Текст книги "Incarceron"

Автор книги: Kathryn Fisher

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3

The experiment will be a bold one and there may well be risks we have not foreseen. But

Incarceron will be a system of great complexity and intelligence. There could be no kinder or more compassionate guardian for its inmates.

-Project report; Martor Sapiens

It was a long way back to the shaft, and the tunnels were low. The Maestra walked with her head bent; she was silent , her arms hugging herself. Keiro had put Big Arko to watch her, Finn stayed right at the back behind the wounded.

In this part of the wing, Incarceron was dark and mostly uninhabited. Here the Prison rarely bothered itself to stir, putting its lights on infrequently and sending few Beetles out.

Unlike the stone transitway above, these floors were made of a metallic mesh that gave slightly underfoot; as Finn walked he saw the gleam of a rat's eyes where it crouched, dust falling on its metal scales.

He was stiff and sore, and as always after an ambush, angry. For everyone else the pentup tension had burst; even the injured chattered as they stumbled, and their loud laughter had the energy of relief in it. He turned his head and looked back. Behind them the tunnel was windblown and echoing. Incarceron would be listening.

He couldn't talk and he didn't want to laugh. A bleak stare at a few joking remarks warned the others off; he saw Lis nudge Amoz and raise her eyebrows. Finn didn't care. The anger was inside, at himself, and it was mixed with fear and a hot, scorching pride, because no one else had had the guts to be chained like that, to lie there in all that silence and wait for death to come rolling over him.

In his mind he felt the huge wheels again, high above his head.

And he was angry with the Maestra.

The Comitatus took no prisoners. It was one of the rules. Keiro was one thing, but when they got back to the Den he'd have to explain her to Jormanric, and that turned him cold.

But the woman knew something about the tattoo on his wrist, and he had to find out what that was. He might never have another chance.

Walking, he thought about that flash of vision. As always it had hurt, as if the memory—if it was one—had sparked and struggled up from some deep, sore place, a lost pit of the past. And it was hard to keep it clear; already he had forgotten most of it, except the cake on a plate, decorated with silver balls. Stupid and useless. Telling him nothing about who he was, or where he had come from.

The shaft had a ladder down its side; the scouts swarmed over first, then the Prisoners and the warband, lowering goods and the wounded. Last of all Finn climbed down, noticing how the smooth sides were cracked here and there where shriveled black ferns broke out.

Those would have to be cleared, otherwise the Prison might sense them, seal off this duct, and reabsorb the whole tunnel, as it had last year when they'd come back from a raid to find the old Den gone, and only a wide white passageway decorated with abstract images of red and gold.

"Incarceron has shrugged its shoulders," Gildas had said grimly.

That was the first time he had heard the Prison laugh.

He shivered, remembering it now, a cold, amused chuckle that had echoed down the corridors. It had silenced Jormanric in mid-fury, had made the hairs on his own skin prickle with terror. The Prison was alive. It was cruel and careless, and he was inside it.

He leaped down the last rungs into the Den. The great chamber was as noisy and untidy as ever, the warmth of its blazing fires overwhelming. As people clustered anxiously around the plunder, pulling the grain sacks open, tugging out food, he pushed through the crowd and made straight for the tiny cell he shared with Keiro. No one stopped him.

Inside, he latched the flimsy door and sat on the bed. The room was cold and smelled of unwashed clothes, but it was quiet. Slowly, he let himself lie back.

He breathed in, and inhaled terror. It came over him in a wave, appalling; he knew the hammering of his heart would kill him, felt cold sweat ice his back and upper lip. Until now he had kept it at bay, but these shuddering heartbeats were the vibrations of the giant wheels; as he jammed his palms into his closed eyes he saw the metal rims looming above him, lay in a screeching fountain of sparks.

He could have been killed. Or, worse still, crushed and maimed. Why had he said he would do it? Why did he always have to live up to their stupid, reckless reputation?

"Finn?"

He opened his eyes.

After a moment, he rolled over.

Keiro was standing with his back to the door.

"How long have you been there?" Finns voice cracked; he cleared his throat hastily.

"Long enough." His oathbrother came and sat on the other bed. "Tired?"

"That's one word for it."

Keiro nodded. Then he said, "There's always a price to pay. Any Prisoner knows that." He looked at the door. "None of them out there could have done what you did."

"I'm not a Prisoner."

"You are now."

Finn sat up and rubbed his dirty hair. "You could have done it."

