you have that done to? All that you might skulk about in safety and continue your plan to undo your brother!’
Christopher’s fist came from nowhere, and Pritchard was back on the ground before Wynter registered the blow.
‘That was the Lord Razi’s friend!’ hissed Christopher, leaning over Pritchard, his face like poison. ‘And he were brought down by the likes of you. So don’t you lay that poor lad’s death at the Lord Razi’s feet, or so help me God, I’ll skin you alive!’
This exchange was conducted in Southlandast and Sólmundr could not possibly have understood it. Still, he responded to Christopher’s anger by pressing his sword to Pritchard’s throat, no trace of wicked humour left in his weathered face.
Pritchard, his hand to his nose, regarded Sól’s blade through narrowed eyes, then glared up at Razi. ‘I will not betray the Prince to you,’ he said.
Razi looked at him with horrified confusion. He opened his mouth to speak and Wynter dropped to a crouch by Pritchard’s feet, purposely drawing the man’s attention before her friend could betray himself.
‘Lord Andrew,’ she said, ‘you have mistaken the Lord Razi’s intentions. You both work to a common purpose. My Lord Razi has only just left his brother’s camp in the Indirie Valley. He travels now bearing papers from the Prince. He travels in the Prince’s name, his task being to press the Royal Prince Alberon’s case and to reconcile the true heir with his father the King.’
Pritchard regarded her with court-wary eyes. Slowly his attention returned to Razi.
‘We . . .’ said Razi. Wynter’s hands knotted. Razi cleared his throat; his voice strengthened. ‘We can show you the Prince’s documents. If that would ease your mind?’ Wynter briefly closed her eyes in relief. Even addled out of his wits, Razi was smooth as butter.
Pritchard sat slowly forward, and Wynter saw a strong desire to believe dawn in the man’s face.
‘My Lord Razi has been sent ahead of his Royal Highness,’ she assured him. ‘The Prince has bid him to smooth the way with their father. He intends to assure the King that there is no threat to his throne. To let the King know that his Royal Highness has no intention of staging a coup.’
‘I fear you are too late, my Lord,’ whispered Pritchard. ‘I fear we may both be too late. I think the King may already have lured your brother out, and I suspect he may already be set to strike.’
Razi gravely extended his hand. ‘Get up. Tell us everything you know.’
‘I must hurry, my Lord,’ said Pritchard, accepting Razi’s assistance in climbing to his feet.
Sólmundr made a show of swatting the dust from Pritchard’s back and shoulders, and Pritchard shrugged him off with an irritated snarl. Grinning, Sól began mockingly to fix the man’s dishevelled hair.
‘Sólmundr!’ snapped Wynter.
The warrior demurely spread his hands, displaying the two little knives he had removed from Pritchard’s person. Wynter smiled.
Andrew Pritchard eyed Sól with murderous disdain. He pushed his hair back off his face with no more discomposure than if Sól had produced an iced bun from the folds of his cloak. ‘I’ll have those back, please,’ he said.
‘When we’re done talking,’ murmured Christopher.
Pritchard curled his lip and turned to Razi. ‘I must hurry, my Lord. The King’s plans have been in effect for much longer than I can tell. I must try and reach the Royal Prince before he accepts his father’s invitation to parley.’
Wynter exchanged a glance with Razi. He was doing his best to play along, but expecting him to bluff his way through this was like asking a blind man to guess a colour by touch. Andrew Pritchard took their silence as mistrust. ‘Good Christ!’ he cried, flinging his hands out. ‘Do we have an accord or not? We could dance around ourselves for days here, or we can commence to deciding a course of action. What shall it be, my Lord?’
‘What is it you suspect the King of planning?’ asked Razi in a commendably neutral attempt to move the situation along.
Andrew Pritchard’s eyes skittered from Razi’s dark face to Sól and Christopher.
‘You can trust the Lord Razi’s men,’ said Wynter.
Pritchard made no secret of his scepticism, but he went on nonetheless. ‘Some members of council were providing his Royal Highness with supplies and information. The King rooted them out. They were . . . they were persuaded to talk.’
Pritchard’s usual sneer turned nauseous and he frowned miserably.
‘I am sure they were,’ muttered Christopher, sheathing his sword.