“Cuffs Alister pining after a princess,” Cat interrupted. “Everybody always said you was ambitious.”
“Cat,” Dancer said, shaking his head.
Quit running on, Alister, Han thought. It wasn’t like they’d walked out together. Much. Some shared kisses, some embraces, that was it. She’d never made him any promises. Except the implied promise—to be the person she claimed to be. To trust him enough to tell him the truth.
“She lied to me,” Han said finally. “Everything between us was a lie.”
“Good you never lied to her,” Dancer said. “You told her exactly what you were doing there, and who was paying for your schooling, and what was expected of you after.” Dancer raised an eyebrow.
“At least I never pretended to be anything other than what I am,” Han said. “Girlies know what they’re getting with me, so they can take or leave.”
“Is that what you think?” Cat said, fists on hips, eyes narrowed. “Do you think it’s that easy? It don’t matter what a sweetheart says to you, it’s what you believe.” She paused, and added softly, “It’s what you hope for.”
That was exactly it—hope. Rebecca Morley had been the first good thing, the first true thing in his life since Mari had died. She represented possibilities; something he could aspire to. Something he might dream on—a future. Even though no promises had been made between them.
Unbidden and unwanted, a memory surfaced from that day in Oden’s Ford when Han and the girl he knew as Rebecca had decided to walk out together. What she said that day came back to him, a warning that he only now understood.
I will hurt you too, even if I don’t mean to. I’m not the girl you think I am. And you will remember this conversation and wish that you’d listened to me. How can you want this if you know from the beginning that it will end badly?
He’d been furious when he thought the Bayars had stolen his future from him. And then it turned out that his hopes were built on scummer and sand.
Now he knew that he had no future with Rebecca Morley. Rebecca Morley didn’t exist.
He felt like a fool, like the victim of a cruel hoax. And he hated feeling like a fool.
She’s tough for a blueblood, he’d thought, a lifetime ago. Maybe tough enough to be with me. He hadn’t considered that he might not be tough enough to be with her.
“I like her,” Dancer volunteered, as if he’d been following Han’s thoughts. When Han glared at him, he shrugged. “I can’t help it. I admit, I don’t know her as well as you do. But we could do worse in a queen, and I think that’s what we have to focus on. She has backbone—more than Marianna, I think.”
“So the Fells has gained a better queen, while I’ve lost a…friend that I trusted,” Han said, his voice low and bitter.
“From what I’ve seen, she cares about you, in spite of everything,” Dancer said. “She just lost her mother, yet she’s been looking after you every day since she left her own bed.”
“I am interesting, no doubt,” Han said, mimicking a blueblood tone. “Streetlord turned wizard. How intriguing. I must tell all my blueblood ladies. Maybe we can share around. I hear these gutterbred tatterdemalions are lusty between the sheets.”
Cat snorted, rolling her eyes, and Dancer laughed too. “Does she know you’re very distant relatives?” he asked. “Hundredth cousins, or something?”
Han considered this. He didn’t know what had been said out of his hearing, but Raisa hadn’t mentioned it during the big reveal. Elena Cennestre and the others wouldn’t be eager to highlight the fact that he himself carried Hanalea’s blood. That he, in fact, might have a tenuous claim to the throne.
Hmmm. His mind raced off in extravagant directions. Ambitious directions, as Cat would say.
“What does he mean, you’re related?” Cat asked, pulling Han back to the conversation. “Does he mean related to the queen?”
Han shook his head. “Never mind. It’s nothing. We’re probably all related to the queen.”
“Anyway,” Dancer said, “my thinking is this: I don’t want us to die in a war between the clans and the Wizard Council. The only way to avoid a war is to keep the Wizard Council from using force to get what they want. That’s going to be hard to do.”
He flexed his hands. “They’re probably feeling powerful right now, if what we think is true. They likely killed the queen, they think they killed the princess heir, and they’re about to put their own candidate on the throne and marry her to a wizard. That will start a war with the clans for sure. We have to convince them to back off. The only way to do that is to persuade them that we have more firepower than they do.”
