Karl was glad to see the door of his quarters, and even more glad to usher Teran into them and firmly shut the other guards out. With the door closed and locked behind him, and suddenly feeling much older and more tired than any eighteen-year-old had any right to feel, he reached down and pulled off his boots, then went over to the fireplace, enjoying the feel of the thick white carpet on his bare feet.
Someone had obviously managed to warn his servants he was coming, because a fire blazed in the hearth. It wasn’t really needed for warmth, since the MageFurnace provided all the hot air anyone could want, piped into every room in the Palace through floor vents, but there was something about a fire that made you feel warmer in a way mere heat could not.
Except he took one look into the hearth and turned away abruptly as a chance arrangement of embers reminded him of the blackened, staring face of his attacker.
Teran stood at attention just inside the door. “Take off your helmet,” Karl told him. “I’m going to have a glass of asproga… do you want any?”
“Not on duty, Your Highness,” Teran said shortly. “Thank you.”
Karl, on his way to the sideboard next to the window, shot him a sideways glance. “Since when? Was that some other guard I saw swigging ale down by the lake?”
Teran’s face turned red beneath the helmet. “I would appreciate Your Highness not mentioning that to anyone,” he said.
Karl, at the sideboard, paused in the act of pulling the top out of a crystal decanter filled with a bright yellow liquid. “Oh,” he said in sudden understanding. “Falk. I saw him talking to you.” He felt a sudden flush of anger. “If he blamed you…”
“He did not, Your Highness,” Teran said. “But I do blame myself. I was on duty, and did not perform as my training dictates. I find myself embarrassed.”
Karl made a rude noise, poured his liqueur, and picked up the little crystal glass. “There was nothing you could have done. Except possibly die if you’d been between me and that crossbow bolt.”
“Your Highness,” Teran said, “the best definition I know of my job is to be willing to die between you and a crossbow bolt.”
“I’d rather you didn’t.” Karl reconsidered. “What I mean is, I’d be very grateful to you if you did, but I hope it doesn’t come to that.”
“It should have come to that today, Your Highness. If I had remained closer.”
“Then you’d be dead, and I might be, too,” Karl said forcefully. “Because I think that crossbow bolt would have killed you for sure.” He hesitated, but then rushed on. Suddenly keeping it a secret didn’t seem so important anymore, not if it had just saved his life. “Teran, I think I know why the assassin’s attack failed.”
Teran frowned. “Your Highness?”
“Do you remember that night when we were twelve, and we sneaked into the maids’ bathing quarters?”
Teran’s face flickered into a smile. “I am unlikely to forget, Your Highness.”
“That door had not been left accidentally unlocked, Teran. I unlocked it.”
Teran blinked. “A magical lock? But as Heir, you…”
“… have no magic. Indeed.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I don’t either, exactly. But…” Karl explained about his strange ability. When he was finished, Teran looked… frightened. Which wasn’t exactly the reaction Karl had expected.
“Your Highness,” said Teran. “You know what that sounds like.”
“What do you mean, what it sounds like? It sounds like what it is. I have this ability. It’s probably because I’m the Heir, ebut…”
“Your Highness, that is not what I meant,” Teran said. He took a deep breath. “That sounds like the Magebane.”
“The Mage-” Karl gaped. “But that’s… crazy. The Magebane is a myth. Tagaza says-”
“‘Tagaza says,’” Teran mimicked. “Of course he does! But the common people… they are not as dismissive of the stories of the Magebane. Particularly the Commoners. After all, the Magebane, it is said, is the one who delivered them from the MageLords in the Old Kingdom.”
Karl snorted. “I’m not the Magebane, Teran. I’ve got a minor ability. Like I said, it’s probably related to the fact I’m the Heir-”
“Your Highness, forgive my bluntness, but you’re being a fool.”
For a moment Karl was not inclined to forgive his bluntness. He felt a rush of anger. But he tamped it down and said, “Why do you say that?”
“Because if someone among the Mageborn thought you might be the Magebane… or even thought you might be taken for the Magebane by the Commoners… that alone might be enough reason to kill you.”
Karl gaped. He’d never thought of that. “But… no one knows.”
“Your Highness, surely you have lived long enough now… as have I… to discover that many of the things you did as a child that you thought were secret were in fact well-known to the adults in your life.”