"Well, yes, I could." Keiro smiled. "But then, I'm extraordinary, Finn, an artist of theft.

Devastatingly handsome, utterly ruthless, totally fearless." He tipped his head sideways, as if waiting for the snort of scorn; when it didn't come he laughed and pulled off his dark coat and jerkin. Unlocking the chest, he dropped the sword and firelock in, then searched among the heap of clothes and dragged out a red shirt flamboyantly laced with black.

Finn said, "Next time you, then."

"Have you ever known me not take my turn, brother? The Comitatus have to have our reputation pounded into their thick heads. Keiro and Finn. The fearless. The best." He poured water from the jug and washed. Finn watched wearily. Keiro had smooth skin, lithe muscles. In all this hell of deformed and starved people, of halfmen and pock-beggars, his oathbrother was perfect. And he took great care to stay that way. Now, pulling the red shirt on, Keiro threaded a stolen trinket into his mane of hair and looked at himself carefully in the fragment of mirror. Without turning he said, "Jormanric wants you."

Finn had been expecting it; even so it chilled him. "Now?"

"Right now. You'd better clean up."

He didn't want to. But after a moment he poured out fresh water and rubbed at the grease and oil on his arms.

Keiro said, "I'll back you about the woman. On one condition."

Finn paused. "What?"

"That you tell me what this is really all about."

"There's nothing ..."

Keiro threw the ragged towel at him. "Finn Starseer doesn't sell women or children. Amoz yes, or any of the hard cases. Not you."

Finn looked up; Keiro's blue eyes gazed straight back.

"Maybe I'm just getting like the rest of you." He dried his face in the gritty rag, then, not bothering to change, headed for the door. Halfway there Keiro's voice stopped him.

"You think she knows something about you."

Ruefully, Finn turned. "Sometimes I wish I'd picked someone less sharp to watch my back. All right. Yes. There was something she said ... that might ... that I need to ask her about. I need her alive."

Keiro moved past him to the door. "Well, don't sound too keen or he'll kill her in front of your face. Let me do most of the talking." He checked for listeners outside and looked back over his shoulder. "Scowl, and stay silent, brother. It's what you're good at."

THE DOOR to Jormanric's cell had the usual two bodyguards in front of it, but a wide grin from Keiro made the nearer grunt and step aside. Following his oathbrother in, Finn almost choked on the familiar sweet stench of ket, its intoxicating fumes heavy in the air. It caught in his throat; he swallowed, trying not to breathe too deeply.

Keiro elbowed through the pairs of oathbrothers, right to the front, and Finn trailed after his flashy red coat among the drab crowd.

Most of them were halfmen. Some had metallic claws for hands, or plastic tissue in patches where the skin had gone. One had a false eye that looked exactly like a real one, except that it was blind, the iris a sapphire. They were the lowest of the low, enslaved and despised by the pure; men whom the Prison had repaired, sometimes cruelly, sometimes just on a whim. One, a dwarfish, bent man with wiry hair, didn't step out of the way fast enough. Keiro floored him with one blow.

Keiro had a peculiar hatred for the halfmen. He never spoke to them, and barely acknowledged they existed, rather like the dogs that infested the Den. As if, Finn thought, his own perfection was insulted by their existence.

The crowd fell back, and they were among the warband. The Comitatus of Jormanric was a shambling and feckless army, fearless only in its own imagination. Big and Little Arko; Amoz and his twin, Zoma; the frail girl Lis, who went berserk in fights; and her oathsister, Ramill, who never said a word. A crowd of old lags and brash big-mouthed boys, sly cutthroats, and a few women expert in poisons. And, surrounded by his muscle-bound bodyguard, the man himself.

Jormanric, as always, was chewing ket. His few teeth worked automatically, scarlet with the sweet juice that stained his lips and beard. Behind him his bodyguard chewed in unison.

He must be totally immune to the drug, Finn thought. Even if he couldn't do without it.

"Keiro!" The Winglord's voice was a drawl. "And Finn the Starseer."

The last word was heavy with irony. Finn scowled. He pushed past Amoz and stood shoulder to shoulder with his oathbrother.

Jormanric sat sprawled in his chair. He was a big man, and the carved throne had been made especially for him; its arms were notched with raid tallies and stained with ket. A slave known as the dog-slave was chained to it; he used them to taste his food for poison, and none of them ever lasted long. This one was new, taken on the last raid, a huddle of rags and tangled hair. The Winglord wore a metallic warcoat and his hair was long and greasy, plaited and knotted with charms. Seven heavy skull-head rings were squeezed on his thick fingers.

