"She wants me close by, 'cause she's scared of rats. Leastways, it's never our business why the Regala wants things a certain way. Our place is just to do what she wants."

And that was the truth of it, always. She heaved a sigh and picked up the freshly laundered pile of linen to put away in the drawer of the wardrobe.

That night, long after midnight, Aureen woke. Unused to her new bed, she was disoriented and not sure where she was. Her sleep-stupefied mind struggled to make sense of her surroundings and the voice that was calling her.

Princess Mathilda.

She scrambled out of the truckle bed, her bare feet hitting the cold of the floorboards before she remembered why she was there in the bedchamber. "Milady?"

"Bring me my robe, quickly. I heard something."

The tiny flame from the night lamp was sufficient for her to find the woollen wrap draped over the bedpost. She held it open so that Mathilda could slide out from between the bed-drapes straight into its warmth.

"The rat, mayhap?" Aureen asked, her wits still befuddled.

"No, something much noisier. Not in the bedroom. Out there." She waved one hand at the door that led into the rest of her solar. Her other hand seized Aureen by the wrist, her clutch as cold as ice. "Light a candle, quickly."

"Milady, why don't you climb back into bed? You'll catch your death of cold. I'll go look." The Regala pushed her away with an unprincess-like snort. "I'm not delicate! Light the candle." She was already fitting her feet into the slippers beside her bed as she spoke. "I want to see what that noise was."

Aureen removed a candle from the candelabrum and lit it from the night lamp. "Milady, perhaps you should stay here and let me get the guard."

Regala Mathilda was scornful. "I'm not so moonish as to be scared of a noise."

Without another word, she opened the bedroom door and walked through into her drawing room. Aureen peered around her shoulder, but could see little. The fire in that room had long since died out.

"I think I can hear something in the retiring room," Mathilda said in a whisper. "You go first with the candle."

"Milady-"

"Go!"

She couldn't hear anything at all, but she obliged, almost certain it was all the Regala's imagination. Holding the candle high, she crossed the threshold, and saw one of the windows was open.

"How odd," she said. "I'm sure it was closed this evening. What witless dunce would open the window on a wet night like this? That's what you could hear, milady. The window banging in the wind!"

"Very likely. That's a relief! Here, give me the candle. You close the casement."

The window had swung fully open, and now banged against the outer stone wall. This side of the keep overlooked the castle bailey, so the walls were not as thick here, but even so, Aureen had to balance herself on the wide stone sill as she reached for the window catch. Her feet left the floor and she laughed as the wind whipped her hair every which way.

She felt Mathilda grip her ankles and wondered at her bothering to do such a thing, for she was in no danger. The sill was broad and most of her body was still inside the room. She had a brief moment of puzzlement.

When she realised her legs were being lifted, not steadied, but lifted higher and higher, she wasted a moment in disbelief. Princess Mathilda was teasing her? Then she shrieked, first in shock, and then in utter terror. Mathilda was pushing her legs, sliding her across the sill. She half turned, scrabbled at the inner side of the window ledge, tearing her skin.

Even then, she thought it accidental.

"Milady!" It was a cry for help, crying out to her mistress in her extremity. Her nails ripped and tore as she tried to dig them into the stonework, in vain.

Even in the brief whisper of time left to her as she fell the four storeys to the grassed inner bailey, she failed utterly to accept the notion that Mathilda had murdered her.

Mathilda leaned back against the wall, listening.

There was nothing to hear. No alarm from the courtyard of the bailey, nothing from inside the castle.

I'm sorry, Aureen. But they would have tortured you...

She closed her eyes and swallowed back the bile in her mouth. I had to do it to keep Karel safe. I didn't have a choice.

I'm sorry...

14.

The Pontifect's Envoys

Prime Mulhafen was an elderly, cadaverous man and, Gerelda decided, about as different from Prime Fox as it was possible to be. His clothing was austere, he wore no jewellery apart from the symbol of the Way of the Flow, and, as she glanced around his office in the Ustgrind Faith House, she decided its lack of comforts must be a statement in praise of frugal living.

Fortunately, she and Peregrine had dressed in the Lowmian style, in plain garments of grey and white. Peregrine wore the black hat of a Lowmian burgher's son, while she'd elected to wear the neat white cap more normally seen on a well-to-do burgher's wife than a lawyer. She didn't mind; she had grown up wearing such dull clothing. In fact, she still preferred it to the overly coloured and ornate fashion of Ardrone. What she didn't like was the idea that it was not a matter of preference, but of proscription.

