King Breaker (27 page)

A bird returning with a message?

Piro took off at run. At the entrance to the staircase, she almost collided with Cragore.

He frowned. ‘Where are you going?’

She glanced up the stairwell, and he moved to block her. She ducked past him and took off, glad of the challenge.

Heart thumping, she ran up all five flights of stairs; but when she reached the last door, it was locked. She bent double, gasping. A moment later, Cragore rounded the bend. It pleased her to see he was just as breathless.

She stepped aside so he could unlock the door. As he went to swing it shut, she darted past him.

‘These birds are my responsibility,’ he protested.

‘These birds belong to the mage, and I’m here to study under him.’ Ignoring his frown, Piro went over to the perch where the female had landed and was now preening her feathers.

‘They don’t like strangers.’

No, but they’d like her Affinity. She held out her hands and the bird came to her, rubbing its head and throat on her skin.

Cragore muttered disgustedly under his breath.

Bringing the pica close to her ear, Piro tilted her head to listen to the bird’s message. Since the bird sang of Cobalt, she guessed the message came from the mage’s Rolencian agent. The bird sang of Cobalt getting married, which confirmed her vision, but...

‘
Midsummer, Cobalt Usurper will marry Piro Kingsdaughter,’
Piro repeated the rhyme. ‘But he can’t marry me, I’m here!’

‘Perhaps he thinks you’re still in Merofynia and plans to kidnap you.’

Piro was not convinced.

Cragore shrugged. ‘I just pass on the messages.’

He took the bird from her and went into a little room tucked behind the bed. Here she found a wall of caged pica birds, some alone and some in pairs. Each cage was marked with a symbol. On two of the cages Piro saw Lord Dunstany’s symbol, the star in the circle. She assumed one was for his estate on the shores of the Landlocked Sea, and the other for his townhouse in port near the palace. Sure enough, on closer inspection one of the cages was marked with the letter P.

Meanwhile, Cragore had returned the bird to its mate and given the pair fresh water and food. As he closed the cage door, Piro noted the symbol—a hat.

Cragore opened a large book in which he wrote down the message, date and time in a column under the initials R and S. Rolencia, Agent S. He tried to block her view, but she’d seen enough to work things out.

‘Who is this Agent S? How do you even know he can be trusted?’

‘
She
,’ he corrected. ‘She’s one of the mage’s best agents because she has access from the highest in the land to the lowest.’

‘She’s a servant, then?’ Piro nodded to herself. ‘When I was a slave I heard all sorts of things.’

Cragore did not confirm or deny her guess.

‘You don’t know who Agent S is.’

‘Of course I do.’ But he flushed, so she knew he was lying.

He removed a bird from the cage marked with Dunstany’s townhouse symbol, then sang a rhyme to the pica.

‘You’re sending a message to Agent Tyro on the ship?’ Piro guessed wrong to test him.

‘No.’ He sent her a superior smile. ‘I’m sending a message to Lord Dunstany in Port Mero. He’ll give it to Agent Tyro.’

This confirmed Piro’s guess.

But she still didn’t know who Agent S was. Who, apart from a servant, had access to royalty and people on the street? And why did she use a hat symbol?

It had to be Milliner Salvatrix. Back before all this happened, Piro remembered going with her mother to visit the hat shop in Rolenton Square. She’d been bored, because they did not have the glowing hercinia feathers she’d hoped to see. If only she’d known the little silver-haired milliner was the mage’s agent.

Piro followed Cragore into the outer room where he set the pica bird free.

Now he had to deliver the message to Tsulamyth, but with Siordun away there was no mage on Mage Isle. It made Piroe wonder how had Siordun had gotten around this. ‘Now you tell the mage the message, right?’

‘Wrong. I don’t bother the mage. No one does. If you could hear him berating Agent Tyro, you’d understand.’ Cragore rolled his eyes. ‘I put a note in the message slot outside the mage’s chamber. If there’s a reply, it comes back the same way.’

‘I see... And where is his chamber?’

‘Two floors below us. You ran right by without even noticing the Affinity coming from it!’

‘Really? How careless of me.’ Piro hid a smile and left him.

Sure enough, two floors below, she found one of the tower chambers had been divided in half. If her memory served her correctly, the mage’s Affinity trophies had been stored here. Now there was a chamber.