He eyed the Comitatus with a hooded glare.

"A good raid, people. Food and raw metal. Enough for everyone's share to be plentiful."

A buzz from the room. But everyone meant only the Comitatus; the hangers-on would live on the scraps.

"And yet not as profitable as it might have been. Some fool annoyed the Prison." He spat out the ket and took another piece from the ivory box at his elbow, folding it carefully into his cheek. "Two men were killed." He chewed slowly, eyes fixed on Finn. "And a hostage was taken."

Finn opened his mouth, but Keiro trod firmly on his foot. It was never a good idea to interrupt Jormanric. He spoke slowly, with irritating pauses, but his appearance of stupidity was deceptive.

A thin sliver of red spittle hung on Jormanric's beard. He said, "Explain, Finn."

Finn swallowed, but Keiro answered, his voice cool. "Wing-lord, my oathbrother took a great risk back there. The Civics could easily not have stopped or even slowed. Because of him we have enough food for days. The woman was a whim of the moment, a small reward. But of course the Comitatus is yours, the decision yours. She means nothing, one way or the other."

The of course was a silken sarcasm. Jormanric didn't stop chewing; Finn couldn't tell whether the needle-stab of such a veiled threat had even registered.

Then he saw the Maestra. She was standing at the side, guarded, chains linking her hands. There was dirt on her face, and her hair was coming undone. She must have been terrified, but she stood tall, her gaze on Keiro and then, icily, on him. He couldn't meet that scorn. He looked down, but Keiro nudged him and at once he forced himself upright, outstaring them all. To seem weak, to look doubtful here, was to be finished. He could never trust any of them, except Keiro. And then only because of the oath.

Standing arrogantly he returned Jormanric's glare.

"How long have you been with us?" the Winglord demanded.

"Three years."

"Not an innocent anymore, then. The blankness has gone from your eyes. You no longer jump at screams. You no longer sob when the lights go out."

The Comitatus tittered. Someone said, "He hasn't killed anyone yet."

"About time he did," Amoz muttered.

Jormanric nodded, the metal in his hair clinking. "Maybe that's so." His eyes watched

Finn, and Finn stared straight back, because this was a bleary mask the Winglord wore, a bloated, slow disguise over his shrewd cruelty. He knew what was coming now; when

Jormanric said, almost sleepily, "You could kill this woman," he didn't even blink.

"I could, lord. But I'd rather make some profit. I heard them call her Maestra."

Jormanric raised a ket-red eyebrow. "Ransom?"

"I'm sure they'd pay. Those trucks were heavy with goods." He paused, not needing Keiro to tell him not to say too much. For a moment the fear shivered back, but he fought it down. Any ransom would mean Jormanric would take a share. Surely it would sway him.

His greed was legendary.

The cell was dim, its candles guttering. Jormanric poured a cup of wine, tipped a splash down for the small dog-creature, and watched it lap. Not until the slave sat back, unharmed, did he drink himself. Then he raised his hand and turned it outward to show the seven rings. "Do you see these, boy? These rings contain lives. Lives I stole. Each one of them was once an enemy, killed slowly, tormented in agony. Each one of them is trapped here in a loop around my fingers. Their breath, their energy, their strength, drawn out of them and held for me, until I need it. Nine lives a man can live, Finn, moving from one to another, fending off death. My father did it, I'll do it. But as yet I only have seven."

The Comitatus eyed one another. At the back women whispered; some strained to see the rings over the heads of the crowd. The silver skulls shimmered in the drug-laden air; one winked at Finn, crookedly. He bit his dry lips and tasted ket; it was salty as blood, made blurs swim in the corners of his eyes. Sweat soaked his back. The chamber was unbearably hot; high in the rafters rats peered down, and a bat flicked out and back into the darkness. Unnoticed, in one corner, three children dug in the pile of grain.

Jormanric heaved himself up. He was a huge man, a head higher than anyone else. He looked down at Finn. "A loyal man would offer this woman's life to his leader."

Silence.

There was no way out. Finn knew he would have to do it. He glanced at the Maestra. She looked back, pale, her face gaunt.

But Keiro's cool voice broke the tension. "A woman's life, lord? A creature of moods and folly, a frail, helpless thing?"

She didn't look helpless. She looked furious, and Finn cursed her for it. Why couldn't she sob and beg and whimper! As if she sensed him, she dropped her head, but every inch of her was stiff with pride.

