Читать книгу Honour Among Thieves - David Chandler - Страница 17

“This way, sir knight, milady,” the castellan said, and ushered them inside a low-ceilinged room. “Please wait here until you are officially presented.”

“What are we waiting for?” Cythera asked. “I don’t understand. We wanted to talk to the magistrate, so we could find out where our friend is being held.”

“I was bidden only to bring you here, where you may await your audience,” the castellan told her. Then he stepped backward out into the hall and closed the door behind him.

Croy stared at the doors, wondering exactly what was going on. Why had they been brought here, of all places? Why now?

Cythera turned to him and asked, “This doesn’t look like a law court. Where are we?”

The knight cleared his throat. “The privy council chamber. This is where the king consults his closest advisors.”

“And—our audience? Who have we been summoned to see? One of those advisors?”

Croy could barely speak for the emotion he felt. This room—this very room. “I don’t know why we were brought here,” he said at last.

Cythera sighed deeply and went to sit down. It had been a very long day for her, Croy thought. They’d had to run from office to office in the inner bailey, looking for anyone who might tell them where Malden might be, or who might take charge of Balint so they didn’t have to keep looking after her. They had at least succeeded in the latter goal. They had been allowed to turn the dwarf prisoner over to the king’s equerry, of all people—the official in charge of the royal stables. It seemed there was nowhere else in the inner bailey that wasn’t already full of prisoners.

No one could tell them anything about Malden. But after they had approached the keep, where they were told some prisoners were being held, the castellan himself had come looking for them, and he had brought them here.

Here. To this room.

Croy had been inside the privy council chamber before, many times. There had been a time he had stood in this room every day. The Ancient Blades had been forged to slay demons, but by the time Croy received Ghostcutter from his father there had been too few demons left to justify having five knights just for that purpose. Instead the bearers of the Blades had been commissioned to be the personal bodyguards of the king—the previous king, Ulfram IV.

It was in this room that Ulfram IV had died. A villainous councilor had slipped poison into his mutton. The Ancient Blades had caught the councilor before he could escape but it was already too late. It was also in this room that his son, Ulfram V, current sovereign of Skrae, had blamed the bodyguards for his father’s death, and stripped them of their commission. He would have done far more to them, if he’d been able to prove they had anything to do with the assassination, but everyone knew the sacred honor of the Blades. All he could do was send them forth from Helstrow in disgrace.

Croy remembered that day very well. It had been the worst day of his life. In some ways he would have preferred to have been hanged rather than face that shame. That was the day he became a knight errant—a servant without a master.

He had never expected to enter this room again.

He looked around him and saw how little had changed. The shields hanging on the walls were a bit rustier than they had been. The upholstery on the chairs that lined the walls had been changed from red to green, that was all, really. Then he spotted the one significant change.

A tapestry map covered one wall of the chamber, a cunning depiction of the natural and political features of Skrae picked out in minute embroidery of silken floss. The Whitewall—the mountain range that formed Skrae’s eastern border—had been stitched from thread of silver, and it glittered in the firelight. Except for one dull patch.

Croy approached the map and looked more closely. It was as he expected. Someone had used the point of a knife to pick out all the threads that had made up the image of Cloudblade, the kingdom’s tallest mountain. Which only made sense, since the mountain wasn’t there any more.

Croy blushed to think of the part he’d had in that.

“Croy,” Cythera said, turning to him to speak in a hurried whisper, “I don’t know what we’re doing here. But I’m certain that once it’s done we should leave Helstrow as soon as possible. My mother sent me a message today, telling me to come home.”

“She sent a message here? How did the messenger find you?”

“She didn’t send me a letter,” Cythera pointed out. “She has other methods of getting her point across. It doesn’t matter how it was done. She said that things were about to change, that all seven of the Ancient Blades were coming here. She said many things I didn’t understand. We need to find Malden as soon as possible and—”

She stopped because there was a knock on the door, and then two prisoners were brought inside. Balint and Malden, both of them in chains. Croy rushed toward Malden’s side, intending to ask his friend what had happened, but he was not given time. The same guard who brought in the prisoners had an announcement to make.

“All bow for His Majesty Ulfram Taer, Fifth of that Name!”

It was to be a royal audience, then. They had been brought here to wait for the king himself. It made no sense. Yet Croy knew exactly what to do. He drew his sword and held it before him with the point on the floor, then knelt behind it. He lowered his head as far as it would go.

“Oh, do stand up, Croy,” the king said. “And put that thing away before you scratch up the floorboards.”