“One of the nobility? Why would they bother funding a minor criminal?”
The carriage jounced over a patch of rough road, and Kel felt a wave of dizziness. The Ragpicker King was regarding him with a sort of bored curiosity, as if Kel were a bug he had seen many times before that was now exhibiting an unusual behavior.
“Let me ask you something, Kellian,” he said. “Do you like them? House Aurelian, I mean. The King, the Queen. The Prince and his Counselor. The Legate.”
For a long moment there was only silence, save for the sound of the carriage wheels rattling over stones. Then words spilled from Kel’s mouth, unplanned, unconsidered. “One does not ask if one likes the Blood Royal. They simply are,” he said. Like the harbor or the Narrow Pass, like the dark-jade canals of the Temple District, like Marivent itself. “It is like asking if one likes the Gods.”
The Ragpicker King nodded slowly. “That was an honest answer,” he said. “I appreciate it.”
Was it Kel’s imagination, or did the Ragpicker King put a special emphasis on the word honest? That strange pressure was still there—in Kel’s chest, his throat, his mouth. He remembered now the last time he had felt it, and he felt anger growing like a vine twining through his veins, his nerves, setting them alight.
“In the spirit of further honesty,” said Gentleman Death, “King Markus. Is it true his absences are not due to his being engaged in study, but rather due to illness? Is the King dying?”
“It is not a question of illness,” Kel said, and thought of the Fire on the Sea, the burning boat covered in flowers, and that was the moment he was sure. Without another word, he brought his left hand up, in one smooth, swift motion, and wrapped it around the blade of Ji-An’s knife.
She did exactly what he had predicted she would, and jerked the knife back. Pain shot through his hand as the blade opened his skin. He welcomed the pain, clenching his hand to invite it in deeper. He could feel blood wetting his palm as his mind cleared.
“Ssibal,” Ji-An hissed. Kel knew enough of the language of Geumjoseon to recognize this as profanity. He grinned as his blood welled in fat drops through his fingers and splashed onto the brocade interior of the carriage. Ji-An turned to the Ragpicker King. “This crazy bastard—”
Kel began to whistle. It was a common tune on the streets of Castellane, called “The Troublesome Virgin.” The lyrics were bawdy in the extreme.
“He’s not crazy,” said the Ragpicker King, sounding as if he could not decide whether to be irritated or amused. “Here, Sword Catcher. Take this.”
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 with scopolia before. 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 know you at 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.