Page 213 of The Priory of the Orange Tree

“To silence her. Only Truyde, Sabran, and myself knew that Bess Weald worked for someone called the Cupbearer. And Combe,” she added, after a moment. “Crest is covering her spoor. My head would have been up there, too, sooner or later, if I had not left court.” She paced the room. “Crest could not have executed Truyde without Sabran knowing. Surely death warrants must have a royal signature.”

“No. The signature of whomsoever holds the Duchy of Justice is also valid on a death warrant,” Loth said, “but only if the sovereign is unable to sign with her own hand.”

The implication settled over them both, heavy with portent.

“We need to get into the palace. Tonight,” Ead said, frustration mounting in her voice. “I must speak with someone. In another ward.”

“Ead, no. This entirecityis looking for—”

“I know how to evade discovery.” Ead put her hood back up. “Lock the door behind me. When I get back, we will make a plan.” She paused to kiss his cheek on the way out. “Fear not for me, my friend.”

And she was gone.

Loth undressed and sank into the copper bath. All he could think about was the heads staked on the gatehouse. The promise of an Inys he could not recognize. An Inys without his queen.

He battled sleep for as long as he could, but days of riding in the cold had taken their toll. When he tumbled into bed, he dreamed not of severed heads, but of the Donmata Marosa. She came to him naked, with eyes full of ash, and her kiss tasted of wormwood.You left me, she breathed.You left me to die. Just like you left your friend.

When a knock finally came, he jerked awake.

“Loth.”

He groped for the bolt. Ead was outside. He stood aside to let her into the chamber.

“I have our way in,” she said. “We will go with the waterfolk.”

They crewed the barges and wherries that crossed the River Limber every day, taking people and goods from one side to the other. “I assume you have more friends among them.”

“One,” she confirmed. “A shipment of wine is being taken to the Privy Stair for the Feast of High Winter. He has agreed that we can join the waterfolk. That will get us inside.”

“And when we are?”

“I mean to find Sabran.” Ead looked at him. “If you would prefer to stay here, I will go in alone.”

“No,” Loth said. “We go together.”

They set out dressed like merchants, armed to the chin under their cloaks. Soon they entered the ward of Fiswich-by-Bridge and slipped down the wherry stairs on Delphin Street. The stairs were squeezed alongside a tavern, the Gray Grimalkin, where the waterfolk drank after a long day on the Limber.

The tavern faced the east wall of Ascalon Palace. Loth followed Ead. Their riding boots crunched through the shells on the riverbank.

He had never set foot in this part of the city. Fiswich-by-Bridge had a reputation for knavery.

Ead approached one of the men outside the tavern.

“My friend,” she said. “Well met.”

“Mistress.” The man was grubby as a rat, but sharp-eyed. “Do you still wish to join us?”

“If you’ll have us.”

“I said I would.” He glanced at the tavern. “Wait by the barge. Need to fish some of the others from their cups.”

Nearby, the barge in question was being loaded with barrels of wine. Loth walked to the edge of the river and watched candles flicker to life in the windows of the Alabastrine Tower. He could only just see the top of the Queen Tower. The royal apartments, benighted.

“Tell me,” he muttered to Ead, “what does Ambassador uq-Ispad do to make your friends so agreeable?”

“He pays the innkeeper a pension. As for this man, Chassar covered his gambling debts,” she said. “He calls them the Friends of the Priory.”

The waterfellow shepherded his associates from the tavern. When the last of the wine was loaded into the barge, Loth and Ead got in and found themselves a place on a bench.

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