficient for my immediate needs and a comfortable retirement. Also, I’ve long since cured myself of the disease of ambition. My apologies for your wasted journey, Lord Scribe.”

  She saluted me with her goblet and drained it before returning to the dresser for a refill.

  “In which case,” I said, “I request only a question. A question I will pay one silver sovereign for you to listen to. You are not obliged to answer.”

  She paused in the act of pouring more wine. “Fancy you can read the answer in my face, eh?” She shrugged. “Very well. I’ll play your game.” Turning to me, she crossed her arms. “Ask away.”

  “Did Princess Leannor murder her husband?”

  Even in the best of liars, there is always hesitation. A barely perceptible pause before expression shifts their features, the briefest delay in the denial escaping their lips. I saw none of it now. Nuala’s caustic, disparaging laugh erupted instantly, her mirth allowing me a generous view of her quivering flesh as the robe parted.

  “I’m told his marriage to Princess Leannor was far from happy,” I persisted as her mirth faded. “And, despite reputedly fine health, he expired rather quickly.”

  “Obligated or not,” she said, returning herself to the bed with a playful bounce, “that one I’ll happily answer. Tomas did like to talk. In truth, I think he preferred talking to fucking. It’s common among my more important customers. Wealth and influence make a man lonely, I find. So, yes. I knew all about his sister and her dreadful marriage to that old dullard. From what I could gather, Lord Keville wasn’t cruel, exactly, just disinterested in his bride. As for her, Tomas said she found the old goat more boring than a sack of turnips. Once they’d done their duty and the royal sprog was whelped, I doubt they spent more than a day in each other’s company. Curious then, that I recall Tomas telling me how awfully upset Leannor was when Keville popped off. He was the one with all the smarts, y’see. Knew all the secrets and tricks that keep this realm intact. ‘She’s afraid,’ he told me. ‘Afraid of what this means for her boy.’ Doesn’t sound like a woman who’d just done her husband in, does it?” Nuala laughed again, shaking her head. “Sorry, luv. Your dog’s barking at the wrong rathole.”

  She relaxed into her pillows, smoothing out her robe. “Now, my lord. Unless you have other requests to make of my person, I’ll bid you good night.”

  I didn’t bother with further bargaining or cajoling, nor with threats. Some folk can be swayed by such things, but not all, and certainly not this woman of peerless self-possession. Rising, I went to her side table and placed a silver sovereign there before bowing and moving to the door.

  “By the way,” she said as I lifted the latch, “Tomas called me Magrid. He’s the only one I ever let do that.” She twiddled her fingers in farewell and dismissal. “So nice to meet an interesting and distinguished man. But please don’t ever come back.”

  Out on the street, Tiler greeted me with a questioning glance that fell into a frown when I shook my head. “Sorry, my lord,” he said. “She’s all I could find. Searched high and low for former servants, too. Turned up a valet who was so aged he barely remembered his days at the palace.”

  “It was always a long bet,” I told him. “Here.” I tossed another sovereign to the whoremaster, or rather the brute Nuala paid to play the role. The sight of him angered me less now I knew who really held power in this house. “Guard her well,” I added, “she deserves it.”

  He replied with a cautious nod and stepped towards the door to resume his place. Just one single step, but it saved my life. The crossbow bolt pierced his head at a sharp angle, allowing me to gauge the elevated point from which it had been launched. I caught a brief flicker of shadow at the edge of the rooftop before the stricken brute staggered into my line of sight. His eyes rolled back in his skull and drool spilled from his lips. I expended a precious moment in frozen fascination of his sagging, gibbering features, the face of a dead man who didn’t yet know he was dead. My second salvation came in the form of Tiler slamming his wiry self into my side, sending us both into collision with the alley wall.

  From above, I heard the multiple snap of loosed crossbows. Sparks flew and cobbles exploded, stinging my face with grit as I huddled against the brickwork. A final bolt shattered mortar an inch from my nose, causing me to reel away, still entangled with Tiler. Falling, I dragged myself clear of the outlaw’s grip and scrambled upright, scanning the rooftops for more assailants. Nothing.

  “They get you?” I hissed at Tiler.

  “Nicked my leg, the bastards,” he hissed back, grunting in pain as he rose to a crouch, knives clutched in both hands.

  “They’ll be reloading.” I drew my sword and started towards the shadowed recess of the alley. “Stay close.”

  I covered only a few feet before a man-sized shadow descended to bar my path. I dropped into a crouch, sword drawn back for a thrust, then saw that the shadow barring my way wasn’t moving. A closer look revealed a man in dark cotton garb with a scarf tied about his features. Fortunately, he also had one of Adlar Spinner’s throwing knives buried in the side of his neck.

  A shout then a thud snapped my attention to the mouth of the alley where another body lay twisted upon the cobbles. The gash in its skull was the signature wound of the Widow’s warhammer. Grunts and screams came from above, one more corpse falling to the ground with a crunch of breaking bone. It was followed by two others, both very much alive and clutching crossbows. They landed heavily and immediately began scouring the surrounding shadows for targets. I decided it would be best not to allow them the leisure to find us.

  The nearest was a dozen paces off, allowing him time to turn and grip the lock on his crossbow, but not enough to aim it. The bolt went wide as my sword described a swift arc, cutting deep into his unprotected shoulder. His comrade was quicker, bringing his weapon to bear with a creditably calm swiftness. I embraced the man I had just maimed, wrapping an arm about his torso and drawing his twitching form close. The second assassin cursed and stepped back, angling his crossbow to aim at my legs. Tiler didn’t let him loose the bolt, ducking low at the fellow’s back to slash both knives across his hamstrings.

  Hearing the thump of more boots on the cobbles, I dragged the dying man in my arms around to confront the fresh threat. Fortunately, I beheld only Juhlina and Adlar. “Got four,” the Widow told me. “The rest ran off.”

  “Shut yer squealing!” Tiler snarled, driving a kick into the belly of the man he had hamstrung. The assassin, however, was too lost in his pains to heed the warning, continuing to scream and clutch at his bleeding legs. “D’you need him to speak, my lord?” Tiler enquired, pinning the man down with a boot on his chest, knife poised to deliver the killing blow.

  “He-heretics!” the wounded man grunted, courage flaring in the face of impending death. He showed white teeth amid a soot-blackened face. “Slaves to the Malecite Whore!”

  “Enough of that,” Tiler advised, pressing his boot harder into the defiant fellow’s chest. “Who sent you, squealer?”

  “We know who sent him,” I said. “I doubt a blade hired by the Algathinets would be so resolute. Also, they wouldn’t have missed.”

  “Might be more,” the Widow warned, scanning the rooftops.

  “True enough.” I gestured to Tiler to step back. “Let him go.” Crouching at the faithful assassin’s side, I looked into his blazing, uncowed eyes, feeling a mix of admiration and disgust. “You are a servile dog to unworthy masters,” I told him. “If you ever open your heart to the truth of the Lady’s word, come find us at Athiltor. She forgives all.”