Текст книги "Sapphique"

Автор книги: Kathryn Fisher

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 10 (всего у книги 19 страниц)

‘You won’t lose the Glove,’ she said sleepily.

‘No. Sleep well. You’re with us now, Attia Cygni.’ She closed her eyes. From somewhere far off she heard Rho say, ‘Was the slave given food?’

‘Yes. But he spent most of the time trying to seduce me,’ a girl’s voice laughed.

Attia rolled over and grinned.

Hours later, deep in sleep, between breaths, in her teeth and eyelashes and nerves, she felt the heartbeat. Her heartbeat. Keiro’s. Finn’s. The Prison’s.

17

The world is a chessboard, Madam, on which we play out our ploys and follies. You are the Queen, of course. Your moves are the strongest. For myself I claim only to be a knight, advancing in a crooked progress. Do we move ourselves, do you think, or does a great gloved hand place us on our squares?

PRIVATE LETTER; THE WARDEN OF INCARCERON TO QUEEN SIA

‘Were you responsible?’ Claudia stepped out of the shadow of the hedge and enjoyed the way Medlicote spun round, alarmed.

He bowed, the half-moons of his glasses flashing in the morning sunlight. ‘For the storm, my lady? Or the fire?’

‘Don’t be flippant.’ She let herself sound imperious. ‘We were attacked in the Forest – Prince Giles and myself. Was it your doing?’

‘Please: His inkstained fingers lifted. ‘Please, Lady Claudia.

Be discreet.’ Fuming, she kept silent.

He gazed across the wide lawns. Only peacocks strutted and squawked. There was a group of courtiers in the orangery; faint giggles drifted from the scented gardens.

‘We made no attack,’ he said quietly. ‘Believe me, madam, if we had, Prince Giles – if he is Giles – would be dead. The Steel Wolves deserve their reputation.’

‘You failed to kill the Queen on several occasions.’ She was scathing. ‘And you placed a dagger next to Finn …’

‘To ensure he remembers us. But the Forest, no. If I may say so you were unwise to ride out without an escort. The Realm is frill of discontents. The poor suffer their injustices, but they don’t forgive them. It was probably a simple attempt at robbery.’ She thought it was the Queen’s plot, though she had no intention of letting him know that. Instead she snapped a bud from the rosebush and said, ‘And the fire?’ He looked stricken. ‘That is a disaster. You know who was responsible for that, madam. The Queen has never wanted the Portal reopened.’ And now she thinks she’s won.’ Claudia jumped as a peacock rustled its magnificent tail into a fan. The hundred eyes watched her. ‘She thinks that my father is cut off:

‘Without the Portal, he is.’

‘You knew my father well, Master Medlicote?’ Medlicote frowned. ‘I was his secretary for ten years. But lit, was not an easy man to know’

‘He kept his secrets?’

‘Always.’

‘About Incarceron?’

‘I knew nothing about the Prison.’ She nodded, and took her hand out of her pocket. ‘Do you recognize this?’ He looked at it, wondering. ‘It’s the Warden’s pocketwatch.

He always wore it.’ She was watching him closely, alert for any glimmer of hidden recognition, of knowledge. In the glasses she saw the reflection of the open watchcase, the silver cube turning on the chain.

‘He left it for me. You have no idea then, where the Prison is?’

‘None. I wrote his correspondence. I ordered his affairs. But I never went there with him.’ She clicked the case shut. He seemed puzzled, had given no sign of knowing what he was looking at.

‘How did he travel there?’ she asked quietly.

‘I never discovered that. He would disappear, for a day, or a week. We . . . the Wolves . . . believe the Prison to be some sort of underground labyrinth, below the Court. Obviously the Portal gave access: He looked at her curiously. ‘You know more about this than I do. There may be information in his study, at your house in the Wardenry. I was never allowed in there.’ His study.

She tried not to reveal by even a blink the shock his words sparked. ‘Thank you. Thank you.’ Hardly knowing what she said she turned on her heel but his voice stopped her.

‘Lady Claudia. Something else. We have learned that when the false prince is executed you will share his fate:

‘What!’ He was standing with his glasses in his hands, his dusty shoulders stooped. In the sunlight he seemed suddenly a half—blind, agitated man.

