“How so?” Karigan’s voice held little surprise.
“Most don’t dare tamper with the guests of this inn. Keeper Wiles’ man, Tarone, hasn’t stopped short of killing to retain order here. Whoever wished to gain entry does not fear him.”
Goosepimples broke out all over again. “Did you get a look at him?”
Gowen shook his head. “He was light of foot and disappeared into the shadows the moment he detected me. The corner of his cloak caught in my lamplight. It was gray.”
A knock on the door startled them both.
“Oh, no. The innkeeper and his guard.” Gowen rolled his eyes.
Karigan climbed to her feet, carefully draping a blanket over her shoulders to conceal the Rider insignia before she opened the door. The innkeeper stood in the corridor flanked by a hulking giant who was, if not as tall as Abram, at least as wide. He held an enormous club in his hand, and nothing about him suggested Abram’s mild and careful nature. Now she knew how the innkeeper enforced order.
“Is everything well here?” the innkeeper asked, the corners of his mouth turned down as if to imply he didn’t really care, but he had a reputation to maintain.
“Everything is fine,” Karigan said. “Gowen and I were just having a conversation.”
The innkeeper sniffed and cast Gowen a severe glance. “You know the rules, minstrel. No . . . associations with the guests.” The guard thumped his club into his hand in emphasis. “You do your job well, but if you can’t abide by the rules, I shall have to release you.”
Karigan watched in fascination as Gowen affected a convincing facade of humility bordering on fear. “It’s really nothing, Keeper Wiles. Really.” His eyes were downcast and he bowed. “The lady and I were just making conversation. We hail from the same town. It won’t happen again, I assure you, sir.”
“It’s truly all right,” Karigan said. “He’s done no harm.”
Wiles grunted in disdain. “You may keep your job for now.” He turned down the corridor, his guard following behind with heavy footsteps.
Gowen dropped all facade. “That man is a pompous . . . Well, you saw him. Mind what I told you, young lady. And mind whatever Clatheas told you, too. She’s an accurate seer. Farewell and good luck to you!”
Karigan stood alone in her dark room. The door creaked as she closed it. She turned the key in the lock and fell back into bed. Sleep would be impossible now, and she gave some thought to leaving that very moment, but it wouldn’t do to arouse any more suspicion than she needed to. Besides, the starless night was less inviting than the warm inn, and she would rather stay put than encounter the Shadow Man again in the dark.
MIRWELL
The Green Rider passed the envelope to Beryl. Beryl glanced at it front and back, then handed it to the governor.
“It bears the king’s seal, my lord.”
Mirwell looked the envelope over. It was addressed to Honorable Tomastine II, Lord-Governor of Mirwell Province, Faithful Servant of Sacoridia. The seal on the back was Zachary’s, but featured his clan emblem, that of a Hillander terrier pressed into heather-colored wax, rather than the royal emblem of the firebrand and the half moon.
He slit the message open with his dagger and read the contents. Afterward, he handed it back to Beryl to read. The Greenie waited, standing statue-still with her hands clasped behind her back.
Mirwell glanced at her, then his aide. “Rider—”
“Ereal M’farthon, my lord,” Beryl provided.
“Rider M’farthon, would you tell us what else you carry in your message satchel?”
The messenger’s eyes grew wide, and she glanced questioningly at Beryl before her eyes fell back on the governor. “With all due respect, my lord—”
Mirwell stayed her words with his hand. “Please humor me, Rider. I ask for reasons of personal security.”
Beryl nodded to her reassuringly.
Good! Sometimes it took another woman to lend support. I am an old bear ugly enough to make anyone nervous.
The Rider cleared her throat. “With all due respect, my lord, while messages from His Excellency the King are matters of his own business, it’s no secret that I carry another invitation to deliver to the lord-governor of Adolind.”
Mirwell nodded gravely. “Thank you, Rider M’farthon. D’rang will escort you to the kitchen for provisions to make the rest of your long journey comfortable. In the meantime, I shall craft my reply.”
“Thank you, my lord.” The Rider bowed out of the library, followed by a soldier in scarlet.
When she was out of earshot and the doors closed, Mirwell turned to his aide. “What do you make of it, Spence? Another Greenie trying to reach Zachary’s spy?”
Beryl pulled thoughtfully at her lower lip. After a few moments she shook her head. “No, my lord.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“I believe her intentions are as she says—to deliver invitations for the king’s banquet and ball. It’s certainly something she did not fabricate. Besides, we haven’t found any spy in your household yet, and we’ve been very thorough.”
Mirwell knew how thorough. Everyone who inhabited his keep, from the lowest servant to the highest courtier, including Prince Amilton and Beryl, had been interviewed extensively. Some to the point of torture. He had delighted in the screams of some of the courtiers he particularly disliked, and admired some of the techniques Beryl had employed to get them to “talk.” The results, however, indicated that no spy existed within House Mirwell. One positive byproduct of the investigation was a reminder to his subjects of his authority. All the better if they trembled a little when he walked by.