that’s . . . He’s bloody dead?’ Foxmuth sputtered.
‘He was on a freighter over the Hookhollows. There was some kind of accident, something went wrong with the engine, and . . .’ The boy looked bewildered and shocked. ‘It went down with all hands.’
‘When?’ asked Frey. The muscles of his neck had tightened. His skin had gone cold. But he hadn’t taken his eyes from that face-down card on the table.
‘Excuse me, sir?’
‘When did it happen?’
‘I don’t know, sir. They didn’t say.’
‘What kind of damn fool question is that?’ Gremble raged. ‘When? When? What does it matter when? He’s dead! Buggering pissbollocks! It’s a tragedy! A fine young man like that, taken from us in the prime of his life!’
‘A good man,’ Foxmuth agreed gravely.
But the when did matter. When meant everything to Frey. When was the final hope he had that maybe, against all the odds, he could avoid the terrible, crushing weight that he felt plummeting towards him. If it happened yesterday, or the day before . . . if it could somehow be that recent . . .
But he knew when it had happened. It had happened three weeks ago. They just hadn’t been able to keep it quiet any longer.
The Century Knights. The job from Quail. All those people, travelling incognito on a cargo freighter. The name of the freighter. It all added up. After all, wouldn’t Hengar travel in secret, returning from an illicit visit to Samarla? And wasn’t he a keen Rake player?
Gallian Thade had arranged the death of the Archduke’s only son. And he’d set Frey up to take the fall.
He reached over and flipped the final card.
The Ace of Skulls grinned at him.
Thirteen
Frey stumbled through the mountain pass, his coat clutched tight to his body, freezing rain lashing his face. The wind keened and skirled and pushed against him while he kept up the string of mumbled oaths and curses that had sustained him for several kloms now. On a good day, the Andusian Highlands at dawn could be described as dramatic - stunning, even - with its wild green slopes and deep lakes nestling between peaks of grim black rock. Today was not a good day.
Frey dearly wished for the sanctuary and comfort of his quarters. He remembered the grimy walls and cramped bunk with fondness, the luggage rack that ever threatened to snap and drop an avalanche of cases and trunks on his head. Such luxurious accommodation seemed a distant dream now, after hours of being pummelled by nature. He was woefully underdressed to face the elements. His face felt like it had been flayed raw and his teeth chattered constantly.
He lamented his bad luck at being caught out in the storm. So what if he’d set out completely unprepared? How could he have known the weather would turn bad? He couldn’t see the future.
It seemed like days had passed since he left the Ketty Jay hidden in a dell. He couldn’t risk landing too close to his target for fear of being seen, so he put her down on the other side of a narrow mountain ridge. The journey through the pass should have taken five hours or so. Six at the most.
When he set off the skies had been clear and the stars twinkling as the last light drained from the sky. There had been no hint of the storm to come. Malvery had waved him on his way with a cheery ta-ra and then taken a swig of rum to toast the success of his journey. Crake had been playing with the new toys he’d picked up in Aulenfay. Bess was having fun uprooting trees and tossing them around. Pinn had stolen the theatrical make-up pen that Frey had bought in the South
