Assassin’s Fate

As if in response to my words, I heard a chorus of wordless cries from the gathered folk. A forest of pointing hands gestured at one of the tall, slender towers. Long black banners had been unfurled from the tower windows. Weighted, they hung straight and still despite the breeze off the water. ‘It’s for Symphe!’ someone cried out. ‘That’s her tower of residence. She’s dead! Skies above, Symphe is dead! One of the Four has died!’

That one shout freed all the tongues in the crowd, provoking a cacophony of shouting, wails and cries. I strove to pick information from the uproar.

‘… not since my father was a boy!’ one man exclaimed, and a woman cried out, ‘It cannot be so! She was so young and beautiful!’

‘Beautiful, yes, but not young. She has reigned in the north tower for over eighty years!’

‘How did she die?’

‘When will we be allowed to cross?’

Some people were weeping. One man declared that he had come yearly to have his fortune foretold, and that three times he had actually spoken with Symphe herself. He described her as being as kind as she was lovely, and I watched him gain that aura of fame that comes to one who has touched greatness. Or claims to have done so.

On the far shore, past the causeway gates, a single figure emerged from the castle gates. He was tall and pale and dressed in a long, loose robe of pale blue. He did not hurry as he crossed the bared causeway that had begun to steam and dry in the summer sun. He walked gracefully, and his bearing reminded me of the Fool as he had been in his days as Lord Golden. The crowd’s noisy complaints became a chorus of folk calling attention to him, and then became a murmur. I heard someone say, ‘Is that not Lingstra Wemeg, who serves Coultrie of the Four?’

The man reached the far gate and the guards, troops and pikemen stepped aside to give the crowd a clear view of him. He lifted his voice and shouted something that no one could make out. The crowd went silent. He lifted his voice again. ‘Disperse now, or face the consequences. No one will be admitted today. We are in mourning. Tomorrow, on the afternoon’s low tide, those who hold passes will be admitted.’ He turned his back and walked away.

‘Is Symphe truly dead? What happened to her?’ a woman cried after him. He did not even twitch as he walked on. The troops and pikemen resumed their barricade.

The crowd milled, consulting among itself. We waited where we were, hoping a riot would not break out. But the mood of the crowd became more one of mourning and disappointment than frustration. As chaff is blown away by the breeze, so the people slowly dispersed. The conversations I overheard were disgruntled or sad but none seemed to doubt they would be admitted on the morrow.

I fought down the panic that tried to rise in me. ‘Oh, Fool, what have you done?’ I muttered to myself as I stared across the empty causeway.

‘What will we do now?’ Per asked as we slowly fell in with the departing pilgrims.

I said nothing. My thoughts were with the Fool, probably inside the castle. Had he killed Symphe? Did that mean he hadn’t found Bee and had taken his revenge? Or that he had been discovered and forced to kill? Was he captured? Hiding?

‘We won’t be getting into the castle today,’ Lant observed. ‘Should we return to Paragon and wait there until they allow folk in again?’

‘Stop!’ Per exclaimed suddenly. ‘Here. Come over here.’ He led us away from the crowded roadway, onto the verge that overlooked the water. He motioned us to draw close to him and then said in an excited whisper, ‘We can’t get in!’ Per explained. ‘But Motley can!’ We looked at him in surprise. The crow was sitting on his shoulder. Per offered Motley his wrist and the bird stepped onto it. Holding her level with his face, he spoke to her earnestly. ‘Amber told us that the walls of the cells on the top level have holes in them, shaped like flowers and things. Can you fly up there and look through the holes? Could you see if Bee is up there? Or Amber?’ His voice began to shake; he pinched his mouth shut. Motley turned one bright eye to stare at him. Then, without a word, she lifted off his arm and flew away.

‘She’s going straight there,’ Spark exclaimed.

But as we watched, the crow flew past the castle and out of sight behind it.

Per sniffed and said, ‘Maybe she wants to fly all around it before she tries to land there.’

‘Maybe,’ I agreed.

We stood, waiting. I stared out to sea until my eyes watered from the glare.

THIRTY-ONE The Butterfly Man