Piro stood at the door, opening her senses. Cragore was right. There was Affinity in the room beyond, but not because the mage slept there. She suspected it came from the trophies.

So that was how Siordun maintained his masquerade as the mage...

And that was how Cobalt organised a marriage when Piro wasn’t there to take part. He’d hired a minstrel to impersonate her. She burned with indignation.

He wouldn’t get away with this. Someone would denounce the impersonator.

But who? Her father’s loyal followers had died when they rode out with him under a banner of truce. The servants had either fled or been taken as slaves. It shocked Piro to realise she could count on the fingers of two hands the people who still lived who knew her face. And most of them weren’t in Rolencia.

Piro went cold. Cobalt’s ploy could well succeed.

This must have been why she’d dreamed about the nexus point. If only Siordun had waited, but no... He’d just sailed off and ignored her.

Cobalt must not be allowed to get away with this. Conviction filled Piro. She would have to stop him, and force Siordun not to ignore her.

She ran down the steps.

B
YREN WAS GLAD
to be home, but was not happy to find Port Marchand overrun by Merofynian men-at-arms. Brash, foreign braggarts stood on every street corner, ordering Rolencians about and generally making a nuisance of themselves. Surely, they could not all belong to the force Cobalt had been loaned to enforce his rule? Byren suspected most of them now served the greedy lords busily siphoning off Rolencia’s grain, wine and cloth before they pulled out.

He saw plenty of women, children and elderly men, but few able-bodied young men. For now, both he and Orrade dressed as sailors. They each carried a blanket-wrapped bundle on their backs, containing weapons borrowed from the Merofynian palace and a change of clothes suitable for nobles.

‘Not that way,’ Orrade whispered, as Byren made for the merchant quarter. ‘That’s where the gold is so it’s where the Merofynians will be thickest. This way.’

He led Byren down a narrow side street that ran around the curve of the bay and into the poorest part of port. The overhanging upper storeys made a kind of twilight in the narrow lanes.

Orrade turned a corner and they stepped into a small square that had seen better days. Girls waited in doorways or leant over second storey balconies. Music competed from several taverns and men spilled out into the street. Revellers sang snatches of crude Merofynian songs as they groped serving girls.

‘There’s Merofynians aplenty here, Orrie,’ Byren muttered.

They passed a bare-breasted woman standing in a doorway. She was young and pretty, and she’d tried to hide her bruises with face-paint.

‘Come here, lads,’ she called in poor Merofynian.

Byren cursed under his breath.

‘People have to eat,’ Orrade said.

It was true, but Byren didn’t have to like it. ‘So this is what you were doing last summer. I wondered why you stayed in port when your family came back.’

Orrade said nothing, leading him into an even seedier district. Here, the lanes were barely wide enough for two men to walk side-by-side. Byren felt for his knife, then remembered it was in his bundle. Only Merofynians and Cobalt’s supporters were allowed to carry arms these days.

A handsome youth spotted them, pushed away from the wall and tried to block their way. As they approached, Byren prepared to take the youth down with one blow, but he wasn’t prepared for the open appreciation or crude suggestion that fell from the fellow’s lips.

Orrade brushed past the youth and he stepped aside, but not before groping Byren, who would have turned and thumped him if Orrade hadn’t urged him on. Byren flushed as he realised just what Orrade had been up to last summer.

At that moment, a man came out of door and almost collided with them. Byren swore. The man-at-arms wore Merofynian colours, and he was not pleased to see them.

Orrade kept going. They’d just reached the next bend when the man called out. ‘Hey, you two!’

‘Quick.’ Orrade ducked around the corner and took off.

Byren ran after him. A chorus of crude comments and curses followed them as they ran through the narrow lanes of the dilapidated district.

Without warning, Orrade rounded a bend and pulled Byren into a dark doorway with him. They held their breath as their pursuer ran past, hand on his sword hilt.

Byren waited until the footsteps faded. ‘What gave us away?’

‘You swore in Rolencian and you look like what you are, a warrior. Come on.’

Orrade darted out, going back the way they’d come until they reached a set of rickety stairs.

‘Up here. I hope...’ Orrade gave him a shove and followed him up the steps to an attic tucked under the roof.

