“Shall I send word to Lord Vega, and have him attend you here?”
“No!” Lyss said. “Not him.” She took a deep breath, released it. She needed to stop taking her frustration out on the wrong people. “You can have a look, if it will set your mind at ease.”
“All right.” Ty motioned to the acolyte to look after Cam, and led Lyss into one of the side chapels.
It wasn’t until Lyss sat down on the steps to the altar that she realized how exhausted she was. Her legs were trembling, and her head ached like fury where it had struck the wall, and she was weighed down with a fresh load of grief. She closed her eyes, wanting more than anything to escape into sleep.
“Your Highness.”
She opened her eyes to find Ty studying her with narrowed eyes.
“Not to belabor the point, Your Highness, but—nothing broke the skin? Not even a scrape? A nick? The one that jumped you—did he cut you?”
Lyss shook her head, which set it to spinning so much that for a moment it was touch-and-go whether she might spew into Ty’s lap.
“I do have scrapes and cuts,” Lyss said, when she’d recovered. “As far as I know, they all came from hitting the wall, flying chips of stone, and the like. To my knowledge, I was not cut by any blade nor hit by any arrows. I hit my head really hard. I’m dizzy and a little sick. Also my neck is badly bruised where he . . . ah . . . tried to strangle me.”
The dedicate returned, and set down a large bag beside them.
“Is there snakebite weed, and willow bark?” Ty asked her.
She nodded. “They’re in there.”
“Could you bring me hot water, then? And cloths to make a poultice?”
With that, Lyss submitted to Ty’s careful examination and soothing voice and hands. He eased the pain in her throat and neck and head, then healed her skinned knees, plus multiple scrapes and bruises elsewhere. He covered some of the suspicious nicks and cuts with snakebite weed and spoke charms over them.
“You should leave them,” Lyss said, “as a reminder of the price of stupidity.”
She didn’t really believe that, though. The familiar anger had rekindled inside her, all but replacing the guilt. Some might say that it was foolish to walk out in a city that had claimed the lives of her father and brother.
That is not acceptable, she thought. This is my home. Why should we have to look over our shoulders every single day?
And the busker. It seemed all wrong that she would be betrayed by someone who could play such enchanting music.
Enchanting. Maybe that’s the operative word.
He didn’t know, said an annoying voice in her head.
What do you mean, he didn’t know? How could he not know?
He didn’t know there was going to be an attack. He was as surprised as you were. He pushed you down and shielded you with his instrument. Otherwise you would have been hit. Why would he do that if he was in on the plan?
It’s not up to me to explain it. I’m still muddleheaded from whatever spell he used on me.
You’re the only person in the world who can have an argument with yourself and lose.
Lyss realized that her eyes had drifted shut again. She opened them to find Ty watching her.
“You know the drill,” he said, with a sympathetic smile. “You may feel worse tomorrow. If you discover anything we’ve overlooked, let me know right away.”
The acolyte poked her head around the corner.
“Your Highness, your cousin is outside. She wonders if— She would like to see you if she could.”
Lyss nodded. “All right.”
Julianna all but tiptoed into the room. She had a little more color in her cheeks than she’d had earlier. She looked at Ty, as if for permission. When he nodded, she crossed the room, sat next to Lyss, and took her hands.
“Are you—?”
“I’m all right,” Lyss said.
“Finn’s being debriefed by Captain Byrne. When he’s done, we’re going back to the palace. We wondered if you wanted to ride back with us.”
Lyss shook her head. “I’m staying a while longer. Until I get more information. If it gets too late, I’ll stay in the Southbridge Garrison House.”
“Is there anything else you need? Do you want to make any kind of official statement about the attack, or would you rather I wrote up something for your approval?”
“Let’s hold off on that,” Lyss said wearily. “We’ll want to get word to the families of the dead first.”
Julianna nodded, shifting on the bench. Finally, she said, in a rush, “I’m so sorry, Lyss. I feel like this is my fault. I never should’ve insisted that you come out with us. I just . . . felt like we had so much to celebrate.”
