chapter IX

A FTER DARK, A SMALL, NARROW CARRIAGE PULLED into the courtyard of the duke’s great Riverside house, the horses sweating and dusty from the road. The footman knew better by now than to try to help his passenger out of it; he merely opened the door and attended to the baggage, while the man stiffly eased himself out. He stood for a moment in the courtyard, waiting, or looking around. Many of the windows were lit; in others, light passed from window to window as people hurried through the house.

One of the lights came toward him. “Finally,” a young man said. “You’re here. He’s been waiting for you. Please come with—” He put his hand out, and jumped at the newcomer’s reaction.

“It’s all right,” the man said. “I’ll follow you.”

I N HIS STUDY, THE DUKE WAS BURNING PAPERS. WHEN the pair came in he looked up but did not rise, just kept feeding things to the fire. “Good,” he said, “you’re here. I was afraid the Bridge might be closed.”

“Not yet. Will it be?”

“Soon, if they’ve got any sense.”

“Alec, what on earth have you been doing?”

“You didn’t get here in time, so I had to kill Ferris myself.” The duke waited a moment for the full effect.

“Did you?” his friend asked curiously. “How?”

“Eclectically. But conclusively.”

“You didn’t poison him, did you?”

“Heavens, no. That would be dishonorable. No, I stabbed him with a nymph.”

The other man laughed.

“I was in his house, and his whole staff knows it. I expect to be arrested any minute. So I’m leaving.”

“Rather than face a Court of Honor? Look, it’s not so bad, really. Did you challenge him first?”

“I forgot. There wasn’t time. But I can always say I did. There was no one else there.”

“You’ll get off, then.”

“Not necessarily. I had to whack him on the head first. Not very convincing as a challenge, even for a lenient Court, which this one won’t be—did I tell you he was also the Crescent Chancellor?”

“Oh, Alec.” St Vier shook his head. “Still, you are the Duke Tremontaine. Maybe you can bribe someone. You have supporters, surely.”

“The whole thing’s too much trouble. And anyway, I’m sick of it here. You were right.”

St Vier considered the fire. “I know.”

For the first time, the young man spoke. “You mean we’re leaving the city, my lord? Why didn’t you tell me? I’d better pack—”

“I’m going,” said the duke. “You’re staying.”

“No, I’m not. Not this time.”

“Yes, you are, Marcus. Katherine’s staying, so you’re staying. It’s all on the desk over there, signed and sealed. Make sure she opens it as soon as I’ve gone. That’s important. Don’t look right now—just find me my penknife—I know I put it down there somewhere, and it’s gone.”

“You’re Marcus?” St Vier said. “Why didn’t you say so? I thought you were younger.”

“He was,” said the duke. “They grow.”

“So where are we going, anyway?”

“Somewhere nice. Somewhere with bees, and sun, and lots and lots of thyme.”

S HE SAT IN HER WINDOW SEAT, WATCHING THE SHADOWS shoot up against the walls of the courtyard as people with torches scurried about with horses and baggage. There was no light in her room. She sat with her knees hugged in her arms, her face pressed to the glass, just tilted so that her breath didn’t mist it. It was a play, she thought; it was some kind of play, and when it was over someone would come and tell her what it meant, and what her part would be.

Then she saw him, or thought she did—the man who used to live here and said he’d never come back. He was standing in the courtyard, against a pillar near the well, just standing there looking at it all.

“Master!” Her breath fogged the glass. She struggled with the casement catch. “Master!” He didn’t look up. “Master St Vier!” she shouted into the courtyard.

The man turned his head. She couldn’t hear what he said. “Wait!” she cried. She bolted down the stairs, around the corridor, around another and out the door.

“It’s you!” Katherine called. “Oh my god, it’s really you!” She didn’t think about whether or not he wanted to be touched; she just flung herself into his arms, and smelt the woodsmoke as he folded her in his cloak.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

“Yes,” she gasped. “I’m different, but I’m all right.”

“Good.” Carefully he unwrapped her from the embrace, and set her before him. “I can’t stay,” he said. “Your uncle’s finally killed someone.”

“Oh, no!”

“Oh, yes.”

“Are you going to—”

“No. Not this time. I can’t stay.”

“Please,” she said; “I’ve got things to show you, things to tell you….”

“Let’s go inside,” he said. “I think that there are things to tell you, too.”

I N THE HOUR BEFORE DAWN, THERE WAS A GREAT POUNDING on the doors of Tremontaine’s Riverside house. City guard, some adorned with moldy vegetables that had been flung by Riversiders who resented their incursion on their turf, escorted an officer of the Court of Honor of the Noble Council of Lords bearing a warrant heavy with seals that had taken most of the night to get fixed and approved, summoning the Duke Tremontaine before the Court.

A sleepy watchman opened the door. Like most of the household, he’d only just gotten to bed.

“What in the Seven Hells do you want?” he asked.

“By order of the—”

“Do you know what time it is?”

“None of your cheek,” the officer barked. “Just fetch Tremontaine, and be quick about it.”

He wasn’t invited in, but he stepped over the threshold anyway, as did as many of his guard as would fit in the tiny old hallway. He wondered if he would find the Mad Duke wild and bloodstained, or in his cups, or draped with boys and unmentionables.

A young girl appeared on the stairs above them. She had wrapped a velvet cloak of green and gold over her nightgown, and her long brown hair was plaited for the night.

“Yes?” she said.

“Young lady, I am here for Tremontaine. If you could just—”

“I am the Duchess Tremontaine,” she said. “What is it you want?”