We stepped past them into the entryway and the men following behind us closed in, blocking the sun. “One of these days that mouth of yours is going to get you into trouble,” Bolt said.
“You mean it hasn’t already?”
“I mean trouble I can’t get you out of.”
“Well, luck might be smiling on you today,” I said. “We have no idea what’s waiting for us.”
“I do,” he said, but again, he offered no explanation for the sudden grief in his eyes.
We walked across the courtyard with eight of the Archbishop’s gifted trailing us.
“They’ve got the house and the rest of our group buttoned up,” Bolt said. “Otherwise, they’d have drawn steel before now.”
The broad doors to the entry swung open at our approach, showing another half-dozen church guards trying to pretend they were ordinary people. I shook my head. As if ordinary people all wore the exact same ordinary clothes.
“Not a lot of imagination there,” Rory said. “I bet none of these men has ever pulled a bluff in their life, much less a con.”
We stepped into the dining hall. Domed in the style popular in Cynestol, it held a pair of tables made from single slabs of wood each two hands thick, a pace and a half across and fifteen paces long. Big as the room was, it barely contained the crowd. Men and women—some of them young but all with very functional-looking swords and daggers at their belts—clustered around us. Gael sat in the middle of the closest table, but her posture radiated restrained motion. She glanced at me before her gaze returned to a whippet-faced man with a long nose at the head of the table.
Toria and Fess were nowhere in sight.
“Come, Lord Dura,” the whippet-faced man said. “Sit.”
Nothing in his voice hinted at a reason for the presence of so many armed men in the house or how they had found us. Rory and Bolt took seats across from Gael as I took the one next to her. I reached out to give her hand a comforting squeeze, and she gave me an indulgent smile. “Until we know what’s going on, I probably should keep my hands free,” she whispered to me.
“Excellent,” the man at the head of the table said. “We worried for your return, Lord Dura.” He lifted his right hand and crooked a finger. One of the guards, with more time and scars than the rest leaned forward. “You can clear the room now, Batten, and seal the doors.”
The man stroked an untouched glass of wine in front of him with that same finger. “An introduction is in order, of course. I am Lieutenant Hradian. Your names, I already know from the descriptions given me with the exception of this flower.” He nodded to Gael.
Gael inclined her head in a gesture I recognized from court. “I am Gael Alainn, of Collum.”
“A lady, no doubt,” Hradian said. “Your manners speak of court, and your grace speaks of other gifts as well. Your group numbers significantly fewer than I was led to expect.” He nodded toward the empty seats around the table. “This charming estate shows signs of recently hosting nearly a dozen.” He made a vague gesture toward the general vicinity of the stable. “As well as a pair of large dogs, of which only one remains. Where are your companions?”
At our stoic stares, he continued. “I assure you all, you have nothing to fear from me or from His Holiness.”
The tide of bells, muted by distance and the walls of the estate, intruded upon our conversation as the church the next street over began tolling in unison, the heavy iron bell the only one to peal. Across from me, Bolt’s face blanched, though his expression never changed.
“You’ve brought enough gifted to decimate an army,” I said. “What exactly does Vyne want that requires our service—voluntary or otherwise?”
Hradian nodded. “His Excellence does not confide in me.” For a moment he broke his gaze to cast a measuring glance toward Bolt, and something akin to speculation bordering on wonder passed over his eyes before he continued. “Archbishop Vyne wanted me to assure you that he has told me nothing about you except your descriptions and other trivial details that would allow me to find you.” He nodded toward Gael. “He failed to mention the lady.”
I nodded. “You’ve surrounded us with armed men, Lieutenant. I’m sure you can see how that would make me suspicious. Exactly how do you intend to prove that you’re from the Archbishop and don’t mean us harm?”
Hradian nodded. “He told me to expect this question and that in the presence of so many gifted, no answer would suffice.”
I smiled. “Clever man. It seems strange that the Archbishop did not send a letter with you.”
The look of speculation I’d seen in Hradian’s eyes returned, sharper, before he answered. “When I asked the Archbishop for such a letter, he said something strange.” He glanced at each of us. “He said that if we were taken or attacked in any way, he didn’t want to betray you.” Hradian leaned forward, like a racing hound straining at the lead. “Cynestol boasts hundreds of thousands and the rest of Aille holds that and more, but I was given fully half the cosp to make this journey.”
He looked at each of us in turn, as if he could will us to answer his unspoken questions, his dark eyes intent above the sharp nose that dominated his face. “The Archbishop’s counsel is his own,” he said, “but it is my job to protect him, even from his own counsel. I have enough men to force all of you to Cynestol.”
“Without proof that you’ve come from the Archbishop, you die first,” Bolt said. For an instant I saw something eager in Hradian’s gaze.
“But those weren’t your orders, were they?” I asked. As entertaining as a pitched battle that would get us all killed might be, Ealdor’s costly information still hung
