King Aleine IX barged in. “Brant! You pile of—” the lord general mentally erased the long list of repulsive things he resembled and refocused his attention when Niner got to the point. “What happened last night?”
“Your Majesty,” the lord general said, “we don’t know.”
Another stream of curses, some of them more creative than usual, but Niner wasn’t terribly creative, and no one dared to swear in his presence, so his arsenal was limited to variations on the word shit.
“What we do know is this,” Brant Agon said. “Someone broke into the castle. I suppose we can assume it was the man we’ve spoken about.” No need for listening spies to learn everything.
“Durzo Blint,” the king said, nodding.
The lord general sighed. “Yes, Your Majesty. He apparently rendered unconscious one guard in the castle itself, and Fergund Sa’fasti, and your stable master in the stables.”
More curses, then “What do you mean, ‘rendered unconscious’?” The king paced back and forth.
“They didn’t have any marks on them, and they couldn’t remember anything, though the guard had a small puncture wound on his neck, as if from a needle.”
The king cursed more and then cursed the abashed mage. As usual, Agon found himself getting more bored than offended. The king’s curses didn’t mean anything except “Look at me, I’m a spoiled child.” Niner finally stumbled across another point: “There was nothing else?”
“We haven’t found anything yet, sire. None of the guards outside your rooms, your wife’s, your daughters’, or your son’s reported seeing anything unusual.”
“It isn’t fair,” the king said, stomping over to his throne. “What have I done to deserve this?” he threw himself down in his throne—and squealed.
He practically flew out of the throne. He clutched Lord General Agon. “Oh gods! I’m feeling faint. I’m dying! Damn you all! I’m dying! Guards! Help! Guards!” The king’s voice pitched higher and higher and he started crying as the guards blew whistles and rang bells and the throne room roared to life.
General Agon plucked the king’s hands free and put the weak-kneed man in the arms of his sycophant, Fergund Sa’fasti, who didn’t know enough to hold on. The king collapsed to the ground and wept like a child. General Agon ignored him and strode to the throne.
In a moment, he saw what he was looking for: a fat, long needle, pointing up from a well-worn cushion on the throne. He tried to pull it out with his fingers, but the needle stuck. It was supported so that it wouldn’t just fold over if the king sat on it wrong.
General Agon drew his knife and slit the cushion open. He pulled out the needle, ignoring the bells, ignoring the guards pouring into the room, surrounding the king and herding everyone else into a side room where they could be held and questioned.
Lord General Agon pulled out the needle. A note tied to it said, “I could have been poisoned.”
“Move aside!” a little man from the back was calling out, pushing soldiers out of his way. It was the king’s physician.
“Let him through,” the lord general ordered. The soldiers moved back from the king, who was whimpering on the floor.
Brant motioned to the physician, showed him the note, and whispered, “The king will need some poppy wine, maybe a lot. But he isn’t poisoned.”
“Thank you,” the man said. Behind him, the king had pulled down his pants and was arching his neck trying to see the wound on his buttock. “But believe me, I know how to deal with him.”
The general suppressed a smile. “Escort the king to his apartments,” he told the guards. “Set a watch on the door, with two captains inside the room. The rest of you return to your duties.”
“Brant!” the king yelled as the guards picked him up. “Brant! I want him dead! Dammit, I want him dead!”
Brant Agon didn’t move until the throne room was empty once more. The king wanted to wage war against a shadow, a shadow with no corporeal parts except the steel of its blades. That was what it would be to assassinate a wetboy. Or worse. How many men would die before the king’s pride was salved?
“Milord?” a woman asked tentatively. It was one of the housekeepers. She had a wrapped bundle in her hands. “I was . . . chosen to report for the housekeepers, sir. But with the king gone and all . . . Could I . . . ?”
The general looked at her closely. She was an old woman, obviously afraid for her life. He bet she was “chosen” by having pulled a short straw. “What is it?”
“Us housekeepers found these. Someone left them in each of the royal bedchambers, sir.”
The housekeeper handed him the bundle. Six black daggers were inside it.
“Where?” Brant asked, choking the word out.
“Under—under the royal family’s pillows, sir.”
22
Little feet pattered into Azoth’s consciousness. It was a strange sound to hear when you were dead, but Azoth couldn’t sort it out any other way. Bare little feet on stone. He must be outside, because the sound didn’t reverberate against any walls. He tried to open his eyes and failed. Maybe this is what it was to be dead. Maybe you never left your body. Maybe you laid inside your corpse and had to just feel as you slowly decomposed. He hoped dogs didn’t get to him. Or wolves. He’d had terrifying dreams of a wolf grinning at him, yellow eyes ablaze. If he were stuck in his dead body, what would happen if they started tearing pieces of him off? Would he find oblivion like he’d finally fallen asleep or would he just split into pieces of consciousness, and slowly dissipate into the soil after passing through the bellies of a dozen beasts?
Something touched his face and his eyes leapt open. He heard the startled gasp before his eyes could focus on who had made it. It was a little girl, maybe five years old, her eyes so wide they covered half of her face.
“Never seen a corpse?” he asked.
“Father! Father!” she shrieked with all the surprising volume small children can muster.
He groaned as the sound jammed knives in his head and he fell back on the pillows. Pillows? So he wasn’t dead. That was probably supposed to be a good thing.
When he woke again, time must have passed, because the room was light and airy. Wide windows had been thrown open, and cherrywood furnishings and marble flooring gleamed in the sunlight. Azoth recognized the molded ceiling; he’d stared at it before. He was in Count Drake’s guest room.
“Back from the dead, are you?” Count Drake asked. He was smiling. Seeing the look on Azoth’s face, he added, “Here, now, sorry. Don’t think about that. Don’t think at all. Eat.”
He set a plate full of steaming eggs and ham in front of Azoth, along with a glass of well-watered wine. The food spoke directly with Azoth’s stomach, completely bypassing higher cognitive functions. It was several minutes later when he realized the plate and the glass were both empty.
“Better,” the count said. He sat on the edge of the bed and absently polished his pince nez. “Do you know who I am and where you are? Good. Do you remember who you are?”
Azoth nodded slowly. Kylar.
“I’ve been given some messages for you, but if you’re not feeling well enough . . .”