He turned to find Mercunin, the cadaverous porter, looming over him, his grease-light back in his hand. The man’s hollow eyes were pools of shadow, even with the light so close.
‘Thank you,’ Chel said, trying to stop his teeth chattering. ‘I … You … Thank you.’
The twin voids gave nothing away. ‘We shall all of us burn,’ the man intoned in his earthen rumble, and Chel thought his rictus mouth twitched upward at the words. Then Mercunin was stalking over the deserted ramparts as the fire-pool guttered and died. He collected his crate and vanished down the steps, clinking. Plenty of oil jugs remained.
Chel risked another look at Heali’s broken form, shivered and winced, then stumbled to the wall. The line of torches was almost at the gate. He could see the glimmer of steel in their dancing light.
Armed men were about to storm the palace, the guards had fled, and still the gate stood open.
***
By the time he’d lurched his way down to the courtyard, he could hear the thud of marching feet on the dusty road outside. The guards and sentries were long gone, and Chel realized he had no idea what, if any, mechanism operated the gate. Throwing his shoulder against the gate’s heavy wood achieved little more than forcing more blood from his abdomen. He didn’t have time to figure it out; the men were moments from the palace. No palace bells rang, no guards had come running. He was on his own.
He risked a quick look through the archway. The armed column made its way up the incline, maybe two dozen figures. They sported pikes and torches, and Chel spotted axes and knives at their belts. Their clothing was dark but motley. His eyes darted to their heads.
Each man sported a shaven head, save for a tuft of hair at its crest. Chel’s eyes widened. The men were confessors.
They halted before the gate, then at a signal each raised something to his face and affixed it. Wooden masks. Chel jerked his head back, breathing hard. The masks were crude, rough-made things, nothing like the fine-wrought snarling mask the little Nort in the lowport had displayed. Confessors were disguising themselves as Norts? Nothing here added up. He had to raise the alarm.
Skirting Heali’s still-smouldering corpse, he drove his aching body toward the palace interior.
***
Chel burst through the open archway and stumbled into the western hall, which had been dressed for the festival. A few people drifted between its elegant columns as Chel looked around, wheezing, singed and bleeding. The smell of smoke carried into here as well: something was burning within the palace, but no one seemed to be doing anything about it.
The handful of nobles who had chosen – or been forced – to stay rather than flee after the Nort attack looked up in shock at Chel’s entrance, as did the skeleton crew of servants, minstrels and feast entertainers who surrounded them. Ignoring their ire, Chel made for the grand duke and the remainder of his family at the high table, where they were surrounded by half a dozen or so of his preening house guard.
‘We’re under attack,’ Chel croaked, his voice scratched and hoarse. ‘Take shelter!’
‘Who in five hells are you?’ boomed the duke. He had remained seated. Beside him sat his strutting son Count Esen, who was staring at Chel with the same expression as he might a coil of catshit, and beside him his hairy cousin, Morara.
Chel tried to bow, wincing at the pain in his side. ‘Vedren Chel of Barva, sworn to Prince Tarfel, your grace.’
All heads turned to the far end of the table, where Prince Tarfel, scrubbed pink and draped in lace, was seated, flinching at the sound of his name. He looked up at Chel, his expression shifting from surprised confusion to embarrassment.
‘Well, Merimonsun?’ bellowed the duke. ‘Is this one of yours?’
The little prince flushed from head to foot. ‘Well, as you say, your grace, in fact—’
‘Answer me, boy!’
‘Yes, yes, he’s my sworn man. First sworn. Only, really, I’ve not—’
Chel looked from one to the other, almost bursting with frustration. ‘Please, your grace! We don’t have much time – armed men are entering the palace as we speak.’
Some of the nobles started to rise, panic flushing their plump features.
The duke raised a thick eyebrow and tweaked his pointed beard. ‘Then where are the alarms, Chel of Barva? Where are the palace guard? Where is my commander to tell me of this emergency?’
Chel looked around. The commander of the palace guard was entirely absent. This did not reassure him.
Count Esen leaned forward, handsome features locked in a sneer. ‘Have this dog beaten, Father. He’s clearly drunk, and likely lost a wager to send him here. These provincial irregulars are notorious for it.’
Chel locked eyes with the young count. The noble’s eyes glittered with mocking challenge. Fuck you, Chel thought back. I’m trying to save your life, you abject halfwit.
He said nothing.
‘I can smell burning!’ a noble shouted. She looked young and earnest. ‘And there’s a bell! In the distance!’
Chel looked back to the duke, ignoring his son. ‘Please, your grace. I saw not a guard between here and the city gate – I’ve just run straight in here unchallenged. I can’t tell you where everybody is, only that soldiers are inside the palace right now. We must take refuge!’
The duke looked at him through narrowed eyes, then around the room, gauging the rising panic in the hall. Several of the nobles had begun to chatter among themselves, despite the duke calling for quiet, and members of one family, including the girl who had noticed the smell of smoke, were already making for one of the doors out of the hall.
‘Remain in your seats!’ the duke bellowed. They ignored him, and a moment later had disappeared down one of the narrow hallways that led toward the main wing of the palace. Others were rising, the servants already making for the kitchen exit, the minstrels in hot pursuit. The duke remained seated, glowering at Chel, and growled for his own men to stay put.
Chel looked to the prince, who was likewise unmoved. ‘Please, your highness, we need to—’
Screams silenced the hall. From the first passageway, a bloodied noble came stumbling back into the room, slick hands clutching at a savage rent in his midriff. ‘Norts!’ he shrieked, then collapsed. He did not move again.
At last the duke was on his feet. ‘Bar the doors! Bar every fucking door in this hall!’
***
The duke’s guards moved quickly, rushing to the doorways and slamming them shut, then dragging festival tables in front. Screams and hammering came from beyond more than one. Then they moved to the storm-shutters, hauling closed the wide windows that had offered such a charming view out over lower terraces and the western sea beyond. Few nobles remained in the hall, besides Chel and guards: the duke himself, his son Esen and nephew Morara, and Prince Tarfel. Wherever the others had fled to, Chel hoped they were safe. Somehow, he doubted it.
The duke was breathing hard, his face flushed and gleaming. ‘Norts in the palace. Shepherd’s eye, we’re doomed.’
‘Charge them, Father!’ Count Esen was at his father’s side. An ornate, slim-bladed dagger had appeared in his hand. ‘Drive these dogs back into the sea!’
The duke waved him away. ‘You, prince’s man. How many did you see?’
Chel swallowed. His side was beginning to throb. ‘At least twenty, your grace. But they weren’t coming from the sea, they came up the hill path from the city gates.’ He shot Count Esen a look of challenge. ‘And they’re not Norts at all. They’re