Lyss shook her head. “Look, it’s time to stop blaming ourselves every time King Gerard does something despicable.” It’s time to do something completely different.
“Maybe,” Julianna said. She fussed with her new ring, then laced her fingers together. “I don’t know how you do what you do,” she said, swallowing hard. “When the fighting started, I was useless. I just froze, as if that way I might be overlooked.”
Lyss blinked at her, surprised. “Well,” she said, “everybody reacts differently in battle. I guess it takes some getting used to.”
Julianna stood. “I don’t think I’ll ever get used to it.” She smiled faintly. “I expect I’ll see you later today.”
Lyss watched her walk away.
By the time Julianna left, some of the other Gray Wolves were trickling back in, among them Sasha. After exchanging a few words with the guards at the door, she came and saluted Lyss. “I thought you’d be long gone by now,” she said.
Lyss shook her head. “Sit down, Sasha.” She waved her to a spot next to her.
Sasha sat, and peered anxiously into her face. “Are you sure you’re all right?”
“Just some bumps and bruises. I’ve felt worse after a workout with you. I didn’t want to leave without getting an update.” Lyss paused. “You heard about Cam and Carew?”
Sasha nodded. “When I leave here, I’m going to go talk to Cam’s brothers,” she said, her voice husky with emotion.
“Wait until morning,” Lyss said, “and I’ll go with you. There’s no point in waking them up for bad news.”
“All right,” Sasha said. Pulling out a handkerchief, she blew her nose.
“So. What have you found out?”
“Unfortunately, we don’t have anyone to question—not yet. We’ve got three dead ones.”
“What about the busker? Did you find him?” If he really wasn’t in on the plot, maybe he’d be willing to give up those who had hired him.
“No. But we’ll find him. I’ve sent word up to Captain Byrne for reinforcements so we can do a thorough search of Ragmarket and Southbridge. I’ll go back out in the meantime.”
“Was there anything on the dead ones that might give us a lead?” Like a promissory note from King Gerard, or a sack of Ardenine silver?
“Their pockets were empty,” Sasha said. “They were dressed like your usual street rushers. They used crossbows, and those are more common in the south, but they’re also good for them who haven’t much skill with a bow. Laurent did death mask sketches of them, and we’ll show them all around town and see if anyone recognizes them. But it would do us the most good to catch us a live one.” She paused. “So, what I want to know is, did you get a good look at any of them?”
“Well, probably the musician is the only one,” Lyss said. “The others rushed in, and they were shooting, and—”
“The musician—had you ever seen him before?”
She shook her head. “I don’t think so.” Never. I would have remembered.
“Could you give me a description I can hand off to the Wolves?”
He looked hungry, as if it had been forever since he’d been fed.
No.
He looked like a wood nymph or a young god.
No.
He was the most enchanting boy I’ve eve
r seen.
No.
“He . . . he was about our age,” Lyss said, “if I had to guess. He was thin, and his eyes—well, you know how the ocean changes color from gray to green when the sunlight hits it?”
“So his eyes were kind of hazel?” Sasha said.
Lyss nodded, though that was a drab kind of description. “Kind of. His hair was mingled gold and red and brown, like aspen, oak, and maple leaves in autumn or flames burning low on the hearth. . . .” Her voice trailed off.
Sasha was taking notes, and now she looked up inquiringly. “So his hair was streaky brown?” She was no poet.
“Right. That’s all. And . . . he was well dressed. Fine wool cloak, leather boots, velvet jacket.”
Sasha took that down, too. “What was that instrument he was playing? Did you recognize it?”
Lyss shook her head. “I’ve never seen—or—heard—anything like it. He said it was called a jafasa.”
“Jafasa,” Sasha repeated. “How do you spell that?”
“I have no idea,” Lyss said, “but the music got into my head, like it was written for me. It was like, when he played, everything else was in shadow. Nothing else existed.”
