The Crimson Crown

by Cinda Williams Chima

  “It looks like they were killed someplace else and their bodies carried into Ragmarket.”

  “Wouldn’t it be difficult to carry two bodies through the streets of Fellsmarch unobserved?” Raisa said.

  “Maybe not, for a wizard,” Amon said, his words measured. “Or someone who knew the neighborhood very well.”

  “Why? Did you see something or someone or…” Her voice trailed away under the pressure of Amon’s gray-eyed gaze. Her stomach clenched miserably. Suddenly she wanted to stop up her ears.

  Amon faced forward again, done talking for the present.

  Raisa stumbled, her feet now weighted down with dread. Amon took her elbow, making sure she didn’t trip on her cloak or slip on the slick cobblestones or flee back to the palace and hide under the covers.

  Too soon, they turned off the Way of the Queens, twisting and turning through vaguely familiar alleyways.

  It came back to her. She’d navigated these stony tunnels herself, the morning after the notorious streetlord Cuffs Alister had abducted her and she’d escaped from his hideout.

  They turned another corner, and here was Mick, looking about as miserable as Raisa had ever seen him.

  “Hallie’s with the dead ones,” he said, avoiding Raisa’s eyes.

  Amon still had hold of Raisa’s elbow, and he propelled her forward to the end of the alley, where the Gryphons lay, guarded by Hallie and a handful of other guards. Two lamps lit the scene, the light careening off the alley walls as they pitched in the wind.

  They lay on their backs, side by side, two finely dressed wizards of middle age. Steeling herself, Raisa looked into their faces. It was the Gryphons, all right. Growing up, she’d seen them at a hundred palace gatherings—she recognized their sharp features, their small, stingy mouths.

  Don’t think ill of the dead, she told herself, making the sign of the Maker.

  There was less blood than she expected, but, then, maybe the rain had washed it away. Or, as Amon said, maybe they’d been killed elsewhere and brought here. Their amulets were missing, but their other jewelry was there—their stiffening hands were loaded with rings, and Alexa Gryphon wore earrings that must have been worth a fortune.

  Raisa went to turn away, but Amon gripped her shoulders. “Look closer,” he said. “There’s something painted on their clothing. It’s hard to see in the rain, but—”

  Raisa knelt, scanning the front of Farrold Gryphon’s coat. Something was scrawled on it—a symbol, a straight line with a zigzag across it, like a lightning bolt. It arrowed through Raisa’s heart like a lightning bolt, too.

  Shuddering, she looked up at Amon, blinking the rain and tears from her lashes. “I see. Have you seen it before?”

  Amon shook his head, lifting her to her feet. “I hoped you might recognize it. It’s been painted on all the bodies. Let’s get in out of the wet.”

  The guards had commandeered a nearby storefront, and Amon ushered Raisa inside. It was a warm night, but she was soaked through and couldn’t seem to stop shivering. Amon helped her out of her sodden cloak, pulled a blanket out of a closet and draped it over her shoulders. He sent the other guards out of the room, except for Mick and Hallie.

  Squatting next to her, he handed her a cloth to wipe off her face. “I’m sorry to haul you out here on a night like this,” he said softly. “But I wanted you to see this for yourself.” He paused, and when Raisa said nothing, continued.

  “We’ve had guard patrols out every night in Ragmarket and Southbridge, since that’s where the bodies have been dumped in the past,” he said. “So tonight, one of our patrols turned down an alley and saw somebody kneeling next to two bodies that turned out to be the Gryphons. It was a wizard; they could see his amulet glowing in the dark, but he was all cloaked up. He had his hand on one of the bodies and seemed to be casting some kind of spell.

  “When he heard the patrol approaching, he took off running. They shouted for him to halt, but he ran out the far end of the alley. They chased after him, but by the time they reached the street, he’d disappeared.”

  Amon turned to Mick and Hallie. They stood, shifting their weight from foot to foot, looking like they wished they were anywhere else.

  “Tell the queen what you saw,” Amon said.

  Hallie and Mick looked at each other, as if each hoped the other would speak.

