Plan decided, Crys sucked down some more ale and proceeded to lose another three hands.
Crys had found a lucky streak from somewhere. Strange, that, how his fortune had changed so suddenly. He’d won back most of what he’d lost but was still some way behind the others. Still, it was all running smooth—
‘I’ve been watching you. You’re a cheat.’
Crys lurched up from his chair and fumbled for his sword as Poe and Jud gawped, faces twisting with drunken outrage. The light fell on the speaker and Crys gasped, released the hilt and dropped to one knee. ‘Sire. Forgive me, Your Highness. You startled me and I – I simply reacted. I beg your pardon.’
Poe and Jud grabbed their coins and fled, not looking back, leaving Crys to the mercy of the Crown and seeming glad about it.
‘Shut up, stand up and pour me a drink.’
‘Yes, Your Highness.’
‘Sire or milord will do, soldier.’ Crys straightened and Prince Rivil took the proffered mug and sipped, made a face and sipped again. ‘Awful. I note you haven’t denied my accusation.’
Crys’s knee buckled again but he hoisted himself back up. ‘Your High— Milord may say and think anything he wishes, Sire,’ he said in a rush, staring anywhere but into Rivil’s face and so looking at his crotch instead. He blushed, straightened and snapped into parade rest, staring over the prince’s left shoulder and through the man behind him, one-eyed, well-dressed, a lord if Crys was any judge.
‘Oh, for shit’s sake, man, stop that. You think I’d be in a dockside tavern if I wanted pomp and ceremony? Sit the fuck down and have a drink. I’m here for relaxation, not to have my arse kissed.’
‘I – yes, Your … Sire.’
Rivil folded long legs under the small table and leant forward, oblivious to the ale staining the elbows of his velvet coat. ‘This is Galtas Morellis, Lord of Silent Water,’ he said, jerking a thumb at the man seating himself beside him.
Crys’s head swam. Galtas, Rivil’s drinking companion and personal bodyguard. Crys was in it up to his neck and it didn’t smell sweet.
‘Teach me your version of cheating at cards,’ Rivil said abruptly. ‘I’m not familiar with it.’
Oh, holy fuck. A bed and a razor, that’s all he’d wanted. All right, maybe a woman, but was that so much to ask when you’d been stationed in the North Rank for the last two years, negotiating border treaties?
Crys swallowed ale, wetting his throat, giving himself time to think, not that he could see a way out. ‘It would be an honour, Sire. Would you care to use my cards?’
Crys’s stack of coins was dwindling fast. At this rate he’d be sleeping in the gutter and shaving himself with his sword come morning. Or just using it to slit his own throat; the Commander didn’t listen to excuses, even ones about meeting a prince in a grimy tavern.
‘Oi, rich man. You’re fuckin’ cheatin’. I been watching you, you lanky bastard. You’re doing our brave soldier out of his hard-earned coin. He risks his life on those wild borders and comes here for a bit of ease and rest, and you’re fuckin’ doin’ him out of his money like you don’t have enough of it already? Fuckin’ nobility.’
Crys was suddenly and entirely sober. Galtas had swivelled in his chair and then risen to his feet. Rivil remained seated, his back to the speaker and his cool gaze resting on Crys. The message was clear: get off your arse and help, Crys Tailorson. Crys got off his arse.
‘Sir, I assure you nothing untoward is occurring here. I am merely experiencing bad luck with the cards. It happens – a lesson from the Fox God. Your concern is touching—’
‘Never fear, soldier, we’ll have at him for you. Fuckin’ lords comin’ in here and screwin’ over decent hard-workin’ folk. Honestly, you’re doin’ us a favour if you let us have ’im.’
‘Really, I don’t—’ Crys began into the heavy silence of dozens of men readying for a brawl.
The man was already swinging at Rivil’s unprotected head and Crys could do nothing but bite off the words and make a desperate lunge over the table. Galtas caught the attacker’s wrist, twisted it up and into an elbow lock, and threw him back into the press. He drew his sword, useless in the crowd but an effective deterrent to unarmed men.
‘City guard’s comin’. Scarper,’ a voice called before anyone had a chance to react. Rivil’s eyes snapped to Crys. The aggressors melted away and the rest of the patrons settled down, buzzing with conversation. Many slipped out, not eager to meet the Watch. Crys sat back down and emptied his mug.
Galtas remained on his feet, scanning the room for long moments, and then sat. Rivil jerked his head at Crys. ‘You did that? Those words? How?’
‘A knack,’ Crys said. ‘I can make my voice come from somewhere else.’
‘Sounds like witchcraft. And with eyes like that, I’m not surprised,’ Rivil teased. Galtas frowned, a dagger appearing in his hand.
‘No. Just a knack, like I said.’ Crys had both hands palm down on the table, as unthreatening as he could make himself. Rivil scraped all of his winnings, and Galtas’s, over to Crys’s side of the table.
‘My thanks,’ Rivil said, ‘but why bother? I’m not exactly popular with the Ranks. Why not let that man kick the shit out of me?’
‘You are my prince, Sire,’ Crys said, dropping the coins into his pouch, ‘even if you are a better cheat than me. No one kicks the shit out of the prince while I’m with him.’
‘I’m glad to hear it. Come and find me when you’re off-duty tomorrow. I might have a use for you.’
Eleventh moon, seventeenth year of the reign of King Rastoth
The palace, Rilporin, Wheat Lands
‘Where is His Majesty?’ Durdil asked. The throne room was empty but for guards, the audience chamber vacant too.
‘The queen’s wing, Commander Koridam,’ Questrel Chamberlain said with an oily smile and the corners of Durdil’s mouth turned down. Third time this month.
Durdil’s breath steamed as he ducked out of the throne room and into a courtyard and took a shortcut through the servants’ passages. Winter was coming early this year, and the preparations for Yule were increasing apace.
Servants flattened themselves against the rough stone walls as he passed, ducking their heads respectfully. He nodded at each in turn. Durdil knew every servant in the palace; it made it that much easier to identify outsiders, potential threats to his king.
A guard stood in silence outside the queen’s chamber. Durdil slowed. He straightened his uniform and scraped his fingernails over the iron-grey stubble on his head.
‘Lieutenant Weaverson, is the king inside?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Did he speak to you?’
Weaverson was impassive as only a guard can be. ‘Not to me, sir. He was conversing with the queen.’
Durdil paused, chewing the inside of his cheek. Nicely phrased, no hint of mockery. ‘Thank you, Lieutenant. As you were.’
‘Sir,’ Weaverson said and thumped the butt of his