“And what you tell me.”
“No. Not me.” Because Elly would want to do what was best for Highfall. Judah wasn’t sure that she did. She wasn’t sure what she wanted at all, if Elban was dead. Then she said, “I made a deal with him.” Because there was no point in keeping it a secret. Maybe there wasn’t any point in speaking, either, but she had been holding the bargain poised like a weapon in her mind for so long that she couldn’t put it down without at least showing someone she had it.
Gavin’s eyes snapped alert, which she found satisfying. “What deal?”
“So he’d leave Elly and Theron alone. He was going to take us both with him, next time he went on campaign, and use us to send messages. So there wouldn’t be another ambush.”
A series of complicated emotions cycled through Gavin. Judah waited, like she’d just spun a wheel, to see which would win; but when his face settled, it was into a calm as deep as that of the body on the bed. “Your other secret,” he said, and she nodded. “You know what he would have done to you.”
His tone was casual, passionless but pleasantly interested, and she saw that this was something he was trying on, for when he was Lord of the City. “I do,” she said.
“To both of us, really,” the almost-Lord said.
She nodded again. “It seemed worth it.”
“I feel like I should be angry with you. Maybe I will be, later.”
“That’s fair,” she said. “I knew there was a chance it would make you hate me.”
Then, with a crooked smile, he was himself again. “I don’t hate you.” He paused. “It’s a good idea. I hadn’t thought of it.”
Judah felt very tired.
* * *
Elly was with Elban. Theron sat on the sofa, staring into space. Occasionally he stood up and tried to drift out the door, but was patiently rebuffed by the guards. Meanwhile, Gavin paced the room’s perimeter, edgy with waiting, and after a while Judah could almost tell time by the two of them. It became a game to her; every time Gavin completed three full circuits of the room, more or less, Theron would try to leave. She felt dull and exhausted and intensely bored and her mind latched onto the pattern: satisfied when it completed itself, disappointed when it failed. She could almost forget that Gavin was Gavin and Theron was Theron; she could almost see them as gears and springs, spinning around inside a great clock keeping irrelevant time.
The Seneschal entered and her reverie broke. With him came a tight clot of guards, bristling with weaponry and accompanied by the clinking of chains. In the middle of the clot, surrounded on all sides and hooded, was a tall, thin figure with shackled arms. The arms were milk-skinned and tattooed.
The Seneschal crossed to the locked door. With no ceremony whatsoever he pulled a ring of keys from his pocket, selected one and opened the door. Then he beckoned the guards and their prisoner inside. “Lord Gavin,” he said. “Judah. A moment, if I may.”
Judah glanced at Theron. His eyes were fixed on the prisoner with a keener interest than usual, but no alarm. He made no movement to rise, and the Seneschal ignored him. Unexpectedly, Gavin held out a hand to Judah.
In the strangeness that surrounded Elban’s return, she had forgotten why he’d left. But here was the Nali chieftain he’d sought, to try and break the bond, and although the great Lord lay dying in the other room, the Seneschal clearly intended to continue his mission. It made sense—if Gavin was to be Lord, it was better that he be unencumbered by unnatural attachments—but suddenly she remembered something Gavin had said, only days before, that he sometimes wondered how other people kept from killing themselves from loneliness. The prospect of being alone in her head, free to think or feel or hurt or love or even kill herself (if she wanted, which she didn’t)—now that it was real, it was alarming. When she took Gavin’s hand she was glad of it, glad of him. Glad of what might be the last few minutes truly together.
They followed the others into the room. It was another bedroom, as Gavin had said, but a strange one. The floor was hard and bare and the cot in the corner, a bare, rough bedstead, made Judah’s seem lushly appointed. The windows were bricked over except for small gaps at the top, through which nothing was visible but sky; a wooden shutter hung above each, so even the gaps could be blocked entirely. The room also held a trunk and a wardrobe, both fastened with heavy locks, and one armchair with black upholstery. In such coarse surroundings, its gleaming wood and soft cushions seemed luxurious, regal.