Han was impressed with Dancer’s reasoning. And ashamed. Given his feelings of betrayal, his impulse had been to do the minimum to keep his end of a bad bargain. It was no swag out of his pocket if Mellony ended up on the throne in the end. And a wizard king? He had no desire to see Micah Bayar as king of the Fells, but maybe it wasn’t his business. Han had no business swimming in the blueblood lake anyway.
That’s your problem, isn’t it, Alister? Han thought. You thought you were the player. You thought you were the street-smart gang lord who knew how to take a warm mark. Who knew how to stare down a rival and take care of his own.
You just found out you were playing for the small bits. You found out there are smarter, more ruthless streetlords in the world.
Han was badly wounded—in all ways. And his instinct was to withdraw from the cause of that pain.
He looked up at Dancer, who met his eyes directly. Cat and Dancer hadn’t needed to return from Oden’s Ford. They could have stayed there, snug and safe, while the Fells disintegrated into civil war. And once the war began, it was likely invaders would be up from the south to split the spoils. If things had been bad in Ragmarket and Southbridge before, what would it be like in the middle of a war? And if the Bayars won, how long would he, Han Alister, last?
He’d thought he had no money on the table, but he did, in fact .
As if he’d overheard Han’s thoughts, Dancer said, “I will not let Lord Bayar win this. I’ll die before I let that happen, and not because I’ve made any bargain with the Demonai. I’d like to have you with me in this fight, but if need be, I’ll go it alone.” Dancer’s blue eyes burned with an intensity Han had never seen before.
“You won’t be alone,” Cat said, putting her hand on Dancer’s arm. “Whatever Cuffs decides to do.”
Han didn’t have to play for Rebecca Morley, who’d gammoned him and lied to him, used him and made a fool of him. He could do it for pride, for reputation, for payback, and for Cat and Dancer, who would die alongside him if they didn’t win.
He’d do it for himself while he licked his wounds and decided how to go forward from here. It would give him time to sort out his feelings about Rebecca. Raisa, he corrected himself. Avoiding her wouldn’t help. He needed time with her, one-on-one. Time to figure out who she really was, and whether she’d been playing him for real.
Only this time he’d be more careful about giving his heart.
Han sighed. “All right,” he said. “I’m in. All the way. I’m still angry, but I’m done sulking.”
They nodded solemnly, eyes averted, as if not wanting to cause him further embarrassment.
“Cat,” Han said. “Are you still crewing for me?”
Cat eyed him suspiciously, then nodded. “I swore to you, didn’t I?”
“Good. Corporal Byrne and Averill Demonai are riding back to Fellsmarch this afternoon. I want you to go with them.”
Cat’s looked from Dancer to Han. “What? You want me to go off with a bluejacket and a copperhead? What do you take me for?”
“Do you want to help me or not? Remember what I said? That you couldn’t just do the jobs you liked?”
Cat nodded grudgingly. “I remember. But who’s going to keep an eye on you up here?” She swept her hand wide. “I don’t trust any of them.”
“I don’t have people to spare. You know the city, and I need
eyes and ears there.” When Cat still looked uncertain, he added, “I wouldn’t send you if it wasn’t for a reason. I want you to go back to Ragmarket and get set up there again, like you said.”
“What do you mean, get set up?” Cat asked.
“See if the clamor’s died down. It should have—the Bayars have other worries, and last they knew I was in Oden’s Ford. I know you said all the Raggers are dead, but see if somebody didn’t get overlooked, if you can get a crew together again.”
Cat stared at him. “What kind of crew do you want? Rushers or slide-handers or lock-charmers or runners or what?”
“I need rum divers and dubbers, girlies and coves that can amuse the law. More important, I want quality, people we can trust—just a handful’s enough to start.” He jerked his chin toward his pile of belongings. “Take my purse and give whacks out of that. I expect we’ll be in the city inside of a week.”
Cat sorted through his things and held up his purse. “You sure you want me to take all of this?”
Han nodded. “The clans’ll be good for more.”
“You want me to say who’s streetlord?”