Keiro waved a graceful hand. "Not much strength for a man to covet, but if you want it, its yours."

This was too dangerous. Finn was appalled. No one teased Jormanric. No one made him look ridiculous. He wouldn't be so far gone on ket not to feel that thrust. If you want it. If you're that desperate. Some of the warband understood. Zoma and Amoz exchanged covert smiles.

Jormanric glowered. He looked at the woman and she glared back. Then he spat out the red weed and reached for his sword.

"I'm not as choosy as preening boys," he snarled.

Finn stepped forward. For a moment he wanted only to drag the woman away, but Keiro had his arm in a grip of iron and Jormanric had turned to the Maestra; his sword was at her neck, the sharp point whitening the delicate skin under her chin, straining her head upward. It was over. Whatever she knew, Finn thought bitterly, he would never find it out now.

A door slammed at the back.

An acid voice snapped, "Her life is worthless, man. Give her to the boy. Anyone who lies down before death is either a fool or a visionary. Either way, he deserves his reward."

The crowd parted hastily. A small man strode through, his clothes the dark green of the

Sapienti. He was old but upright, and even the Comitatus moved aside for him. He came and stood by Finn; Jormanric looked down at him heavily.

"Gildas. What does it matter to you?"

"Do as I say." The old man's voice was harsh; he spoke as if to a child. "You'll get your last two lives soon enough. But she"—he jerked his thumb at the woman—"won't be one of them."

Anyone else would be dead. Anyone else would have been hauled out and hung down the shaft by his heels while rats ate his insides. But after a second Jormanric lowered the sword. "You promise me."

"I promise you."

"The promises of the Wise should not be broken." The old man said, "They won't be."

Jormanric looked at him. Then he sheathed the sword. "Take her."

The woman gasped.

Gildas stared at her irritably. When she didn't move, he grabbed her arm and pulled her near. "Get her out of here," he muttered.

Finn hesitated, but Keiro moved at once, pushing the woman hastily through the crowd.

The old mans grip, fast as a claw, caught Finn's arm. "Was there a vision?"

"Nothing important."

"I'll be the judge of that." Gildas looked after Keiro, then back. His small black eyes were alert; they moved with a restless intelligence. "I want every detail, boy." He glanced down at the bird-mark on Finn's wrist. Then he let go.

Instantly Finn pushed through the crowd and out.

The woman was waiting out in the Den, ignoring Keiro. She turned and stalked in front of

Finn back to the tiny cell in the corner and he motioned the guard away with one jerk of his head.

The Maestra turned. "What sort of Scum hole is this?" she hissed.

"Listen. You're alive ..."

"No thanks to you." She drew herself up; she was taller than he was, and her anger was venomous. "Whatever you want from me, you can forget it. You murderers can rot in hell."

Behind him, Keiro leaned on the doorframe, grinning. "Some people have absolutely no gratitude," he said.

4

Finally, when all was ready, Manor convened the council of the Sapienti and asked for volunteers. They must be prepared to leave family and friends forever. To turn their backs on the green grass, the trees, the light of the sun. Never again to see the stars. I "We are the Wise," he said. "The responsibility for success is ours. We must send our finest minds to guide the inmates." At the appointed hour, as he approached the chamber of the Gate, they say he murmured his fear that it would be empty. I He opened the door. Seventy men and women were waiting for him. In great ceremony, they entered the Prison.

They were never seen again.

-Tales of the Steel Wolf

That evening the Warden held a dinner for his honored guest.

The long table was dressed with a magnificent service of silver, the goblets and plates engraved with linked swans. Claudia wore a dress of red silk with a lace bodice and sat opposite Lord Evian, while her father at the head of the table ate sparingly and spoke quietly, his calm gaze moving over the nervous guests.

All their neighbors and tenants had obeyed the summons. And that's what it was, Claudia thought grimly, because when the Warden of Incarceron invited, there was no refusal.

Even Mistress Sylvia, who must be nearly two hundred, flirted and made mincing conversation with the bored young lord next to her.

As Claudia watched, the young lord carefully stifled a yawn. He caught her eye. She smiled at him sweetly. Then she winked and he stared. She knew she shouldn't tease him; he was one of her father's attendants, and the Wardens daughter would be far above him. Still, she was bored too.