Strangest of all, the walls of the room were filled with mirrors. Several hung on every wall and there was one in each corner, including one high up near the ceiling. The chieftain stood in the middle of the room, facing Judah, but in the various mirrors she could also see his shackled hands, the backs of his tattooed shoulders, and the top of his burlap-covered head.
“Leave,” the Seneschal ordered, and Judah realized he was talking to the guards, who rustled, but didn’t move.
“Seneschal—” one of them said.
The gray man cut him off. “Lord Gavin and I both have knives and the prisoner’s shackled hand and foot. If you’re needed, I’ll call.”
The guard who’d spoken didn’t look happy, but he obeyed. The rest of the guards followed with ominous scowls and shuffling boots. None of them spoke to Gavin or even acknowledged him, which seemed strange.
But the Nali chieftain was stranger. As soon as the guards were gone, the Seneschal pulled away the hood. The prisoner’s thin chest swelled as he took a deep breath. His eyes—as dark as Judah’s, although that was where the similarity ended—blinked; what remained of the windows didn’t let in much light, but the mirrors reflected it until the room was as bright as outdoors. His well-defined features were all planes and angles, his lips thin. Delicate silver earrings looped through his ears, two in one and three in the other, and his eyes were thickly lined with some deep emerald substance that looked like kohl but couldn’t be—she’d never seen kohl that color.
He surveyed the room as if he’d been invited for dinner instead of dragged in blindfolded. There was a glamour about him, despite the shorn hair and plain clothes. The tattoos, some crisp and some gone soft and blurry with time, added to the effect. She was willing to bet that if a courtier ever got a glimpse of him, green kohl and shackle bracelets would be all the rage inside a week. But they would never be able to replicate the way he held himself. His eyes were bleak without being hopeless as they took in the hard furniture, the mirrors, the ostentatious chair; the Seneschal, still holding the burlap bag, and Judah and Gavin themselves, hand in hand like scared children.
He took another breath, long and savoring. His upper lip twitched as if he smelled something unpleasant. His gaze lingered on Gavin and Judah, but then—clearly knowing who was in charge—he looked at the Seneschal, and waited.
The Seneschal cleared his throat. “I’m told you’re a chieftain.”
The chieftain’s dark eyes slid up at an angle and back again in an impressively economical gesture that said everything there was to say about the situation in which he found himself. “If that’s the word you like.” He spoke with a strong burr and a stronger disinterest.
“Do you prefer another?”
The thin shoulders moved in the barest of shrugs. “It’ll do. Your language is limited.”
“You speak it well.”
“My people value knowledge for its own sake.” It was clear from his tone that he believed Highfall didn’t. Judah felt Gavin bristle.
The Seneschal didn’t seem to take offense. “We’re in need of your knowledge, as it happens. In exchange for your assistance, I offer you amnesty in Highfall, or an escort back to your own country, if you’d prefer that.”
“If help was all you needed, you could have just said so, and left fewer bodies in your wake.”
“Would you have helped us if we’d just said so?”
At that the chieftain smiled, brittle and br
illiant. “No.”
Gavin stepped forward, dropping Judah’s hand. “I’m Lord Gavin. Lord Elban’s heir.” Imperious and unflappable, Lord of the City. “When he’s dead, I’ll rule Highfall. I guarantee you amnesty.” He said the words, but Judah knew he was anxious, too.
The chieftain shook his head. The movement spoke of great fatigue. “It doesn’t matter. I can’t help you,” he said to Gavin. Somehow the words included Judah and excluded the Seneschal. A twinge of something she couldn’t identify ran through her like a shudder.
“We haven’t even told you what we want.” Some of the imperiousness in Gavin’s tone was replaced by surprise.
“You haven’t told me you’ve got a nose in the middle of your face, either, and yet there it is.” His eyes were so black that it was disconcerting, but people probably felt the same way about her. There was something strange about the way those eyes rested on Gavin and Judah, as though the two Highfallers were misshapen, or oddities to be pitied—
No. As though they were an oddity to be pitied. The chieftain looked at Judah and Gavin like they were a single creature, and all at once Judah was certain that he knew about the bond. Quickly, she scratched he knows to Gavin. A cross with a hook. A warning.
