He did not flinch now, only kept his eyes closed. His talisman was safely put away; surely they could not think he was Conor. Nobles were kidnapped sometimes, when traveling, for money, but that didn’t happen within Castellane. Not because the nobility was beloved, but because of the punishment—imprisonment in the Trick, the prison tower where those who had committed treason waited to be executed. Torture that lasted weeks, whatever remained afterward fed to the crocodiles in the harbor—was dreaded, and with good reason.
“I thought he’d twitch a bit more,” said an amused, female voice. “He’s been well trained.”
“Legate Jolivet’s hand, I’d wager,” said the second voice. This one was male, low and oddly musical. “Tsk, tsk.” Something slapped away Kel’s hand as he felt for the carriage door. “It’s locked, and even if it weren’t, I would not recommend hurling yourself out. Such a fall, at this speed, could well be fatal.”
Kel sat back. The carriage seats were comfortable, at least. He could feel velvet and leather under his hands. He said, “If you wish to rob me, go ahead. I have not seen your faces. Take what you want and let me go. If you wish to harm me otherwise, be aware I have powerful friends. You will regret it.”
The man chuckled, the sound rich and dark as karak. “I took you because you have powerful friends. Now open your eyes. You are wasting my time, and I will not take kindly to it if you persist.”
The point of the knife dug deeper into the hollow of Kel’s throat, a painful kiss. He opened his eyes, and saw at first only darkness inside the carriage. Light began to glow, and Kel realized the source was a Sunderglass pendant on a chain, dangling from the carriage roof. Kel stared at it: Such objects were rare, and few could afford their like.
It gave off a soft but potent light, in which Kel finally saw his two companions clearly. The first was a young Chosean woman with long black hair, divided into two braids. She wore a silk tunic and trousers the color of foxgloves and bracelets of milky violet chalcedony on her wrists. In her right hand was a long dagger with a handle of white jade, its point resting against Kel’s throat.
Beside her was a very tall, very slender man dressed in black. Not Merren’s rusty student black; this man’s clothes were rich and expensive looking, from his velvet frock coat to the blackthorn cane upon which he rested his left hand. A gold ring bearing the sigil of a bird—a magpie, Kel thought—gleamed on his finger. His eyes were the only thing about him that was neither black nor white. They were a very dark green, and seemed to hold a strange light inside them. He said, “Do you know who I am?”
He goes round all in black, like Gentleman Death come to take your soul, and his carriage wheels are stained with blood.
“Yes,” Kel said. “You’re the Ragpicker King.” He didn’t say, I thought you’d be older. He guessed the man in front of him was perhaps thirty.
“And you’re wondering what I want with you,” said the Ragpicker King. “Sword Catcher.”
Adrenaline shot through Kel’s body. He forced himself to remain motionless, the point of the knife still leveled against his throat.
The Ragpicker King only smiled. “Let me be more clear, Kellian Saren. You were given to Conor Aurelian of House Aurelian at the tender age of ten, under the Malgasi custom of the Királar, the King’s Blade. It is your job to protect the Prince with your own life. In dangerous situations you take his place, aided by a talisman that you are”—he narrowed his eyes—“not currently wearing. Though I would not be fooled either way. I know who you really are.” He folded his long pale hands over the top of his cane. “Is there anything you’d like to add?”
“No,” Kel said. There was a strange feeling in the back of his throat. A sort of pressure. He wanted to swallow hard, as if against a bitter taste, but he suspected his companions would take it as a sign of nervousness. “Nothing.”
The girl with the blade looked sideways at the Ragpicker King. “This is dull,” she observed. “Perhaps I should—”
“Not yet, Ji-An.” The Ragpicker King studied Kel’s face. Kel kept his expression neutral. Lights came and went around the edges of the black-curtained windows. Kel guessed they were somewhere in the Silver Streets, the merchant neighborhood that bordered the Temple District. “You are wondering, Sword Catcher, why I have an interest in you. Your business is Palace business, and my business is with the streets of Castellane. Yet sometimes—more often than you might guess—they intersect. There are things I wish to know. Need to know. And I could use your help.”
“We could all use something,” Kel said. “That doesn’t mean we’ll obtain it.”
“You’re awfully rude,” observed Ji-An, her hand steady on the dagger’s handle. “He’s offering you a job, you know.”
“I have a job. We’ve just been discussing it.”
“And I want you to keep your job,” said the Ragpicker King, crossing his impossibly long legs. “So think of what I am offering as a partnership. You help me, and in return, I help you.”
“I don’t see how you could help me,” Kel said, half distracted—the peculiar feeling remained in the back of his throat, halfway between a scrape and a tickle. It wasn’t painful, but it was strangely familiar. When have I felt it before?
“It is your duty to protect the Prince,” said the Ragpicker King, “but not all threats come from foreign powers or power-hungry nobles. Some threats come from the city. Anti-monarchists, criminals—not the gentlemanly sort like myself, of course—or rebellious merchants. The information I possess could be valuable to you.”
Kel blinked. None of this was quite what he had expected—not that he had anticipated being kidnapped tonight in the first place. “I will not spy on the royal family for you,” he said. “And I do not see why you would be interested in general gossip from the Hill.”
The Ragpicker King leaned forward, his hands folded atop his cane. “Do you know the name Prosper Beck?”
Odd that Prosper Beck should come up twice in one night. “Yes. Your rival, I imagine?”
Ji-An snorted, but the Ragpicker King seemed unmoved by the comment. He said, “I wish to know who is funding Prosper Beck. I can tell you it is not just unusual for a criminal so wealthy and well connected to simply appear in Castellane, like a sailor stepping off a ship; it is impossible. It takes years to build oneself up in a business. Yet Prosper Beck came from nowhere and has already moved to control the Maze.”
“Surely you are more influential than Beck. If you want the Maze back, take it.”
“It is not so simple. Beck is hard to find. He operates through intermediaries and moves his headquarters from place to place. He bribes the Vigilants with vast sums. Most of my Crawlers have decamped to work for him.” That was interesting, Kel thought. The Crawlers were famous in Castellane: skilled climbers who could shimmy up and down walls with the speed of spiders. They crept in through the upper windows of the rich and robbed them blind. “Someone is backing him, of that I am sure. Someone with a great deal of money. You make your way among the nobility, passing as a noble yourself. You should have little trouble finding out if one of them is financing Beck’s enterprises.”