“Um…” Karl couldn’t deny that. “Lord Falk did not mention the possibility,” he said. “So I don’t think he knows…”
“Perhaps not.” Teran’s voice grew guarded at the mention of Falk. “Though I would be… reluctant to make assumptions about what Falk does or does not know.”
“I’m assuming you won’t tell him,” Karl said, lightly, as a joke, but Teran’s face grew still and closed. “Teran?”
“No, Your Highness.” For some reason, the words didn’t seem to come easy. “No. I will not tell him.”
“Well… good.” What was that all about? Karl wondered as he took his first sip of the fiery yellow liqueur in his glass, then forgot about it as he considered Teran’s suggestion that a Mageborn might want to kill him simply to prove to Commoners he wasn’t the Magebane. That made… some kind of sense, he supposed. Except, of course, for the complete failure of the plan. If any Commoners really thought he was the Magebane, they must be completely convinced of it now that he’d walked away from a magical attack that had incinerated his attacker.
The other thing that worked against Teran’s suggestion was the simple fact that the Mageborn most likely to want to eliminate someone who might stir up the Commoners was Falk, and if Falk had wanted to kill him, he could have done it any time in the last eighteen years.
But he didn’t like Falk’s suggestion that Commoners were behind the attack either. He had gone out of his way to reach out to the Commons, at Tagaza’s urging; the First Mage had often told him he hoped there would someday be better relations between Commoners and Mageborn. He had attended any number of balls and festivals and grand openings in New Cabora, filling in for the King. He’d always gotten along well with the Commoners he met. After all, officially he didn’t have any magic either.
Besides, there were surely greater acts of terror a determined Commoner could come up with, acts that would have far more impact, than the murder of the Heir, since the only thing killing him would accomplish would be to pass the Keys on to some other Heir outside of the current line of succession. Should Kravon’s line die out with Karl, it wouldn’t even be seen as a great loss, Kravon being… what he was.
He sighed. Too many questions, and no answers. “It’s beyond me,” he said. “I guess we’ll just have to hope Falk figures it out.”
“Falk is very resourceful, Your Highness,” said Teran.
Taking another sip of asproga, Karl sat down in one of the two high-backed blue armchairs set in front of the fire on either side of a round marble-topped table. “I’m tired of thinking about my narrow escape from death,” he said. “It was interesting for the first hour or two, but…” He grinned, and after a moment Teran grinned back.
“Aye, Your Highness, it is becoming tiresome,” he said.
“Let’s talk about something else. I’ve been meaning to ask you: I heard a rumor that Verdsmitt’s Players are coming to the palace. True?”
Teran nodded, his grin widening. “Yes, Your Highness. I meant to inform you after your swim. I knew you’d be pleased. They’re scheduled to perform in the Great Hall the day after tomorrow.”
“It’s been… what, three years?”
“Yes, Your Highness. A long time, for Verdsmitt. He used to premiere a new play every year, but he seems to have struggled with this one.”
“What’s it called?”
“ The Hidden Kingdom.”
“Historical?”
“No one seems to know,” Teran said. “It’s a mystery to everyone. .. well, except the actors, I presume.”
“Intriguing,” Karl said. Over the centuries, Court entertainment had solidified like kitchen grease left outside the Barrier in midwinter. The same songs, the same plays, the same stories, sung, acted, or read in the same way as ten years ago, and fifty, and a hundred. All had become part of Tradition, and though it was only Tradition, and not Law, in some ways it held more force than mere Law could ever muster. Within the greenhouse-like climate of the Court, the potential loss of face from flouting Tradition was far more feared than a mere fine or flogging. Nothing has changed around here for decades, Karl thought… but then the memory of the attack that morning struck him like a blow. Until now.
He shoved the thought away and took another sip of asproga. “I can’t wait to see it, Teran.” He leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes, savoring the warm glow of the liqueur in his belly.
“That makes two of us, Your Highness,” Teran said.
Lord Falk descended a long flight of stairs into the basement of the Palace’s east wing, halting at an iron-bound door. Frost had painted it in glittering white, the sure telltale of powerful magic at work. Falk pulled his black gloves from his belt, put them on, then placed both hands flat on the door. Closing his eyes, he reached out with his mind for the energy all around him, and the magic welling up from the lode deep beneath the Palace. He twisted his mind into the necessary shape, and willed the door to open. Even through his gloves he felt a sudden bitter chill, then the door swung wide, fog briefly enveloping him as the warmer air of the dungeon contacted its frosted exterior.