After the endless courses of fish and peacock and roast boar and sweetmeats, there was dancing, the musicians up in a candlelit gallery above the smoky hall. Ducking under the raised arms of the long line of dancers she wondered suddenly if the instruments were accurate—surely violas were from a later period? That came of leaving details to Ralph.

The old retainer was an excellent servant, but his research was sometimes hurried. When her father wasn't here, she didn't care. But the Warden was precise about detail.

It was well after midnight when she finally saw the last guests to their carriage and stood alone on the steps of the manor. Behind her, two link-boys waited sleepily, their torches guttering in the breeze.

"Go to bed," she said without turning. The glimmer and crackle of the flames faded. The night was quiet.

As soon as they were gone, she ran down the steps and under the arch of the gatehouse to the bridge over the moat, breathing the deep stillness of the warm night. Bats flitted over the sky; watching them, she tugged off the stiff ruff and the necklaces, and from under the dress she stepped out of the stiffened petticoats and dumped them with relief into the old disused privy below the bank.

Much better! They could stay there till tomorrow.

Her father had retired earlier. He had taken Lord Evian up to the library; perhaps they were still there, talking money and settlements and discussing her future. And afterward, when his guest was gone and all the house was silent, her father would pull back the black velvet curtain at the end of the corridor and open the door of his study with its secret combination, the one she had tried for months to work out. He would disappear in there for hours, perhaps for days. As far as she knew, no one else ever entered the room. No servant, no technician, not even Medlicote, the secretary. She herself had never been in.

Well, not yet.

Glancing up at the north turret she saw, as she'd expected, a tiny flame in the window of the topmost room. She walked quickly to the door in the wall, opened it, and climbed the stairs in the dark.

He thought of her as a tool. A thing he had made ... bred, was his word. She tightened her lips, her fingers groping over the cold greasy wall. Long ago she had come to know his ruthlessness was so complete that to survive she would have to match it.

Did her father love her? As she slowed for breath on a stone landing she laughed, a quiet amusement. She had no idea. Did she love him? She certainly feared him. He smiled at her, had sometimes picked her up when she was small, held her hand on grand occasions, admired her dresses. He had never denied her anything, had never struck her or been angry, even when she'd had tantrums and broken the string of pearls he'd given her, or ridden off for days to the mountains. And yet as far back as she could remember the calmness of his cold gray eyes had terrified her, the dread of his displeasure hung over her.

Beyond the third landing the stairs were cluttered with bird droppings. They were certainly real. She picked her way through, groped along the corridor to the bend, climbed another three steps, and came to the iron-barred door. Grasping the ring, she turned it softly and peered in. "Jared? It's me."

The room was dark. A solitary candle burned on the sill, its flame guttering in the draft. All around the turret, the windows had been rolled back, in a disregard of protocol that would have given Ralph kittens.

The observatory roof rose on steel beams so narrow, it appeared to float. A great telescope had been wheeled to face the south; it bristled with finderscopes and infrared readers and a small flickering monitor screen. Claudia shook her head. "Look at this! If the Queen's spy sees this, the fines will cripple us.

"He won't. Not after the amount of cider he sank tonight."

At first she couldn't even find him. Then a shadow at the window moved and the darkness resolved into a slender shape that straightened from the viewfinder. "Take a look at this, Claudia."

She felt her way across the room, between the cluttered tables, the astrolabe, the hanging globes. Disturbed, a fox cub streaked to the sill.

He caught her arm and guided her to the telescope. "Nebula f345. They call it the Rose."

When she looked in, she could see why. The creamy explosion of stars that filled the dim circle of sky opened like the petals of a vast flower, millennia of light-years across. A flower of stars and quasars, worlds and black holes, its molten heart pulsing with gaseous clouds.

"How far away is it?" she murmured.

"A thousand light-years."

"So what I'm looking at is a thousand years old?"

"Maybe more."

Dazzled, she withdrew her eye from the lens. When she turned to face him, tiny flickers of light blurred her sight, played, over his tangle of dark hair, his narrow face and spare figure, the unlaced tunic under his robe.

"He's brought the wedding forward," she said.

Her tutor frowned. "Yes. Of course."

"You knew?"

"I knew the Earl had been expelled from the Academy." He moved into the candlelight and she saw his green eyes catch the glimmer. "They sent me a message this morning. I guessed this might be the result."

Annoyed, she brushed a pile of papers off the couch onto the floor and sat wearily, swinging her feet up. "Well, you were right. We've got two days. Its not going to be enough, is it?"

He came and sat opposite her. "To finalize tests on the device, no."

