But the Montrice way isn’t her way, and it’s not Cal’s way.
“I’ve told all this to the Chief Assassin,” Daffran is saying, gesturing at Cal with an ink-stained hand. “He knows what’s going on.”
“What you think you’ve seen,” says the Duke of Auvigne, his mouth settling into a dissatisfied sneer. “You saw a cloak you imagine is gray, but you saw no black mask. You smelled no feral stench. Why would an Aphrasian monk haunt the stairs of the tower, of all places? Nobody important lives there. And there is only one way in and one way out. No cellars or dungeons or passages. And the chapel window on the ground level is too small for a man to get—”
“Perhaps,” interrupts Lord Burley, “it is one of your scribes playing a merry prank.”
“I can assure you that the royal scribes do not play pranks.” Daffran sounds mortally offended. Cal has to suppress a smile. “We take our work with the utmost seriousness. We are not jesters or fools!”
“There’s the priest as well, of course,” says the duke. “Father Berry, or whatever he’s called.”
“Juniper,” Lilac says, in her most imperious tone. Even in the room’s twilight, Cal can spot the impatient flare of her nostrils. She looks much more distracted and unhappy than she should, he thinks. He thought that this morning’s training would have helped her shake off the doldrums of the aborted ride to the harvest festival, but clearly it wasn’t enough.
“Aren’t the guards doing everything the guards should do?” It’s Hansen’s turn to be impatient. He seems no happier than Lilac to be here. “I don’t see the point of discussing this over and over. Searches will take place, and whatnot, and anyone threatening will be tortured in the dungeons, in the usual fashion.”
“Quite right,” the Duke of Auvigne says. “Your Majesty has it. The guards are investigating. They will make sure that the Chief Scribe and his underlings—”
“And Father Juniper,” Daffran reminds them.
“Yes, yes. The scribes and the priest—all will be guarded and protected. If a gray monk has managed to infiltrate our stronghold here at a time when we have an unprecedented number of soldiers training in the yard, not to mention various apprentice assassins selected by the Guild, then he will be found.” The duke’s tone makes it clear that he believes no such infiltration has taken place.
Cal’s not sure why he had to be summoned, when everyone at the Small Council seems to know of the steps taken to investigate Daffran’s complaint.
“Now,” says the duke, turning in his chair so he no longer has to look at the scribe, “to more essential business. Holt! Please step forward.”
Cal steps from the shadows, and bows.
“Look here, Holt,” Hansen says, and Cal is startled by the sound of the king’s voice. Hansen never speaks to him or seeks him out. They maintain a distance at all times. Cal notes that Hansen is addressing him but not looking at him.
“I will explain,” says the duke, who clearly doesn’t trust the king to deliver instructions. Not surprising, Cal thinks. Hansen slumps back in his chair, like a child who’s been reprimanded. “The recent events in Stur are more than troubling. They are despicable and suggest a terrible danger to our people. We have heard, as you know, that the Duchy of Stavin has been similarly beset. We cannot have such terror and violence inflicted on Montrice. It is insupportable.”
Cal says nothing, though the duke has stopped talking. None of this is news. The reason he’s spending all his days in the yard is to train an army to march north and restore order.
“Chief Assassin,” warbles Lord Burley. “We need you to undertake a special mission.”
Cal’s heart sinks. So there it is. They’re sending him north with the farm boys. No wonder Lilac looks so glum.
“Whatever is happening or not here in Mont, the Aphrasian Order remains a threat,” continues Lord Burley, settling his dark robes around him. “They are abroad, spreading their black magic and exploiting the sacred knowledge of the Deian Scrolls to their evil ends. But all intelligence continues to point to their homeland of Renovia as a base of operations, if you will.”
Lilac’s face is thunderous.
“They’re still there,” says the duke. “We know they are. You probably know they are. They’re somewhere in those swamps of Renovia, holed up with the scrolls, concocting their next magical act of terror. You know the lay of the land well.”
“Yes, sir,” Cal says. It’s true. He knows Renovia as well as anyone alive can know it—though all this means is that he knows to be wary of its traps and alert to its dangers.
“Then you must go at once,” the duke says. “Take a small team with you—the best of the best. All others will remain here in Mont to guard Their Majesties or travel north with the guard to stick the boot into any adversaries there.”
“The quest must be successful, you understand.” Lord Burley’s hands are shaking, either with age or fear—Cal’s not sure. “The autonomy of our kingdoms depends on it. The lives of our people.”
“The reputation,” says the duke, “of the queen. Until we rout the Aphrasian threat, our people will believe that Renovia is complicit. While they and whoever directs them remain at large, aspersions are cast on Her Majesty.”
Lilac says nothing. She’s fighting back tears, Cal thinks. He wants her to stay strong. He doesn’t want to leave her, but this is certainly a better use of his skills than training soldiers. If the Aphrasians are still entrenched in Renovia, he’s the person to root them out and destroy them once and for all.
“You should leave in the morning,” Hansen says, adamant, his voice hard. “First thing.”
Even the duke looks surprised by Hansen’s sense of urgency.
“Your Majesty, perhaps we can give the Chief Assassin time to get his team in order,” he tells the king. Hansen makes a face.
“He’ll take that boy—Jander—the one who used to be mute. I hear him talking to horses down in the stables now, so he seems to have his voice back.” He looks at Cal with undisguised distaste. “Am I right, Holt?”
“Quite right, Your Majesty,” Cal says coolly.
“You need another fighter with you, Holt,” the Duke of Auvigne says. “That boy has the strength of a feather. You’ll want someone highly skilled in combat. You’ll face strong opponents, I fear.”
“Cartner, sir.” Cal says Rhema’s name without thinking twice. “She’s new, from the mountains here in Montrice. The best fighter and tracker of any of the apprentices. And with Guild knowledge, like Jander.”