The chieftain watched. He knew exactly what she was doing, she could see it. But all he said was, “It’s impressive. And—” The word he used was a knotted tangle that Judah didn’t understand.
Gavin had frozen the moment she scratched him and was still locked in a stunned silence. The Seneschal said, “What does that mean?”
“Evil,” the chieftain said. Then he tilted his head and appeared to reconsider. “Well. Ill-intended. Poorly conceived, let’s say. It adds up to the same thing.”
“But you can sense the bond.” The Seneschal’s expression was urgent, almost desperate.
“I’m surprised you can’t,” the chieftain said carelessly. “Maybe living in this place has left you dull-witted.”
“What’s wrong with this place?” Gavin would not hear Highfall slighted when it was so close to being his.
“This place,” the chieftain said, as if the word barely applied, “is the very heart of all that’s wrong with the world. Being here is like being sealed in a grave.” He looked at Judah. Now his words were softer, almost sorrowful. “You, I would help if I could. You don’t belong here.”
In one motion, Gavin grabbed her hand, pulled her close and stepped in front of her. She nearly stumbled with the force of his grip. “She belongs here more than you do,” he said, and the words came out in a snarl worthy of one of the kennelmaster’s hounds.
“And yet neither of us asked to come,” the chieftain said.
The Seneschal ignored both of them. His voice rough with urgency, he said, “Do you know how the bond works? Do you understand it?”
“Do you understand why each beat of your heart is followed by another?” The chieftain gave him a withering look. “Stupid man.”
“Can you manipulate it?”
“I’d rather be roasted over hot coals.”
The Seneschal’s face hardened. “That can be arranged,” he said, and then, “Take him away,” and somehow, suddenly, the room was full of guards. The burlap hood was yanked back down over the chieftain’s head. Until the last moment his black eyes bored into Judah and she was glad when they were hidden. They terrified her. He terrified her. In the scarcest of moments the guards and the chieftain and the Seneschal were all gone and Gavin and Judah were left alone in the strange, empty room.
He wrapped his arms around her, which he almost never did, and she fell into a cataract of fear and agitation. His strength was ferocious. “I won’t let them do it,” he said. “I won’t let them take you away from me.”
Judah couldn’t answer. She could barely breathe.
All of a sudden he let go and stepped back. Theron had entered the room, drifting silently through the open door the way he always did. His eyes floated their way across the cot, the shutters, the locked chest, the chair.
“This is a bad room,” he said. “Bad things happened here.”
Gavin took his brother by one arm and Judah by the other. “Come on then,” he said furiously. “Get out. Go.”
* * *
As evening fell on the second day, the Seneschal called them all into the death room. The magus, worn from his long vigil, stood at the Lord’s bedside, his hands clasped neatly in front of him. His eyes were fixed on Lord Elban’s inert body, his lips faintly parted. Nobody had lit the gaslights but two oil lamps filled the room with a diffused glow that seemed steadily warmer as the sun outside fell beyond the Wall.
Two guards waited in the room. Judah hadn’t noticed them come in, but she’d been dozing. The Seneschal’s face was grave. “It’s time,” he said.
Theron looked mildly interested. Elly moved closer to Gavin and took his arm. Then, for good measure, she laced the fingers of her free hand through his. Her eyes were very wide, her forehead damp. Judah felt ragged, out of control. The world past Elban’s death was a yawning chasm of possibility, exhilarating and unnerving. She found herself wanting to take Gavin’s other hand, to move close to him the way Elly had, but forced herself to stay still. This was their moment. Gavin and Elly. Lord and Lady of the City.
Elban’s breath rattled. Then, as they all waited, it stopped altogether. In the silence left by its absence, nobody else seemed to breathe, either. For a bizarre moment, Judah found herself nearly panicking. That couldn’t be it. That couldn’t be the end of him. It was too simple, too quick.
