The King Slayer Part 19

"Oh, no. Half of that half doesn't want anything to do with me. That leaves just over one hundred men who can stand to be in my presence. Half of that half-"

"Malcolm."

"Sixty." Malcolm shrugs. "Sixty soldiers out of one thousand. But it is, as they say, a start. All things considered, I'm grateful for it. Fitzroy thinks if I do well enough by them, if I can turn metal into gold as the alchemists say, more will join in. That's what I'm planning right now." Another gesture at the table.

"When do you run drills?" I ask. "Maybe I'll come join you. Then you'd have sixty-one soldiers."

His expression is suns.h.i.+ne. "Yes. I'd like that. It would be nice to see a friendly face." He pauses, considering. "Well, a face, at any rate."

I do something then I didn't think I could: I start to laugh.

In the early days of training, when Caleb and I were new to the tests, when even he couldn't have imagined what we'd be asked to face or the things we'd have to do, he devised a way for us to manage the toll it was taking on us.

He showed up outside my dormitory at Ravenscourt one morning, dressed for the outdoors and carrying a bag, but he wouldn't tell me what was in it or where we were going. The sun was still rising, but the streets were already crowded and Caleb pulled me through them, cobblestoned and wide until they became gradually narrower, the smoke- and dung-scented air giving way to cottages and trees and gra.s.s, the scent of a village.

We traipsed up a hill; at the top was a cemetery. The gravestones tumbled over one another like pirates' teeth, jumbled and cracked and stained. Headless statues scattered throughout, fighting for s.p.a.ce among the trees. There were no people around, no paths, no flowers; it was a place that had been forgotten, just like the dead that lay there.

Caleb found a flat patch of gra.s.s nestled in the center of a half-dozen tombstones and sat down. He pulled his bag off his shoulder and opened it, pulling out food wrapped in linen: bread, ham, cheese, fruit he'd filched from the kitchen.

"What are you doing?"

He looked up at me. I expected him to tease me, as it was obvious what he was doing. But for once, his blue eyes were serious. "Eating," he replied. "It's been a while since you ate, hasn't it? I know it has for me."

I thought about it. It had probably been days since I ate, but who could know? It had probably been days since I slept, but who could know that, either? I sleepwalked through them; it was the only sleep I would get.

"How did you find this place?" I settled onto the ground across from him. He tore off a piece of bread and handed it to me. It was still warm from the oven.

"I don't know," he replied, chewing as he talked. "It was sometime after the second test. You know, the one at the Serpentine."

I swallowed. Blackwell had taken us to Serpentine Lake, a forty-acre lake inside Jubilee Park where the royal family spent their summers boating and fis.h.i.+ng. He commanded us to swim across it-it was December; freezing and snowy-and none of us knew how. We were forbidden to help one another. It was an agonizing day spent listening to two of the recruits slowly drown: their pleas rending the frozen air, then all at once silent. One of them was only twelve.

"I couldn't stop hearing their voices," Caleb continued. "So one night, after three with no sleep, I just started walking. I had no destination in mind; I just wanted to move. I found myself here after several hours. Ironic, no?"

I managed a small smile.

Caleb took another bite of bread. "I sat here for I don't know how many hours. Looking out at all these gravestones, these markers, these people... They're all dead, Elizabeth. More than that: They're forgotten. When was the last time someone thought of them? Enough to come see them? Look around. It's been a while."

Years, at least, by the look of it.

"It hit me then," he said. "No matter what's happened to us, what we've been through, what we've had to see, at least we're not them. At least we're not dead. We're not like them, Elizabeth. We're alive."

It was a small comfort, but it was the only one we had. So we spent the afternoon in that cemetery, both of us eating, Caleb leaning against a tombstone and napping. When I got back to Ravenscourt, I slept for the first time in four days.

We were alive.

