The Element of Fire, Martha Wells [books for new readers .txt] 📗

cracks in shutters and closed doors. The Albon Tower high above them was only a dim shape in the darkness, clouds streaming swiftly across the moon. Phaistus hurried along in Thomas’s shadow, casting worried glances at the sky.

The first level of the tower had become an infirmary, and the sick familiar odor of cauterization hit Thomas as soon as he went in.

The wounded lay on pallets along the walls of the high-ceilinged hall. There were women and children among them, far too many. They had been hacked up by the bronze blades of the human servants of the Host, burned in the sporadic fires that had broken out from overturned lamps, or bitten and clawed by the fay. There were no victims of elf-shot. If someone was hit by one of those tiny harmless-looking stones he fell down and never moved or spoke again, no better than breathing dead, and was lucky if starvation or thirst killed him before the stone found his heart. Anyone struck by elf-shot had been left behind, or smothered by Dr. Lambe or one of the other apothecaries.

Fires had been lit in the two great hearths, and dozens of lamps and candles added their stains to the smoke-blackened rafters. The furniture had been pushed aside to make way for more pallets, and Thomas had to climb over a couple of tables to reach the other end of the room. It brought back less-than-pleasant memories of the Bisran War, of border villages overrun and taken before the inhabitants could scatter into the forest, and of the aftermath of battle.

Dr. Lambe stood near the long draw table where bags of instruments and jars of medicinal herbs were laid out. He looked exhausted and considerably the worse for wear. He looked up at Thomas’s approach and said, “Captain, when can we leave?”

“As soon as it’s daylight. The Host won’t be able to form then.” Thomas made himself sound sure despite his own doubts.

Lambe didn’t look reassured. “And how sure are we of that?”

“I have it on fairly good authority.” He had to admit, “What might be wandering the streets is another matter, but they won’t be after just anyone.”

Lambe glanced upward. The King was on one of the upper floors, guarded heavily. “You’re right about that.”

The palace was a trap, and they couldn’t afford to be caught in it. Ravenna and Roland would have to be gotten to safety. Whether Ravenna likes it or not, Thomas thought. His first choice was to get them out of the city and to Villon at the Granges—and they would have to be together. Roland would be swept under by the chaos and lose his throne to the first opportunist with a troop. Ravenna could ride the storm.

Galen Dubell crossed the room toward them. Like Dr. Lambe, the hem and sleeves of his robe were stained with dried blood. “What sort of protections are we employing for the evacuation?” he asked.

Before Thomas could answer, an Albon knight stepped up to them and said, “His Majesty requires an audience, Captain Boniface.”

Thomas looked at him, but the knight’s face betrayed nothing. After a moment he said, “Very well,” and turned to Dubell. “Doctor, could you send a message to my lady Ravenna and let her know I’ll be unable to attend her for a short time?”

Startled, Dubell looked from Dr. Lambe’s stricken expression to the other Albon knights who had suddenly appeared in the room. He said, “Yes, of course.”

Thomas followed the knight to the bottom of the narrow stairwell that led up into the tower, where there were two more Albons waiting for them. He took in their appearance without comment and they started up the stair.

It was a long way up to the fifth level of the tower, the many lamps that illuminated the stone steps making the air smoky and close. There were knights standing guard at each level.

On the landing there were two more Albons at the wide oaken door. The knight who had come after Thomas smiled and said, “His Majesty has requested that you disarm before coming in to him.”

Thomas met his eyes. As a member of the Queen’s Guard and an appointed officer he had the right to go armed in the royal presence, and he also knew what any sort of protest to that effect would mean to Roland, and what would happen if they searched him inside and found a concealed weapon.

In silence he handed over both pistols, his main gauche, boot dagger, and unbuckled the rapier from his baldric.

One of the knights opened the door and they went inside.

The room was far too warm and too crowded. The gold threads in the red tapestries caught the candlelight and cast it back. There were more Albon knights, all showing signs of the past battle. Some of Roland’s younger courtiers were playing cards at a table in a corner, and somewhere out of sight a musician played a soprano recorder. Renier wasn’t present. Roland was seated in a tapestry-draped armchair, Denzil at his side.

As Thomas bowed, Roland said, “Kneel, Sir.”

Even though he was hearing the latch of a trap snap shut, it was second nature to make it look like an easy gesture.

Denzil smiled lazily and said something inaudible to Roland that made the young King giggle and redden with embarrassment. Thomas realized Roland was not drunk yet, but he was definitely well on the way, and he would have bet anything it was Denzil’s doing.

Roland fiddled with a torn piece of lace on his cuff, his eyes large and dark. “What is my mother doing now?”

“She’s resting, Your Majesty.” Thomas kept his expression even and his voice level. The room had quieted, and the courtiers were watching with a fascinated intensity that combined sly amusement at someone else’s misfortune and fear for their own necks.

