Page 64 of The Priory of the Orange Tree

Ead tried her utmost to keep pace. Though the fever had drained her, the Royal Physician had personally approved her return to duty. Yet more proof that Inysh physicians were quacks.

At least Truyde utt Zeedeur was keeping her head down. Ead had heard no more rumors about sorcery.

For now, she was safe.

There were nearly a thousand residents at court at any time of the year, but as Ead traversed the palace with baskets of flowers and armfuls of cloth-of-silver, she seemed to be passing more and more people. She watched every day for the golden banners of the Ersyr, and the man who would come under them, disguised as an ambassador to King Jantar and Queen Saiyma. Chassar uq-Ispad, who had brought her to Inys.

First came the guests from elsewhere in the queendom. The Earls Provincial and their families were among the most recognizable. As she entered the cloisters one morning, Ead spotted Lord Ranulf Heath the Younger, cousin to the late Queen Rosarian, on the other side of the garth. He was deep in conversation with Lady Igrain Crest. As she often did at court, Ead stopped to listen.

“And how is your companion, my lord?” Crest was saying.

“Sore disappointed not to be here, Your Grace, but he will join us soon,” Heath replied. His skin was brown and freckled, his beard shot with gray. “How happy that Her Majesty will soon know the same joy I found in companionship.”

“We can only hope. The Duke of Courtesy believes the alliance will serve to tighten the Chainmail of Virtudom,” Crest said, “though whether his intuition is correct has yet to be seen.”

“I would hope his intuition is unparalleled,” Heath said, chuckling, “given his . . . particular role.”

“Oh, there are things that even Seyton misses,” Crest remarked, a rare smile on her face. “How thin his hair is getting, for instance. Even a hawk cannot see the back of its own head.” Heath stifled a laugh. “Of course, we all pray that Her Majesty will soon be delivered of a daughter.”

“Aye, but she’s young, Your Grace, and so is Lievelyn. Give them time to get to know each other first.”

Ead had to agree. Few Inysh seemed to care whether Sabran and Lievelyn knew each other from a stuffed capon, so long as they were wed.

“It is vital that we have an heir as soon as possible,” Crest said, as if on cue. “Her Majesty knows her duty on that front.”

“Well, no one has guided Her Majesty in her duty better than you, Your Grace.”

“You are too kind. She has been my pride and joy. Alas,” Crest said, “that mine is no longer the only counsel she heeds. Our young queen is determined to go her own way.”

“As we all must, Your Grace.”

They parted. Ead scarcely had time to draw back before the duchess strode around the corner, almost headlong into her.

“Mistress Duryan.” Crest recovered. “Good morrow, my dear.”

Ead curtsied. “Your Grace.” Crest nodded and left the cloisters. Ead walked in the opposite direction.

Crest might well quip about Combe, but in truth, the Night Hawk missed nothing. It struck Ead as extraordinary that he could have failed to see who was hiring the cutthroats.

She slowed as a possibility occurred to her. For the first time, she considered that Combe himself might be the architect behind the attacks. He would have had the means to arrange them. To bring people unseen into the court, just as he swept others out. He had also taken charge of interrogating the surviving cutthroats. And disposing of them.

There was no reason Combe should wish Sabran dead. He was a descendant of the Holy Retinue, his power tied to the House of Berethnet . . . but perhaps he believed he could grasp even more if the Queen of Inys fell. If Sabran died childless, the people would give way to fear that the Nameless One was coming. In chaos like that, the Night Hawk could rise.

Yet each cutthroat had botched the job. Ead did not sense his hand in that. Neither was she convinced he would risk the instability of an Inys without the House of Berethnet. The spymaster did not work that way. He left nothing to chance.

It was when she was halfway across the Sundial Garden that it struck her.

That the blundering had been deliberate.

She thought back to how staged each attack had appeared. How each cutthroat had given the game away. Even the last one had not gone straight for the kill. He had taken his time.

In this she could find Combe. Perhaps he had never meant to kill Sabran, but to manipulate her. To remind her of her mortality, and the importance of the heir. To frighten her into accepting Lievelyn. It fitted with his way of arranging the court to look as he desired it.

Except that he had not anticipated Ead. She had stopped most of the cutthroats before they could get close enough to terrify Sabran. That must be why he had given the last one the key to the Secret Stair. To bolster their chances of reaching the Great Bedchamber.

Ead permitted herself a smile. No wonder Combe wanted to find the anonymous protector. If she had it right, she was killing offhishirelings.

Of course, all this was speculation. She had no proof of it, just as she had no proof that Combe had exiled Loth. Yet she knew in her gut that she was on the right path.

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