  Finally, Hallie gave in. “We was having a bite in Elliott’s Tavern, just off the Way. We heard a commotion and ran outside in time to see the patrol chase by. After they passed, we seen somebody slide out of a doorway and go the other way. He was acting suspicious, so we followed along after. When he turned down the Way, we got a good look at his face under the wizard lights.” She mopped a strand of wet hair from her face. “It was Han Alister, with a hat pulled down over his hair, all muffled up so you could hardly tell.”

  Raisa’s thoughts went immediately to Han’s state of dress when he’d come home a few nights before.

  Mick spoke up then. “We kept following him, but we lost him in the Ragmarket tangle. I don’t think he saw us.”

  Raisa’s heart lay like a stone in her chest as she recalled what Han had said only an few days ago. Lord Bayar did his best to pin it on me.

  “Well.” She cleared her throat. “Han has been trying to find out who’s responsible for the wizard murders in Ragmarket. So he’s been out walking the streets nearly every night.”

  Amon’s lips tightened. “Hallie and Mick didn’t know what to do, since they knew Alister stays right next door to you,” he said. “So they came and got me.”

  “But…we don’t know for sure that Han was the one in the alley, right?” Raisa said, looking from face to face for some hope.

  “No,” Amon said. “We don’t know for sure, but it seems likely. We also—” He cut off, turning to Hallie and Mick. “Wait on the porch.”

  “Yes, sir.” They hustled out, seeming glad to flee Raisa’s presence.

  When the door had closed behind them, Amon said, “There’s also this.” He pulled a small pouch from his pocket. “They found this underneath the bodies.” He dumped the contents into her hand. “Have you ever seen it before?”

  Raisa tilted her hand so it caught the light. It was a figure of a clan piper, carved of rowan and oak, hanging from a silver chain. The work was exquisite, with insets of silver and turquoise.

  She closed her fingers over the piece as if she could hide it from view. Power tingled against her skin. “It’s definitely clan-work,” she said. “I can’t imagine any wizard wearing something like this.” She looked up at Amon. “I’ll keep this. I’m going to see Hayden Fire Dancer tomorrow. I’ll ask him about it. He’s discreet.”

  “Well.” Amon’s eyes were troubled, uncertain. “It is evidence. And Fire Dancer is friends with Alister.” The implication was clear: We need to follow it wherever it leads.

  “I’ll be careful with it,” Raisa said, tucking it away before Amon could demand it back. “I won’t tell Dancer where it came from.”

  “Your Majesty,” Amon said, shaking his head, “it’d be better if I—”

  “Han Alister is not a murderer,” Raisa said. Then stopped. “Not anymore,” she amended. “He’s used his gang connections on our behalf. He and Cat have recruited help from all over Ragmarket and Southbridge to be eyes and ears for the queendom.”

  “What if he recruited them for other reasons?” Amon said. “To kill wizards, for instance.”

  Raisa shook her head. “No. I don’t believe it.”

  “I don’t want to believe it, either,” Amon admitted. “I like him. I can’t help it.” After a moment of deadly silence, he said, “Is it possible that he’s killing wizards for revenge, and telling himself he’s doing it in your service? Could he be justifying it that way?”

  “No.”

  The wizards’ throats were cut. And Han Alister is good with a knife. As are hundreds of gang members in Ragmarket. Including Cat Tyburn.

  Raisa was in an argument with herself. She ju
st wasn’t sure who was winning.

  My queendom is the perfect place for an anarchist, Raisa thought. It is so easy to set people against each other. All it takes is a tiny spark to cause a conflagration. Even Han’s proposal to put Dancer on the council—could that be intended to push the council into violence? What if he intended to destroy the queendom that had taken so much from him?

  No. I don’t believe it.

  It seemed that everything Han did had a dual meaning, depending on what you were willing to believe about him.

  “So. Now what?” Raisa said, feeling sick and weary. Wishing somebody else would be queen for a while.

  “Alister can’t keep living next door to you,” Amon said. “It’s too risky.”

  “We know that someone is out to kill me. At least Han seems to want to keep me alive.”

  “Maybe,” Amon said. “For now, anyway.”