“Huh,” Sasha said. “He sounds like faerie folk to me. You know how they’re always luring people into trouble.”
Except I don’t believe in faerie folk, Lyss thought. “Looking back, I wonder if the instrument was some kind of flashcraft. Maybe the magic was in it, and not in the busker.”
“Maybe,” Sasha said. “Well, that’s a start. If you could draw a sketch of it, maybe we can make copies and show it around and see if anyone knows of a musician that plays an instrument like that. It may take time, but we’ll find him.”
“Sasha,” Lyss said, “I couldn’t help thinking that he didn’t know there was to be an attack. It was as if he was as surprised as I was.”
Sasha raised a skeptical eyebrow. “Just his bad luck, huh, that he happened to be the one to lure you into an alley?”
Ty had returned and was standing, shifting impatiently. “Do you have your answers, Your Highness? I’d really like to get you back to the palace so you can get some rest.”
“There’s still Wolves out looking, but I don’t think there’ll be more news tonight,” Sasha said.
“All right,” Lyss said. “I am tired.”
Just then, one of the Gray Wolves approached them, holding up a fistful of battered flowers. “I was told that you dropped these, Your Highness.”
Again, the sight of the flowers struck a chord of memory. “The busker gave them to me.”
“You took flowers from him?” Sasha stared at her.
“Look, I’m not stupid,” Lyss said, her temperature rising. “There was . . . there was something about that music that . . .” She trailed off.
“Hold on,” Ty said, stepping between Lyss and the flowers. “I want to take a look at those.” Taking hold of his amulet, he fingered them, then spoke some spellwork over them. Finally, he looked up and said, a little sheepishly, “They’re just flowers, I guess. Nothing special about them.”
But there was. There was something about this mix of flowers, something Lyss should be remembering. . . .
“He must have bought them here in the city,” Sasha said. “We’ll see if anyone remembers someone buying flowers like these.”
Lyss extended her hand and touched one of the foxflowers, sending petals spiraling to the floor. That was when the pieces fell into place. “Hanalea’s bones,” she cried, shrinking back, beating down hysteria.
The busker was guilty. He was as guilty as he could be, the silver-tongued bastard. And so was King Gerard.
“Your Highness?” Ty looked perplexed. “Is there something—?”
“Those flowers,” Lyss said, her voice hoarse. “They’re the same as the ones my father bought on the day he was murdered.”
17
FINAL ACT
Breon’s gig went south so fast that he didn’t have time to think. All of a sudden, bolts were flying fast and furious while his leaf-muddled mind tried to process. The next thing he knew, he’d knocked the girlie flat and was trying to cover both of them with his jafasa until somebody picked him up and flung him aside. He hit the cobblestones hard, and he lay there, stunned, for a moment till he’d got his breath back.
He saw that the archers had focused on a low stone wall the girlie had taken shelter behind in the park. But there were rushers coming up from the river side, too. He watched as the girlie whacked one of them with her instrument case. Then the rusher was on her, and she went down underneath, and Breon knew how that would end if he didn’t intervene.
He took one step, then saw a gang of bluejackets swarming toward them and realized he’d be in for hard questioning if he was caught. It seemed like a good time to shove off. It was probably too late to save her, anyway.
He scooped up his bag and his splintered jafasa and took off running, zigzagging through the narrow streets, less concerned about where he was going than where he was coming from. It didn’t help that he was in a strange city. A really strange city, as it had turned out.
He heard boots crunching through the snow behind him, and knew he hadn’t gotten away clean. He dug deep to put on speed, running blind, hoping he didn’t meet up with a dead end.
Dead end—ha! But the joke wasn’t all that funny.
He didn’t know how long he’d been running when he realized he no longer heard the sounds of pursuit behind him. He slowed to a brisk walk, shaking the snow from his hair and brushing it from his fine coat, unable to quite believe that he’d gotten away.
