“Conspirators’?”
“It sounds better than calling them rebels, Adrian. And it suggests smaller numbers than there actually were.”
“And how many actually were they?” he inquired bleakly.
“Thirty-eight of the knights. Two hundred plus in all, including their paid employees. Just about all the Verities, I’m afraid, but that comes as no surprise. I’m glad for Saul’s line that Gil wasn’t such a fool.”
“He was,” said Adrian briefly.
“Oh. I’m sorry.” Fischer cleared his throat. “I’ll send an escort down to pick you up. You ought to address the court and security forces as soon as possible. Particularly the security forces, they did a good job for you tonight. If you’d been here instead of six companies of the City Guard, the rebels would be the ones addressing the court.”
“And Saul? He’s really dead?”
“He’s gone.” They were both silent. Fischer had been Saul’s First Adviser for thirty years now, until Saul had bequeathed him to Adrian in an effort to protect his chosen successor. Fischer had not gone willingly at first.
“Was he alone when he died?”
“Well, his valet was with him.”
Adrian made a sound that would have been a laugh if it weren’t so unhappy. He said, “Tell them I’ll be speaking in an hour.”
“All right. Sir.” Fischer cut the connection. It was the first time he’d ever called Adrian “sir.”
Five hours later, Fischer helped Adrian to his bed in the suite near Saul Veritie’s. A corpse was laid out in there now.
“I heard about that stunt of yours with the knighthood,” said Fischer.
Adrian chuckled. He pulled back the covers and let himself down, nearly groaning with the sudden relaxation of muscles. He’d been awake for the better part of three days. “Roger said you’d be upset.”
“I was. I’d still be, except the commons seem delighted with it. They’re putting banners out up and down the Boulevard to celebrate your elevation to the Protectorship.”
Adrian smiled, luxuriating in the clean sheets.
Fisher said, “I understand this fellow you raised already has a sign outside his shop with his new title on it.”
The smile widened.
“Don’t you think the nobles might be a little upset?”
“They never go to that kind of shop. They’ll forget eventually. But the neighborhood people will pass by every day, and they’ll be happy.”
Fischer watched as Adrian turned his head into the pillow. On the bureau beside him was a white handkerchief and a piece of glass, where Adrian had placed them when he pulled them from his pocket before climbing into bed. “And Saul always said it was important to have their support.”
“He did.”
“Is that why you let him give you the Protectorship?”
“Had to take it to live, Brandon. You know that.”
“I was just wondering if there were any other reason.”
“Outside.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“See the Outside. No one can stop me, if I’m Protector.”
Fischer blinked. This was the first time he’d heard of this. “Adrian, do you—”
“Go away, Brandon, let me sleep. Talk to you tomorrow.”
Brandon Fischer sighed and walked to the door. On the other side were City Guards, councillors from Saul’s reign, and ten thousand duties. He turned at the door and looked back at Adrian’s sleeping form. “Poor boy,” he said under his breath. “It’s damned little of the Outside you’ll ever see.”
SECTION
ONE
:
Enter Two Ladies
Chapter 1
I know the tune that I am piping is a mild one (although there are some terrific chapters coming presently).
WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY
City Year 545
It was Thursday, and on Thursdays Stratton Hastings Diamond always visited his mother.
He checked to make sure that the small Keith pistol was strapped securely on his forearm, and tapped the knife bulge in his soft boots from time to time as he walked down Mercati Boulevard toward the lower decks. After the third level lock, gaily decorated with its long blue banners, brought him to E deck, he began glancing over his shoulder; by the time he entered G he was scanning the balconies of the tenements on each side and watching the crowds of beggars, streetsellers, and troublemakers with a practiced eye. There was no reason to believe that his past associates were aware of his visiting pattern, or even his mother’s address, but Stratton Hastings (known as Spider to friends and enemies) was a careful soul. The forty-three years of his existence had been crammed with more incident than he cared to remember, for Spider prized the quiet life. As it was, he made do with the quiet moment.
He climbed the stairs to Reynardine Street and tipped his hat at the crosswalk to a man in black. “Hello, Father Brady.”
“I’ve just come from your mother, Spider. You cause her a lot of pain.”
“I know, Father.”
The young priest sighed. “Were you not damned, I’d bless you, Spider.”
“Many thanks for the thought.” Even as they were speaking, he glanced up and down the street, gauging how close the other pedestrians came, noting where weapons might be hidden. “Is Mother all right?”
“Nervous palpitations, as usual. And concern over you.”
“Ah. I’ll be seeing you, then, Father.” Spider respected the religious orders but avoided them when possible; not that Brady wasn’t less abrasive than most. He produced a shameless smile for the priest, who hesitated at the Boulevard stairs as though wondering whether to spread another net for Spider’s soul. “Don’t want to keep Ma waiting, now, especially if she’s feeling delicate.”
“No, of course not.” Brady buttoned the top of his black cape. “Good-bye, Spider.”
“Father.”
Spider passed on along the narrow metal walkway, avoiding the wet laundry hung over the rails and piled on dirty gratings. His mother’s compartment was third from the left. He touched the bell.
The door was flung open. “Stratton, my own.” Mrs. Hastings enveloped her son in a hug. She was taller and more substantial than he and her bosom was more than ample for maternal comfort. Spider nearly disappeared in the folds of her blue housedress. “Come in, my sweet. Father Brady was just here.”
“I passed him.”
“He’s greatly disappointed in you.”
“Ma, wait till I get in before you start on me.”
Mrs. Hasting grinned and took
