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
"Coming down is easy."
HOW long Shadow slept he never knew. Sleep was supposed to be very difficult at great altitudes, but exhaustion belied that theory. He awoke choking, but suddenly and completely, knowing where he was and astonished that he was still alive. He was hot. At some time he had unfastened his flying suit, but he had no memory of that. He closed it up once more, fumbling in the dark, and wondered if he dared search for his food and water. NailBiter felt him move, tightened his wing slightly, then relaxed it again. The bird would not have slept, of course, but he must be growing perilously hungry.
Shadow crawled out from under the wing and stood up and looked at that deadly stare.
"Breakfast?" he asked. "No? Well, let's get going."
Would he be allowed to dress the monster? He picked up the helmet, and NailBiter lowered his great head slightly to make it easier. Incredible! Birds were smart, Shadow knew, and if they were to be cooperative also, then things were going to be a lot different. The saddle went on, and he clipped back the blinkers as soon as possible, knowing it was a risk but anxious to show appreciation. Perhaps he had just gone mad and this was not happening at all. He scrambled back down the length of the rope to collect the grapnel and then scrambled up it again, coiling. NailBiter turned and stared at him.
Then he opened his wings a fraction.
He wanted to fly!He was trying to say that he did not want to kite!
Shadow was definitely insane.