Rosea was standing between Beollan and Ranulf, her eyes on the jar that held Menck’s ashes. She glanced up once at the bodies lined up on the paving stones, then down again, her tangled hair falling forward to shield her face.
“Are we going to burn those poor boys too?” Dyfrig asked, his voice breaking.
Jusson looked at Laurel. “Must we, Master Cat?”
Having cleaned my boot knife on Gawell’s cloak, Laurel and Wyln had been closely examining the blade, muttering at each other. At Jusson’s question, the Faena raised his head to look at the row of bodies; Captain Javes had joined Ebner and Thadro and was now helping lay shrouds over them. Javes’ face was bleak, and I realized that the captain, having come from the Royal City, would’ve known most if not all of the dead. “It would be wise, honored king,” Laurel said.
“All right.” Jusson sighed. “But not like refuse in a garbage dump. They shall have a proper funeral with full rites.”
There was some discussion about putting the cursed jewels and coins into the jar with Menck’s ashes and burying it all. But Jusson, exercising his royal prerogative, nixed it, stating that while we could be reasonably assured of the dead jailer’s ashes remaining undisturbed, the same could not be said about his illfated loot. “Tales abound of idiots who, despite every warning given, take what they shouldn’t and bring destruction down on themselves and everyone around them,” he said, glaring at the hoard still scattered on the ground. He transferred his glare to Gawell and Ednoth. “Like these two.”
“Aye, Your Majesty,” agreed one of the townspeople. “And there’s no problem burying Menck, for he passed through the fire. Nothing left but ashes, see? But do we want to put yon noisome plunder in the ground where it can leach into the soil and God knows what else?”
We decided we didn’t. A stout wooden box was found and the gold and gemstones were swept up and shoveled into it. Again Dyfrig was ready with the salt, adding a little holy water besides. As he did, steam rose up from the dully gleaming hoard with a faint hiss.
“Right,” Jusson said. “What the pox-rotted hell am I suppose to do with that?”
“As water cursed them, sire, give them back to water,” I said absently. “Throw them in the Banson and let it carry them to the Southern Sea.” There was silence. I looked up to see folks staring at me. “Uh—”
“That’s actually not a bad idea,” Laurel said.
“Right,” Jusson said again.
The jar of ashes and the box of cursed treasure were loaded on a cart and taken back to the king’s residence. The bodies of the guards and groomers were also loaded on carts. The funeral cortege wound its way through the streets, and though many folks split off and headed home along the way, there was still a sizable crowd that remained as we reached the king’s residence. Jusson didn’t stop any from coming—officials, elders and regular townspeople, aristos and their armsmen, garrison officers and troopers— they all trudged with the king up the front steps, everyone’s shoulders sagging with weariness, even Jusson’s. Even Wyln’s. The only one who seemed the same as always was Chadde. She’d winnowed out those who’d joined Helto under duress from the taverner’s rowdies and henchmen, sending the latter to the town jail with an escort of watchmen. Though, by their demeanor, the peacekeeper could’ve just handed them the jail keys and be confident that they’d go—and lock the cell door behind them when they got there.
However, Gawell and Ednoth were kept close at hand Still surrounded by a mishmash of guards, the head merchant and mayor were marched up the steps, the chain of office bobbing on Gawell’s stomach as he climbed.
Cais’ wonderfully impassive face was a welcome sigh as he opened the door and bowed us in. We didn’t get to savor it, though, as Jusson swept us to a familiar place—his study. At Thadro’s direction, Gawell and Ednoth were taken elsewhere by their enthusiastic crowd of Own and soldiers, led by Captain Javes and Chadde, but the rest of us crammed inside, including Beollan, Rosea and Ranulf, the Lord of Bainswyr still naked under his borrowed cloak, Cais appeared a few moments later, leading the king’s servants pushing tea carts and the bear lord’s servant carrying clothes.
Jusson went behind his desk, sighing as he dropped into his chair, while Thadro moved to his usual place behind the king. The afternoon light slanting in from the windows showed shadows under both of their eyes. “How is Gwynedd?” Jusson asked Cais.
“She came to, Your Majesty,” Cais said. “Just after the wind started howling and all the fires in the hearths shot up the chimneys. However, her mind is like a little child’s.”
“I see,” Jusson said, his gaze resting on Rosea, seated between her uncle and her newly dressed brother. Both Beollan and Ranulf stared back, half anxious, half defiant. Rosea, though, kept her eyes on her hands, in her lap.
“Chadde told me that she sent watchmen to gather the rest of the players, Majesty,” Thadro said. “If they haven’t already fled.”
Jusson nodded, then, settling back, thrust his feet out and folded his hands over his stomach. “So, cousin. Tell me about Slevoic.”
I’d been watching with resignation as Laurel dumped some of his never-ending supply of vile tea in a teapot, but at the king’s demand, I launched into the happenings in the council room. When I got to the banner that hung on one wall, though, Suiden stopped me, his dark face grim.
“We won’t be able to get to Slevoic or the rest anytime soon, Your Majesty,” he said. “He’s in Ryadnii, a principality of the Turalian Empire.”
‘The Amir is involved in this?” Jusson asked, his eyes narrowing in thought.
“Not necessarily,” Suiden said. “Ryadnii was a country long before it was joined to the Empire, and the current satrap is a descendant of the suzerains that ruled when it was independent. The Amir could very well be ignorant of what’s happening there. In fact, since Ryadnii’s liege states are almost autonomous as far as local affairs are concerned, the satrap herself could also have no knowledge. Or so she and the Amir could both plausibly argue.”
“This is the second time that Tural’s shadow has fallen across a plot against us,” Thadro put in. “I have a hard time believing that the Amir doesn’t know about either.”
“It does boggle the mind,” Jusson said, still thoughtful. ‘The Empire’s involvement will be a question for the new Turalian ambassador, when one is appointed.”
“Do you think he will tell you, Your Majesty?” I asked.
“Nonanswers can be just as illuminating as direct ones,” Jusson said. “It will be very interesting to see how the ambassador responds.”
“But Slevoic,” Commander Ebner said, entering the conversation. “If he is conspiring in Ryadnii, so far away, how did he communicate with Gawell and Ednoth?”
“Another question,” Jusson said. “Perhaps something our royal questioners can discover from Gawell and Ednoth—”
‘There’s a mirror in Gawell’s home, Your Majesty,” Rosea said. Her gaze was still on her twisting fingers in her lap, but she glanced up briefly, a flash of moss green behind a tangle of red hair. “In his library, covered with a cloth. The mirror is cloudy but when Gawell worked a spell, it would clear and we could see and talk to the people on the other side. And after the—after I was filled, I could travel through the mirror.”
“Illusion and the mirror image,” Wyln said. “The mayor must have the water aspect too.”
“Along with my knife,” I said. Having retrieved my boot dagger from Laurel, I held it in my hand. I didn’t have a sheath to place it in and I was unwilling to set it down. “Does he have my sword too?”
“No, my lord,” Rosea whispered. “It was taken through the mirror to the others.” There was another flash of green, this time at me. “Even with the knife and the globe we weren’t able to breach your wards, not completely. You were still able to withstand us, and the water aspect was strangely resistent to our working.”