So the Ragpicker King hadn’t told his loyal assassin about the message he’d sent to Kel. Interesting. Perhaps he’d wanted it to be a secret, though why, Kel couldn’t imagine.
He thought back over the last few days, the bits of gossip he’d caught wind of as he wandered around Marivent. “Tell him I have a question about Artal Gremont.”
The book fell out of Merren’s hand and hit the floor with a thump. An incredulous expression passed over Ji-An’s face. Kel looked from one of them to the other, wondering what on earth he’d said.
“I’ll—go fetch Andreyen,” said Ji-An, clearly caught entirely off guard. She glanced back one more time at Kel as she departed the room, eyes wide, rather as if he were a hedgehog who had started spouting off poetry in Sarthian.
The moment she left, Merren rose to his feet, scooping up his fallen book. He looked just as he had the last time Kel had seen him—somehow nervous and graceful at the same time, his fair hair a halo of ringlets, his black clothes shiny with age and patched at the elbows. “Why would you mention Gremont?” he demanded.
Kel threw up his hands. “Just chance,” he said. “He’s a figure of curiosity on the Hill. He was sent off into what amounted to exile nearly fifteen years ago—”
“It wasn’t exile,” Merren snarled. “He escaped. He ought to have hung from the gallows in Valerian Square.”
Kel narrowed his eyes. “This has something to do with your father?”
“My father. My sister. My family.” Merren’s hands were shaking. “You really—no one on the Hill knows what Gremont did?”
“What do you mean, what he did?” Kel began, but Ji-An and the Ragpicker King had come into the room, putting an end to the conversation. Merren sat back down quickly, opening up his book again, while Andreyen settled onto a dark-blue sofa. He was, as always, impeccably dressed in black, his long white hands folded atop his blackthorn cane. His eyes were bright in his narrow face.
He said, “Kellian. I was told you’d recovered well, but I’m pleased to see it. Have you come because I requested you to, or do you really have a question about that toad, Artal Gremont?”
“The former. I came because of the message you sent to me at Marivent,” Kel said. “Does Lin Caster work for you, too? Does everyone in Castellane work for you secretly?”
“No,” said Andreyen. “Some of them work for Prosper Beck.”
Kel couldn’t decide whether this was a joke or not. What he did know was that he was the only one in the room standing up—Ji-An had perched herself on a side table—and he was beginning to feel foolish. He sat down in a wing chair opposite Andreyen, who looked pleased.
“The truth is,” said the Ragpicker King, “I find very few people qualified to work for me. Ji-An and Merren, of course, have special skills. Lin and I merely have similar interests. You, on the other hand”—he fixed Kel with a steady jade-green gaze—“I still want you to work for me.”
“Nothing about that has changed,” Kel said quietly. “If this conversation is conditional on my agreeing to work for you . . .”
“It isn’t. But much has changed. You’ve been stabbed nearly to death by Beck’s Crawlers. If Ji-An hadn’t been there, you’d likely be dead.”
Kel crossed one leg over the other. It was uncomfortably hot in the room and he longed to shrug off his jacket. “The Crawlers ambushed me because they thought I was Conor,” he said. “Beck must be out of his mind if he’s sending Crawlers to threaten the royal family.” He frowned. “The leader was named Jerrod, Jerrod something—”
“Jerrod Belmerci,” said Ji-An. “He’s Beck’s right-hand man. He protects Beck completely. People often think they can get to Beck through him—and believe me, they’ve tried—but he’s a stone wall.”
“Sounds like you might have had some personal experience there,” Merren said, grinning at Ji-An. His fury over Gremont seemed to have gone, a shadow banished by sunlight.
Ji-An threw a pillow at Merren. Kel, meanwhile, was lost in thought—thinking of Jerrod, of his silver mask and what it might conceal.
“Not that Beck isn’t out of his mind,” added Ji-An, “It is a peculiar move, and dangerous, positioning oneself to extort royalty.”
“Most people wouldn’t try to wring money out of House Aurelian,” said Merren. “They could just send the Arrow Squadron to burn down the Maze. It almost seems like . . .”
He trailed off. The Ragpicker King looked at him, his gaze inquiring but patient. There was almost a fondness to that look, Kel thought in surprise. As if Andreyen simply liked Merren, outside of needing a poisoner on his staff.
“Well,” Merren said, “almost as if it’s personal.”
“I suppose it could be, if Beck’s being funded by someone on the Hill,” said Ji-An, eyeing Kel.
Kel shook his head. “I’ve thought about that. It could be any of the Houses, really. They’re all ruthless, and they’re all rich. And none are likely to confide such business to me. They know I’m close to the Prince, so I’m the last person they’d tell.”
“You could search all their homes,” said Ji-An, looking delighted at the prospect. “We could break in—”
“Before we go quite that far,” said Andreyen, “Kel, can I speak to you in private?”
Kel, surprised, could not help but glance at Merren and Ji-An, who it seemed had been abruptly dismissed. Merren simply shrugged and closed his book before heading out of the room; Ji-An, though, could not conceal a look of hurt. Kel felt a little guilty as she departed with her hands shoved into the pockets of her foxglove jacket.
Once they were gone, Andreyen rose to his feet. Kel wondered if the Ragpicker King planned to lead him somewhere, but no; it seemed Andreyen was only pacing.
“Why Morettus?” said Kel. “As a password. They do make us study dead languages up at the Palace, you know. I’m aware it means ‘no name’ in Callatian.”
“Because all Ragpicker Kings have the same last name: no name at all. I am Andreyen Morettus because I have given up the name I had before. It is a reminder that there will always be a Ragpicker King; it is an office, not a specific person.” He eyed Kel, picking up a silver bowl that had been sitting on a shelf. Idly, he passed it from hand to hand. “Now. I am going to tell you something that very few people know. How few? A month ago, three people in all of Castellane knew it. Now only two people know, because one of us is dead.”
“Died of old age?” Kel said hopefully.
“No, murdered. Poisoned in fact. Not,” Andreyen added, with the ghost of a smile, “by Merren.” He ran a finger around the rim of the silver bowl. “But before I tell you anything else, know that if you repeat any of this information to anyone—for instance, your friend the Prince—I will have you hunted down and killed.”
His raised his eyes to Kel’s, and in that moment, Kel saw behind the calm, even kindly veneer of the Ragpicker King—the one who looked fondly at Merren, and responded to threats with amusement—to the cold and ruthless criminal beneath.