‘But she can’t …’

‘She will. I warned you, lady. You are an escaped Prisoner.

She would not be breaking any laws.’ Claudia was cold. She could hardly believe this. ‘Are you sure?’

‘One of the Privy Council has a mistress. The woman is one of our operatives. He told her that the Queen was adamant.’

‘Did she hear anything else? Whether the Queen had brought in this Pretender?’ He stared at her. ‘That interests you more than your own death?’

‘Tell me!’

‘Unfortunately, no. The Queen professes ignorance as to which of the boys is her true stepson. She’s told the Council nothing.’ Claudia paced, shredding the rosebud. ‘Well, I don’t intend to be executed, by her or your Wolves or anyone else.

Thank you.’ She had ducked under the rose arch when he took a step after her and said softly, ‘Master Jared was bribed to stop work on the Portal. Did you know that?’ She stopped still as death, without turning. The roses were white, perfectly scented. Fat bees fumbled in their petals.

There was a thorn in the bud she held; it hurt her fingers and she dropped it.

He came no nearer. His voice was quiet. ‘The Queen offered him...’

‘There’s nothing’ – she turned, almost spitting the words

– ‘nothing, that she could offer that he would take. Nothing!’ A bell chimed, then another from the Ivory Tower. It was the signal for the Inquisition of the Candidates. Medlicote kept his eyes on her. Then he put his spectacles back on and bowed, clumsily. ‘My mistake, my lad,’ he said.

She watched him walk away. She was trembling. She didn’t know how much with anger, how much with fear.

Jared looked down with a rueful smile at the book in his hand. It had been a favourite of his when he had been a student here, a small red book of mysterious and cryptic poems that languished unread on the shelves. Now, opening the pages, he found the oak leaf he had once placed in it, on page forty-seven, at the sonnet about the dove that would cure the devastation of the Years of Rage, a flowering rose in its beak. Reading the lines now he let his memories slip back to that time. It had not been so long ago. He had been the youngest graduate of the Academy since Protocol began, considered brilliant, assured of a great career.

The oak leaf was as frail as cobweb, a skeleton of veins.

His fingers trembling slightly, he closed the book and slid it back. He was certainly above such self—pity.

The library of the Academy was a vast and hushed collection of rooms. Great oak cabinets of books, some of them chained, stood in ranks down the galleried halls.

Sapienti sat huddled over manuscripts and illuminated volumes, quill nibs scraping, each stall lit by a small lamp that looked like a candle but was in fact a high intensity personal diode powered by the hidden underground generators. Jared estimated that at least a third of the precious remaining power of the Realm was consumed here.

Not just in the library, of course. The apparent quills were linked to a central computer that also ran the lunar observatory and the extensive medical wing. The Queen, though he hated her, had been right. If there had once been a cure for him, this was the only place it might still be found.

‘Master?’ The librarian had returned, the Queen’s letter in his hand. ‘This is all in order. Please follow me.’ The Esoterica was the heart of the library. It was rumoured to be a secret chamber, entered only by the First High Sapient and the Warden. Jared certainly had never been there. His heart fluttered a little with excitement.

They walked through three rooms, through a hall of maps and up a winding stair into a small gallery that ran round above the reading room, under the dusty cornice. In the far corner was a shadowy alcove, containing a desk and a chair, the arms carved with winding snakes.

The librarian bowed. ‘If you need anything, please ask one of my assistants.’ Jared nodded and sat. He tried not to show his surprise, and disappointment; he had expected something more secret, more impressive, but perhaps that had been foolish.

He glanced round.

There were no obvious watching devices, but they were here, he sensed that. He put his hand into his coat and slid out the disc he had prepared. He slipped the disc under the desk and it clasped itself on tight.

The desk, despite appearances, was metal. He touched it, and a portion of the wainscoting became a screen that lit discreetly. It said YOU HAVE ENTERED THE ESOTERICA.

He worked quickly. Soon diagrams of the lymphatic and nervous systems rippled over the screen. He studied them intently, cross-referencing with the fragments of medical research that the system still held. The room below was silent, formal busts of ancient Sapienti staring in stiff rigour from their marble pedestals. Outside the distant casement a few doves cooed.

