The Capital Read online

  Roland remembered the private entrance from the alley behind the tavern. He’d only been here a handful of times, but four years had changed the place little. The young man who answered his knock looked at Roland and Daphne in confusion. “I need to speak to November,” said Roland. “Please. It’s urgent.”

  A moment later, November appeared in the doorway, looking puzzled and suspicious. She stared at Roland and Daphne in their soot-stained finery. Roland’s wig had been the first thing to go in the fight, and his princely clothes had been sluiced with blood, which had dried in sheets of stiff, brown-black ichor. Daphne hardly looked any better. Her red and gold dress had been sprayed with blood, caught on fire, and extinguished with tea. They both had soot everywhere.

  Their appearance, combined with the cover of darkness, had allowed them to make what Roland hoped was a clean escape through the secret exit in the stables. However, they needed to get indoors and out of these clothes as soon as possible.

  “November, it’s Jack. I’ve been away fighting on the border. I used to come here all the time. Do you remember me?”

  November squinted at him. She was wearing a white ruffled shirt and suspenders with green and gold trousers. She still wore her hair short, and she still had some of that androgynous beauty Roland remembered, although she hadn’t bothered to bind up her breasts this evening. She gave a slow nod, her eyes flicking between Roland and Daphne with the expression of a person performing threat-assessment.

  Roland swallowed. “My sister and I need a place to stay for a few days. We’ll pay you handsomely. All you need to do is not ask questions and not tell anyone we’re here.”

  November’s roving gaze fixed on Daphne. Her eyes returned to Roland’s face with something like fear. Roland wondered what she was about to say. November could keep a secret, but delicate repartee had never been one of her strong suits.

  “Alright. But...do I have to pretend not to know who you are?”

  “No,” said Daphne. “Just let us in.”

  * * * *

  An hour later, they were sitting at November’s kitchen table, the rumble of noise from the tavern clearly audible through the wall. November’s partner, a curvy dark-skinned woman named Hazel, had insisted on serving them dinner—a meat pie with savory sauce, warm and comforting after the long day.

  Roland and Daphne had gratefully traded their destroyed finery for clothes from the club’s spare linens. The Tipsy Knave acquired a startling number of discarded garments that were never claimed. Fortunately, Daphne was not opposed to wearing a man’s shirt and trousers.

  In spite of her initial statement, November hadn’t let slip a single “Your Grace” or “my lady” since they’d stepped through her door. She hadn’t asked for explanations or assurances or even specifics regarding money. Daphne and Roland’s clothes were the most damning evidence of their identity, and November invited Roland to drop them into the burn-barrel himself and light it on fire, speeding the process with a little oil. Her message couldn’t be clearer: “I want no evidence to hold over your heads.”

  Roland hadn’t been sure how his queen sister would react to being provided with a bed in the kind of room that could be rented by the hour. However, she didn’t say anything except “Thank you.” The small room had a good lock and an extra deadbolt. November had calmly shown Daphne the secret space behind the back wall of the closet, where a person might hide “in an emergency.” Roland noted with relief that the room contained no mirrors.

  “Do you want another bed in here?” November had asked.

  Roland and Daphne had glanced at each other. “Are you so frightened of whatever you’re running from that you need to sleep in the same room?”

  “That’s not necessary,” said Daphne.

  “An adjoining room if you have one,” said Roland.

  They had each shut the doors of their respective rooms and gratefully scrubbed the blood, soot, and sweat from their bodies in basins of water. Now they were eating a homey meal around a lamp-lit table. The sounds from the tavern were uncouth, but at least they covered the awkward silence. “We don’t usually go to bed until about three in the morning,” said Hazel. “I’m sorry about the noise.”

  Daphne nodded. She took a deep breath. “Have you heard any news today?”

  November and Hazel glanced at each other. “There was a fire in the palace,” said Hazel carefully.

  “There’s a rumor that the queen was killed,” said November with her characteristic bluntness. “But no bells. No official word.”