Two Royal guards awaited him, swords drawn, their blades frosted like the door had been. “Password,” growled the one on the right.
“Periwinkle,” Falk said gravely.
“Hyacinth,” the one on the left proclaimed, and sheathed his sword, a small flurry of ice crystals sprinkling the flat square tiles of the floor. “Welcome, Lord Falk.”
“Timos, Anders.” Falk gave them both a smile, then shook his head. “I think I’ll tell Brich to stay away from flowers next password cycle. I feel silly every time I come down here.”
The guards laughed and stepped aside. Falk smiled at them, but the smile vanished the moment he passed them. As much as possible, he preferred to be liked by those he commanded, both to cement their loyalty and to ensure they carried out their duties as efficiently as possible. In truth, he had insisted on the silly signs and countersigns, just to give him something to joke with them about. Brich, his secretary, had agreed with an amused smile of his own. After twenty-five years in Falk’s service, he knew how the Minister of Public Safety’s mind worked.
He was also one of the few who knew what it worked toward.
Falk’s offices in the basement of the Palace were actually in the topmost of the dungeon’s three levels. Here, high, thin, horizontal windows located just above ground level still let in a modicum of natural light. A dozen relatively comfortable cells on this level were reserved for Mageborn who had fallen under suspicion of somethingor-other but had to be well treated while those suspicions were investigated. All those cells were currently empty.
Not so the ones in the levels below, where no light penetrated, and less hope. As Falk walked to his office he reviewed his mental list of those held there. There were a couple of Commoners down there with links to the Common Cause; they’d be worth another round of questions. But he could think of no one likely to shed any light on the question of who had mounted the attack on the Prince.
Falk’s dungeon was not primarily a place to incarcerate wrongdoers-far larger and more secure prisons on the outskirts of New Cabora and Berriton served that function, with separate facilities for Mageborn and Commoners. Rather, it was a place for gathering information.
Few people knew exactly how he gathered information, though, because no one who descended into those lower levels emerged with the ability to talk about it. Many never emerged at all, and those who did had had their memories carefully removed.
Falk considered that a merciful act.
Brich was hard at work in the outer office, seated at an enormous oak desk beneath a towering painting of an uncharacteristically regal King Kravon. Artistic license, Falk thought, as he usually did when he glanced at it.
Brich’s fingers flew across the keyboard of one of the mechanical text-stampers recently invented by some clever Commoner and now being mass-produced in a smokebelching factory up in New Cabora’s northeast sector, where a lot of manufacturing enterprises had begun to cluster. The constant clacking that had replaced the much more soothing sound of a pen nib scratching across paper annoyed Falk whenever he was in the outer office, but at least it didn’t penetrate his inner sanctum, and he had to admit that Brich’s reports had gotten much easier to read since the machine was installed.
More and more such clever contraptions were emerging from the Commons, attempts by the Commoners to circumvent their lack of magic through mechanical artifice. Falk considered them harmless curiosities, for the most part, though he kept a close eye on anything that could be developed into a weapon, and had already confiscated an ingenious device for spraying liquid fire. The inventor had claimed, during questioning, it was only an “agricultural aid” for burning brush out of farmers’ fields.
He didn’t much like the idea of that ending up in the hands of the radical, secret half of the Common Cause. Not that it would matter much in a very short time, if all went according to plan, but precisely because things were approaching a critical juncture, he really didn’t want any more disruption. The radical faction of the Common Cause wanted to overthrow the King, the Council, and the rest of the Twelve, and while Falk garnered a modicum of private amusement from the fact that was also what he intended to achieve, it wouldn’t stop him from ruthlessly exterminating those traitorous Commoners.. .
… if he could ever find out who they were. So far, they had maintained a remarkable and frustrating anonymity. He knew that they called their leader “the Patron,” but he had utterly failed to identify him or her, or any of his/her lieutenants.
It annoyed him, and puzzled him, since when questioned by his most skilled interrogators, very few people would fail to tell all they knew, sooner or later.
Well, no doubt that simply meant that he had not yet brought in the right people to question. He needed to dig deeper, and with a sharper shovel. And now, of course-he allowed himself a small, tight smile-the attempt to assassinate the Prince had given him the perfect opportunity to do so.