Han thought a moment. “Tell them my street name’s the Demon King. Here. I’ll show you the gang sign.” Cat handed him a charred stick from the hearth, and Han scratched out a symbol on the hearthstone—a vertical line with a zigzag across it. “Call it the staff and flash,” he said. “Say I’ve got uptown connections but nasty enemies,” he went on. “Tell them not to come in if they’re quivery.”
“Got it,” Cat said.
“Now, here’s the first thing I want you to do.” He paused, staring at the hangings dividing the sickroom from the common room. Had he seen them twitch?
Bones. He should have put up magical barriers, but that hadn’t occurred to him, here in the camp. In his current condition he wasn’t sure that was even possible.
He motioned to Dancer, nodding toward the divider. Dancer silently rose, crossed to the divider, and yanked the curtains aside.
The common room was empty.
“Maybe I’m still a little whimsy-headed,” Han said, “but come in closer.” Lowering his voice further, he said, “Cat, tell everybody on both sides of the river that the bluebloods mean to take the throne away from the Briar Rose. Tell them to come to the queen’s funeral and let the gentry know what they think of that. Do you think you can get that done before the queen’s burial on Sunday?”
Cat nodded.
“And you be careful yourself. If it’s still hot, lay low. I don’t want to lose you. I’ll see you at the memorial and we’ll go from there.” Han tipped his head toward the door. “Better go or you’ll miss Corporal Byrne.”
Dancer walked Cat to the door. They stood there for a long moment, whispering together. Dancer reached out and brushed back a stray lock of Cat’s hair. Then they embraced, Cat coming up on her toes as they kissed.
Envy shivered through Han. How long, he wondered, before he could fill the gaping hollow in his middle where his hopes had lived?
He shook it off, trying to focus on making plans. He’d meet with Raisa and the clan royalty tomorrow. And tomorrow night he’d visit Crow for a heart-to-heart.
C H A P T E R S E V E N T E E N
THE GAMES BEGIN
Amon Byrne preferred the most dangerous roads in the Seven Realms to navigating the even more dangerous political mazes at court. He was not blessed with the ability to lie easily and glibly, to beguile others with his wit and persuasion. He was not adept at the kind of speech that prettied up ugly things—the kind that convinced others to act against their own interests.
Most of the time, it didn’t bother him. He had confidence in his other talents. He’d worked hard at developing his strengths so that he could put them at the disposal of his queen and country. Most of the time he managed to avoid getting into jams he had to talk his way out of.
But now he was confronted with a situation that would require a complex stint of lying to an audience that knew varying bits of the truth.
He waited in the anteroom outside the queen’s audience chamber. He’d spent his boyhood in the castle close, so the surroundings were familiar. The politics were not. It had taken most of the morning to determine who could grant the permission he requested. The court being between queens, the government was in turmoil.
Amon touched the wolf ring on his right hand, which had become a habit. It settled him.
The chamberlain poked his head out of the doorway. “Corporal Byrne?” he said. “They are ready for you.”
When Amon walked into the familiar audience chamber, he saw that the queen’s throne had been draped with black. He was glad to see that nobody was sitting on it. Yet.
They’d set up a kind of alternate arrangement at the other end of the room, a rather elaborate raised chair with other chairs clustered around it on a riser. This would be the Council of Regents, made up of Gavan Bayar, the High Wizard; Bron Klemath, General of the Highlander Army; Lassiter Hakkam, the head of the Council of Nobles; Raisa’s father, Averill Demonai, representing the Spirit clans; and Roff Jemson, now speaker of the Cathedral Temple.
The side walls of the audience chamber were lined with blue-jacketed guards, most of whom Amon didn’t know. That was alarming. With a jolt, he realized that, as Raisa’s captain of the Guard, he actually commanded them, but right now they seemed more of a threat than a support. He hadn’t been gone from the capital so long that there should have been such a dramatic turnover of palace guards.
Posted closest to the council members was sharp-featured Mason Fallon, with his ink-black hair and permanent beard shadow. Amon didn’t know Fallon well, but he’d never trusted him. Now Fallon wore a corporal’s scarf. When had that happened, and who had authorized it?