A librarian padded by, carrying a heap of parchment. Jared smiled gently.

They were keeping a good watch on him.

By three, the time for the brief afternoon rain shower, he was ready. As the light dimmed and the room grew gloomier, he slid his hand under the desk and touched the disc.

At once, under the diagrams of the nervous system, writing appeared. It had taken a long time to find the encrypted files on Incarceron, and his eyes were tired, his thirst a torment.

But as the first thunder rumbled, here they were.

Reading one script below another was a skill he had perfected long ago. It needed concentration, and always gave him a headache, but that would be bearable. After ten minutes he had worked out one symbol that unlocked others, then recognized an old variant o the Sapient tongue he had once studied.

As he translated, the words began to form out of the mass of strange glyphs.

Rota of the original Prisoners.

Sentences and Judicial reports.

Criminal Records; Photoimages.

Duties of the Warden.

He touched the last line. The screen rearranged, and under its web of nerves informed him curtly: This material is classified. Speak the password.

He swore, quietly.

Incorrect, the screen said. You have two more attempts before an alarm wilt be sounded.

Jared closed his eyes and tried not to groan. He glanced round; saw the rain slashing against the windows, the small lights on the desks below brighten imperceptibly.

He made himself breathe slowly, felt sweat prickle his back. Then he whispered, ‘Incarceron.’ Incorrect. You have one more attempt before an alarm will be sounded.

He should withdraw and think about it. If they found out he’d never get this far again. And yet time was against hint.

Time, that the Realm had been denied, was taking its revenge.

Pages turned below. He leant closer, seeing in the screen his own pale face, the dark hollows of his eyes. There was a word in his mind and he had no idea if it was the right one.

But the face was both his and another’s, and it was narrow and its hair was dark and he opened his mouth and whispered its name.

‘Sapphique?’ Lists. Rotas. Data.

It spread like a virus over the page, over the diagrams, over everything. The strength and speed of the information astounded him; he tapped the disc to record it as it rapidly came and went.

‘Master?’ Jared almost jumped.

One of the Academy porters stood there, a big man, his dark coat shiny with age, his staff tipped with a white pearl.

‘Sorry to disturb you at work, Master, but this came. From the Court.’ It was a parchment letter, sealed with Claudia’s black swan insignia.

‘Thank you.’ Jared took it, gave the man a coin and smiled calmly. Behind him the screen showed endless medical diagrams. Used to the austere ways of the Sapienti, the porter bowed and withdrew.

The red seal snapped as Jared opened it. And yet he knew it would have been read by the Queen’s spies.

My dearest Master Jared, The most dreadful thing has happened! A fire broke out in the cellars of the East Court, and most of the ground and upperfloors have collapsed. No one was hurt but the entrance to the Portal is buried under tons of rubble. The Queen’s Majesty assures me everything possible will be done but I am so dismayed! My father is lost to us, and Giles bemoans the fate of his friends. Today he faces the trial of the Inquisitors. Pray search hard, dear friend, for our only alternative lies in silence and secrecy.

Your most loving and obedient pupil, Claudia Arlexa.

He smiled ruefully at the Protocol. She could do much better. But then, the note was not just for him, it was for the Queen. A fire! Sia was taking no chances – first removing him and then sealing the entrance to the Prison. But what the Queen presumably didn’t know and only he and Claudia did, was that there was another entrance to the Portal, through the Warden’s study at home in the sleepy manor house of the Wardenry. Our only alternative lies in silence and secrecy. She had known he would understand.

The porter, fidgeting at a respectful distance, said, ‘The messenger returns to Court in an hour. Will there be any answer, Master?’

‘Yes. Please bring some ink and paper.’ As the man went, Jared took out a tiny scanner and ran it across the vellum. Scrawled in red across the neatly written lines was IF FINN LOSES THEY INTEND TO KILL US BOTH.YOU KNOW WHERE WE’LL BE. I TRUST YOU.

He drew in a sharp breath. The porter, anxious, placed the inkwell on the desk. ‘Master, are you in pain?’ He sat, white. ‘Yes,’ he said, crumpling the paper.

