scuttling along like a hunted rat. But no one saw him or heard him, and all he saw of the search was once when he looked out through another spy hole and saw a band of men running. The whole palace must be in turmoil, and even the cellar areas and kitchens were stripped of people, which made his journey easier. It was the middle of third watch, too--those who had not heard the news would be in bed.
At last he reached the royal quarters and began to advance more carefully than ever. One entrance to the bolt hole was from the king's bedroom--he could forget that one. Another was from the larders, and a third from a cloakroom off a public corridor. The larders were the best bet.
He had to leave the secret ways and enter a wine cellar through the back of a cluttered and apparently useless closet. He tiptoed in the dark around great fragrant barrels, wondering if he was leaving marks in the dust. He crept up steps and peered around the corner. He scurried through a deserted kitchen and down more stairs.
The larders were pitch-dark. Wearily he went back up and found another candle and lit it. Then he descended again and picked his way cautiously between the racks and bins to the far corner. Damn! A great stack of boxes stood in the way. Sweating with fear and exhaustion and effort, he moved the whole pile forward one row, leaving a narrow space behind. With luck, no one would notice and the pile would conceal the door, for he would be coming back this way many times in the future.
At last the job was done and he could slide behind the pile and find the panel. It creaked like a clap of thunder, at least to his ears. Then he was through it, had closed it. There were no bolts or fastenings; on this side it looked like a boarded-up passage, and perhaps once that was all it had been.
The candle's glimmer showed more stairs, but this was a wide and passable corridor compared to most he had used. The steps were thick with dust. He plodded up them, wishing he had thought to grab some food while he was in the larders. At the top he reached the door to the room, but the corridor continued, running on to the cloakroom entrance. He had better make sure that that was sealed, and then he would attend to the royal bedroom exit, which was off the far side of the hideaway. Then he could go to sleep for a few days.
The cloakroom entrance was already bolted on the inside. That surprised him. Indeed, that was astonishing and quite beyond understanding. Perhaps if he were not so exhausted and emotionally battered, he could figure it out, but he was very glad he had not tried to come in that way.
He followed his flickering candle flame back to the bolt-hole door and threw it open.
The first thing to strike him was the light--the place blazed with lamps. The next thing was the heat, from the lamps and from the people. The walls were lined with mirrors or draped with scarlet cloths. The simple furniture he remembered had gone, replaced only by thick rugs and piles of cushions.
There were five people there: a whimpering, naked girl, two young men still in the process of undressing, and two already busy. He had last seen those four men a couple of hours earlier around a card table. Jarkadon was not present, but his friends were celebrating in his absence. Shadow had walked into the Lions' den.
'Let's take it from the beginning,' the archbishop said wearily.
It was all too confusing. A man of his age should not be dragged from his bed before three bells and then expected to deal with some sort of major crisis on the spur of the moment. The messenger from the court--he had some fancy title which the archbishop had already forgotten--was a blithering moron who made no sense at all.
'The king has been stabbed, Holiness,' the dean said.
'Yes!' the archbishop said. 'I got that. Doesn't surprise me...I've been expecting it for kilodays.' His first reaction to that news had been one of great annoyance. It meant a state funeral and then a full-blown coronation, and he dreaded the thought of all that effort and work. At his age, he deserved to be left in peace.
'The crown prince is out of town,' the dean said, 'and he may be dead also.'
The archbishop held up a blue-veined hand to stop him while he thought about that. Normally the dean made sense. He was his nephew, of course, and he handled all the routine and gave advice and so on. 'What do you mean, 'may'? Is he or isn't he?'
'There was a letter, Holiness, saying he had had an accident. But his body has not been found.'
'Let me see this letter!' the archbishop said triumphantly.
'It has vanished,' said the idiot from the court, and the dean hushed him.
'It is apparently not available, Holiness,' the dean said. 'The only persons to have read it were the king and Prince Jarkadon. The prince is too upset to remember exactly what it said.'
'Humph!' the archbishop said. He still could not see why they needed to involve him. He huddled in his gown and wished he could go back to bed or have breakfast or something.
'It may be a few days before we know about the crown prince,' the dean explained slowly. 'So there will have to be a regent appointed.'
'The next in line, isn't it?' the old man asked. They had told him that twice.
'Yes, Holiness, but the next in line is Prince Jarkadon, and there is some doubt...'
The two younger men glanced at each other and shrugged. The dean winced and put it into words: 'It is possible that it was the prince who stabbed the king!'
'What!' The archbishop blinked. Why couldn't they have said so sooner instead of all this flapping around? 'Then he must not be regent! He could not succeed. It would not be proper! Or legal.'
'Exactly, Holiness.'
This really was a matter for the lord chamberlain or the lord chancellor, thought the archbishop; none of his business. 'Why not the queen?' he asked.
'The queen is distraught, Holiness. Quite incapable.'
This was where he kept asking them to start again. He pondered. 'Well, if not one of the princes, who comes next in succession?'
'You do, Holiness.'
'Rubbish!' That was a ridiculous idea and rather frightening. 'What about my brother, for heaven's sake?'
The dean and the messenger exchanged glances again. 'He had a stroke two days ago, Holiness. He is still in a coma--and the doctors do not expect him to recover.'
'What?' the archbishop said again. 'Why was I not told?'
'I did mention it to Your Holiness, I am sure.'
'Well...' Yes, he remembered, now that he thought about it. 'Well, you mentioned that he was sick. You didn't say he was that bad. I should have been told. I ought to send him some grapes or something.'
'So you are next in line, Holiness.'
'Oh...pish!' the archbishop mumbled. 'I refuse to get involved. Separation of church and state. That's why the cathedral is at the far end of town from the palace, you know. Ancient law. It will have to be the prince. Damn, don't you know who killed the king?'
'There were only three people present, Holiness. The prince says that Shadow did it, and Shadow says that the prince did.'
'Shadow?' the archbishop muttered. 'What possible motive could Shadow have?'
The other two glanced at each other again hopefully. The old relic had seen the problem at last.
After some more thought the archbishop said, 'Three, you said?'
'The queen was present also, Holiness. But she is under sedation, and not making much sense. She has had a terrible ordeal...'
'Bah!' the archbishop said. 'Surely someone asked her who stabbed the king? Eh?'
'Well, yes,' the messenger admitted. 'She said she did. And her ladies identified the dagger as being hers.'
There was a pause.
'Let's take it from the beginning,' the archbishop said.
Chapter 11