If it actually pointed him to the person behind the assassination attempt, that would be pure gravy. He didn’t think it would, because of the Unbound symbol. It was stretching the limits of coincidence to think that the assassin would have worn that particular symbol purely by chance. It had been intended to taunt him. Someone knows, he thought. And they’re working against me.
Still, being a man who lived by the motto “never let a crisis go to waste,” Falk stopped by Brich’s desk. “Brich,” he said.
The secretary stopped text-stamping and blinked up at him with watery blue eyes. Brich had looked eighty years old for the last twenty years; Falk had no idea how old he really was. He pushed one of the few strands of gray hair that still spanned his brown-spotted scalp back from his forehead. “Yes, my lord?”
“Prepare orders for all of our operatives in the Commons. They are to arrest for questioning anyone they know or suspect has ties to the Common Cause.”
Brich raised an eyebrow so high it almost disappeared behind the hair he had just pushed back. “There are many who profess sympathy with the Cause,” he said. “That number of arrests will cause an uproar
…”
“Let them roar,” Falk snapped. “Issue the orders. And make certain that the word also goes out to all the Commons’ newssheets that this is a direct response to the most heinous crime ever attempted in Evrenfels: the attempt to murder Prince Karl, Heir Apparent to the Throne and the Keys.”
“You believe the Cause is behind it?” Brich unwound paper from the text-stamper’s platen, picked up a fresh piece, and wound it in.
Falk snorted. “No. But this seems like the perfect excuse to ensure the Cause doesn’t interfere with the Plan, however inadvertently.”
Brich rested his fingers on the levers of the text-stamper. “Then who do you think is behind it?”
“I don’t know,” Falk admitted. “But I intend to find out.” He said nothing to Brich about the Unbound symbol. Brich was Unbound, too.. . which, perhaps for the first time ever, put him within the realm of suspicion. “And when I do,” Falk continued, showing his teeth in a predatory grin, “then the Rock of Justice awaits.” He turned his voice brusque. “Now carry out my orders!”
Brich knew the limits of Falk’s patience to within the breadth of a rather fine hair. “At once, my lord. Will there be anything else?”
“Yes,” Falk said. “There is a… resource… at my own estate I need to consult. Order my magecarriage brought around to the west entrance, ready to leave at noon. I believe Robinton is the driver on call?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“We’ll need a second. We’ll be driving straight through.”
“Of course, my lord.”
“Have the body of the attacker loaded aboard. Not in a coffin-that’s too obvious-an ordinary packing crate. Magespeak Gannick and tell him I will be traveling overnight and will arrive at the manor by noon tomorrow.”
“When may I expect your return, my lord?” Brich said. He sounded uncharacteristically tentative, as if reading something of Falk’s mood. “You have four meetings scheduled for tomorrow alone, and the operatives will ask-”
When I’m good and ready, Falk almost snapped-a sign of how much the attack worried him, he realized even as he bit off the retort, not to mention another sign of how well Brich knew him. “The earliest I can be back is late the day after tomorrow, but it will more likely be the day after that,” he said in a level voice instead. “Reschedule the meetings with my apologies. Prepare a daily precis for me of any reports or information that make their way to this office during my absence. I will magespeak with you each evening.”
“Yes, my lord.” Brich blinked at the paper in the text-stamper for a moment, then began pulling again at the padded levers, fingers flicking as though he were scratching a dog behind the ears.
Falk let the clacking sound drive him into his own office, where he spent the next hour dealing with the most pressing paperwork: arrest warrants, incarceration papers, orders for execution. Toward the end of that time Brich came in with a preliminary report from Captain Fedric on the search they’d conducted inside the Lesser Barrier for anyone who shouldn’t be there. They’d found nothing. Everyone had the proper permissions, the proper papers, or the proper breeding. Falk frowned and went back to his work.
Half an hour later he had cleared his desk of the most pressing matters, and went into the outer office again. “Carriage?” he said to Brich.
“It’s ready, my lord.”
Falk nodded and headed toward the Palace’s west entrance.
He could understand Brich’s confusion as to why he would leave just after ordering a roundup of suspects, but he did not really anticipate receiving any useful information from the Commoners his operatives would arrest. They might be sympathizers of the Cause, but they wouldn’t be its ringleaders. Some, in fact, would simply be innocent victims of whispering campaigns organized by their enemies.