He had never guessed they would kill her. And what had she meant by I trust you?

The Queen rose and all the diners stood hurriedly, even those still eating. The summer meal of cold meats and venison pasties, of lavender cream and syllabub lay scattered on the white-clothed tables.

‘Now’ She dabbed her lips with a kerchief. ‘You will all retire, except the Claimants.’ Claudia curtsied. ‘I ask permission to attend the trial, Majesty’ The Queen’s lips made a perfect red pout. ‘I’m sorry Claudia. Not this time.’

‘Nor me?’ Caspar said, drinking.

‘Or you either, my sweet. Run away and shoot things.’ But she was still looking at Claudia, and suddenly, almost rnischeviously, she took her by the arm. ‘Oh Claudia! It’s such a shame about the Portal! And you know I’m so sorry to have to appoint a new Warden. Your dear father was so. . . astute.’ Claudia kept the smile plastered to her face. ‘As Your Majesty wishes.’ She wouldn’t beg. That was what Sia wanted.

‘If only you’d married Caspar! In fact, even now. . .‘ She couldn’t stand this. She couldn’t pull away either, so she stood rigid and said, ‘That choice is over, Majesty.’

‘Too right,’ Caspar muttered. ‘You had your chance, Claudia. I wouldn’t touch you now...’

‘Even for twice the dowry?’ his mother said.

He stared. ‘Are you serious?’ Sia’s lips twitched. ‘You are so easy to tease, Caspar, darling.’ The doors at the end of the room opened. Beyond them Claudia saw the Court of Inquisition.

The Queen’s throne was a vast eagle, its spread wings forming the back, its raised beak open in a harsh cry. The crown of the Havaarna encircled its neck.

The Privy Council sat in a circle around it, but on either side of the throne were two empty seats, one white and one black. As the Council filed in, Claudia watched a small door in the wall open and two figures emerge. She had expected Finn and Giles. Instead she saw the Inquisitors of Sun and Shadow.

The Shadow Lord wore black velvet lined with sable, and his hair and beard were as jet as his clothes. His face was harsh and unreadable. The other, in white, was graceful and smiling, his robe satin, edged with pearls.

She had never seen either of them before.

‘My Lord of Shadow.’ The Queen went to her throne and turned, formally. ‘And my Lord Sun. Your duty here is to question and draw out the truth, so that we and our Council may come to our verdict. Do you swear to deal faithfully in this enquiry?’ Both men knelt and kissed her hand. Then they walked, one to the black chair, one to the white, and sat. The Queen smoothed her dress, pulling a small lace fan out of her sleeve.

‘Excellent. Then let’s begin. Close the doors.’ A gong rang.

Finn and the Pretender were ushered in.

Claudia frowned. Finn wore his usual dark colours, without ornament. He looked defiant, and anxious. The Pretender wore a coat of purest yellow silk, as expensive as could be made. The two stood and faced each other on the tiled floor.

‘Your name?’ the Lord Shadow snapped.

As the doors slammed in her face Claudia heard their joint response.

‘Giles Ferdinand Alexander Havaarna.’ She stared at the carved wood, then turned and walked quickly away through the crowd. And like a whisper in her ear her father’s voice came to her, coldly amused. ‘Do you see them, Claudia? Pieces on the chessboard. How sad that only one can win the game.’

18

What makes a prince?

A sunny sky, an open door.

What makes a prisoner?

A question with no answer.

SONGS OF SAPPHIQUE

‘Get me out, Attia.’

‘I can’t yet.’ She crouched by the wooden bars of the cage.

‘You’ll have to be patient.’

‘Having too nice a time with your pretty new friends?’ Keiro sat lounged against the far wall, arms folded, legs stretched out. He looked cool and scornful but she knew him well enough to see that, inside, he was blazing.

‘I need to keep in with them.You can see that.’

‘So who are they?’

‘All women. Most of them seem to hate men – they’ve probably suffered at their hands. They call themselves the Cygni. They each have a sort of number for a name. The number of a star.’

‘How poetic.’ Keiro tipped his head. ‘Now tell me when they’re going to kill me.’

‘They’re considering. I’ve begged them not to.’

‘And the Glove?’

‘Rho’s got it.’

