Page 26

And he held out a handkerchief of fine black silk. Kel took it, wrapping it around his injured hand. The cut wasn’t deep, but it was long, an ugly slash across his palm.

“How did you guess?” said the Ragpicker King.

“That you drugged me?” Kel said. “I’ve been dosed withscopoliabefore. Jolivet called it Devil’s Breath. It makes you tell the truth.” He finished tying the handkerchief bandage. “Pain counteracts it. And certain thought patterns. Jolivet taught me what to do.”

Ji-An looked intrigued. “I want to learn that.”

“I suppose it was in the wine Asper gave me,” Kel said. “He works for you, then?”

“Don’t blame Merren,” said the Ragpicker King. “I talked him into it. Bribed him, actually. He’ll still provide you that antidote, if you want it. He doesn’t like misleading people.”

But drugging them is apparently acceptable,Kel thought. Not that there seemed any point in an argument about relative morality with the biggest criminal in Castellane. “Is our business finished, then? I’m not going to tell you what you want to know.”

“Oh, I didn’t think you were.” The Ragpicker King’s eyes gleamed. “I admit I was testing you. And you passed. Excellent stuff. I knew a Sword Catcher would be a fine addition to my team. And not only because of your access to the Hill.”

“I am not,” Kel insisted, “going to be part of your team.”

Ji-An pointed the blade at him again. “He won’t cooperate,” she said to the Ragpicker King. “You might as well let me kill him. He has a killable face.”

Kel tried not to look at the carriage door. The Ragpicker King had said it was locked, but he wondered: If he hurled himself against it, would it hold? A fall from a moving carriage could kill him, but so could Ji-An.

“We aren’t going to kill him,” the Ragpicker King said. “I believe he will come around. I am an optimist.” He leveled a green gaze, the color of crocodile scales or canal water, on Kel. “I will say one last thing. As Sword Catcher, you must go where the Prince goes, do as he does. Even if you can snatch an hour or so in a day for yourself, you are not free. Your choices are not your own, or your dreams. Surely that cannot be what you hoped your life would be. Everyone was once a child, and every child has dreams.”

“Dreams,” Kel echoed bitterly. “Dreams are a luxury. When I was a child in the Orfelinat, I dreamed about things like dinner. An extra piece of bread. Warm blankets. I dreamed I would grow up to be a thief, a pickpocket, a Crawler. That perhaps, if I were lucky, I would go to work for someone like you.” His tone was mocking. “Branded by seventeen, hanged by twenty. I knew no other choices.And here you are, offering me a chance to betray those who offered me better dreams. Forgive me if I am not tempted.”

“Ah.” The Ragpicker King tapped his fingers against the head of his cane. They were very long and white, flecked with small scars like burns. “So you trust them? The Palace, the nobles?”

“I trust Conor.” Kel chose his words carefully. “And the Palace is familiar to me. For years I have learned its rules, its ways, its lies and truths. I know the path through its labyrinths. I do not knowyouat all.”

The sardonic smile had left the angular face of the Ragpicker King. He drew back the window curtain and tapped lightly at the glass. “You will.”

The carriage began to slow, and Kel tensed. The Ragpicker King didn’t seem like the sort who took well to being turned down. He imagined being tossed into a ravine, or over a cliff into the sea. But when the door of the carriage swung open, he found himself looking at the front door of the Caravel, the lighted lamps glowing above its entrance. He could hear canal water lapping against stone, smell smoke and brine on the evening air.

Ji-An regarded him down the length of her blade. “I really think we should kill him,” she said. “It’s not too late.”

“Ji-An, dear,” said the Ragpicker King. “You are an expert at killing people. It’s why I employ you. But I am an expert at knowing people. And this one will come back.”

Ji-An lowered her knife. “Then at least swear him to secrecy.”

“Kel can feel free to tell Legate Jolivet he listened to my criminal proposals. It will go much worse for him than for me.” The Ragpicker King made a small, shooing gesture with his scarred fingers, in Kel’s direction. “Go on. Get out. Or I might start to think you enjoy my company.”

Kel began to clamber out of the carriage. His legs felt numb, his hand aching. He had not realized until this moment how sure he had been that he would end up fighting for his life tonight.

“One more thing,” added the Ragpicker King as Kel leaped down to the pavement. “When you change your mind—and you will—come directly to the Black Mansion. The passwordMorettuswill get you through the door. Recall it. And do not share it.”

The Ragpicker King reached out to swing the carriage door shut. As he did, Ji-An glanced at Kel and put a finger to her lips, as if to say:Hush.Whether she was swearing him to secrecy regarding the password or his meeting with the Ragpicker King, Kel didn’t know, nor was he sure it mattered. He had no intention of telling anyone about either.

—

Kel made his way back into the Caravel to find the main salon only half as crowded as before. Many of the guests must have already selected a partner for the night and gone upstairs. Someone had upended the Castles board, and half-empty glasses were littered on every surface. The tread of boots and slippers had ground chocolate and cherries into the carpet. The fortune-teller had gone, as had Sancia and Mirela, but Antonetta Alleyne remained, perched on a silk divan. She was chatting away to a courtesan with pale-purple curls, who looked enraptured by whatever she was saying. Kel wondered what on earth the two of them could possibly have to say to each other.

Montfaucon and Roverge had remained in the salon, but Falconet was gone, as was Conor. No one noticed Kel’s entrance; they were all staring at the far side of the room where the hanging tapestries had been drawn back. They revealed the raised dais of a stage, on which a silent performance was taking place.

Kel leaned against the wall, in the shadows, and tried to gather his thoughts. He was familiar with the stage and the sort of “plays” the Caravel put on. Most depicted a bawdy version of Castellane’s history. Those remaining in the salon sprawled in their brocaded chairs, watching as a naked man in a white skull-mask drew a woman—dressed in the stiff, frilled costume of two centuries before—down on a black-draped bed in the stage’s center.

Alys,Kel thought. Had Alys known, when she arranged his meeting with her brother, that Merren worked for the Ragpicker King? Had she known he planned to drug Kel to make him more likely to betray his secrets when kidnapped? The thought was unsettling. Kel had trusted Alys for a long time. But it also seemed unlikely. Alys valued Conor as a client, and would be unlikely to do anything that would drive the Crown Prince and his entourage of nobles away from her establishment.

On stage, Death had stripped his partner of her clothes, leaving her in only a filmy petticoat. He began to bind her wrists to the black bed with long ribbons of scarlet silk. Kel was aware of eyes on him. He’d been trained to know when he was being watched, after all. Antonetta Alleyne was looking at him, her expression unreadable, one of her hands playing with the locket at her throat.