Amon was cheered by the sight of Jemson. There was one friendly face, at least, besides Averill. Jemson had presided over the ceremony that had linked Amon and Raisa as captain and queen-to-be, before they’d left for Oden’s Ford. So the speaker was keeping secrets of his own.
Sitting on a level with the council members was Micah Bayar, who had no official role and shouldn’t have been there. Was he there by his father’s choice? Or by Mellony’s?
Amon scanned the others. He’d never been fond of Klemath, and Klemath had no love for the Byrnes. There was a natural competition between the elite Queen’s Guard and the regular army, and Amon’s father, Edon Byrne, had made no secret of his opinion that the army should rely less on mercenaries and more on native soldiers. And recently, it seemed that Klemath had allied himself with the Wizard Council on many issues.
Klemath had set his sons, Keith and Kip, after Raisa, hoping to rise by marrying into royalty. Now he might be hoping for a match with Mellony, assuming the Bayars had kept him in the dark about their marriage plans.
Lassiter Hakkam was as slick as most nobles, dressed in expensive clothes in the latest style. He was clever, but in Amon’s opinion, not particularly smart. Hakkam was uncle to Raisa, father to Melissa and Jon. They’d never had much use for Amon, since he was a commoner.
Gavan Bayar wore black wizard robes, his stoles draped over his shoulders, embroidered with the familiar Bayar falcons, his amulet in prominent display overtop. He looked down at Amon, his gaze sharp and calculating, as if Amon were a haunch of roast meat he was prepared to carve.
Micah mirrored his father, in black robes and falcon stoles, his skin chalky against his black mane of hair. He leaned forward almost eagerly, black eyes fixed on Amon as if he thought Amon might bring important news.
Averill was finely dressed in trader style, his Demonai talisman a challenge to the Bayars and their wizard amulets. He wore white, the mourning color of the Spirit clans. This made him stand out against the others like a dove amid crows.
Amon couldn’t help thinking that those in mourning black resembled a flock of carrion birds ready to pick over his bones.
The Bayars bracketed Raisa’s sister, Princess Mellony, who occupied the ornate cha
ir at the center. Though they hadn’t dared to actually seat her on the throne, they might as well have. She was already taller than Raisa, but she looked to Amon’s eyes like a little girl in a big chair.
Mellony had always been frillier than Raisa, even when they were small. But the gown she wore today was intended to make her look older, to make her fit the role that some intended her to play.
To look like a queen of marriageable age.
She’s thirteen, he thought. Almost fourteen. Her gown was of mourning black and simply cut, showing off her fair skin and blond hair. The tip of her nose was faintly pink under the powder, and her eyes showed evidence of weeping. Today, dressed and made up as she was, she looked to be sixteen. Queen Marianna’s diamonds sparkled at her neck and wrists.
She’s already dressing the part, Amon thought bitterly. He’d always thought of Mellony as lightweight and insubstantial, but…was it possible she’d played a role in clearing the path to the throne?
Stop it, he said to himself. You’re biased. You always will be in favor of Raisa. Mellony had always been close to her mother. It made sense that she’d want to wear the queen’s jewels now.
Amon came forward and knelt before Mellony, bringing his fist to his chest. “Your Highness,” he said. “Please accept my condolences for your loss, a loss we share as a nation in mourning.”
That wasn’t bad, he thought. He’d rehearsed it all morning.
“And accept my sympathy for your loss also, Corporal Byrne,” Mellony said, in a clear, high voice. “A loss we feel almost as keenly as you do. This is a dreadful time, is it not?” She gestured with a glittery hand for him to rise. “Please. Sit. The Byrnes are our friends and loyal servants. They are welcome to sit in our presence.”
Amon guessed that someone must have coached her on the royal “we.”
A chair was produced for Amon, and he settled into it awkwardly. Since he was off the dais, everyone was still looking down at him.
“Welcome back to court, Corporal Byrne,” Lord Bayar said. “I was surprised to hear that you’d returned to the Fells. I had thought you were still at the academy. How did you come to hear of your father’s death?”