‘Get it back.’

‘I’m working on it.’ She glanced at the door of the room warily. ‘This nest is a sort of hanging structure. Rooms and passages, all woven together. I think there’s some way down to the floor of the hail but I haven’t found it yet.’ Keiro was silent a moment. ‘The horse?’

‘No idea.’

‘Great. All our stuff.’

‘All your stuff.’ She pushed her tangled hair back. ‘There’s something else. They work for the Warden. They call him the Unsapient.’ His blue eyes stared at her. ‘They want to take him the Glove!’ He was always so quick, she thought. ‘Yes, but—’

‘Attia, you have to get it back!’ He was up on his feet now, gripping the bars. ‘The Glove is our only way to Incarceron.’

‘How, exactly? We’re outnumbered.’ He kicked the bars, furious. ‘Get me out, Attia. Lie to them.

Tell them to throw me over the viaduct. Just get me out.’ As she turned he reached out and grabbed her. ‘They’re all halfmen, aren’t they?’

‘Some of them. Rho. Zeta. A woman called Omega has pincers instead of hands.’ She looked at him. ’Does that help you hate them more?’ Keiro laughed coldly, and tapped his fingernail on the bars.

It rang, metal against metal. ‘What hypocrisy that would be.’ She stepped away. ‘Listen. I think we’re wrong.’ Before he could explode she hurried on. ‘If we give the Prison this Glove it will carry out its crazy plan of Escape. Everyone here will die. I don’t think I can do that, Keiro. I just don’t think I can.’ He was staring at her, with that cold, intent look that always scared her.

She backed off. ‘Maybe I should just take the Glove and go.

Leave you here.’ She got to the door before his whisper came, icy with threat. ‘That would make you just the same as Finn. A liar. A traitor. You wouldn’t do that to me, Attia.’ She didn’t look back.

‘Tell us once more about the day you remember. The day of the hunt.’ The Shadow Lord loomed over him, eyes hard.

Finn stood in the empty centre of the room. He wanted to pace about. Instead he said, ‘I was riding. . .‘

‘Alone?’

‘No . . . there must have been others. At first.’

‘Which others?’ He rubbed his face. ‘I don’t know. I’ve tried to think, over and over, but …’

‘You were fifteen.’

‘Sixteen. I was sixteen.’ They were trying to trick him.

‘The horse was chestnut?’

‘Grey: He stared, angry, towards the Queen. She sat, eyes half closed, a small dog on her lap. Her fingers stroked it rhythmically.

‘The horse jumped he said. ‘I told you, I felt a sort of sting in my leg. I fell off.’

‘With your courtiers around you.’

‘No I was alone.’

‘You just said . . .’

‘I know! Perhaps I got lost!’ He shook his head. The warning prickle moved behind his eyes. ‘Perhaps I took the wrong path. I don’t remember!’ He had to stay calm. To be alert. The Pretender lounged on the bench, listening with bored impatience.

The Shadow Lord came closer. His eyes were black and level. ‘The truth is that you invented this. There was no ambush. You are not Giles. You are the Scum of Incarceron.’

‘I am Prince Giles.’ But his voice sounded weak. He heard his own doubt.

‘You are a Prisoner. You have stolen. Haven’t you?’

‘Yes. But you don’t understand. In the Prison. . .’

‘You have killed.’

‘No. Never killed.’

‘Indeed?’ The Inquisitor drew back like a snake. ‘Not even the woman called the Maestra?’ Finn’s head shot up. ‘How do you know about the Maestra?’ There was a movement of unease round the room. Some of the Council murmured to each other. The Pretender sat up.

‘How we know is not important. She fell, didn’t she, inside the Prison, down a great abyss, because the bridge on which she stood had been sabotaged. You were responsible.’

‘No!’ He was shouting now, eye to eye with the man. The Inquisitor did not back off.

‘Yes. You stole a device for Escape from her. Your words are a mass of lies. You claim visions. You claim to have spoken with ghosts.’

‘I didn’t kill her!’ He grabbed for his sword but it wasn’t there. ‘I was a Prisoner, yes, because the Warden drugged me and put me in that hell. He took away my memory. I am Giles!’

