together in corners. Petri grinned savagely and went on with a renewed vigour in his step. He had to show the king he was worthy, despite this setback. He had to. Had to know too that the orreries and what they represented under Bakar could be broken.
He stood as tall as he could while the king paced his anger away before he flopped into his chair, and Petri wondered if he’d get the chance to show anyone anything.
“How the hells did they know? If anyone was going to rob a coach, you’d have thought it would have been the one leaving Reyes, carrying my quarterly allowance.” King Licio spat that last word. An allowance, like a wayward teen not a grown descendant of kings. “I made sure it had fewer guards than usual. Your coach would seem slim pickings by comparison, low key, just a group of ex-nobles on a little spree. So how did they know that was the coach we didn’t want robbed? That the chest was what I can’t afford to lose? How did they know? Petri, how did they beat you? You were trained by the duelling guild; you should be able to beat off some bloody peasant thieves. And really, Petri, almost naked?”
Egimont gritted his teeth – it would take a long time to live that down. He could be sure the tale would have reached Reyes by the next available coach. A source of endless amusement for his supervisor in his pathetic job at the prelate’s office. Intentional too, he thought. Kacha knew, none better, how to hurt him by wounding his pride. He just didn’t know why.
“Not just common robbers, your highness. These were highly skilled swordsmen.” And one a woman, though he kept that part to himself for now. He’d recognised Kacha instantly. How could he not? Kacha had never gone for Ruffelo’s techniques and instead preferred her own, at least when not officially duelling at the guild. He almost smiled at the thought of their duel, of watching her fence like she was born to it, and then squashed the smile. That part of his life was over.
“Highly skilled?” The king leaped back up from his ornate chair at the head of the room. The hall was a whitewashed affair with rich hangings, plush carpets, bright windows and no clockwork – it had all been ripped out, and recently by the look of things, leaving odd gaping holes that seemed to make the rest of the room look even finer. A glazed case ran the length of one wall, filled with more precious things than Egimont had ever seen anywhere together. A hall far fairer than almost any other in both the city and country of Reyes. And that was the trouble. It was the almost that rubbed King Licio raw. He was no longer king in anything but name, and the only other palace finer than this used to be his, but now, nearly two decades after the revolution against the old king when Licio was a baby, belonged to the prelate and his departments. All Licio had was a useless and meaningless title, a seat on the council, a few concessions which meant little in practice, and the second-finest hall in the country. And now a magician, a fact which unnerved Egimont.
It’d been a long time, but he’d had as much cause as any to celebrate when the prelate got rid of them after the revolt. If bringing the king back meant a magician… No, he’d sworn loyalty to his king for good or ill, and that was everything. His father had been a faithless man, and Egimont had no intention of following in his footsteps. In any regard.
Licio stalked over to Egimont. Even in anger – especially in anger – he looked like a king. Tall, golden-haired, loose limbed, with the sort of face that could charm angels into sin. He smiled easily, his eyes shining with courage and honesty. All he needed was a crown and a fanfare to complete the image. He looked the part and Egimont had begun to wonder whether it was that which had seduced him into this plot, or his own greed and pride. Yet he sounded the part too, and Petri sympathised with his frustrations with the prelate, with the reborn Clockwork God he said they must pray to now, the notion that all their lives were laid out ahead of them on rails, and they couldn’t turn from what the