Despite the chain around my neck, the soft pallet beneath me, and the relative safety of my tent-guarded now, for I've made more than a few enemies-I still can't sleep: Visions of Blackwell and his ruined face, of Caleb and his ruined life, haunt my nightmares. After my third sleepless night, I rise, dress, sling my bag over my shoulder, and step into the cold predawn morning, silent and still around the edges. I stop by the food tent, still waking up; the pair of cooks inside yawning as they measure grain into a vast, bubbling kettle. When I appear in the doorway they say nothing. But after a moment the older cook, a woman dressed in gray, steps forward and presses a bundle into my hand.

"It's not much," she says. "The cheese is a little hard, the bread's gone a little stale. But you look as if you could eat."

I thank her, place the food inside my bag, then thread my way through the sea of sleeping tents, across the field and over the bridge, out of Rochester.

Three hours later, I find myself in Hatch End, standing before the black gates of the cemetery that lies beside Gareth's home. They're locked, but only about seven feet high, and even as tired as I am I scale them with ease. I skirt along the side of the chapel, through the flat patch of gra.s.s with neatly lined gravestones. Then, just as Caleb and I had done so many times so many years ago, I tuck beside an obelisk, unpack the food from my bag, lay it before me. But it is not the same.

I am alive, yes. But Caleb is dead, and it is not the same.

I don't know how long I sit there, my back against the stone, a flat of bread in my hand, before I see him. He creeps toward me, silent as a ghost.

"You followed me?" I look up at him, his hair quicksilver-bright in the nascent sunlight. "Why?"

Schuyler shrugs. "Wanted to see how you were coming on. Haven't seen you around much, and Fifer's worried about you. You've been keeping busy."

Since I returned to camp, I've spent much of my time with Malcolm, as promised, helping run his men through exercises, showing them things I've never shown anyone: things no one should see. Ways to injure, ways to maim, ways to kill. We managed to add some twenty-odd soldiers to Malcolm's retinue after a demonstration in which I took out a band of wolves-magically conjured by Nicholas-with nothing but a pair of knives and a handful of coniferous tree branches.

"You think it's a good idea?" Schuyler continues. "Coming here?"

"Why not? Gareth isn't here." I shrug. "He's been locked up in council meetings. Malcolm said he's not left Rochester in a week."

"Not what I meant." Schuyler brushes aside a pile of leaves and settles down beside me, leaning against a mossy tomb. "You sure it's wise, convening with the dead like this?"

"I'm convening with you, aren't I?"

"Point." Schuyler raises a hand.

I glance at him. At those almost unnaturally bright blue eyes, slightly dimmed today by worry or trouble or both. My thoughts run to Caleb again.

"He told Blackwell I was coming," I say. "Caleb. He said he has to tell him everything he knows, everything he thinks. He said Blackwell demanded it of him."

"Yes," Schuyler says. "Blackwell is Caleb's pater-the one who brought him back-so Caleb must do what he orders. Everything he orders."

"But he didn't tell Blackwell I didn't have my stigma."

Schuyler shrugs. "He probably couldn't hear you clearly enough to figure it out. I had a hard time hearing you through that d.a.m.ned prayer, and I've got years of practice. Caleb is new. It's hard to focus on a single person's thoughts, when there are so many others to hear."

"I suppose," I say. "But in the ritual room, I wasn't saying the prayer. Not at first. I was too tired, too worried about what was about to happen. Caleb could have dug in, he could have heard everything. But when Blackwell asked him where my stigma went, he said he didn't know." I pause. "Do you think he did, and that he lied to Blackwell about it?"

"I don't see why he would." Schuyler breaks off a piece of bread, tosses it into the gra.s.s. A pair of birds flutter to the ground beside us and begin pecking at the crumbs. "He didn't do anything to stop what was happening to you. At any rate, it's not a matter of choice. A revenant's will is completely subordinate to that of his pater. He doesn't-" He stops, abrupt.

"You don't have to talk about it," I say quickly.

"It's not that," he says. "It's just that it's hard for me to recall. It's been a few hundred years since I thought about it. I don't even remember how long it actually has been. Do you know I don't even remember my surname?"