  “What do you think is riskier?” Raisa said. “If Gavan Bayar is behind the attempts on my life, I’ll be defenseless without a wizard on my side. There’s nobody on the Wizard Council or the assembly I can trust.” She leaned into Amon, resting her head against him. After a moment’s hesitation, he slid his arm around her. “Maybe that’s the idea, to cast suspicion on Han, to isolate me, to make me vulnerable.”

  “What about Cat Tyburn?” Amon said. “And Hayden Fire Dancer? If Alister is killing wizards, are they in on it?”

  “Just stop it!” Raisa said. “Han Alister is not killing wizards.” She took Amon’s hand, pressed it between her two. “An army of bodyguards won’t keep me safe if someone is determined to kill me,” she said. “If everybody has responsibility for keeping me safe, nobody does. The solution here is political, not military.”

  “Maybe,” Amon said. “But my job is to keep you alive so you have the chance to solve the political problems.”

  Raisa said nothing. She stared straight ahead, her mind racing, weighing risk.

  “What about Alister?” Amon said finally. “How soon can we move him? We can make up some excuse, and—”

  “I don’t think we should,” Raisa interrupted.

  Amon stiffened, dislodging her head from its resting place. “What?”

  “He’s had ample opportunity to kill me, if that is his intention,” Raisa said, struggling for a rationale that would satisfy Amon. “If he is the one killing wizards, we don’t want to set him loose, with no supervision. It’s better to have him here, under our eye.”

  “I can keep an eye on him at Kendall House,” Amon growled. “And it’s safer for you.”

  “Maybe, maybe not,” Raisa said. “Like it or not, he’s protection against the Bayars.”

  “Not if he’s roaming Ragmarket, killing wizards,” Amon said bluntly. “Your Majesty, forgive me, but have you lost your mind?” He turned toward her and gripped her elbows, harder than he likely intended. “Do you really mean to leave him where he is? Has all this been a waste of my breath and lost sleep for both of us?”

  “Amon. We don’t have proof that Han is responsible,” Raisa said, beating down the voices in her head.

  “We don’t need proof,” Amon said. “We’re not passing sentence on him. We’re just taking reasonable precautions. As any reasonable person would understand.”

  “All his life, Han has been accused of crimes he didn’t commit,” Raisa said. “He’s an easy target because of his past.”

  “He’s a likely suspect because of his past,” Amon countered, his dark brows drawn together over thundercloud eyes.

  “I made him some promises when he agreed to take this job,” Raisa said. “One was that he’d have quarters next to mine, and easy access so he could better protect me.”

  “Right. And when assassins broke into your apartments, he was nowhere near.”

  Raisa bit her tongue. She’d promised Han she wouldn’t reveal his role in that episode. How he had saved her life. “I either have to dismiss him from his post as bodyguard, or leave him where he is,” she said. “The safest thing is to leave him be, but keep a close watch on him.”

  Amon stood, towering over Raisa. “I wish you were as considerate of me in helping me to do my job as you are of Alister,” he said.

  “What else do you want?” Raisa asked, standing up. “Short of dismissing Alister based on rather tenuous circumstantial evidence?”

  “I’m going to put a crowd around you,” Amon said, his voice low and furious. “And keep Alister under constant surveillance. I want your father to assign Demonai to work with the Guard, to counterbalance the risk.”

  “Done,” Raisa said, thinking that the Demonai would be overjoyed to offer her protection against wizards. Especially one Demonai in particular. But would any of the Demonai bow his or her proud head to Amon Byrne? “I’ll talk to my father about it. We’ll want to handpick them.”

  She looked up at Amon, but his face was in shadow. “Thank you, Amon. I know this isn’t easy for you.”

  Later that night, lying in bed, she couldn’t sleep, even though she was bone-weary. She’d tucked the piper carving under the clothing in her deepest drawer.

  She thought of Han Alister, on the other side of a thin door. Wondered if he was lying awake, too.

  She trusted Amon Byrne, but she couldn’t trust him to know the truth—that she’d recognized the symbols painted on the bodies. She’d seen it before—on the talismans that Han’s Ragmarket crew wore.

  She’d recognized the piper carving immediately. The last time she’d seen it, it hung around Han Alister’s neck, next to his amulets.

