I shrugged. “What if it came to a drunkard? Some poor sot who’s never sober enough to understand what he’s feeling might completely miss the fact that he’s supposed to be the next king.”
His shoulders dropped as he turned my way. “Then I suppose we’ll have to go through the city and round up all the drunks so we can sober one of them up enough to take the throne.” He lifted a hand. “Do you always have to imagine the worst set of circumstances?”
I shrugged. “It usually saves time.”
Bolt turned to Gael. “Are you sure you want to marry him? He’s dour enough to be a Vigil guard.”
She gave me a smile along with one of those smoldering looks from beneath her lashes. “I’ve never noticed that. Maybe it’s the company he keeps.”
“Never mind.” He grew serious as he looked at me. “Are you ready to do your job?”
Queen Chora’s death. “I wonder what it would be like to be a cobbler or musician, to be part of a profession that didn’t have to deal in the worst humanity had to offer.” But inside I could feel the beat of my heart quicken, and I nodded.
We left our quarters and began the long trek to the royal chambers, making slight turns that fell short of the expected right angles as we negotiated the six-sided palace one leg at a time, the thick carpet muffling the sound of our steps. On our right, floor-to-ceiling windows offered a view of Cynestol at night, a city so lit that it resembled a mass of light bugs hovering over a field. On our left, toward the interior of the palace, were short hallways filled with doors, an uncountable number. I nodded down the hallway. “Why are so many people still up?” I asked Bolt.
“Cynestol is huge. The bigger the city, the more people it takes to keep it running smoothly.” His mouth pulled to one side. “Plus, there have been so many marriages among the nobility that nearly all of them work here in some capacity or another.”
“Does the crown really need all these people?” Rory asked.
Bolt shrugged. “No, but it helps keep them out of trouble. There’s a ministry for nearly everything, most of them incredibly insignificant. Except for the attempt on Chora that ended the time of the Errants, it’s been hundreds of years since any of the major nobles did any serious plotting against the throne.”
We came around to the east side of the palace after something closer to a hike than a walk. A quartet of guards stood sentry over a pair of double doors fifteen feet tall and wide enough for eight men to walk through abreast. The wood, light and nearly without grain, looked as if it had been freshly lacquered the week before. They probably had a minister for that.
One of the guards advanced, a captain’s insignia on his shoulder. “No one is permitted into the royal chambers, by order of the bishop.”
Bolt nodded. “Almost no one, and I think you mean the Archbishop.” He reached inside his doublet and pulled the letter from Vyne.
The captain read the letter in increments, pausing to look at Bolt and the rest of us. He handed back the letter with a shake of his head. “No, Errant Consto. I mean the bishop. Bishop Gehata has forbidden access to the royal apartments until such time as the church can confirm a new king.” He nodded toward the letter in Bolt’s hand. “The Archbishop’s letter grants you quarters in the palace, not access to Queen Chora’s apartments.”
Bolt gazed at the captain through narrowed eyes. “I suppose the bishop has the entrance guarded round the clock?”
At the captain’s nod, we retreated the way we came, Rory leading with Bolt on my left, chewing the inside of his cheek the whole way.
“We’re stuck,” I said, more to dispel the silence than anything else.
“For the moment,” Bolt said.
“Vyne never intended for us to investigate Chora’s death,” I said.
Bolt nodded. “The Vigil is the biggest secret the church has, Willet, but not its only secret. In Vyne’s mind, Chora is dead and the risks associated with uncovering the facts of it outweigh the benefits.”
Something mulishly stubborn flared to life in my chest. Bishop, Archbishop, or no, I was determined to find a way to investigate the queen’s death. Bolt’s soft laughter hit me like iced water dumped down my back. “What’s so funny?”
“The Archbishop has played us perfectly,” he said. “He can’t forbid you from investigating the queen’s death, but he can deny you access to the facts of it.”
Rory turned from his survey of the hall ahead. “Is everyone in the nobility and the church a schemer? They make Fess and Mark look like choirboys.”
“No,” Bolt said. “Not all of them or anything close to it, but the ones in power don’t get there by being stupid, no matter what their intentions are. You didn’t really believe the urchins were the only ones who bluffed or conned people, did you?”
Rory stiffened. “Of course not,” he said, but I could see a different perspective growing behind his eyes.
“Where does this leave us?” I asked.
Bolt took a deep breath. “For now, this leaves us in the throne room.”
“Oh, good,” I said. “That’s just what I’ve always wanted, a chance to swim in the accumulated indulgences of the richest kingdom on earth. Lovely. When I’m done, I think I’ll have a bath in the sewer.”
“Stop complaining,” Bolt growled.“It’s a chance to see if any of those peacocks know anything that can help us.”
Chapter 16
A week after sailing from Port City, Pellin sat on his bunk with Mark and Elieve seated before him. The gentle rocking of the ship beneath the blue canopy of the sky had served to lull the girl into a semblance of calm. Allta guarded the