  “They’re saying it was the necromancer, Karkaroth,” continued Hazel, “that Her Grace invited his apprentice to the palace to parley and he attacked her. When guards tried to intervene, he set a room on fire.”

  Roland scowled into his meat pie. “Did they catch him?”

  November shook her head. “The rumor is that he died in the fire.”

  “And that’s all?” pressed Daphne. “There’s no word of...of enemy troops in the city?”

  November and Hazel looked startled. “No.”

  Daphne let out a long breath. “Thank you. Both of you. I am quite conscious of the strange position I’ve placed you in.”

  November looked at her sidelong. “What would you like to be called?”

  Daphne’s mouth twitched up. “When I was a child, my parents called me Fifi.”

  Hazel tried not to laugh and failed. November was biting her lip and shaking. Roland wanted to laugh, too, but he felt heavy inside. He thought that Daphne was about to make friends with November and Hazel. She would sit at their kitchen table and talk to them until they thought of her as a human being—a leader, certainly, but a leader whom they liked and admired, a person whose team they wanted to be on. Daphne excelled at this aspect of her job.

  Roland wanted to help her—to have a glass of ale with his sister in a place that had always been special to him. But he just...couldn’t. He glanced at the clock on the wall. 6:55.

  And suddenly he knew what he had to do. “I’m going upstairs,” he announced. “Just for a little bit. I need to... I just need to. Is that alright?”

  The three women looked startled, but Daphne nodded and November said, “Do you know the way?”

  Roland had rarely been this deep in the Knave’s private rooms. “Is there an entrance that doesn’t come out behind the bar?” I don’t want to explain myself to anyone.

  November nodded. “I’ll give you a key to the side door. Fair warning: the entertainment this evening is wrestling. It’s a rowdy crowd.”

  “I understand,” said Roland.

  Chapter 15. Second Date

  November hadn’t exaggerated the state of the Tipsy Knave this evening. The floor had been cleared of tables and roped off for wrestling matches. It was all friendly sport between opponents who would shake each other’s hands afterward, but people still got very excited. There was something profoundly erotic about the sight of scantily-clad male bodies straining against each other in a contorted struggle for dominance. Participating was quite a charge, too, especially if you fancied getting your hands all over the other fellow.

  On a different evening, Roland would have watched and perhaps joined in, but tonight he threaded his way between shouting, cheering men without really seeing them. Roland was going to keep his date with Sairis. He was going to sit at the bar alone and drink a glass to the friend he’d almost had. Perhaps he would even pour out a libation, as in the old stories. It was the only monument Sairis was likely to have. He was being painted as a villain at this very moment and would perhaps be remembered as such.

  You will have one mourner, Sair. I hope it gives your ghost some peace.

  The crowd was so thick that Roland had almost reached the corner seats when he saw that someone was already sitting there—a man all-but swallowed by a coat too big for him. He was leaning forward on the bar with his head in his hands, to all appearances very drunk. Roland considered finding another seat.

  And then he caught the silver
glint of spectacles.

  Roland stumbled the last few paces to the bar and put out a hand to steady himself. His knees felt weak. He was sweating. He opened his mouth to say something, but no sound came out.

  Sairis raised his head. Roland thought he looked surprised—as though he hadn’t expected Roland to come any more than Roland had expected to find him here.

  Seconds ticked by and neither of them moved. Roland had had so many things to say about Sairis a moment before, but he suddenly had no idea what to say to him. It felt as though they’d skipped several vital conversations, and now there was nowhere to begin.

  At last, he just took the stool where he’d sat yesterday evening and ordered an ale “and a glass of water for my friend.”

  The bartender looked at Sairis doubtfully, as if to say, “Water’s a nice thought, but he looks like he needs to go home.”

  Roland thought about adding, “Don’t worry, that’s not drink, just blood loss. All the blood in his body, actually.”

  In the end, the bartender said nothing.

  Sairis sighed heavily as the man moved away. “Care to read my palm, Roland?”

