Page 31 of Silverbow
Renley turned to Del. “Take two of the hands with you and discreetly make inquiries around the Morning Glory. The rest of us will go east. If you find her, bring her back any way you have to.”
His oldest friend nodded gravely and wheeled his horse around, shouting for Billi and Cal. Oslee Amcott hurried forward with a saddled Farrah.
“Take her back to the barn, lad. Saddle Tyndar.” If Renley had any hope of catching her at all, he would need the stallion.
“My lord!” Griff jogged from the gatehouse as fast as his aged body would allow. “My lord, the tax collectors are coming up the road.”
“The books are in my study, Griff. Give them whatever gold they demand and send them on their way.”
He shook his head, panting. “My lord, the Master of Coin comes with them.”
Renley blinked. Enya was missing, probably gone to hand herself over to Pallas Davolier’s wielders, and the Master of Coin, the most dangerous man in all of Estryia was coming up the road. The gods seemed to be having a jest.
“You’re sure?”
“His banner, my lord.”
Renley threw his had back to look up at the sky, a half-mad laugh breaking loose. “You bastards really have a sense of humor, don’t you?” He said as if they might hear him. “Marwar, bring her back.”
“You lot, with me.” The Master of Arms jerked his head toward the stable hands holding horses and didn’t wait for their reply before he wheeled for the gate.
“May I go, sir?” Liam asked.
“I need you here lad. Get the boys back to work. Best we not let the High Lord of Pavia know anything is amiss.”
At his order, the stable boys scampered back inside whispering about Enya and the High Lord. Liam hesitated but didn’t argue.
“Don’t worry, lad,” Griff said, squeezing his shoulder. “She can’t have gotten far.”
Renley didn’t have the heart to tell his old groundskeeper just how wrong he was. If she didn’t run into trouble, a possibility that curdled his insides, they’d never catch her.
Renley was still trying to swallow the lump in his throat when a sleek black carriage turned off the Queen’s Road and trundled toward the gate. Cobalt feather plumes adorned the crowns of the matched team, and the driver and footman wore matching gold trimmed coats. Behind it trailed a column of mounted men in the crimson coats of Pallas Davolier’s giftless soldiers. A pair of gray clad scribes rode at the rear. Overhead, they flew the king’s banner, the gold balance scales of the Master of Coin, and Peytar Ralenet’s personal black fox head on a field of blue.
Gawking faces peered out from the stables as the carriage rolled to a stop before Renley. He sent up a silent prayer.
A lifetime had passed since he last saw squared off with the High Lord of Pavia, of course, he hadn’t been a High Lord then, only an advisor to the king consort; an advisor that managed to attach himself to Pallas like a tick in Ouro Rock and hold on all the way to the upper echelons of Estryian society. How the man had managed, Renley had no idea. Why Pallas had allowed it, he didn’tcare to fathom. But Ralenet had been insufferable then, and Renley doubted the intervening years had made him any better. Before the footman even opened the door, he bowed low at the waist.
Black polished boots crunched over gravel and stopped before him. “Renley Ryerson,” their wearer drawled. The lilting accent still held a touch of the South, even if the Puppet Master of Pavia had spent more than half his life squatting in the Thronelands.
Renley straightened, meeting the flinty gaze of the king’s Master of Coin. Peytar Ralenet was not a large man, but he had long ago mastered the art of looking down his nose in a way that gave the impression he was looming. “Lord Ralenet.”
“What’s it been, twenty years?”
“Twenty-five, my lord.”
But Peytar Ralenet would know that. Time had etched new lines in his face and gray now winged his dark temples, but it had not dulled the sharpness of his eyes, and it was too much to hope it had dulled his mind either.
“Time has elevated your station,my lord.“ Peytar said the title with a sneer.
There were many kinds of lords in Estryia, and even if they both bore the title, the space between them was as vast as the North. Renley wouldn’t soon forget it.
“My station has not risen half so far as yours, my lord,” he answered flatly. “You do my house a great honor. To what do we owe the pleasure?”
Ralenet gave the humble house and yard an appraising look, no doubt counting every copper he could wring from it. “If you needed a break from the king’s tax, Renley, you should have written.”
A few of his guards sniggered.
“I’ve no complaints for His Majesty.”