That thought caused her an inward smile at the irony. I'm a lawyer, she thought, and we are supposed to prefer things to be orderly and planned and regulated. The unwritten rules of convention dictating that a woman must wear skirts annoyed her intensely, nonetheless.

Right then, wearing a dark grey dress, she stood in front of Prime Mulhafen's desk, hands clasped behind her back, with Peregrine two steps behind and to her right.

Like being back at school...

The Prime was reading the letter she had brought him from Fritillary Reedling. Judging by the expression on his face, the contents were not pleasing him. He'd already read through the two pages once and was now perusing them a second time. When he finally raised his gaze to look at her, his eyes were troubled.

"The Pontifect informs me that I should give you every aid in your research, and that I should see to it that you are admitted, with this lad here, to a private audience with Regala Mathilda. Yet it is hardly within my purview to dictate the granting of such an audience."

"I am sure that the Pontifect knows that, your eminence. This is a matter of considerable delicacy, you understand, between the Pontifect and Regala Mathilda. For this reason, she also entrusted me with another missive which I have here. This sealed letter is to be given into the hand of the Regala personally, by you. Once the Regala has read its contents, the Pontifect feels confident Master Peregrine Clary and I will be granted an audience." Gerelda held out the letter.

The Prime inclined his head as he took it from her. "Yes, her reverence says as much to me." He placed the letter on his desk, squaring it neatly to line up with other documents there. "I shall inform you of what happens. As for your historical research..." He shook his head dolefully. "We have an extensive library here, but it mostly concerns religious history and study. You're welcome to read whatever you will. It's a shame the Institute of Advanced Studies was burned down after the Horned Death struck. That library would have been of much more help to you."

He stood, indicating the interview was coming to an end. "The Pontifect has asked that you be lodged here at Faith House. I will have you shown to your rooms. It could be several days before I have an opportunity to pass your letter to the Regala Mathilda."

"Of course," she said, standing up. "I'm so obliged for your time, your eminence. Terrible disaster, the burning of a library, though, wasn't it? Documents are so irreplaceable. What happened?"

"The Dire Sweepers happened," he snapped. He caught himself and softened his next words. "It is their custom to burn any building which has had the Horned Death within. If the situation allows for it. Stops the spread of the disease, I believe."

A few minutes later, she and Peregrine were alone, looking around their spartan cells in the staff quarters. "Hardly luxurious," she remarked.

"Be looking good to me," Peregrine replied. "It's got a bed for a start and I reckon the roof won't leak. " 'Sides, a hot bath every five nights sounds good. But Agent Gerelda, I still don't understand why we're here. I'd be of more use staying in Vavala and warning the Pontifect every time one of them pitch-men popped up his rotten head-"

"I think perhaps the Pontifect can look after herself."

"So why does she want me to see the Regala of Lowmeer?"

Gerelda waved a hand at the bed. "Sit down, Perie. It really is time for you and me to have a talk about everything. But let me explain something first. The Pontifect has not told me the whole truth. So don't blame me later on if you find out you only know a little bit of what's going on, all right?"

He nodded. "My da used to say that you should never be telling anybody everything."

"Maybe." But damn Fritillary anyway. I hate being hamstrung by ignorance. "Anyway, we're going to meet the Regala Mathilda because she asked for help from the Pontifect. She is worried about Prince-regal Karel. She thinks he might have been contaminated by A'Va at birth, that he was born a so-called devil-kin."

He stared at her, his eyes widening. "What's that?"

"It's a Lowmian thing. The Pontifect thinks a devil-kin contamination might be the same thing, or similar to, what pitch-men have."

He looked at her blankly. "I thought we had a fret 'bout Prime Fox having summat to do with the pitch-men. Now you be saying A'Va gives the pitch to babies? You think maybe Prime Fox is working for A'Va?"

"Possibly."

He shook his head. "No."

"Why not?"

"Because Fox would never work for someone. He is the pitch pit. I told you that. He be not at all like the folk who killed my da."

"Look, all you have to do is take a look at the Prince-regal and tell us what you see, if anything. We want to know if we need to worry about him. It wouldn't be good for anyone if there was a devil-kin, or a pitch-man, on the throne of Lowmeer one day."

"I can do that much."

"One other thing. There's another kind of black smudge too, only visible to us ordinary folk when someone marked with it steps under the protection of a shrine oak. Wicked people leave that mark on their enemies as a warning to their fellow evil-makers. You must be careful you don't confuse that kind of smutch with pitch-men."

He was offended. "I'm not that daft."