  Roland winced. The last he’d seen of Sairis’s palms, they’d been cut to the bone by Hastafel’s sword. “I thought you were dead,” he whispered.

  “I wouldn’t have laid odds on you, either.”

  Roland wanted to say, Then why did you come? But he was afraid Sairis would ask the same question, and Roland wasn’t sure he could answer without embarrassing himself. Instead, he said, “Should you be walking around?”

  Sairis gave a laugh that ended with a painful shudder and a hand clenched around his ribs. “Do I look like one of my own creations? No, don’t answer that.”

  You look like you need a doctor and about forty-eight hours of sleep. Considering Sairis had had a sword through him recently, Roland supposed this was doing pretty well.

  Their drinks arrived. Sairis sipped at his water carefully, like a person uncertain of whether he might vomit. Roland was becoming more and more convinced that Sairis should be in bed, that he would be in bed if he had any choice. But he’s not going to say, “I need help.”

  “Do you have somewhere to stay?” ventured Roland.

  Sairis didn’t answer the question. “I would not have let you kiss me if I had known who you were. You may choose not to believe that, but I really was just...exploring...when you ran into me here.”

  “I believe you,” said Roland. “Where are you staying? Can I walk you there?”

  Sairis looked at him doubtfully.

  And I certainly won’t beat you to death in an alley, thought Roland, although when one says something like that aloud, it doesn’t sound reassuring.

  Roland tried to think of what he could say that Sairis would believe. He settled on unvarnished truth. “When I met you, I wondered what you did for a living. I thought you must be good at it. The phrase ‘terrifyingly competent’ came to mind.”

  Sairis started to laugh and then covered his mouth to stifle a cough.

  “I could have amended that to plain terrifying,” finished Roland.

  Sairis brought his hand away from his mouth, bright red blood on his fingers. He shut his eyes and whispered, “Roland, I am so weak right now, you wouldn’t need a mage collar to take me to the border.”

  Roland wanted to gather him up at once and take him downstairs. He forced himself to use words. “I was shocked when I realized who you were. I won’t deny it. I was knocked flat for a moment. And I’d be lying if I didn’t say you still scare the hell out of me, but you saved our lives. You may have saved the kingdom. Please let me help you.”

  Sairis licked his lips. “Is the qu—” His eyes darted to either side. The noise in the tavern gave their conversation anonymity, but Roland still appreciated his caution. “Is your sister alright?”

  “She’s fine. We escaped through the secret passages, and we’re staying in rooms here until we figure out who betrayed us to Hastafel.”

  Sairis blinked at him. “You are...?”

  “Yes,” said Roland impatiently. “So, I’ll ask again: do you have lodgings nearby?”

  Sairis looked like he was trying to make a hard decision through a haze of pain and exhaustion. At last, he said, “The wards I placed on the inn room where I was staying have been breached. I daren’t go back there.”

  And you’ve got no money and no transportation, guessed Roland. He wondered suddenly how Sairis had reached the city. Do you even have a horse? Did you walk?

  Sairis was looking at the bar as though he thought he might have made a miscalculation, as though he couldn’t bring himself to look Roland in the face.

  Roland stood up. He spoke close to Sairis’s ear. “You don’t owe me or Daphne a damned thing, but please let me get you a bed here. I know the proprietor. It’s no trouble. Please.”

  Sairis swallowed and finally nodded.

  “Can you walk?”

  Another nod. “Slowly.”

  They started through the press of bodies. The wrestling match was in full swing, with one panting, straining man pinning another in a highly suggestive pose on the mat. Patrons were standing on chairs, jumping up and down, screaming with excitement. Someone’s elbow caught Sairis a knock in the side of the head. He staggered, and Roland put an arm around him. Roland glanced at the fabric of the coat he was gripping—cured leather, probably goat hide, fur-side in. This was something from one of Hastafel’s troops.

  Sairis regained his balance, but Roland didn’t let go of him. He leaned close to Sairis’s ear and spoke in a cheerful bellow, “I’d carry you, but some gallant soul would probably come to your rescue. You’re obviously too drunk to consent.”