“And my Queen? My cousin has said she refuses to attend me here.”

Thomas wondered if Falaise knew she had refused to attend Roland. Probably not. “She isn’t well, Your Majesty, and your mother required her to stay in her rooms.” This was a lie, but he wasn’t going to throw the young Queen to the wolves to save his own skin. If the matter doesn’t become academic in the next few moments.

Roland said, “Oh.” Even at this time, he realized Falaise was not likely to ignore a direct order from Ravenna. But Denzil nudged him with an elbow, causing the knight standing guard behind their chairs to tighten his grip on his swordhilt. Thus prompted, Roland said, “And my sister?”

“She’s in the Guard House, Your Majesty.”

Denzil idly twisted one of his rings. His hands were trembling slightly, probably from excitement. He said, “She was seen smearing blood on the lintels and cornerposts of the Guard House. Now why was she doing that, we wonder?”

How the hell should I know? “I don’t know, Your Majesty.” Thomas directed his answer to Roland, just to see Denzil’s expression tighten with anger. It was hardly likely to be anything detrimental; even Kade wouldn’t put a curse on a house and then settle down in it for the night. And she obviously hadn’t made a secret of what she had done. It sounded more like a feast-day practice one of the foreign cults in the city performed.

Roland absently rubbed the carved arm of the chair, thinking over his next move. Denzil leaned toward him familiarly, watching Thomas out of the corner of his eye, and whispered something. Roland giggled and looked guilty.

Thomas allowed himself to look just slightly bored. Denzil’s attempts to prey on his nerves were having more effect on the Albon who was standing behind him and could hear what he was saying.

Finally Roland said, “Perhaps you told her to do it.”

“Why would I do that, Your Majesty?” Thomas had always known that if he had to die to please a royal ego, he wanted it to be as scandalous, messy, and politically inconvenient for as many persons as possible. Disappearing into the depths of the Albon Tower was not a scenario he preferred.

Roland didn’t answer immediately. He bit his lower lip and looked at his cousin.

Denzil stood and strolled around the room, behind Thomas and out of his sight. He said, “We don’t know what part she had in this attack.”

Thomas kept his eyes on Roland. “She was almost killed in the retreat from the main hall.” Defending her this way could be dangerous for both of them, but he wasn’t sure what Denzil was after.

Roland looked surprised. “She was?”

Standing too near him, Denzil brushed Thomas’s hair aside to reveal the pearl drop in his right ear. “That’s a gift from the Dowager Queen, is it not?”

The door opened and a knight bowed his way in. “Pardon, Your Majesty.”

Denzil stepped away from Thomas. Roland shifted in his chair nervously. “What is it?”

“The Queen… The Dowager Queen has sent a messenger requesting Captain Boniface’s immediate presence.”

All eyes in the room went to Roland as most of those present realized the implications of this. Thomas thought, Don’t provoke her, boy, not now. Ravenna was exhausted and angry and sitting on top of the best-organized force left in the palace with an armory at her back. But if Roland pushed her into a civil war just because he could, then he didn’t deserve to be King, let alone to live.

Roland stared at the knight. Denzil started to speak but abruptly Roland waved him to silence and said, “Fine, then, go on. I’m tired.”

Thomas stood, bowed, and left the room. He collected his weapons in complete silence from the knights on the landing, then went down the stairs. Martin was pacing restlessly near the outside door.

Reaching him, Thomas said, “Tell her you saw me outside and I’ll be there in a few moments.”

Martin said, “Yes, Sir,” and bolted back across the court. Thomas went the other way, along the tower’s wall, until he came to a place in deep shadow but with a good view of the door.

He pulled his cloak around him and stood with folded arms, watching the cloud-strewn sky. The cool wind lifted the hair off the back of his neck, and he thought for a few moments about treason and murder.

But he had learned more from Denzil than the Duke had from him. He thought He had me. He was sure of it. He had tried to provoke Thomas to fight. He wanted Ravenna and Roland at each other’s throats; he wanted the palace in chaos.

Denzil was confident. He had expected the attack.

He took the keystone, or he ordered it done. Never mind how he knew where it was; I’ll work that out later. He may have killed Braun himself. And I don’t have a shred of proof against him.

There was only one thing Denzil could want in return for treason of such a magnitude.

The young Duke of Alsene had so much already from Roland. Would he abandon a secure existence on a chancy bid for the throne, based on such infirm ground as the help of a foreign sorcerer? But is Denzil’s existence secure? Thomas asked himself. Or more importantly, does he think his existence is secure? Roland was still Ravenna’s son, and Fulstan’s. He could have Denzil killed on a whim, at any time. And he was still a young man; he could become as changeable in later life as his father had.

As a patch of moonlight illuminated the court, a swift smooth shadow crossed it. Something large enough to be flying above the wards yet throw a man-sized shadow on the pearl gray paving stones.

Thomas leaned back against the wall, his dark clothing blending into the