“How much?” Maître Gris asked, sitting again.
The imperial allowed himself a very small smile. “Ten ducats a week for every informer I recruit and pay. A hundred ducats a week for me. If any other services are required, I have… friends… to whom they can be contracted.” He spread his hands. “They are efficient, trustworthy, and always clean up after themselves. They are very expensive, and yet many clients find that they are much cheaper than amateurs.”
Maître Gris shook his head. “I cannot agree to any of this.”
The other man finished his ale and rose. “I suspected as much. I will meet you one more time-that is all. I do not make multiple meetings. It is unhealthy. If you wish to reach me again, please leave a slip of parchment with no marking on it pinned with a tack to the water gate of the palace. Do this in the morning, and I will meet you-at this very table-that night.” He shrugged. “Or someone representing me will meet you.” He frowned. “You are foolish to be out in the streets and I, frankly, do not fancy being hanged beside you.”
Maître Gris rose again. “But-” he said.
The other man simply walked away. He paused by the innkeeper’s bar, and said a few words-the innkeeper growled at him, that much was visible.
The foreigner spread his hands, as if showing he was harmless. Then he sang something.
Nothing could have been more incongruous. He sang a short song in Archaic-his voice was beautiful. Some of the men in the tavern fell silent.
Then he went out.
The Angel being the Angel, and the man being so well-dressed-and foreign-a pair of men with clubs followed him into the dark alley.
He moved very quickly. They had to run to keep up with him, and when he turned into Sail Maker’s Lane, they were both breathing hard.
And he was gone.
Both men cursed and went back to the inn.
Jules Kronmir jumped lightly to the ground and shook his head before walking down the hill, towards Master Pye’s yard by a circuitous route that took him the better part of the evening.
Good Friday dawned in heavy rain and cold, as if spring was unwilling to come. The tournament was five days away, and there was a rumour in the streets of Harndon that the Prince of Occitan was a day’s ride away-indeed, that he’d halted at Bergon, the country town of North Jarsay, to spend the day on his knees.
The same rumour said that he had a hundred lances with him. And that he’d have more, but his army was fighting the Wild in the mountains. Without him.
“He’s comin’ for his sister,” people said.
The King’s Guard-or rather, the sell-swords and thugs making up the King’s Guard-were seen in the markets. With most of the citizens in church, they moved to take possession of the market squares and rally points, and no one stopped them. Families leaving church, tired and sad at the end of a day of the Passion, found Guardsmen and Galles at every street corner. There were a few incidents, but even the Galles seemed quiet in the face of the day of fasting, the end of Lent, and the violence of two days before.
Just before darkness fell, the King’s Champion rode through the streets with a hundred Gallish lances. There were Albans among them-local knights who’d seen which way the wind was blowing, and devoted King’s men. They marched a relief through the streets and changed the guards at each market square. Everywhere they went, they posted a proclamation.
It announced the Queen’s Trial by Combat on Tuesday next.
It attainted Ser Gerald Random for treason, and Mistress Anne Bates, and a woman called Blanche Gold, as well as Lady Rebecca Almspend and Ser Gareth Montroy, the Count of the Borders, along with Ser John Wishart, the Prior of the Order of Saint Thomas.
And it forbade all assembly by more than four persons of either sex, for any reason, or the public bearing of arms.
Master Pye sat in his private workroom with his lead journeymen. Duke had pulled a copy down from the market cross in the square where they had their Maypole.
“Probably a crime to take it down,” Sam Vintner said.
Master Pye glared. “No time for foolishness,” he said.
The journeymen sat and fretted.
“What do we do, Master?” Edmund asked.
Master Pye blew out his cheeks, took off his spectacles, rubbed them on his shirt, and put them back on his nose. He stared into the darkness of Friday evening.
“How did they do it so fast?” he asked the darkness.
Duke raised his head. “You…” and he paused.
They all looked at Duke. He was the only boy born in the streets. The others came from guild houses. Duke thought about things differently.
Duke shrugged.
Master Pye cleared his throat. “Favour us with your views, lad,” he said, and his voice was not unkind.
Duke shrugged again. “You take it all for granted,” he said. He sounded as if he was angry-or if he might weep. “It’s bloody good, this thing we have. But you forget it’s not natural. You expect everyone to cooperate with the law. To make the law work.” Duke took a deep breath. “But all you have to do is lie. If enough people lie, all the time, then there isn’t enough truth for law to work. That’s how I see it.” He looked at his feet. “If enough men are greedy, and willing to lie to get what they want?” He raised his head and faced them. “Then it’s easy. Their way is easy. And you lot will sit here and debate. When the only real answer is to arm, go out in the streets, and fucking kill every Guardsman and every Galle on every corner until we hold the city.”
Edmund drew in a breath in horror. He had had a bad week; the man he’d killed haunted him. It had been-so easy. Like fencing in the yard. But the real man had fallen like a carcass cut down by a butcher. But worse-bloodier…
“See?” Duke said. “You all still think that if you do nothing, maybe it will go away.”
“We fought!” Sam Vintner said.
Duke jutted out his jaw. “You know, I’m not a nice boy like you. My experience is-you always have to fight. Fighting is the normal way.”
Master Pye chewed his lip. “Duke, there’s merit in what you say. And mayhap we need a little more fire under us-by all the saints, people have been placid these few months. Wealth and good food and safety make men and women like cattle, right eno’.” He looked around at all his senior men. “But Duke-if we kill the Galles and the King’s men then we’re rebels.”
“That’s just a word,” said Duke.
“Not when the Galle knights come through our squares, killing our people,” Master Pye said.
“We need the Order,” Edmund said.
All the men there knew that the Order’s knights were somewhere. Ser Ricar no longer wore the black and pointed cross, and he’d been seen twice-once after he escorted the black man out of the city, and another time Edmund had seen him talking to a tall man in a fine black hood.
Master Pye surprised them by shaking his head. “We can’t count on the Order to do our fighting for us,” he said. “Duke’s right, and he’s wrong.” He chewed on his lips a little while. “I’m sending all o’ you north, to Albinkirk. It’s too late for the fair, but there’s an empty smithy there and Ser John Crayford offered it to us. You can’t stay here. You’ll fight-and die.” He shook his head. “It’s going to be awful.”
Duke glared. “Just run away?” he asked. “And what of all the orders for the tourney?”
Master Pye nodded. “I’ll be on the next attainder list,” he said. “And we don’t have the swords-not if every man in the whole City Muster stood against them. Three thousand Galles? Christ, boys, think on what the routiers was like.”
“We can fight,” Edmund said. He looked at Duke, who nodded.
“Can Ann fight? How about your sisters? Eh? Blanche? Want her to fight?” Master Pye shook his head. “Lads-either you are or you ain’t my people. You wear my livery, you eat my food. Now I’m giving an order. You pack the mint and all the armoury. And tomorrow, when I give you the word, you ride out into the city and over First Bridge.” He looked at Duke. “More than half the goods we’re working so hard to complete are for men now attainted as traitors.” He shrugged. “I’m not minded to complete the King’s harness, either.”