“Fetch Heathclaw and Councilor Prigent,” Matwyck ordered as he sat down to his food. Undoubtedly, he was the most put upon of men: after all the time and treasure he had lavished on the wedding his son had run off early, skipping the capstone events, and then that damn minx Lolethia had gotten herself killed. And when Prigent arrived, he would bring the latest expense receipts and wave them under his nose.
His valet dispatched a guard with his requests, received a pitcher of wash water from a chambermaid, and started to lay out an outfit for the day.
“Not brown, today, you shitwit,” Matwyck corrected. “Black. And I’ll need a circlet of mourning.”
The valet nodded, replacing the offensive clothing with black silk, and pulled a box of accessories out of the wardrobe. Matwyck gave upon moving the food around on his plate and crossed to his washbasin, waiting for the valet to pour the water and hold a towel. When the man started to sharpen his razor, however, Matwyck shook his head—his unshaven appearance would show the court just how little he cared about appearances in the midst of his grief.
Matwyck had dressed in fresh smallclothes, trousers, hose, and boots, but he still had his sleeping shift keeping his upper body warm when Heathclaw and Prigent bustled in together. Both of them looked hastily prepared, as if they had been roused earlier than they had expected. But why should they loll in bed when there were so many things to attend to?
“Lord Regent,” they murmured as they bowed.
“Prigent, I want a report by midday of every remark the visiting gentry make,” Matwyck ordered. “Get our people amongst the servants to write everything down. Everything about the wedding and the unfortunate events concerning the duchette. They will chatter like magpies during fastbreak and I want to know who says what.
“And Heathclaw, I want you to take three guards and summon Captain Murgn.”
“Where should I bring him, Lord Regent? Is he under arrest?” Heathclaw raised his brows.
“Not yet. We don’t know if he was in league with his cousin in this crime, and he’s been extremely useful to us over the years. Take him to my office. We will let him dangle for a while before I question him.
“Now, what do you have for me?” he asked, because both men had lists and leather portfolios tucked under their arms.
Prigent, distressed over how much it would cost to feed the visiting noble folk, wanted to talk about how long they would be staying in residence.
“No, you idiot,” Matwyck cut him off, “we want them to linger where we can keep an eye on them. We need, however, to provide entertainment tonight, something fabulous that will wash away any negative impressions. Perchance the Aqueduct or Peacock players could be induced to give a private performance? Bring me a list of possibilities in an hour.
“And what is already on my schedule for today?” Matwyck turned to Heathclaw.
His secretary consulted his list. “Mostly formal farewells and a few ‘private meetings’ that dukes have requested—these are probably requests for loans.”
“The farewells are so tiresome,” Matwyck said, steepling his fingers. “The carriages are never ready on time and the guests themselves are worse, and thus I’m forced to stand in the entry hall making empty conversation while the spouse or insipid offspring makes excuses.”
“Perhaps you’ll be able to directly glean information about the gentries’ reactions to—recent events?” Prigent offered.
“Hmm,” Matwyck assented with a grudging nod. “Who’s specified a leave-taking time?”
Heathclaw consulted his list, “First up, at ten o’clock, is Mistress Stahlia and her dependents, though I hardly think they are worth your time, Lord Steward. I could represent you, if you so desire.”
Matwyck slapped the table with his hand because so far this morning he had forgotten about the Wyndton sister. His suspicions about her mysterious appearance and his memory of her judgmental eyes came rushing back.
“Fetch a brace of guards,” he ordered, “I want to examine that wench right away.”
* * *
Gunnit had been in Cascada a moon, often stealing away from his page duties to serve as liaison between Water Bearer and her allies outside the palace. Yesterday, he saw Finch—no, now he had to think of her as “Cerúlia”—from a distance: she was strolling in the garden as he hustled out the Kitchen Gate with a note. He had longed to run to her, but Water Bearer had told him that his errand was urgent.
His job today had been to unlock and unbolt the West Gate two hours before dawn. He took down the crossbeams that held it shut. As soon as he poked his head through he saw more than thirty people waiting in the shadow of the stone wall in dark garb.
After they slipped into the grounds, however, they paused—each tied on a sash and reversed their capes. In the brightening sky he saw they wore black trousers, black shirts, dazzling white sashes (elaborately knotted), and blue capes sparkling with silver thread. Three of them, including Captain Yanath, also wore breastplates and helms so polished they caught the fading starlight. Gunnit’s mouth fell open at their splendor.
“I take it you like the cloaks?” Yanath asked him. “My wife—she’s such a clever fabricator—she’s been working on them for moons. Uniforms matter, especially when you need to impress. We are the New Queen’s Shield, or whatever we’re going to be called, and anyone who crosses us better drought damn know it.”
Yanath turned to a woman with a peeling red nose to whom he seemed to defer. “Ready, Seamaster?”
She, in turn, surveyed the men behind them. “Don’t let your mace clatter,” she said to one with very bowed legs. Then she nodded at Gunnit, “Lead on, lad.”
Moving at a gentle lope Gunnit shepherded the troop across the grounds. The soldiers clutched their weapons so they didn’t jingle as the boy weaved them through the deeper obscurity of shrubs and trees for over an hour. By the time the white stone of the palace loomed before them, the sun had just risen.
Palace guards, positioned in a loose formation, much looser than the nightly cordon created by Matwyck’s Marauders, kept watch. Yanath gestured to his followers—singing arrows struck two guards who stood in their immediate way and slicing daggers made sure they didn’t cry out. The New Shield pulled the bodies from where they tumbled, hiding them under nearby shrubs. Then the captain had everybody double over into a crouch while moving to reach the shelter of some hedges, then crawl on their bellies to a small, unremarkable door through which footmen usually brought firewood into the Great Ballroom. They paused, taking deep breaths and passing around water bags.
Gunnit whispered to the captain, “Wait. There will be a signal.”
“What kind of signal?” Yanath asked.
The boy had no idea, but he placed his confidence in the Spirits. “We’ll know it,” he answered with conviction.
They waited. Everyone had already readied his or her weapon.
3
Although she had stayed up late conferring with Nana, Cerúlia woke when the tanager that had befriended her jumped on her windowsill to report that fewer red-sashed guards ringed the palace because last night a large troop had galloped off to the west. The princella sent the bird out again with instructions to tell her as soon as the nighttime sentries had been called in for the day.