"You don't?" I don't know whether to be amused or horrified. I decide on the latter. "I'm sorry."

"I'm not." Schuyler grins, wicked. "Feels rather legendary, having only one name."

I fall silent a moment, recalling the way Caleb spoke to me, the way he whispered to me through the door, as if he were telling me a secret. The way he seemed at turns angry and defiant, then almost contrite.

"Caleb cannot physically disobey Blackwell." Schuyler interrupts my thoughts. "But it doesn't mean he has to be loyal. There are a thousand ways to show disloyalty besides disobedience."

"Such as?"

Schuyler shrugs again. "Revenants are very base creatures," he says. "The word itself means 'to return.' When they do, they're like infants, in a way. They know only base desires."

I note his use of the word they, as if revenants are a separate ent.i.ty from himself.

"It's an indelicate balance," he continues. "They are beholden, but they don't want to be held. Some-most-simply bide their time, obeying in simmering resentment until their pater dies, until they can finally be free. Others, shall we say, take matters into their own hands, inasmuch as they can."

"How do you know this?"

Schuyler fixes me with his bright, knowing gaze. "Because I had my pater killed."

I open my mouth; nothing comes out.

"He asked me to buy a s.h.i.+p; I bought him a s.h.i.+p," Schuyler says. "What he didn't ask was for me to buy him a sound s.h.i.+p or a competent crew. The s.h.i.+p was full of weak timber and shoddy sails; the crew not a crew at all but beggars and vagabonds looking for coins and drink; they didn't care how they got it. Nor did he ask me to ensure the weather would be clear when we sailed. So when we did, we hit a storm, the s.h.i.+p fell apart, every last man on board died. Except yours truly."

I swallow a lump of bread that's somehow turned to stone.

"It's the things a pater doesn't ask that can be taken advantage of." Schuyler throws me a look, a half smile on his face. "You can exorcise a revenant with salt all you want, bijoux, but the devil inside still remains."

He stops then, his hand frozen midthrow, the bread still poised between his fingers. Then he's on his feet in a blur, s.n.a.t.c.hing my cloak and hauling me up. The bread tumbles from my lap; the birds converge. He hauls me behind the obelisk.

A second later, the door along the side of the cathedral opens-the same door I let myself out of the day of my trial, the day Blackwell's attacks came-and Gareth steps out. He's accompanied by another man, dressed in all black like a councilman, only I don't recognize him at all.

"I thought you said he was at Rochester," Schuyler whispers.

"I guess I was wrong," I whisper back. "But does it really matter? He won't like our being here, but it's not as if he'll arrest-"

"Shh." Schuyler clamps his hand over my mouth.

"I understand things have changed. But I cannot be expected to settle all my affairs in one week," Gareth says.

"And what affairs would those be?" asks the man.

"I-" Gareth stops. "My home."

"Provided you have one left," the man says. "At any rate, there are plenty of fine homes to be had in Upminster."

"That was not the plan," Gareth says.

"Ah, but that should not faze you." The man holds up an appeasing hand. "You are, if nothing else, a master planner. I should think this is nothing to you. Even so, it is our role, is it not? To do whatever it takes?"

Gareth considers this, then nods. "Faciam quodlibet quod necesse est."

Blackwell's motto.

Schuyler's hand is back over my mouth, stifling the gasp and the realization: Gareth is the spy.

THE MAN IN BLACK VANISHES then-disappears into nothing, seemingly into thin air. Gareth glances around, furtive, before striding down the path, out the gate, and onto the road leading toward Rochester. Schuyler keeps his hand pressed to my mouth, waiting for him to pa.s.s out of earshot. Minutes pa.s.s. Finally, he lets go. s.n.a.t.c.hes my bag from the ground and darts out from behind the obelisk.

"One week?" I say. "Does that mean Blackwell and his men will be at Harrow in one week?"

"I presume." Schuyler's on his knees, stuffing my things into my bag, ruffling the ground to scatter the bread crumbs, erasing evidence of our presence.

