incompetent. Doubly dangerous.
Tyrolean stiffened. “It is not mine to question my betters.”
“It is if you value the Queen’s life,” Draken said. He ignored Tyrolean’s surly glare and strode along the outer wall, forcing the others to step quickly to keep up. Except for small drain holes, the black stone looked impenetrable to climbing.
“Even if our assassin had glamour, it would be suspicious for him to walk the roof and stop here, truth? When I watched your sentries the day of the attempt, they kept moving.” He gave Tyrolean a sidewise glance and let derision tinge his voice. “Of course, it was after. During the attack, they must’ve only been still standing at the corners, as you said.” And truth, they had been.
“Aye,” Tyrolean snapped, crisp enough to sharpen a sword.
“They are observant, I’ll give you that. I had arrows trained on me at any given time.” Draken was fully aware he was showing the lay of his gamestones, but he needed information badly enough to let Tyrolean know he was observant, too. He lifted his chin. “Do your Escort patrol the street down there?”
“The errings in the water are patrol enough,” Tyrolean said. “They’ll eat a man in the time it would take to climb that fence.”
“What are you looking for, Draken?” Setia asked.
“I don’t know yet,” Draken said, running his hand along the top of the honed black wall as he walked around the corner. The buildings on the street below backed to the Bastion, as if to provide privacy. He felt a scrape in the stone under his hand and paused to look at the quiet street. Realization snapped into place.
“Of course. A grappling hook, on a line. If he was already in the building, he came out that window,” Draken said, pointing at the scrape in the stone. “Tossed the line up, caught it here. He knows no one patrols down on the street but the errings. Here, and here. Scratches.” Draken suppressed a smile. “You have heard of such a thing, aye?”
Tyrolean gave him a withering look.
“Bold, that,” Osias said. “If he fell, he’d never escape the errings in time.”
“Not half so bold as taking a shot at the Queen in her own house,” Draken said, turning away and staring across at the tower. Two of the bowmen across the way had arrows on the string, facing their small party. Four more bowman watched their party from either side. Reavan had stepped up security with Draken on the roof.
“Here’s where he used glamour, maybe.” A sudden thought. “How good is glamour? Can you make yourself invisible, Osias?”
Osias shook his head. “But I could blend into my surroundings for these purposes, if I were sufficiently accomplished enough to control the magic.” He smiled, leaving little doubt he was sufficiently accomplished. Draken gave an inward sigh. It had been a Mance arrow after all. No point in noting how obvious a suspect Osias was.
“It was a bright day, if you recall,” Osias continued. “If the glare was right, the assassin could have used it to advantage.”
“All right,” Draken said. “We’ll start on the street below. Perhaps someone saw something.”
Stiffly courteous, the Akrasians he questioned gave him little more than nonplussed shrugs. He didn’t get into details of the attack, saying he was making routine inquiries into security at the Bastion. His Brînian appearance didn’t help matters, nor the silent, armed Escorts behind him. He recalled the mistrustful reaction to Reavan when they’d entered the city. As he questioned his subjects, their attention wandered constantly to the Escorts. Clean and orderly as it was, Auwaer didn’t feel quite free, as if it were a city under occupation by its own kind.
His cousin the Monoean King was not a perfect man, Draken knew. But he had the respect of his people. He certainly hadn’t had to enslave an army to fight for him. I would have given my life for him, Draken thought, regret over his losses stabbing him anew.
The
Tyrolean stiffened. “It is not mine to question my betters.”
“It is if you value the Queen’s life,” Draken said. He ignored Tyrolean’s surly glare and strode along the outer wall, forcing the others to step quickly to keep up. Except for small drain holes, the black stone looked impenetrable to climbing.
“Even if our assassin had glamour, it would be suspicious for him to walk the roof and stop here, truth? When I watched your sentries the day of the attempt, they kept moving.” He gave Tyrolean a sidewise glance and let derision tinge his voice. “Of course, it was after. During the attack, they must’ve only been still standing at the corners, as you said.” And truth, they had been.
“Aye,” Tyrolean snapped, crisp enough to sharpen a sword.
“They are observant, I’ll give you that. I had arrows trained on me at any given time.” Draken was fully aware he was showing the lay of his gamestones, but he needed information badly enough to let Tyrolean know he was observant, too. He lifted his chin. “Do your Escort patrol the street down there?”
“The errings in the water are patrol enough,” Tyrolean said. “They’ll eat a man in the time it would take to climb that fence.”
“What are you looking for, Draken?” Setia asked.
“I don’t know yet,” Draken said, running his hand along the top of the honed black wall as he walked around the corner. The buildings on the street below backed to the Bastion, as if to provide privacy. He felt a scrape in the stone under his hand and paused to look at the quiet street. Realization snapped into place.
“Of course. A grappling hook, on a line. If he was already in the building, he came out that window,” Draken said, pointing at the scrape in the stone. “Tossed the line up, caught it here. He knows no one patrols down on the street but the errings. Here, and here. Scratches.” Draken suppressed a smile. “You have heard of such a thing, aye?”
Tyrolean gave him a withering look.
“Bold, that,” Osias said. “If he fell, he’d never escape the errings in time.”
“Not half so bold as taking a shot at the Queen in her own house,” Draken said, turning away and staring across at the tower. Two of the bowmen across the way had arrows on the string, facing their small party. Four more bowman watched their party from either side. Reavan had stepped up security with Draken on the roof.
“Here’s where he used glamour, maybe.” A sudden thought. “How good is glamour? Can you make yourself invisible, Osias?”
Osias shook his head. “But I could blend into my surroundings for these purposes, if I were sufficiently accomplished enough to control the magic.” He smiled, leaving little doubt he was sufficiently accomplished. Draken gave an inward sigh. It had been a Mance arrow after all. No point in noting how obvious a suspect Osias was.
“It was a bright day, if you recall,” Osias continued. “If the glare was right, the assassin could have used it to advantage.”
“All right,” Draken said. “We’ll start on the street below. Perhaps someone saw something.”
Stiffly courteous, the Akrasians he questioned gave him little more than nonplussed shrugs. He didn’t get into details of the attack, saying he was making routine inquiries into security at the Bastion. His Brînian appearance didn’t help matters, nor the silent, armed Escorts behind him. He recalled the mistrustful reaction to Reavan when they’d entered the city. As he questioned his subjects, their attention wandered constantly to the Escorts. Clean and orderly as it was, Auwaer didn’t feel quite free, as if it were a city under occupation by its own kind.
His cousin the Monoean King was not a perfect man, Draken knew. But he had the respect of his people. He certainly hadn’t had to enslave an army to fight for him. I would have given my life for him, Draken thought, regret over his losses stabbing him anew.
The
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