Moving slowly, as if through heavy liquid, the magus leaned over and touched the long, pale neck. When he looked up, his eyes practically glowed. For some reason, they were fixed on Judah. “He’s dead.”
The Seneschal stepped forward, his eyes darting from the magus to the guards to the four young people. “You’re witnesses,” he said. “I did everything I could. I spared no effort. Is that true? Magus?”
The magus looked faintly puzzled, but said, “It’s true.”
The Seneschal turned to Gavin. “Lord Gavin? Lady Eleanor?”
“Yes,” Gavin said. For all Judah knew, this was some formality that had to be dispensed with.
Next to him, Elly nodded mutely. Then she seemed to gather herself. “Of course, Seneschal. Nobody would doubt your dedication.”
The Seneschal looked at the guards, who nodded.
“I’m Lord of the City,” Gavin said softly. Something new was filling his face, just as the light from the oil lamps was filling the room. A warmth, a flush. He was smiling, faintly.
Transfixed by the changes in Gavin—the subtle squaring of his shoulders, the relaxation of something tight that had been there so long it had become natural to him—Judah barely noticed the Seneschal motioning to the guards.
“No.” His voice was clear and firm and oddly gentle. “I’m sorry, Lord Gavin, but there will be no more Lords of the City. No more courtiers. In time, maybe no more House.”
The world froze. Receded. Judah could not have moved even if she’d known where to go, and she didn’t. Gavin and Elly, too, seemed locked into place, shock breaking over them.
But it was the magus who broke the silence with a strangled sound from deep in his throat. As if this were all normal, Theron said, “I told you, wrong colors,” and tapped his chest.
And it was true: all the guards in the room wore House white. She could not remember seeing a red badge since Elban’s return. If they’d bothered to ask Theron what he’d meant—if they hadn’t grown so used to ignoring him—
Then they probably still wouldn’t have been able to do anything. Judah was not at all sure how she felt. Gavin stood stock-still, naked with disbelief. Elly looked—hurt. The Seneschal’s expression was one of pity, even sympathy. “Take them to their rooms,” he said.
Two guards stepped forward and took Gavin in hand,
one at each arm. He stared numbly at them and she wondered if they were men he’d trained with, men he knew. The room was suddenly full of guards and Judah found herself similarly surrounded, although the guards didn’t quite seem to want to touch her. Theron looked at the guards who held him as though not entirely sure where they’d come from.
Then they tried to take Elly. She shook them off. Her hurt feelings had evidently morphed into anger. “What happens next?” she asked, furious. “Are you going to kill us?”
The Seneschal did not answer. The guards did take Judah’s arms, then, and Elly’s, and all of them were dragged away.
Part II
Chapter Thirteen
The first night was chaos. Nate, bewildered, didn’t even try to sleep as Limley Square filled with the sounds of panic. The courtiers had been given twenty-four hours to leave the city with whatever they could carry, but based on snatches of conversation Nate overheard through the drafty windows, most of the servants dispatched to fetch horses from the city stables were returning empty-handed or not at all. Those courtiers who actually managed to find their horses didn’t fare much better. Near midnight Nate heard cries; peering through the front window, he saw a man in fine clothes lying in the street near a stopped carriage, being kicked by a guard. Other guards were emptying the carriage, while the man’s wife and daughters stood by and wailed. When the goods were gone, the carriage itself was driven away; the wife and daughters fled into the night. The man’s body lay where he had fallen. When all was silent, Nate took his satchel and opened the front door.
Two guards stood on his front step, well-armed and wearing the Seneschal’s white badge. They nodded politely at him. “Best you go back inside, magus,” one said. “Bit risky out here tonight.”
The Square looked eerily normal except for the man in the street. Standing on the manor doorstep, pulled equally by his urge to see to the beaten man’s health and to protect his own, Nate could hear desperate cries and a steady percussion of splintering wood and breaking glass. The smoke in the air was denser than usual. In the distance, something exploded.
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