The coffer was the mother lode of dirty laundry, a treasure trove of bones. Sena almost felt humiliated for David Thacker (it was more than enough, way, way more than enough to destroy him) until she remembered the black icon and the key and the forty-two men and women killed in the siege.
She shut the box and locked it and tucked it under her arm. She had what she needed. She headed for the door.
Caliph’s plan had two outcomes depending on what Sena found. If she found nothing, she was supposed to leave the room undisturbed, return to the guest bedroom where they were temporarily staying and report. But if she found evidence, she was to remove it and bring it to Caliph who would then assess it and determine whether or not to order David Thacker’s arrest.
There were no protocols for policing the Hold. Within the castle, the High King’s word was absolute.
Sena reached the end of the hall and turned the corner, listening for noise. It took her by surprise when, without warning, an iron grip seized her by the elbow just above the joint.
The pressure was exquisite, focused and educated with regards to specific points of pain. She dropped the coffer with a tumultuous clatter and tried unsuccessfully to whirl.
Whoever it was had an expert grasp. He had her by the thumb and elbow now, tugging on her opposing digit in directions it was not meant to bend.
“Move and I’ll break your arm.”
Sena whimpered under the brute force.
Mr. Vhortghast stepped out from the shadow.
“My lady,” he said with a perfectly courtly tone. He did not remove his hands. “What oh what are you doing?”
“Why don’t you ask the High King?” she spat.
He released her. “Theft is still punishable by removal of the hands,” said Mr. Vhortghast.
“Fuck off, you whey-faced freak.”
“Tut. I’m sure this is a misunderstanding.” His voice was smooth as cream but he glowered at her. “We’ll resolve this in the morning.” He moved to pick up the fallen box.
“Resolve it now,” Sena demanded.
Zane Vhortghast rolled his eyes. “You mean to tell me the king is still awake and that I should disturb him in his room?”
“Yes. That’s exactly what I’m telling you to do.”
The spymaster scoffed.
“Or you can have it your way,” Sena fired, “and I’ll be sure to let him know what happened. He’s expecting that box.”
Zane’s face was taciturn and tranquil. But his pause told Sena he was considering. He wasn’t stupid. He knew she slept with his employer.
“You’re remarkable, aren’t you? Very well, I’ll accompany you to his majesty’s room.”
“Let me carry the box,” she said.
He thrust it at her.
Sena took it with a sneer.
They walked in silence, passing guards who didn’t dare glance sideways at the unlikely couple. When they reached the room currently servicing the High King, a small unit of guards saluted Zane.
Zane raised his hand to knock. Sena smirked and simply walked in.
Caliph pulled on a robe when he saw the spymaster. His eyes absorbed everything in an instant: the coffer in Sena’s hands, the tension in her face and Zane Vhortghast trying to look nonchalant.
“Hello, Zane.” Then he turned to Sena and nodded at the box. “What’s this? What did you find?”
“David Thacker,” her voice was soft, “I’m sorry, Caliph. He’s . . .” She handed him the box and the skeleton key to open it.
After he had gone through every article, Caliph pushed the container aside, feeling sick. He handed the key to Zane who was still patiently waiting to hear what was going on.
“That opens the sewer grates unless I’m sorely mistaken.”
Zane took the key and frowned. “You’re suggesting the assailants came from the sewers?”
Caliph nodded.
“Impossible. The castle sewers are independent of the city sewers. The only way into them that doesn’t drain out of the castle is by a main line that’s locked and regularly patrolled. We’ve had no disturbances. It’s impossible that . . .” His mouth stopped working as he began to ponder more creative ways.
There were certain prisoners in West Gate with tattoos identical to those found on the bodies tonight who had been caught trying to steal heavy machinery. The Crostate Brickyard had filed a report. All of it began to form a fuzzy picture in his mind.
“Impossible?” asked Caliph. “Let me tell you what’s impossible. I have forty-two dead men and women. Forty-two grieving families I have to address tomorrow without any excuse for our incompetence. Now I swear—” His voice began to rise.