He bowed in return. I was, after all, a visiting lord, a guest of the kingdom, and the advisor to the last Errant. None of that accounted for the depth of his bow or the smile that accompanied it. “It is good to see you again, master reeve, or should I say, Lord Dura. The last I’d heard, you’d killed a count in Laidir’s throne room. I have to confess that I’m surprised to see you alive.”
My smile mirrored his. “Thanks in part to you, master juggler.” I looked around. Not one of the nobles paid us any mind. “I would have thought the gold I put in your hands would have freed you from entertaining those who take your abilities for granted.”
He shrugged. “I enjoy the work, and they pay me well enough, even if the coin is more to prove they can command my skills at their convenience rather than any real appreciation of my art.” He sighed. “As for the gold, well, money has wings, as they say, especially if a man has a gift for picking the wrong wagers.”
“Too true.” I nodded. “You have sharp eyes and ears, master juggler. I’d be willing to pay for useful information.”
The smile fled from his face. “Cynestol is my home, Lord Dura. I find I no longer have the desire to travel the other kingdoms. If the politics of Bunard are murky, here in Cynestol they’re downright opaque.” He turned his back to me and remounted the large wooden ball. A moment later his knives filled the air and he’d adopted the fixed stare of a juggler working his craft.
I made my way to Bolt’s side, reflecting on the twists and turns that had brought me to Cynestol. A woman in a filmy blue dress that managed to float like a feather on the wind even as it clung to the curves of her body approached the throne, her movements as fluid as water. Nothing in her open, even friendly, expression hinted at the thoughts that lurked behind her deep brown eyes. Nothing in the expressions of the other nobles I’d delved had either.
“I hate this place,” I murmured.
From his seat to one side of the queen’s empty throne, Bolt nodded. “Of course you do. You spend all your time seeing the worst parts of it.”
The noblewoman was still ten paces away. “You mean the inside of everyone’s head?” I asked.
He nodded. “From what Pellin told me, it’s the same everywhere. Courts are defined by hierarchy and utterly ruthless competition. That tends to bring out the worst in people.”
I sighed. “And I get to wallow in their ambition.”
Bolt grunted. “I noticed you’ve been taking a lot more baths.” He stood as the woman in blue stopped and curtsied.
I took a deep breath and pulled the gloves from my hands. “I can’t seem to get clean,” I whispered, but if Bolt heard me, he gave no sign.
The conversation between Bolt and the woman proceeded along the same line as all the others had. After a few moments, Bolt turned to me. “Duchess Leogan, may I present my advisor, Lord Dura of Bunard.”
She curtsied and I bowed and we stepped toward each other to engage in the customary greeting. She extended her right palm as I held out my left so that our fingers matched, and I fell into her thoughts.
Delving nobles day after day had honed my ability to don the identity of the one I delved while simultaneously holding on to my own. As quickly as I could, I checked for any knowledge or demonstration that Duchess Leogan held the gift of kings. After sifting through a few dozen of the most recent recollections and tracing them to their origin, I prepared to surrender the link, but a particularly bright thread caught my attention. There in the river of Leogan’s memories was a gold-colored thread that shone like the sun. Curious, I reached for it.
A moment later, I stepped back from the duchess, bowing to a depth that surprised her. “Duchess Leogan, you honor us,” I said.
Her brows, beautiful but not as exquisite as Gael’s, drew together for a moment, curious. “The pleasure is mine, Lord Dura.” She turned to Bolt. “I hope you will remember me, Errant Consto, in your deliberations.”
Bolt dipped his head. “Alas, Duchess, the only criterion for the throne I may consider is the gift of kings.”
She nodded and with a swirl of cloth and hair returned to the riot of color and sound that defined court.
I leaned over. “I have what we need.”
Hours later, well before midnight, we approached the guards standing watch at the entrance to the queen’s expansive apartments. The captain came forward, his mouth ready with denials. “Errant Consto, you may not enter without Bishop Gehata’s permission.”
Bolt gestured me forward. “I believe Lord Dura has acquired the documents necessary for entrance, Captain.”
I put the parchment into his hand and held my breath, watching as the captain’s eyes widened and then narrowed as he read. With quick, sharp gestures, he refolded the parchment, checking the soldiers behind him.
“You may pass,” he said, but fury burned behind his eyes. With a nod, the guards opened the doors to the queen’s apartments. The vaulted space beyond was pitch-black. Not one lamp or candle burned to relieve the darkness.
“Where’s Prince Maenelic?” I asked.
The captain eyed me as if unsure whether he should or had to answer me. He opted for silence until Bolt repeated the question.
“Bishop Gehata thought it best to remove the prince from the environs of his mother’s untimely death. He felt such proximity was weighing unduly upon the prince’s mind. The prince has been sent north to help command our forces in the battle against the Darkwater.”
Of a wonder, no one in our group made the obvious remark. Bolt retreated a few steps to pull a pair of lamps from the wall and we entered, the sound of the doors closing behind us hollow,