  Perhaps Raisa was as much a fool as Hanalea had been, when she’d trusted the Demon King.

  She was in love with Han Alister, and it just might cost her her life.

  C H A P T E R F I F T E E N

  STREET

  RULES

  Han slid his hand into the niche under the market clock and pulled out a crumpled note. She’s coming. Darkman’s hour. It was unsigned.

  He looked up at the clock. If he didn’t hustle, he’d be late. Only, being late to this meeting wasn’t all bad.

  He threaded his way through familiar streets, taking his time, comfortable in his shabby glamour. He detoured into Pinbury, had a word with two of his eyes and ears, name of Gimp and Scuttle. They were as deferential as streetrats can be, calling him Lord Alister and peering at him out of the corners of their eyes. No, my Lord Alister. Nothing new to report.

  He descended into the Bottoms, headed for the meeting place, mentally pounding himself for his actions two nights before.

  Han knew street rules. Never run from a bluejacket unless you know you can get clean away. Running looks guilty. Running draws attention when you want to be overlooked.

  He shouldn’t have run at all.

  His eyes and ears had alerted him to the bodies in the alley. He’d been examining the two dead wizards, looking for vestiges of magic, trying to sort out what might have happened. One thing he knew—the flash-and-staff mark said that whoever had hushed the wizards was someone who knew what Han’s gang sign was—and was trying to blame it on him.

  Then the bluejacket patrol surprised him. Instinct took over, despite a lifetime of street training, and he’d run.

  Han would have gotten clean away if he hadn’t had the bad luck to run into Hallie and Mick—two bluejackets who would recognize him if they got a good look.

  He hoped they hadn’t. He hoped they’d followed after him just because he looked suspicious. He’d had his cap on, pulled down over his hair, and they wouldn’t expect to see him there.

  In the old days, he’d have gone to ground, laid low, set himself up in a secure crib with his seconds around him, or disappeared into his beloved mountains. But there was no sanctuary for him—not anymore. He was a moth, helplessly drawn to a flame that would char him to a cinder.

  And so he waited—waited to be evicted from his quarters, waited to be tossed into gaol, waited for a showdown that never came.

  He’d asked Raisa flat out for direction—did
she want him to do whatever it took to get elected High Wizard. She hadn’t really responded, but the answer was clear.

  He had to act now, before Gavan Bayar did, but his timing had to be dead on.

  Han met Flinn in the common room of the Smiling Dog, a thieves’ academy and inn frequented by arch-rogues, fences, and affidavit men and women. And just now it was frequented by six of Han’s crew, including Flinn.

  “She’s in the back room,” Flinn said, leaning in close. “Angry as a singed badger. Took her all over Southbridge and Ragmarket. Shook three footpads in Southbridge Market. We’re clean now.”

  Han nodded. “Good. Bring the usual, enough for two, and two clanks of stingo.”

  Flinn frowned, as if puzzled. “You mean to get her lushy first?”

  Han shook his head. “I’m hungry, all right?” He waved Flinn away.

  When Han entered the back room, Fiona spun to face him, her hand on her amulet. Despite the relentless heat, she was clad in black leather, head to toe, as if she’d armored up for the trip.

  Han had dressed for the occasion, too, in plain wool breeches and cotton shirt, his clan-made boots his only extravagance. Ragmarket was the kind of place where it was best not to flaunt your wealth.

  He hoped it would make it less likely that she would remember what he’d said about his lineage. For the thousandth time, he cursed himself for his run-on mouth. Han Alister, who was supposedly so good at keeping secrets.

  “Welcome, Lady Bayar,” he said gravely. “I’m glad you could come on such short notice.” He motioned to a chair, and took the one opposite. “I’ve ordered dinner for us.”

  Fiona shook her head, flinging back her pale hair and folding her arms. “I’d have to be starving to eat in this establishment.”

  “The food’s actually good here,” Han said. “I’ll bet I can tempt you.” He smiled his best roguish smile. He took pleasure in meeting her on his own turf, for once. At least here Fiona was unlikely to want to take him upstairs.

  Fiona studied him as if trying to read the subtext. Then plunked herself down in the vacant chair. “Was it really necessary to drag me through the filthy underbelly of the city?”