"What are we going to do? Schuyler." I grab his arm to stop his frantic and pointless tidying. "Stop that. You need to listen to Gareth. Find out what else he knows."

"I can't." Schuyler rounds on me. "I already tried. Can't hear a thing. My guess is they were both wearing a barrier. Mercury, ash, like that d.a.m.ned necklace Fifer has. But I don't need to listen to know what they mean. One week until Blackwell sends his men to take Harrow, to take John, to take that stigma, and to go through with his b.l.o.o.d.y insane plan."

One week.

"We're not ready," I say. "The troops from Gaul haven't arrived yet, the Order hasn't arrived yet, Malcolm's men aren't trained yet... What are we going to do?"

"Tell Nicholas. Fitzroy. Prepare." Schuyler throws my bag over his shoulder. "It's all we can do."

"Do you think we should-"

"Kill Gareth? No." Schuyler picks up on my thought before I can voice it. "Can't go around killing councilmen, bijoux, even if they are traitors. No, we need to tell Nicholas and let him decide. After that, if he's looking for volunteers, I'll be first in line."

We start back toward Rochester. I wanted Schuyler to go ahead of me, to try to reach the camp ahead of Gareth. But Schuyler doesn't know the path he'll take, and neither of us can risk being seen.

Walking at turns fast and cautious, we reach Rochester sometime before noon. Smoke rends the air, the scent of food being readied for supper. People cl.u.s.ter in groups at the tables; stand in line at the bathing tents, the laundry tents, the weapons tents; sit around multiple fires that spring in rows along the ground. In the distance, men scatter along the jousting pits, either sparring or watching, some at the archery b.u.t.ts, others running drills in the adjoining fields.

Schuyler and I look through the crowds, searching for one man taller than everyone else, one man dressed better than everyone else, and one man more traitorous than everyone else.

We don't see Nicholas, Fitzroy, or Gareth anywhere.

"Let's split up," I say. "I'll stay here, search the tents. You go inside. Check Malcolm's quarters, too," I add as an afterthought. "Fitzroy may be there."

Schuyler nods. "I'll fetch Fifer first. She needs to know what's happening, and she can help me look. If we don't find them, or even if we do, we'll meet you in an hour in the chapel."

He slips into the crowd then, and I turn and make my way toward the tents, flipping the hood of my cloak over my head as I go, pulling it down low. I don't want to be seen, I don't want to be stopped, and right now, I don't want to speak to anyone but Nicholas or Fitzroy.

The crowd thins as I reach the ring of officer tents. Men in uniform, men carrying weapons, men poring over maps and endless lists of inventory. I'm spared a glance, two, as I thread through them, but still no Nicholas, and no Fitzroy.

I leave the relative safety of the inner ring and make my way to the jousting pits. Nicholas won't be there, but Peter might, and he might be able to tell me Nicholas's whereabouts. I'm squinting under my hood into the bright sun and I don't see him until I'm nearly on top of him: a boy in a navy-blue cloak standing beside a girl bright as a winter rose in a crimson gown, her hand clutching his arm.

John.

"Elizabeth." His eyes, still shadowed but not as deeply as last I saw him, grow wide at the sight of me. My heart, running rapid before, launches into a sprint.

"You're back," Chime adds, when John falls silent and I don't reply. "I was so pleased to hear you were safe," she adds, but the pique behind her words tells me different.

"Yes." I dart my eyes left, right; I look for an escape but there is none. Not from John's intense, searching gaze, and not from the three other boys, John's friends-some I recognize, some I don't-who walk up and encircle me. I feel vaguely hunted.

"I see you've returned," one of them says. "Returned, recovered, and now helping one king to try to kill another."

"Yes," I repeat. I think if I don't speak too much, they will grow tired of whatever game they're setting up for me and leave me be.

"Speaking of kings, I heard you faced Blackwell." Seb, the ginger boy, looks me over, that unpleasant smirk I've seen before crossing his face. "What was that like?"