move quick as we can. I spoke to one of the prelate’s men before he died and then I followed those ‘smiths’. Because of what that prelate’s man told me. The men disguised as smiths were councillors’ men too.”
Vocho had a sudden prickly feeling on the back of his head. Councillors’ men, dragon crests, dragons being the symbol of the old monarchy, of their gods-given right to rule…
“King’s men?”
“I followed two of them, like I said. Took me round the houses, but we ended up in Nob Hill. Which seemed a bit strange for smiths, don’t you think, especially ones who managed to change into guards’ uniform on the way?”
“More than bloody strange.”
“Even stranger when finally they got to the king’s house there. Let in, sweet as you please. By Egimont.”
“Holy hen’s teeth. What does Licio think he can gain from murdering a couple of prelate’s men in a bar brawl?” Vocho asked. “The prelate’s going to be pissed as hells no matter how odd he’s getting, and that’s good for no one, especially Licio.”
“Currently all the prelate is going to know is some smiths murdered his men. The people he’ll be pissed with are Soot Town. Not the king. But with all the unrest, it looks like a golden opportunity for someone, right?”
Vocho looked back down at the papers. Once you knew what it had to be, it was clear as the nose on Cospel’s very plain face. A dragon rampant, the king’s crest, the symbol of all that had been wrong with the monarchy: gods-blessed, only the gods had turned out to be fake, pretty much like dragons had turned out to be mythical.
“A bit of fighting in the streets isn’t going to do much,” he said. “He’s got something else. Some new thing that might tip the balance in his favour.”
“Like a magician?” Kacha said.
“That would do for a start, exactly like the one I saw heading into Nob Hill earlier,” Vocho managed weakly. “But it can’t be all. Can it?”
“Petri, the magician and the king. I think that’s enough to know there’s something going on here. We need this translated as soon as we can. And we need to be doubly careful. If this has anything to do with what went on tonight, and it looks like it might, then we’re in big shit if he finds us or these papers. So no more bar brawls, fist fights or calling people out for duels. All right?”
“You spoil all my fun.”
Interlude
Seventeen years earlier
Petri was bowled along with the mob. Not only was he hemmed in on every side, but Bakar had a tight grip on his arm. Without that he wouldn’t have known where to go. Eneko had thrown him out of the guild – to save the guild or to save himself, Petri wasn’t sure which – and shut the gates. There was his father’s townhouse in King’s Row, but his father… Petri wanted to deny everything that Bakar had said about him but found he believed it, believed that maybe there was more, worse, that Bakar hadn’t told him. If nothing else, he was where he needed to be to find out, or soon would be. He stopped lagging, and Bakar no longer needed to pull on his arm, just gave Petri an appraising look and a cryptic smile, but said nothing as they approached the palace.
King’s guards ran to and fro. A company of cavalry stood to one side, the horses snorting and stamping at the approach of what seemed like half the docks and Soot Town. Straight ahead the bulk of the men and women who made up the king’s guard were drawn up in ranks, swordsmen at the front, crossbowmen to the rear. Petri squinted up at the roof and saw archers lurking there among the fancy fretwork.
So did everyone else, and all of a sudden the crowd slowed its pace to a crawl. In places it might have gone backwards, if not for the press of people behind. Bakar never faltered though. There seemed to be some kind of power radiating from him – Petri could feel the burn of it where Bakar’s hand held his arm – but what it was, Petri couldn’t say. Only that people looked at him and seemed to gain resolve. Bakar was so very single-minded, so intense, so sure, it was hard not to be pulled along, not to feel a bit of it yourself.
He strode forward, Petri in his wake, straight up to the