He grinned when he saw Kel sitting up, that slow grin that meant he was genuinely pleased. “Good,” he said. “You’re alive.”
“I don’t feel it.” Kel rubbed at his face. Even the texture of his own skin seemed strange—he hadn’t shaved for days, and the stubble of his beard was rough against his palm. He couldn’t recall the last time that had happened. Conor kept himself clean-shaven, so Kel did, too.
“Delfina seemed concerned that you were tearing at your bandages like a madman,” said Conor, flopping into the chair beside Kel’s bed.
“They itched,” Kel said. He felt slightly awkward, which he did not like. He was not used to feeling awkward around Conor. But his memories of the alley behind the Key were coming back, more and more clearly. He could hear Jerrod’s voice in the back of his mind. Beck owns you now, Aurelian.
He winced. Conor immediately leaned forward, putting his hand under Kel’s chin, lifting his face to be studied. “How do you feel? Should I get Gasquet?”
“No need,” Kel said. “I need a bath and some food, not necessarily in that order. And then Gasquet can prod at me.” He frowned. “The physician who healed me—she was Mayesh’s granddaughter?”
“She still is, as far as I know.” Apparently satisfied that Kel was in no imminent danger, Conor sat back. His tone was light, but Kel sensed something—a layer of feeling or doubt, just below the surface Conor chose to show the world. Few saw beneath that invisible armor; even Kel could only guess. “An Ashkari physician. Mayesh has been keeping that quiet.”
“He never speaks much of the Sault.” The memory of Lin grew clearer, firming up around the edges. She had been small, with quick hands and hair the color of fire. A stern voice, like Mayesh’s. I need to concentrate. You are interrupting me. Please leave me alone with my patient.
No one talked to Conor like that. Interesting. Kel filed the memory away.
“Kellian—what happened to you?” Conor demanded. It was clear he’d been waiting days to ask. “I told you to go get drunk with Roverge, and the next thing I know you get yourself dumped off at the Palace gates like a wounded sack of potatoes. Who left you there?”
“I’ve no idea.” Kel looked down at his hands to hide the lie in his eyes. Several of his fingernails were broken. He remembered scrabbling at the stones in the alley, wet black mold under his fingers. The smell of it, like a dead mouse in a wall. The memory made his stomach clench. “I was in an alley,” he said, slowly. “I thought I’d die there. The next thing I remember is waking up in this room.”
“What were you doing down in the city?” Conor demanded. Kel supposed it wasn’t demanding, exactly; Conor simply expected to know where Kel had been because he could not imagine a situation in which Kel had secrets he did not know. It was why Kel had been so angry at the Ragpicker King—and perhaps why he had felt so very odd in Merren’s flat. Now I have secrets that must be kept.
Conor cocked his head to the side. He had latched on to Kel’s hesitation like a hunting dog latching on to the scent of blood. He said, “Now, what would you feel you had to sneak off to do? A duel, perhaps? Over a girl? Or a boy? Did you get some guildmaster’s daughter pregnant?”
Kel held his hand up to forestall the flood of half-serious questions. He couldn’t imagine trying to explain to Conor about the Ragpicker King. Besides, he had tied up the loose end with Merren; there was no point talking about it now. But he could not lie about what had happened in the alley. “No romance,” he said. “No duel. I went to the Caravel to see Silla.”
Conor leaned back against a bedpost. “This happened at the Caravel?”
“I never made it there. I was jumped by Crawlers.” Well, at least that’s the truth. He took a deep breath, sending a stab of pain deeper into his chest, like an arrow tunneling home. “Crawlers who thought I was you.”
Conor went still. “What?”
“They must have followed me, waited until I was alone. I was wearing your cloak—”
“Yes,” Conor said. He twisted at a ring on his left hand—a blue signet ring that winked like an eye. “I remember; we had to throw it away. It was ruined. But that isn’t enough to assume they thought you were me. Unless—your talisman?”
“I wasn’t wearing it. But they called me Monseigneur, and it was very clear who they thought I was.”
“That’s not possible.” Conor spoke evenly. Only his hands betrayed real tension: His fingers had curled up against his palms. “Crawlers don’t seek out princes to rob and kill. They’re lowlifes. Pickpockets. Not assassins.”
“They didn’t want you dead,” Kel said. He wondered if he should mention the arrows, but decided not to. It would only complicate things. “They only tried to hurt me when they realized I wasn’t you. What they wanted was money.”
“Money?”
“They work for Prosper Beck,” Kel said, and saw Conor blanch. “How long have you known you owe him ten thousand crowns?”
Conor jerked upright—a curiously ungraceful movement, a puppet being yanked by its strings. His leather riding jacket spun with him as he crossed the room to the rosewood cupboard he had personally ordered from Sayan. The doors were painted with images of colorful birds and unknown Gods, their eyes circled in gold.
Inside were decanters and bottles of every liquor under the sun. Nocino, made from bitter Sarthan walnuts, and bloodroot liquor from Hanse, dark and thick as if it were drawn from human veins. Juniper-scented jenever from Nyenschantz. Sticky white rice-and-honey wine from Shenzhou, and apricot-kernel vaklav from the high mountains of Malgasi. The servants had been instructed to keep the cupboard stocked with everything Conor liked, and when it came to alcohol, his taste was various. The cabinet even had a false bottom, where poppy-drops and the odd powders Charlon liked were kept out of sight.
His back to Kel, Conor selected a bottle of pastisson, the cheap green anise stuff drunk by every student in the city. A gold label on the bottle bore the image of a viridescent butterfly. He walked back to the bed, seated himself again in the chair, and twisted the cork out of the bottle.
The scent of licorice rose, roiling Kel’s stomach. He already felt slightly sick. He could not help but feel that this was far from what a Sword Catcher was designed to do; he did not want to tell Conor unpleasant things that must be reckoned with. That was Mayesh’s job, or Lilibet’s. Even Jolivet’s. Not his.
“I am not telling you this to hold you to account,” Kel said, as Conor took a drink from the bottle. “I am telling you because if I do not, next time it will be you they follow and threaten, not me.”
“I know.” Conor looked at Kel with unblinking gray eyes. “I should have told you.”
“Does anyone else know? Mayesh, even?”
Conor shook his head. The alcohol was bringing a little of the color back to his face. “I ought to have told you,” he said, “but I only just found out myself. Do you recall that night at the Caravel? When Alys wanted to speak to me alone?” Conor licked a drop of wine from his thumb. “It seems that bastard, Beck, has been going around Castellane buying up all my debts. Debts to boot-makers, clothiers, wine merchants, even the debt for that falcon I borrowed and misplaced.”