‘Incarceron is not a hell. It is a great experiment.’

‘It’s hell. I should know’

‘Liar.’

‘No...’

‘You are a liar. You have always been a liar! Haven’t you?

Haven’t you?’

‘No. I don’t know!’ He couldn’t bear it. His throat was ashes, the blurring of the impending seizure tormenting him. If it happened here he was finished.

He became aware of movement, dragged his head up. The Sun Lord was standing, beckoning for a chair to be brought, and the Shadow Lord had gone back to his seat.

‘Please, sire. Be seated. Be calm.’ The man’s hair was silver, his words sweet with concern. ‘Bring water, here.’ A footman brought a tray. A cool goblet was pressed into Finn’s hand and he drank, trying not to spill it. He was shaking, his sight blurred by spots and itches. Then he sat, gripping the padded arms of the chair. Sweat was soaking his back. The eyes of the Council were fixed on him; he dared not look at their disbelief. The Queen’s fingers fondled the silky fur of her dog. She was watching calmly.

‘So,’ the Sun Lord mused. ‘You say the Warden imprisoned you?’

‘It must have been him.’ The man smiled kindly. Finn tensed. The kind ones were always the most deadly.

‘But. . . if the Warden was responsible, he could not have acted alone. Not with the abduction of a royal prince. Do you claim that the Privy Council were involved?’

‘No.’

‘The Sapienti?’ He shrugged, wearily. ‘Someone with knowledge of drugs must have been.’

‘So you accuse the Sapienti?’

‘I don’t accuse. . .’

‘And the Queen?’ The room was silent. Sullen, Finn clenched his fists. He was staring right into disaster and he knew it. But he didn’t care.

‘She must have known.’ No one moved. The Queen’s hand was still. The Sun Lord shook his head sadly. ‘We need to be absolutely clear, sire.

Do you accuse the Queen of your abduction? Of your imprisonment?’ Finn didn’t look up. His voice was dark with miser because they had trapped him into this, and Claudia would despise him for his stupidity.

But he still said it.

‘Yes. I accuse the Queen.’

‘Look over there.’ Rho stood on the viaduct and pointed.

Narrowing her eyes, Attia strained to see across the dimness of the hail. Birds were flying towards her, dark flocks of them. Their wings creaked; in a second they were all around her and she ducked with a gasp under the cloud of plummage and beaks. Then they were streaming far into the east.

‘Birds, bats, people.’ Rho turned, her eye of gold shining. ‘We have to live, Attia, like everyone else, but we don’t steal, or kill. We work for a higher purpose. When the Unsapient asks for things he needs, we get them. In the last three months we’ve sent him—’

‘How?’

‘What?’ Attia caught the girl by the wrist. ‘How? How does this. . .

Unsapient tell you what he wants?’ Rho pulled away and stared. ‘He speaks to us.’ A shiver of the world interrupted her. Far below a scream arose; cries of terror. Instantly Attia fell flat, grabbing the rusted girders; another ripple of movement went right through her body, her very fingernails. Next to her a rivet snapped; ivy slithered over the edge.

They waited until the Prisonquake ended, Rho on hands and knees beside her, both of them breathless with fear. As soon as she could speak Attia said, ‘Let’s get back down.

Please.’ Through the hole the complex of the Nest hung apparently undisturbed.

‘The quakes are getting worse.’ Rho scrambled in the ivy tunnel.

‘How does he speak to you? Please, Rho, I really need to know.’

‘Down here. I’ll show you.’ They hurried through the room of feathers. Three of the other women were there, cooking stew in a great cauldron, one mopping spills that had slopped out in the shiver. The smell of meat made Attia swallow in appreciation. Then Rho ducked under a doorway into a small rounded place, a bubble of a room. It contained nothing but an Eye.

Attia stopped dead.

The small red glimmer swivelled to look at her. For a moment she stood there, remembering Finn’s tale of how he had woken in a cell containing nothing but this, the silent, curious gaze of Incarceron.

Then slowly, she came and stood below it. ‘I thought you said the Unsapient.’

‘That’s what he calls himself. He is the heart of the Prison’s plan.’