The small landing creaked with their combined weight. Beyond the roof tops, Byren could see the tips of masts out in the bay, like a forest of bare trees against the blue sky.

Orrade rapped on the door. No answer. He knocked again, louder this time.

‘Go away,’ a muffled voice yelled.

Orrade gave the door handle a practised twist, lifting it as he did, and a catch clicked in response. ‘In,
quickly
.’

Byren had to duck his head as he entered. The dwelling stretched the length of the roof, and no lamp burned within. The windows were covered with scraps of cloth. Narrow fingers of light speared through the gaps, barely illuminating the gloom. They revealed a large free-standing brazier, a rich velvet coat thrown over a carved chest and a desk littered with papers and books. The patches of light made the rest of the room seem darker. The air was thick with a scent Byren associated with religious feast days back home.

‘That’s...’

‘Dreamless-sleep incense,’ Orrade said. ‘Brings visions.’

‘I thought it brought dreamless sleep.’

‘If you drink it. The incense brings visions.’

‘Orrie?’ a hoarse voice called. ‘Is that you?’

Byren took an instant dislike to the speaker. For one thing, his accent was Ostronite, for another, he had not earned the right to call Orrade
Orrie
.

‘It’s me. Are you sick, Palos?’

Byren heard the familiarity in Orrade’s voice and noted the use of the alias. Palos was the legendary Rolencian warrior who had almost united the kingdom. He had been a lover of men, and it had been Palos Orrade had spoken of when he confessed his feelings to Byren after returning from port.

A light flared as Orrade lit a lamp, adjusting the wick to reveal the long, steep-ceilinged attic. The dwelling was an exotic piece of Ostron Isle, transplanted to Rolencia. Just inside the door was a shelf with some cups and plates, preserves in jars and several wine bottles. Further down, belongings spilled from carved camphorwood chests. Under a window to the left stood an elegant cedar desk, littered with books. A silk-draped sandalwood screen hid the far right-hand corner of the room. And directly ahead was a large bed, littered with cushions, pillows and eider-down quilts. It was a decadent nest indeed.

By the bed, an incense burner glowed, revealing a dishevelled man with several days’ growth on his chin. He lay propped against the pillows.

Orrade cursed and crossed the chamber to pull back the window coverings. The man on the bed winced at the light, which revealed streamers of incense hanging on the air. Orrade opened a window. All the while the man watched him as if torn between amusement and annoyance.

‘What have you done to yourself?’ Orrade demanded, turning to the man in the bed. ‘Don’t you know too much dreamless-sleep will rob you of your wits?’

‘I know what I’m doing.’ His sharp gaze settled on Byren as he levered himself up to lean against the headboard, covers pooled around his naked hips.

Orrade gestured to Byren. ‘This is—’

‘Oh, I know who it is.’ From the tone of the man’s tone, he liked Byren about as much as Byren liked him. ‘You have me at a disadvantage, Byren Kingsheir. Orrie, see if there’s any food. If not, just open a bottle of wine.’

He swung his feet to the floor and walked behind the screen, where he lit a lamp. Byren heard him pouring water.

Meanwhile, Orrade opened a cabinet. He seemed perfectly at home as he tossed some beans and onion in a pan on the brazier. After inspecting the bread for mould, he fried it in butter.

Byren edged closer, whispering. ‘We’re supposed to be approaching merchants to—’

‘I’m not approaching anyone until I know who remains loyal. Palos—’

‘Palosino, you mean.’ Byren used the Ostronite version of the name. ‘How do you know we can trust him?’

‘As you guessed, he’s an Ostronite. He owes Merofynia no loyalty.’

‘And he owes you?’

Orrade did not answer.

‘He’s loyal to only one thing if he’s addicted to dreamless-sleep.’

‘He’s not an addict. At least, he wasn’t when I last knew him.’

Byren was not convinced. He went over to study the books scattered on the desk. Amongst them, he noted Comtes Merulo’s treatise on the nature of power and leadership, and another on the nature of the stars, which argued that their world travelled in an elliptical orbit around the sun, explaining the extreme seasons.

Byren had been hoping to identify which of the great merchant houses the man belonged to, but what he’d discovered dismayed him. The Ostronite was better read than he and clearly as smart as Orrade.

‘Food’s ready.’