  Sairis gave a jittery spasm of laughter.

  They finally made it to the side door. Roland unlocked it, and they stepped through into a stairwell. The sound of the tavern dropped to a dull roar as Roland closed and locked the door. Sairis leaned against the wall, still gasping. “Gods, it hurts to laugh.”

  Roland smiled. Sairis was still dead-pale, but that grin had transformed his face, just for a moment. Roland continued airily, “It’s a chivalrous place, the Tipsy Knave. A man too drunk to stand is too drunk to be carried into a back room.”

  Sairis tipped his head against the wall and shut his eyes. “I’m not usually on the receiving end of knightly chivalry. Usually, it’s knightly swords.”

  “I could make another sex joke,” said Roland.

  “Please don’t. If I laugh again, I may die.” Sairis dragged himself away from the wall and studied the stairs as if they were a lake of fire he needed to cross. Roland offered an arm, but Sairis grabbed onto the banister instead and started down.

  Roland sighed. “I’ve been told all my life that it’s dangerous to let a necromancer touch you.”

  “Sound advice,” said Sairis without taking his eyes off the stairs.

  “I’m saying that my reaction when Daphne introduced us was reflexive. It was...someone else’s ideas. I do like to make up my own mind about things.”

  Sairis stopped, swaying. “That’s...good...” And then Roland caught him as he collapsed in a dead faint.

  Chapter 16. A Plan

  Sairis woke to lamplight and a sense of emptiness, as though he’d been outside his body for a while. He couldn’t remember spirit-walking, couldn’t remember setting up a circle or drawing the runes. His mouth felt as dry as the Styx. He turned towards the light, blinking and trying to make sense of his surroundings. He wasn’t wearing his spectacles. A figure came towards him, indistinct.

  “Sairis?” A woman’s voice. Familiar.

  “Mmph?”

  “You’re awake. Good. Would you like a drink?”

  “Yes,” croaked Sairis.

  A cup of water in his hands. Sairis nearly choked on the first swallow.

  “Slowly! There’s plenty more.”

  He gulped because he couldn’t help it. His body was desperately dry.

  Spectacles. Where
are my spectacles? His hand shot out onto the bedside table, knocking over a glass. He was going to panic. He was panicking.

  “Calm down! Is it your glasses? Here.”

  Cool metal between his fingers, a rush of relief.

  “I’ve got broth here, too. Sairis?” Her voice echoed in his head as he slipped back into the darkness.

  * * * *

  The second time he woke, he was alone. Sairis sat up, groaning. He’d been holding his spectacles in both fists against his chest as a child might clutch a doll. The frames had bent a little. He took a moment to adjust them before sliding them onto his face.

  He was in a small room with a closet, a dresser, and two beds. There were no windows. The table between the beds held a pitcher of water and a bowl of fragrant broth. It also held a cup, but Sairis didn’t bother with that. He lifted the pitcher and drank until there was nothing left. Then he drank the broth, too. Then he looked around again.

  A few clothes lay across the other cot. They would have been far too big for Sairis. No prizes for guessing who those belong to. The door opened suddenly and Roland Malconwy stood there, his broad shoulders filling the frame. “You’re awake.”

  Sairis screwed up his face. He felt as he imagined one must feel after a night of wild debauchery. Which didn’t seem fair, all things considered. “How long did I sleep?”

  Roland came into the room and sat down on the other bed. “It’s about eleven o’clock in the morning. So...about sixteen hours.”

  “Yesterday,” said Sairis blearily. “The mirror...Hastafel...” Meeting you in that stupid wig. “That all happened yesterday?”

  “Yes.” Roland’s voice was too gentle, as though to a very sick person. “May I see your hands?”

  “More palm reading?” asked Sairis dryly, but he held out his hands. Roland stared at the scars still visible. They’d been livid, puckered lines the night before. Now they looked as though they’d healed weeks ago. It would take them a few more days for the scars to fade entirely.