Elsabet
A faint aura of neglect reigns over the former temple of Anibal on Anchor Street. Inside, the corners of the cella, the great central chamber, are thick with dust. Tiles are missing from the ornate mosaics on the floor, and matted spiderwebs hang like seafoam from the candelabras.
Yet the northern part of the cella, where the altar rises, has been recently swept. On the altar, surrounded by glowering statues of the God of death, is a tall priest’s chair, and in the chair sits a woman with long black hair and sharp, aquiline features. She wears a scarlet gown, close fitting as a glove, as if she has been dipped in blood. She is a Princess, and very far from her native land.
She gazes without expression at the two men standing before her. One is Artal Gremont, looking unpleasantly sweaty. The other refuses to be referred to by his real name: The Princess has taken to calling him Seven, as that is the position of his chair on the clockface of the Dial Chamber.
“So the Prince is set on this alliance with Kutani, then?” says Belmany. “He cannot be turned aside?”
“I’ve always thought of him as weak-willed,” says Seven, who knows Conor better than Artal, “but he’s been remarkably firm on this. It doesn’t help that he has the backing of all his usual advisers. Bensimon, Jolivet—they’re all keen on this match.”
“Of course they are,” breathes. Spineless opportunists, all of them. Everyone knows Castellane runs on greed the way the human body runs on blood and humors. Each person surrounding the Prince sought only to enrich themselves with gold; they have forgotten the more valuable offerings of royalty: nobility, stern pride, the steely rule of Law, and the courage to lead a nation into battle. “Annoying,” she says, “but as we suspected. It is the Sword Catcher who concerns me at the moment. He continues to be a thorn in our side.”
Artal’s forehead creases. “Is that the one that’s supposed to be the Prince’s cousin? He doesn’t look like much of a threat. I could easily hire a mercenary to put an end to him—”
“He’s a better fighter than he looks,” says Seven, shooting Artal a sideways look of contempt. “And besides—our lady wants him alive.”
flatters herself that she finds most people easy to read. It is clear to her that Seven is none too fond of Artal and is barely tolerating his presence. She hides a smile. Seven thinks a great deal of himself, as all the Charter holders do, and it amuses her to see him discomfited. “I do want Kellian Saren alive,” she says. “But I also want him out of the good graces of the Palace.”
“It’s not the Palace that protects him,” Seven says, “it’s the Prince. He loves him like a brother. Won’t hear a bad word about him. I’ve tried.”
“But with what evidence? Surely the Sword Catcher has been loyal. And if he failed in some small way, surely the Prince would forgive him?”
Seven inclines his head to acknowledge the truth of ’s words.
“Still,” she muses, “a Prince must acknowledge treason. Where a friend could forgive a betrayal, a ruler cannot countenance an act against himself, for it is an attack against his country.”
“You mean because he is working with the Ragpicker King?” says Seven. “And not with Conor’s knowledge, as far as I can tell.”
watches a black spider scurry across the broken-tiled floor. She says, “That is not enough. In Castellane, the King in the City and the King on the Hill have long had more of a connection than most people know.”
Artal and Seven exchange a puzzled look; clearly they do not know what she means. Nor do they need to; they are merely rich men, not royal ones. There are some secrets it is unnecessary for them to know. “But working with the Ragpicker King— Well, it sounds to me as if he begins to chafe at his servitude. He was born to die for someone else, to uplift them with his blood. He surely has come to resent it. We can play on that. We will watch him, observe him. He will make a mistake.” She turns to Artal, who has begun to look glazed. Alas, complex machinations are somewhat beyond him. “In the meantime, Artal, you know your task. We have reason to believe your pretty fiancée knows where Prosper Beck can be found. I shall rely upon you to convince her to tell.”
Artal grins. “Wonderful,” he says. “I’ll enjoy that very much.”