"You look tired, Jared Sapiens," she said.

"So do you, Claudia Arlexa."

There were shadows under his eyes and his skin was pale. Gently she said, "You should get more sleep."

He shook his head. "While the universe is out there wheeling over me? Impossible, lady."

She knew it was the pain that kept him awake. Now he called the fox cub and it came and jumped on his lap, rubbing and butting his chest and face. Absently he stroked its tawny back.

"Claudia, I've been thinking about your theory. I want you to tell me about how your engagement was arranged."

"Well, you were here, weren't you?"

He smiled his gentle smile. "It may seem to you as if I've been here forever, but I actually came just after your fifth birthday. The Warden sent to the Academy for the best Sapient available. His daughter's tutor could be nothing less."

Reminded of her father's words, she frowned. Jared looked at her sideways. "Did I say something?"

"Not you." She reached out to the fox but it turned away from her, tucking itself tidily into

Jared's arm. So she said sourly, "Well, it depends which engagement you mean. I've had two."

"The first."

"I can't. I was five. I don't remember it."

"But they betrothed you to the King's son. To Giles."

"As you said, the Warden's daughter doesn't get second best." She jumped up and prowled around the observatory, picking up papers restlessly.

His green eyes watched her. "He was a handsome little boy, I remember."

Her back to him, she said, "Yes. Every year after that the Court painter would send a little picture of him. I've got them all in a box. Ten of them. He had dark brown hair and a kind, sturdy face. He would have been a fine man." She turned. "I only really met him once.

When we went to his seventh birthday party at Court. I remember a boy sitting on a throne too big for him. They had to put a box for his feet. He had big brown eyes. He was allowed to kiss me on the cheek, and he was so embarrassed." She smiled, remembering. "You know how boys go really red. Well, he went scarlet. All he could mumble was, 'Hello, Claudia Arlexa. I'm Giles.' He gave me a bunch of roses. I kept them till they fell to pieces."

She went to the telescope and sat astride the stool, hitching her dress up to her knees.

The Sapient stroked the cub, watching Claudia adjust the eyepiece and gaze through it.

"You liked him."

She shrugged. "You'd never have thought he was the Heir. He was just like any other boy.

Yes, I liked him. We could have gotten along."

"But not his brother, the Earl? Not even then?"

Her fingers turned the fine dials. "Oh him! That twisted grin. No, I knew what he was like straightaway. He cheated at chess and tipped the board over if he was losing. He screamed at the servants, and some of the other girls told me things. When my ... when the Warden came home and told me Giles had died so suddenly ... that all the plans would have to be changed, I was furious." She sat up and turned quickly. "What I swore to you then still goes. Master, I can't marry Caspar. I won't marry him. I detest him."

"Calm down, Claudia."

"How can I!" She was on her feet now, pacing. "I feel as though everything's crashed in on me! I thought we'd have time, but a few days! We have to act, Jared. I have to get into the study, even if your machine is untested."

He nodded. Then he lifted the cub off and dumped it on the floor, ignoring its snarl of dismay. "Come and look at this."

Beside the telescope the monitor nickered. He touched the control and the screen rippled with words in the Sapient tongue of which he had never, for all her pleading, taught her a word. As he scrolled through in a bat whipped through the opened room and vanished back into the night. Claudia glanced around. "We should be careful."

''I'll shut the windows in a moment." Absently Jared stopped the text. "Here." His delicate fingers touched a key and the translation appeared. "Look. This is a fragment of a burned draft of a letter written by the Queen, retrieved and copied by a Sapient spy in the Palace, three years ago. You asked me to find anything that might support your absurd theory—"

"Its not absurd."

"Well, your unlikely theory, then, that Giles's death was—"

"Murder."

"Suspiciously sudden. Anyway, I found this." She almost pushed him aside in her eagerness. "How did you get it?"

He raised an eyebrow. "Secrets of the Wise, Claudia. Let's just say a friend in the

Academy went searching in the archives." As he went to the windows she read the text eagerly.

.. As for the arrangement we spoke of before, it is unfortunate, but great changes often require great sacrifices. G has been kept aloof from others since his father died; the people's grief will be real but short-lived and we can contain it. It barely needs saying that your part will be beyond value to us. When my son is King I can promise you all I...

She hissed in annoyance. "Is that it?"

"The Queen has always been very careful. We have at least seventeen people in the

Palace, but evidence for anything is rare." He slid the last window down, closing out the stars. "That took a lot of finding."