He untied the black handkerchief from his own hand and began to wrap it around Conor’s. The wound on his palm had stopped bleeding anyway. “Joss,” he said. “Go downstairs. Take Audeta with you. Play it off as if nothing has happened.”
Falconet said something to Audeta in a low voice. She disappeared back into her room. “Are you sure?” Falconet said, looking at Kel with thoughtful eyes.
“Yes,” Kel said. “And make sure Antonetta gets home. She oughtn’t to be here.”
Montfaucon or Roverge would have said, What do you care about Antonetta? or I don’t take orders from you. They would have tried to hover about, hoping to hear something scandalous. At least it had been Falconet with Conor, Kel thought. He liked to know things, as everyone on the Hill did, but he did not gossip for the sake of it. And though he recognized Kel had little power, he knew that Conor listened to him, and that was a sort of power in itself.
Falconet indicated with a nod that he would do as Kel asked. Audeta emerged from her room, wearing a yellow silk wrapper, her lids repainted. She headed downstairs with Falconet, looking back anxiously at Conor as she went. Kel hoped Falconet would be able to convince her to keep the incident to herself. If anyone could, it was Falconet.
“All right, Con.” Kel gentled his voice. This was the way he had talked to Conor years ago, when Conor woke in the dead hours of darkness with nightmares. “Why would you punch the window? Were you angry at Audeta? Or Falconet?”
“No.” Conor was still hanging on to Kel’s shirt with his unbandaged hand. “I thought I could forget, with them. But I couldn’t.”
Forget what? Kel remembered a few minutes ago, with Silla, telling himself to forget, to be here now. But Conor . . .
“Is this about you getting married?” Kel guessed. “You know, you don’t have to if you don’t want to.”
The crafty expression of the very drunk passed across Conor’s face. “I think I do,” he said. “I think I might have to.”
Kel was taken aback. “What? They cannot force you, Con.”
Conor plucked at Kel’s sleeve. “It’s not that,” he said. “I’ve made mistakes, Kel. Bad mistakes.”
“Then we’ll fix them. Anything can be fixed. I’ll help you.”
Conor shook his head. “I’ve been trained, you know, to fight a certain kind of war. Tactical strategy and battle maps and all that.” He looked earnestly at Kel. “I cannot fight what I cannot find, or see.”
“Conor—”
“This is my city,” Conor said, almost plaintively. “It is my city, isn’t it, Kel? Castellane belongs to me.”
Kel wondered if they could get out by the back stairway. Avoid the salon and any potential encounters with other people. Especially with Conor rambling like this.
“Conor,” Kel said, gently, “you’re drunk, that’s all. You’re the Prince; Castellane is yours. Her fleets and caravans are yours. And her people love you. You saw that today.”
“Not,” Conor said, slowly, “not—all of them.”
Before Kel could ask what he meant, there were footsteps on the stairs; someone was coming. The footsteps turned out to be Alys. She pursed her lips in concern when she saw Conor but did not seem surprised. Perhaps Falconet had told her. Perhaps he had been like this when she’d pulled him away, earlier. Before tonight, Kel would have asked, but he could not trust Alys now.
Nevertheless, he let her guide them out the back entrance, where their horses had already been brought around by the footmen. She was apologetic—had the Prince not enjoyed himself tonight? Kel found himself reassuring her, even as he thought of Merren and wanted to demand what she’d known.
But Conor was there. He might be drunk, but he wasn’t insensible. Kel kept his questions to himself, bidding Alys a stiff goodbye as Conor swung himself onto Matix, his injured hand held close against his chest.
Kel had gotten Conor home drunk many times before, and he had no doubts he’d manage it again tonight. Conor had always been a skilled rider, and Asti and Matix knew their way to the Palace. He and Conor would go home, and they would sleep, and in the morning there would be Dom Valon’s hangover cure, followed by training and light disapproval with Jolivet, then visits from the nobles, and all the usual furnishings of an ordinary day.
He wondered if Conor would remember how he had cut his hand, or what he’d said to Kel, a thing he’d never said before: I’ve made mistakes, Kel. Bad mistakes.
Another voice cut past the memory of Conor’s words. 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.
But the Ragpicker King was a liar. A criminal and a liar. It would be a fool’s errand to listen to him. And Conor said all sorts of things when he was drunk. There was no point placing too much weight on them.
Up ahead, Conor called for him to go faster; they were nearly to Palace Street, where the land began to slant up toward Marivent. Kel glanced down and saw the paper crown that had been tangled in Asti’s reins. It was already coming to pieces; after all, it had never been meant for anything but show.
The time of the Sorcerer-Kings was a time of immense prosperity. Great cities rose up, and clad themselves in marble and gold. The Kings and Queens built for themselves palaces and pavilions and hanging gardens, and there were great public structures: libraries and hospitals and orphanages, and acadamies where magic was taught.
But only those who attended the academies, whose attendance was strictly controlled, were allowed to perform High Magic, which required the use of the One Word. Low magic, which could be done without using the Word, flourished among the peasantry, especially among traders, who traveled between kingdoms. Low magic consisted of combinations of words and numbers etched upon amulets, and was tolerated by the Sorcerer-Kings only because of its limited power.
—Tales of the Sorcerer-Kings, Laocantus Aurus Iovit III
CHAPTER FIVE
As Kel had predicted, the day after the visit to the Caravel was uneventful. Conor woke with a vicious hangover. Kel took himself off to the kitchen to retrieve Dom Valon’s famous morning-after cure: a vile-looking substance made with eggs, red pepper, hot vinegar, and a secret ingredient the head cook refused to divulge. After downing it, Conor had stopped complaining about his headache and started complaining about the taste of it instead.
“Do you remember anything about last night?” Kel asked as Conor dragged himself out of bed. “Do you remember telling me you’d made a terrible mistake?”
“Was the terrible mistake punching Charlon Roverge?” Conor had peeled the black kerchief from his hand and was making a face. “Because if I did, I think I broke my hand on his face.”
Kel shook his head.
“Must have smashed a glass, then,” Conor said. “Don’t summon Gasquet; he’ll just make it worse. I’m going to go boil myself in the tepidarium until the water turns into royal soup.”
He stripped off his clothes and made his way, naked, across their rooms to the door that led to the baths. Kel wondered if he should point out to Conor that he still had his crown on, and decided not to. It wasn’t as if hot water and steam were going to do it any harm.