The leaders, if they truly existed, would be far more deeply hidden. Most of them were no doubt thought of as fine, upstanding citizens. But the roundup would be a sharp reminder that Falk would not stand by indefinitely while sedition brewed in the Commons… and even though he considered it unlikely, there was always the possibility that someone might give him a name or a place, a tiny loose thread he could begin to pull at until he unraveled the whole web, revealing the mysterious Patron crouched like a fat spider at its center.
A better hope for beginning that unraveling process lay with Mother Northwind, but to see her, Falk had to go home.
His carriage hadn’t yet pulled up as he stepped out under the pillared portico. The Magecorps had scheduled rain for that evening, and so a thick gray mist was beginning to obscure the magesun. Falk leaned against a pillar, idly slapping his black gloves against his knee with his right hand and holding the briefcase full of paperwork he had packed in his office with the other. He gazed across the broad lawn beyond the drive to the line of trees that marked the edge of the Mageborn Enclave; he could just see the chimneys of the house he maintained there for… special guests.
He would have been returning home soon in any case, he thought. Tagaza was quite right: with the execution of the Plan so close, it was time to bring Brenna to the Palace to stay.
He didn’t think she would object-not that it made any difference, but it would be easier if she came willingly. She had turned eighteen half a year previously-at the same time as Prince Karl, of course-and he had often told her, setting the stage for the long-awaited culmination of his plans, that when she was of age he would bring her to New Cabora and find a position for her as a maid within the Palace or, if she preferred, in the Commons.
Falk’s feelings for his ward were not at all fatherly, but neither were they lecherous. He saw Brenna more as… an investment. Or perhaps a gamble, though that word carried with it far more sense of uncertainty than he felt about the chances of the Plan’s success. He did have some affection for her, doomed though she was-or perhaps because of that; he wasn’t a monster, after all-and resolved to ensure she enjoyed herself during her final few weeks.
His magecarriage came rolling up the drive from the outbuildings south of the Palace. Painted black, with no device to mark it as belonging to him, it trailed smoke as it approached. At the tiller in front sat his usual driver, Robinton; beside him was a young man he didn’t know.
Robinton pulled the brake lever to bring the magecarriage to a stop, then clambered down from the high seat. “Sorry for the delay, my lord,” he said. “I felt the coal bin should be topped up for an overnight drive in this weather, and then, of course, there was the crate to load.” He pointed to the carriage roof, where the large rectangular box containing-though Robinton surely didn’t know it-the assassin’s charred body, magically preserved, had been strapped. “Heavy, that. Cold, too.”
“Quite all right, Robinton,” Falk said. “Better to delay the start of the journey than to be stranded halfway. And though the crate is awkward-and cold-it is also the reason for my journey.” He glanced up at the young man, who, like Robinton, wore Falk’s gray livery. “And you are…?”
“Shand, my lord,” said the young man, looking very pale and serious.
“I’m sure it was very short notice for you, Shand,” said Falk. “Thank you for agreeing to help Robinton.” He sighed. “Normally I would take two days for the journey, but this trip is urgent. We’ll be driving straight through, and at top speed.” Shand, he noted, was wearing a heavy fur coat, with enormous fur mitts and a fur hat on the black leather of the seat beside him. Falk glanced at Robinton; he wore no extra layers at all. “Will you be warm enough?” he said skeptically.
“Oh, yes, my lord, thank you for asking.” Robinton pulled off his broad-rimmed black hat and turned it over. “Gift from the missus. Enchanted silver threads in the lining. I give ’em a kick before I set out, and they wrap me in nice warm air for most of a day. Plenty of time to get us to the valley. And just in case, I’ve got my old beaver-fur coat in the trunk.”
Falk laughed. “You have a wise missus, Robinton.”
“Thank you, my lord. Though I’m not certain a truly wise woman would have chosen to marry me.” He opened the door. “My lord…?”
Falk settled himself in the well-cushioned red-velvet interior, warmed by the heat of the coal burner that also provided energy to the enchanted gearbox that magically turned the magecarriage’s wheels, settled his briefcase on his knees, and with a brief push of magic, unlocked it.
Before the carriage had rolled through the Gate at the end of the bridge, out of perpetual spring into the stillfalling snow of late winter, he was deep into work once more, never once raising his head to look out the window.
Otherwise he might have glimpsed, here and there in the snow-choked streets of New Cabora, the bright blue uniforms of the Royal guards making the arrests he had ordered.