They’d still be looking for him, though, and he needed to get back to the crib before they found him again. Unfortunately, he was on the wrong side of the river, so he had to get back to the bridge. Using the cathedral spire as a landmark, he worked his way back toward the site of the concert.
But it was no good. The market was boiling with bluejackets on both sides of the river.
He could see another bridge farther north along the river, so he headed that way. He had to try to get across before the bluejackets spread their nets wider.
When he reached the bridge, he paused in the shadow of a building to scan the area. Seeing nothing alarming, he crossed the promenade along the river and turned onto the bridge.
He was halfway across when he saw someone step onto the bridge at the far end and walk toward him purposefully. His familiar angular shape set Breon’s heart to hammering.
It was Darian.
Breon back-walked a few steps, turned, and all but ran into another rusher charging him from behind, his blade glittering in the light from a streetlamp. Breon bent double, hitting him low, and bowling him over like a kingpin.
Breon took off running, back the way he came. He heard the client cursing, shouting to others to join in. He ran up one street, then down another, slid through a crack between buildings too narrow to admit anyone but a cat or a scrawny jafasier. He stood there, gasping, and listened to the herd of pursuers go by. Somehow, he knew there would be a rear guard, and there was. The cloaked figure of Darian stalked by, turning his head right and left as if he could sniff out his prey.
Breon reached up and fingered the magemark on the back of his neck and prayed to whatever gods might listen to a tarnished soul like him. Maybe the gods were listening, or maybe he’d already endured his share of bad luck. All that mattered was that the client passed him by.
Hours later, Breon found a hidey-hole in a stable a few blocks away from the river. Several horses poked their heads out when he slid through the doorway, but the stable hand was dead asleep—Breon could hear snoring from the rear of the building that all but rattled the shingles from the roof.
Once he climbed the chancy ladder into the hayloft, he was tempted to pull it up after him, but he guessed that would point a finger straight at his hiding place. So he left it be and buried himself under the hay in the farthest corner, his shiv in his hand, what was left of his jaf
asa beside him.
Why he kept dragging that around, he had no idea, unless it was because it was the only thing of value he’d ever owned, and he’d probably never get his hands on another one.
He’d hardly settled in when he heard a banging down below, sleepy curses from the stable hand, the tread of boots, and muffled voices that cleared as the speakers made their way from the back room to the front.
“He’d be wearing fine clothes and carrying a black leather case,” a gruff female voice said. Fortunately, that seemed to be about all the description they had.
The stable hand’s voice rose. “I already said, there an’t nobody here ’cept me and the horses. I been on the watch all night.”
“You was hardly on the watch when we got here,” the newcomer snapped back. “We could hear you snoring clear out in the alley. He could’ve been sharing your bed and you’d never know it. So we’ll take a look around anyway.” The ladder shuddered as she began her climb.
Her head poked up above the floorboards, then the rest of her. Breon held his breath and tried not to move a muscle. The bluejacket stalked around the loft, poking into piles of hay with her sword. Once the blade came so close to his eye, it seemed she might have sliced through an eyelash or two. Eventually, the bluejacket disturbed a barn cat, who screeched so loud that Breon all but soiled himself.
Grumbling, the bluejacket disappeared back down the ladder.
“What’s this boy supposed to’ve done?” the stable hand asked.
“Bastard attacked the princess Alyssa,” the bluejacket said.
Hang on. Who?
“He and a whole pack of thugs ambushed her.”
“Is she all right?” the stable hand asked.
The bluejacket shook her head. “I don’t know. I haven’t heard. Her father and brother were murdered the same way. Gutter-swiving cowards. I’ll gut the lot of them if I get hold of them.”
No, Breon thought, offended. I’m a musician, not a killer. I just got mixed up with a bad crowd when I was born.
The voices finally moved away, and he let out his breath in relief. He fingered Her Highness’s locket, which still rested against his chest.
Each time he closed his eyes, he saw her face in front of him, her direct brown eyes, her expression when she said “I might as well be honest, because I’m not very good at lying.”
Shadowcaster Page 14
