didn’t want to mention it.”
Stapes covered the dead sipquick with a cupped hand. “It’s like they were giving up their little souls to make you well again.” Something inside the man suddenly gave way, and he began to cry. The deep, hopeless sobs of an honest man who has been frightened and helpless for a long time, watching the slow death of a well-loved friend.
Alveron stood motionless for a stunned moment, all the anger spilling out of him. Then he moved to put his arms gently around his manservant. “Oh Stapes,” he said softly. “They were, in a way. You haven’t done anything you can be blamed for.”
I quietly left the room and busied myself removing the feeders from the gilded cage.
An hour later the three of us were eating a quiet supper together in the Maer’s rooms. Alveron and I told Stapes what had been happening over the last several days. Stapes was almost giddy, both at his master’s health and at the knowledge it would continue to improve.
As for myself, after suffering a few days under Alveron’s displeasure, being so suddenly in his good graces again was a relief. Nevertheless, I was shaken by how close to disaster I had been.
I was honest with the Maer about my misguided suspicion of Stapes, and I offered the manservant my sincere apology. Stapes in turn admitted his doubts about me. In the end we shook hands and thought much better of each other.
As we were chatting over the last bites of supper Stapes perked up, excused himself, and hurried out.
“My outer door,” the Maer explained. “He has ears like a dog. It’s uncanny.”
Stapes opened the door to admit the tall man with the shaven head who had been looking over maps with Alveron when I’d first arrived, Commander Dagon.
As Dagon stepped into the room his eyes flicked to each of the corners, to the window, to the other door, briefly over me, then back to the Maer. When his eyes touched me, all the deep feral instincts that had kept me alive on the streets of Tarbean told me to run. Hide. Do anything so long as it took me far away from this man.
“Ah, Dagon!” the Maer said cheerily. “Are you well this fine day?”
“Yes, your grace.” He stood attentively, not quite meeting the Maer’s eye.
“Would you be good enough to arrest Caudicus for treason?”
There was a half-heartbeat pause. “Yes, your grace.”
“Eight men should be sufficient, providing they’re not likely to panic in a complicated situation.”
“Yes, your grace.” I began to sense subtle differences in Dagon’s responses.
“Alive,” Alveron responded, as if answering a question. “But you needn’t be gentle.”
“Yes, your grace.” With that, Dagon turned to leave.
I spoke up quickly. “Your grace, if he’s truly an arcanist you ought to take certain precautions.” I regretted the word “ought” as soon as I had said it, “ought” was presumptuous. I should have said,
Alveron seemed to take no notice of my misstep. “Yes, of course. Set a thief to catch a thief. Dagon, before you settle him downstairs, bind him hand and foot with good iron chain. Pure iron, mind you. Gag and blindfold him. . . .” He thought for a brief moment, tapping his lips with a finger “And cut off his thumbs.”
“Yes, your grace.”
Alveron looked at me. “Do you think that should be sufficient?”
I fought down a wave of nausea and forced myself not to wring my hands in my lap. I didn’t know which I found more unsettling, the cheerful tone with which Alveron delivered the commands, or the flat emotionless one with which Dagon accepted them. A full arcanist was nothing to trifle with, but I found the thought of crippling the man’s hands more horrifying than killing him outright.
Dagon left, and after the door closed Stapes shuddered. “Good lord, Rand, he’s like cold water down the back of my neck. I wish you’d get rid of him.”
The Maer laughed. “So someone else could have him? No, Stapes. I want him right here. My mad dog on a short leash.”
Stapes frowned. But before he could make anything more of it, his eyes were drawn through the doorway into the sitting room. “Oh, there’s another one.” He walked to the cage and returned with another dead flit, holding its tiny body tenderly as he carried it out of the chambers. “I know you needed to test the medicine on something,” he said from the other room. “But it’s a little rough on the poor little calanthis.”
“Beg pardon?” I asked.
“Our Stapes is old-fashioned,” Alveron explained with a smile. “And more educated than he cares to admit. Calanthis is the Eld Vintic name for them.”
“I could swear I’ve heard that word somewhere else.”
“It’s also the surname of the royal line of Vintas,” Alveron said chidingly. “For someone who knows so much, you’re curiously blind in places.”
Stapes craned his neck to look toward the cage again. “I know you had to do it,” he said, “But why not use mice, or Comptess DeFerre’s nasty little dog?”
Before I could answer, there was a thump from the outer rooms and a guard burst through the inner door before Stapes could come to his feet.
“Your grace,” the man said breathlessly as he jumped to the room’s only window and slammed the shutters. Next he ran to the sitting room and did the same with the window in there. There followed other, similar noises from rooms farther back I had never seen. There was a faint sound of furniture being moved.
Stapes looked puzzled and half rose to his feet, but the Maer shook his head and motioned for him to sit down. “Lieutenant?” he called out, a tinge of irritation in his voice.
“Beg pardon, your grace,” the guard said as he reentered the room, breathing heavily. “Dagon’s orders. I was to secure your rooms straightaway.”
“I take it all is not well,” Alveron said dryly.
“There was no answer from the tower when we knocked. Dagon had us force the door. There was . . . I know not what it was, your grace. Some malignant spirit. Anders is dead, your grace. Caudicus is nowhere in his rooms, but Dagon is after him.”
Alveron’s expression darkened. “Damn!” he thundered, striking the arm of his chair with a fist. His brow furrowed and he let out an explosive sigh. “Very well.” He waved the guard away.
The guard stood stiffly. “Sir. Dagon said I’m not to leave you unguarded.”
Alveron gave him a dangerous look. “Very well, but stand over there.” He pointed to the corner of the room.
The guard appeared perfectly happy to fade into the background. Alveron leaned forward, pressing the tips of his fingers to his forehead. “How in the name of God did he suspect?”
The question seemed rhetorical, but it set the wheels of my mind spinning. “Did your grace pick up his medicine yesterday?”
“Yes, yes. I did everything the same as I had done in days past.”
He did. Stapes brought it to me. I uncorked it and ran a finger along the inside of the glass. “How does your grace’s medicine taste?”
“I’ve told you. Brackish, bitter.” I watched the Maer’s eyes go wide as I brought my finger to my mouth and touched it lightly to the tip of my tongue. “Are you mad?” Alveron said incredulously.
“Sweet,” I said simply. Then I rinsed my mouth with water and spat it as delicately as possible into an empty glass. I took a small folded packet of paper from a pocket in my vest, shook a small amount into my hand and ate it, grimacing.
“What’s that?” Stapes asked.
“Liguellen,” I lied, knowing the real answer, charcoal, would only provoke more questions. I took a mouthful of water and spat it out as well. This time it was black, and Alveron and Stapes stared at it, startled.
I bulled ahead. “Something must have made him suspect you were not taking your medicine, your grace. If it suddenly tasted different, you would have asked him.”
The Maer nodded. “I saw him yesterday evening. He asked after my health.” He beat his fist softly onto the
