“I hate it when you do that!” Seregil exclaimed.
Thero frowned at him. “Archduchess Alaya is dead. Murder has not been ruled out.”
Seregil rested his face in his hands for a moment. “Bilairy’s Balls!”
“She was a harmless old woman,” Alec groaned.
“And she was one of the closest to the princess royal,”
Thero replied. “Elani is inconsolable and the prince is more furious than he was before.”
“Are you certain it was murder?” asked Seregil.
“I’m not, but the prince thinks so, in light of recent events, though none of the conspirators in the Tower seems to know anything about it. Alaya was dining with the royal family and he saw with his own eyes when she fell back in her chair, dead. Once again no poison was detected, or magic, but Valerius could find nothing physically amiss, either.”
“Poor Elani!” Alec exclaimed softly. “She loved Alaya like a grandmother. Do you think her death is related to the others?”
“At this point, nothing would surprise me. Perhaps we did miss some conspirators, and they’re still at large and carrying on.”
“So what are the chances that the two different cabals would use the same undetectable poison?” asked Micum.
“Tit for tat?” Seregil shrugged. “I don’t know. Something about this doesn’t make sense. They’ve spent all their energy killing each other off, rather than making another attempt on Klia, or on Elani. If someone could get close enough to poison Alaya, then why not Elani, too?”
“The same thought occurred to me,” said Thero.
“Does Elani know about the conspiracies?”
“Korathan explained it to her, apparently in an effort to get her to leave the city. She refuses to go.”
“That could be exactly what the assassins are hoping for,” said Seregil. “She’s more vulnerable than ever out on the road, even with an armed escort.”
“You’re probably right. For now, she remains in Rhiminee, but in her quarters under heavy guard and a ready supply of food tasters.”
“I was afraid of this,” Seregil said with a sigh. “If the arrests haven’t stopped the killing, then something or somebody important was missed.”
“If they were using professional assassins, and I daresay they were, then they may still be under orders,” Thero replied.
“My informers inside the guild say that only Kormarin and Nerian were contracted.”
“Tit for tat, indeed,” said the wizard. “So who’s killing the others, and how?”
“We’ll keep our ears open, Thero, but we haven’t made much of a job of it so far.”
“That’s all?”
“For now. In the meantime, we’re going to keep hunting the ravens.”
Thero began to sputter but Alec said firmly, “We still have Myrhichia to avenge.”
Atre lit the candle in his dank little workroom and pulled a silver ring from his pocket. A pretty little bauble, he thought with a thin smile, and one he hadn’t really considered using. In fact, he’d forgotten all about it in all the fun of toying with the nobles, killing them off here and there as it suited him and enjoying the rising panic, until he recognized Alec and that Micum Cavish fellow during that near miss at the tenement. Humming to himself, he pulled an empty phial from the rack and dropped the ring in.
CHAPTER 38. Grief
DESPITE Korathan’s continuing displeasure, Seregil and Alec were allowed to pay their respects at court the following morning. Elani sat with Alaya’s other relations by the old courtier’s bier in one of the great halls. All were dressed in rich black, with jewels of jet and onyx. Elani was dry-eyed as the mourners streamed past, but very pale. It was clear she hadn’t slept.
She gave them a sad smile as they reached her. “So kind of you to come. Alaya liked you both very much.”
“She was a great lady, Highness,” said Seregil.
“I’m sorry for your loss, Highness,” Alec added, looking down at the dead woman’s waxen visage. Alaya was dressed for court, and her hands were crossed in front of her, rings glittering on every finger, but none of that allayed the wreckage of sunken eyes and too-prominent bones.
“So much death this summer, and the whole war,” Elani murmured. “Grandmother Idrilain, and my aunt and uncle. And now this.”
Unable to offer any meaningful comfort, they stayed long enough to be polite, then bowed and took their leave.
The following morning, they went out again with Micum wearing different disguises and searched the neighborhood where they’d nearly caught the old woman and her guardian. No one had seen any sign of them, though, and Seregil grumbled about the timing of Alaya’s death. The scent seemed to have gone cold. Given the ravens’ previous
pattern, Seregil expected word of them being on the far side of the Harvest Market next and had Kepi spread the word to his compatriots that any news would be worth a silver half.
When they returned to the inn late that afternoon, Seregil noted at once that the horse yard was empty except for one exhausted, lathered black, and that there was no smoke coming from the kitchen chimney. Nor was there any of the usual bustle and noise coming through the open windows of the front room. Bad old memories of another too-quiet inn knotted his belly.
“That’s Kari’s horse,” Micum noted in surprise.
“I don’t like this,” muttered Seregil.
“Neither do I,” whispered Alec.
They approached the front of the house cautiously and peered in at the windows. The great room was empty, dishes and tankards still on the long tables as if everyone had left in a hurry.
Moving quietly, they went down the servants’ corridor to the kitchen and found Tomin whittling in front of the fire. He jumped to his feet as soon as they came in and Seregil saw a small pack at the innkeeper’s feet.
“What’s going on?” asked Alec.
Tomin fiddled nervously with his knife as he took in their beggar garb. “A woman came here with a little girl, and brought the sleeping death with her. Claimed she knew you, my lords. The house cleared as if it was on fire. I sent Ema and the baby to her mother’s house.”
“Where are the woman and girl?” Micum demanded.
“I put them in the front room upstairs.”
Micum was gone before Tomin had finished speaking, thundering up the front stairs. Seregil and Alec ran after him and caught up in time to hear their friend’s anguished cry.
Illia, dressed for play in the Watermead fields, lay on the bed, staring sightlessly up at the ceiling. Micum fell to his knees by the bed, clasping one of his daughter’s small hands in his big, callused ones.
Kari sat by the bed, pale as a ghost, her dark hair wild around her shoulders and dull with dust, as were her riding
clothes. She looked not at her husband, but at Seregil. “How could this happen?”
“It’s-impossible!” Alec gasped.
“Clearly not,” Seregil managed. “Kari, how long has she been like this?”
“I found her like this in her bed yesterday morning. Nothing we did could bring her around. We sent for the drysian and she told us of the sickness here in the city. She said-” Kari swallowed, throat so dry that Seregil could hear it click across the room. “She said no one has survived more than a few days. I thought perhaps if Valerius could see her, he might be able to do something. Seregil, you’ll send for him, won’t you?”
Seregil glanced at Micum, but he was silent, head bowed over Illia’s hand as if he were silently praying. Perhaps he was.
“Valerius hasn’t found a cure. Thero suspects magic.” The words felt like shards of glass in his throat as Seregil watched the fragile hope die in Kari’s dark eyes, just as it had in Eirual’s. “Have there been any strange beggars at Watermead?”
“Beggars? None that I’ve seen.”
“Are you certain? Could Illia have met someone on the road while she was out riding?”
“I suppose so. Seregil, what do beggars have to do with this?”
It was Micum who answered. There were tears on his stubble-covered cheeks, but his voice was deep and steady as ever. “There are beggars here, called the raven folk, who trade odd things with people, things they use to work this foul magic.”
She stared at her husband. “Is that what Seregil called you into the city for?”