‘Is he now?’ Attia took a breath and folded her arms. Then, so loud that Rho started, she snapped, ‘Warden. Can you hear me?’ Claudia paced up and down the panelled corridor.

When the door opened and the footman slipped out, an empty goblet on his tray, she grabbed him. ‘What’s happening?’

‘The Prince Giles is . . .‘ He glanced past her, bowed and scurried away.

‘Don’t scare the servants, Claudia,’ Caspar muttered from the doorway to the garden.

Furious, she turned and saw his bodyguard, Fax, carrying archery targets under his brawny arms. Caspar wore a bright green coat and a tricorn hat with a white curling feather.

‘They’ll be talking for hours. Come and shoot some crows.’

‘I’ll wait!’ She sat on a chair against the wall, kicking the wooden leg with her foot.

An hour later, she was still there.

‘And you planned all this yourself?’

‘The Queen had no idea, if that’s what you mean.’ The Pretender sat back in the chair, arms loose. His voice was calm and conversational. ‘The plan was mine – to disappear absolutely. I would not have burdened Her Majesty with such a conspiracy.’

‘I see.’ The Sun Lord nodded sagely. ‘But there was a dead body, was there not? A boy who everyone believed was Giles, laid in state here in the Great Hall for three days. You arranged even that?’ Giles shrugged. ‘Yes. One of the peasants in the Forest died from a bear’s attack. It was convenient, I admit. It covered my tracks.’ Finn, listening, scowled. It might even be true. Suddenly he thought of the old man, Tom. Hadn’t he said something about his son? But the Sun Lord was asking mildly.’

‘So you are indeed Prince Giles?’

‘Of course I am, man.’

‘If I were to suggest you are an imposter, that you. . .’

‘I hope’ – the Pretender sat up slowly – ‘I hope, sir, that you are not implying that Her Majesty somehow had me trained or indoctrinated in any way to play this – role?’ His clear brown eyes met the inquisitor’s in a direct stare. ‘You would not dare suggest such a crime.’ Finn cursed silently. He watched the Queen’s mouth twitch into a small secret smile.

‘Indeed, not,’ the Sun Lord said, bowing. ‘Indeed not, sire.’ He had them. If they accused him of that, they accused the Queen, and Finn knew that would never happen. He cursed the boy’s cleverness, his plausibility, his easy elegance. He cursed his own rough awkwardness.

The Pretender watched the Sun Lord sit and the Shadow Lord stand. If he was apprehensive there was no sign of it.

He leant back, almost negligent, and beckoned for water.

The dark man watched him drink it. As soon as the cup was back on the tray, he said, ‘At the age of eleven you left the Academy.’

‘I was nine, as you well know. My father felt it more fitting that the Crown Prince should study privately:

‘You had several tutors, all eminent Sapienti.’

‘Yes. All, unfortunately, now dead.’

‘Your chamberlain, Bartley. . .’

‘Bartlett.’

‘Ah yes, Bartlett. He is also dead.’

‘I have heard. He was murdered by the Steel Wolves, as I would have been, if I had stayed here.’ His face softened.

‘Dear Bartlett. I loved him greatly.’ Finn ground his teeth. A few of the Council glanced at each other.

‘You are fluent in seven languages?’

‘I am.’ The next question was in some foreign tongue that Finn couldn’t even identify and the Pretender’s answer was quiet and sneering.

Could he have forgotten whole languages? Was it possible?

He rubbed his face, wishing the prickle behind his eyes would die away.

‘You are also an accomplished musician?’

‘Bring me a viol, a harpsichord.’ The Pretender sounded bored. ‘Or I could sing. Shall I sing, lords?’ He smiled and burst suddenly into an aria, his tenor voice soaring.

The Privy Council stirred. The Queen giggled.

‘Stop it!’ Finn leapt to his feet.

The Pretender stopped. He met Finn’s eyes and said softly, ‘Then let you sing, sire. Play for us. Speak in foreign tongues.

Recite us the poems of Alicene and Castra. I’m sure they will sound most alluring in your gutter accent.’ Finn didn’t move. ‘Those things don’t make a prince.’ he whispered.

‘We might debate that.’ The Pretender stood. ‘But you have no cultured arguments, have you? All you have is anger, and violence, Prisoner.’