He nodded. “Evidently, you’re needed at court. Your guard and the lady are waiting for you outside.”
Fifteen minutes later I stepped into the noise of Cynestol, a current of sound I’d been unaware of during my time at the healer’s. Scents of meat and smoke washed over me, and in the distance I heard honest laughter, but the buildings waved in my vision as though the earth and heavens had become untethered from their moorings.
Gael caught me before I could fall. “Can you ride?”
I nodded. “I think so.”
She and Rory helped me into the saddle, and after a few blocks of walking through Cynestol’s working-class quarter, my head cleared enough to worry. “Won’t the healer talk?”
“No.” Gael shook her head. “He’s an old friend of Bolt’s.” She must have seen something in my pallor or expression that worried her. “Come, Willet, just a little farther.”
Her tone made me wonder just how bad I looked. True to her word, we were only a mile from the palace. Even so, the distance stretched into an agony where I felt each step of my mount in my injured side and the slightest misstep of my horse sent the moon and stars spinning.
When we got to the palace stable, I slid out of the saddle into Gael’s arms, as if my bones had turned to wax. I heard more than saw the clink of heavy silver coins she used to buy the hostler’s silence.
I felt as if I could have slept for days more. “How long until court opens?” I croaked.
“Not for twelve hours or so,” Gael said.
We threaded our way through the halls, and the rooms set aside for our use, a short journey that carried its own misery. Every time we came across a servant or functionary, I had to surrender Gael’s support and pretend to be a healthy man in possession of his requisite amount of blood.
When we made it to the privacy of our chambers, I fell into bed and plummeted into slumber.
Sunlight streamed through the west-facing window in a bar of light that spilled across the rich blue-patterned carpet in the room, up the bed, and onto my face. I didn’t understand at first, but a moment later my heart, already beating faster with the loss of blood, accelerated with my panic. I jerked awake, then put a hand to the stitches in my side.
“Court,” I gaped.
“It’s alright, Willet,” Gael said, “Bolt is there and he’s made excuses for us, as he has for days. His excuses would have fallen apart in Bunard, but in Cynestol’s court they have worked to perfection.” She couldn’t quite suppress the smile that made me want to cover her mouth with mine.
“What would those be?” I croaked as I reached to make use of the water pitcher by the nightstand. Stripped to the waist, I had a better idea of the damages. I’d taken a sword stroke to the side, and judging by the padding beneath the linen binding the wound, it had been significant, but the wound had lost most of its heat. I wouldn’t die because it fouled.
“He and Rory are letting everyone in court know that you’ve noticed my wandering eye here in Cynestol, specifically for a certain male servant, and you’re taking the luxury and the time to remind me just why I chose you to be my future husband.”
I didn’t have my full allotment of blood, but some of it made it to my face anyway. “They’re saying that?”
She nodded, this time showing more teeth as she smiled. “Or something even more suggestive.”
“You know what everyone will think,” I said.
Now she laughed. “Willet, my love, if I cared what people thought I would never have agreed to bind myself to ‘Laidir’s Jackal’ in the first place.” She shrugged. “It’s a different culture here. The nobles in Cynestol are far less concerned with the timing of the consummation of a betrothal and far more concerned with honoring the vow while the marriage is in force, however short that may be.” She took a deep breath and slid her hands around my neck. “However, if you’re worried about Bolt and Rory being truthful . . .”
Our lips parted a moment later and she smiled at me. “There. You just reminded me why I chose you. Come, those excuses will wear thin even here. We need to make some kind of appearance.”
I took a step toward the massive wardrobe at the other end of the room and wobbled. “I’m still unsteady on my feet,” I said. “People will notice.”
Gael laughed, a deep seductive sound. “I’ll just remind them that I am physically gifted.”
She laughed harder when I gaped at her. “You’re not concerned with your reputation?” I asked.
“When we could die any day from dwimor, insane people from the Darkwater, or power-mad clergy within the church?” She shook her head. “I think you’re asking the wrong question, my heart. The real question is why do you care what people think?”
She had a certain logic to her arguments. After that, I stopped worrying about the opinions of strangers. In truth, I usually didn’t. I’d carried any number of names in the past year or so. Jackal, assassin, and peasant-lord were just a few I could repeat in polite company. If the court of Cynestol wanted to label me a deflowerer of women, they would do it with or without my objections.
Better that than have Archbishop Vyne discover us.
Gael helped me dress, and we left our room to make our way back to court—where the assembled frippery of Cynestol nobility waited to press their case for rule to the last Errant. My mind was in better shape than my body, but not by any great amount. I hoped I would be able to delve enough of the nobility to sustain our ruse.
Outside our door,
