“As if you’d know what he looked like,” scoffed a girl in a tattered pinafore. “You ain’t never seen him.”
The smaller boy puffed up angrily. “I does know,” he protested. “He goes round all in black, like Gentleman Death come to take your soul, and his carriage wheels are stained with blood.”
Rolling her eyes, the older girl pulled the boy’s ear decidedly. The boy yelped, and the children vanished back into the shadows, giggling.
Kel chuckled. As a child, he’d thought of the Ragpicker King as the trickster God of pickpockets. Later, he began to understand that the Ragpicker King was a practical, not a mythological figure, however mysterious. He ran smuggling operations of elegance and size, owned gambling hells deep in the Warren, and had his fingers in trade from the harbor to the Great Road. The Palace could do nothing to rid the city of his presence. He was too powerful, and besides, Mayesh said, it was better not to create a vacuum of power at the top of any organization. Unlawful order was, after all, an improvement on lawful chaos.
Jolivet snapped his fingers. “Come along, Kellian,” he said, and the group of four crossed the deserted street and entered the Convocat. It was dark and cool inside, the marble acting to shield the interior from the heat. Kel found himself walking beside Mayesh as Jolivet strode beside Conor, speaking to him intently.
“That was cleverly done, in the carriage,” admitted Kel. “Show him three candidates he won’t want to marry, then show him one he will and tell him he cannot have her.”
“It is both your task and mine,” Mayesh said, “to know the Prince better than he knows himself.”
“Only you have other tasks, and I have merely the one. You must also know the King and Queen.”
Mayesh made a gesture that seemed to indicate agreement without commitment. “I only offer them counsel. So it has always been.”
This was manifestly untrue, but Kel didn’t feel like arguing. It was better not to delve too deeply into any discussion of the King and Queen, especially when it came to the King. Conor was giving the yearly Speech of Independence today because the Queen would not appear—she loathed public speaking—and the King could not.
Markus Aurelian, the great scholar, the philosopher-king. His wisdom was a point of pride in Castellane. He did not appear often in public, it was said, because he was busy with his learning, his great discoveries in the fields of astronomy and philosophy. Kel knew this was not true, but it was only one among many secrets he kept for House Aurelian.
They had reached the central chamber of the Convocat, where broad marble pillars upheld an arched roof. The mosaic floor, which depicted a map of Dannemore before the breakup of the Empire, had once been colorful. Now it was worn down to a faint shadow by the passage of time and countless feet.
Once, there had been seats here; once, the King had sat in session with the Charter Families, discussing Law and trade and policy. Kel could dimly recall when this had still been the case, before the King had retreated to the North Tower with his telescopes and astrolabes, his maps of stars, his sextants and spheres. Before the King had turned his attention to the skies and forgotten the world below them.
But there was no point thinking about that now. Several of the Arrow Squadron were approaching. They gleamed in red and gold, like Jolivet, though they sported considerably fewer tassels and less fringe. The leader, a gray-haired man named Benaset, said grimly, “Legate. Sir. There’s been an incident.”
Benaset explained: A dockworker, found in the crowd with a crossbow strapped to his back. Probably nothing, of course; there was every possibility he was unaware of the Law that forbade going armed to an appearance of one of the Royal Blood. The Tully would uncover the truth, certainly. In the meantime—
“We will need the Sword Catcher,” said Benaset. “Is he prepared?”
Kel nodded. Tension had spread through his shoulders, tightening his muscles. Stepping in for Conor was not a rare occurrence. It was always a flip of the coin, as the guards were more than cautious. It was not even the danger he minded, he thought, as he drew his talisman from his pocket and looped it around his neck. （It lay cold against his throat; for reasons he could not guess, the metal never warmed from contact with his skin.） But he had relaxed today. They were nearly at the square; he could hear the crowd. He had let himself assume he would not be needed.
He had been wrong. As quickly as he could, he began to run down the words of the speech in his mind. I greet you, my people of Castellane, in the name of the Gods. Today—
Kel frowned. Today something. Today Castellane was born. No. That wasn’t it.
“I don’t think it’s necessary,” Conor said, interrupting Kel’s reverie. “One drunken idiot wandering around with a weapon hardly means an assassination attempt—”
“It is necessary, Monseigneur.” Kel knew that flatness in Jolivet’s voice, and knew what it meant. The Legate had the power to restrain the Prince physically, vested in him by the King, if such action was required. “This is why you have a Sword Catcher.”
Conor threw up his hands in disgust as Kel came over to him. They locked eyes; Kel shrugged minutely, as if to say: It doesn’t matter. With a sigh, Conor slipped the crown from his head and held it out to Kel. “Try to look handsome,” he advised. “Don’t disappoint the people.”
“I’ll do my best.” Kel settled the crown on his head. His rings were paste jewels, but the crown—that was real. That belonged to House Aurelian. It seemed to carry a weight beyond the physical heft of bullion. He looked up, blinking: The Arrow Squadron had thrown the doors open wide, flooding the interior of the Convocat with bright sunlight.
Kel could hear the roar of the crowd, like the rush of the sea.
Conor held out his hand. Kel grasped it, and Conor pulled him close. This part was ritual, muscle memory. Kel had done it countless times, though he still felt a faint shiver up his spine as he looked at Conor. As he felt the weight of the gold circlet on his brow.
“I am the Prince’s shield,” he said. “I am his unbreakable armor. I bleed that he might not bleed. I suffer that he might never suffer. I die that he might live forever.”
“But you will not die,” said Conor, releasing his hand. It was what he always said—not part of the ritual, but habit nonetheless.
“Unless Lady Alleyne gets her hands on me,” said Kel. Lady Alleyne had a wealth of ambitions, most of them focused on her only daughter. “She’s still angling for you to marry Antonetta.”
Jolivet scowled. “Enough,” he said. “Mayesh, you will remain with the Prince.”
It was less an order than a question; Mayesh indicated that he would, and Kel joined Jolivet in the long walk to the doors. The noise of the crowd grew louder and louder still until Kel stepped through the doorway to the covered loggia beyond, all its arches brilliant with white marble. He heard the crowd take an indrawn breath as he moved to stand at the top of the white cascade of steps that led down to the square, as if they all saw him at once, all breathed in at once.
Kel stood at the top of the Grieving Stairs and looked around the square as they chanted Conor’s name. The crowd spanned wealth and class and occupation: from dock laborers in rough cambric, their children perched on their shoulders to get a better view, to shopkeepers and publicans. Rich merchants had driven their shining carriages into the square and gathered in groups, dressed in bright colors. On the steps of the High Temple stood the Hierophant, the high priest of Castellane, carrying a staff topped with a milky Sunderglass orb. Kel eyed the old man sideways—it was unusual to see the Hierophant away from the Temple, save for great occasions such as state funerals or the Marriage to the Sea, when the King or Queen of Castellane would board a boat wreathed in flowers and hurl a golden ring into the ocean, to seal the bond between Aigon and the House of Aurelian.