"Good. We will have to wait a couple of days for the appointment. In the meantime, I'll be working in the library, looking into the history of the Fox family and the Regal's family. What would you like to do?"

"Can I go out into the city?" he asked, his eagerness to be gone from Faith House obvious.

After considerable cajoling on his part, Peregrine was on his way out when he saw Prime Mulhafen coming the opposite way.

"Where are you going?" the Prime asked, smiling slightly. "No, silly question; you're going out into the city, as any small boy would do if given the chance."

"Yes." His voice sounded childish to his ears, but in his head he denied the idea of being young. His boyhood seemed distant and fleeting, as if it had once been no more than chalk marks on a slate, wiped away by the pitch-men who had murdered his da.

"I wanted to chat with you." Mulhafen was still smiling, but the smile looked uncomfortable. "Tell me, Peregrine, what is your witchery?"

He was about to reply, when he remembered neither he nor Gerelda had told the Prime he had a witchery. It was possible the Pontifect had mentioned it in her letter, but he'd had the impression that she'd not said much at all. "Boys of my age," he said neutrally, "don't get gifted witcheries."

"I can see you have one."

That shook him. He said carefully, "To see a witchery, you must have a witchery." And you don't have one.

The Prime smiled, but this time there was something heart-rending in the way he was forcing his lips to curve upwards. "You are right of course; I don't have a witchery. Nonetheless, I have the ability to see that you do. You see, Peregrine, I once had a witchery too. I had it taken away from me. Vanished, far more easily than I earned it."

Peregrine was speechless. He had no idea what he could possibly say to that.

"You do know that can happen, don't you?"

He nodded.

"I knew too. But I was young. I didn't realise that you can lose a witchery, not just for misusing it in a bad way, but for not using it in a good way when you should. Youth understands very little."

Probably that's because too few adults ever explain things properly.

"Will you tell me what your witchery is?"

Peregrine shook his head.

"Ah, perhaps you are wise. Be on your way." There was such sadness in that old man's tone that Perie wanted to apologise, but Mulhafen had already nodded and walked away.

Peregrine sighed. He might not have been a boy any longer, but he wasn't grown either. Sometimes it was so hard to guess what went on in the heads of adults.

Princess Mathilda sat in her retiring room with several of her ladies-in-waiting. She was supposed to be delving into the book on her lap, entitled The Small Compendium of Court Etiquette, but she was gazing out of the window instead. When her ladies tried to talk to her, she waved the book at them, and bent her head over the pages, but the words remained unread.

She had pushed Aureen through that very window to her death. No one had questioned the supposed suicide; no one had pretended concern. She'd got away with murder.

But she hadn't, not really. Guilt sat on her shoulder, all the time, digging its claws into her bones. All she had to do was glance out that window beside her. One glance, and the claws tightened.

Strangeat first the murder really hadn't bothered her that much; she'd done it for little Karel, after all. Like Sorrel. Sorrel had murdered her husband in revenge for her daughter, hadn't she? Anyway, it was all Sorrel's fault that Aureen's death was necessary. Or maybe the Pontifect's fault. If Sorrel had gone to the Pontifect immediately, as she'd been bidden, and the Pontifect had come to counsel her, none of this would have happened. She was the Regala and an Ardronese princessand no one had come to help her in this dilemma. No one!

Guilt had crept up on her and now it wouldn't go away. Then there was the stupid irony of it all, prodding at her, not letting her forget what she had done, reminding her with a truth: she missed Aureen. The woman had been no more than a servant, but she'd been a link to Ardrone, to her previous life. Aureen's knowledge might have been a danger, but killing her meant that Mathilda had rid herself of the one person who understood her situation. Her secret was safe, but her death left a hollow inside.

I'll never forgive you, Vilmar Vollendorn, for making what I did necessary. Never. You'll pay for it, I swear.

She waited until her ladies were all chattering at the other end of the room, exclaiming over some newly completed embroidery, then drew out the Pontifect's letter, which Prime Mulhafen had given her the previous day. She'd read it several times already, but was still puzzled. At first, she'd assumed it would be confirmation that Sorrel had reached Vavala, but that wasn't the case.

In fact, the Pontifect intimated that neither Sorrel nor the baby had arrived, although the information was vaguely worded. The letter then continued, "Do not be alarmed, Your Grace; the woman and her child are under the care of a reliable cleric, who has their best interests at heart." So, if they hadn't reached Vavala, where in all of Va's creation were they, and how did the Pontifect even know about them? Infuriatingly, there was no explanation.

The rest of the letter said two peopleGerelda Brantheld and Peregrine Claryhad been sent to her, and would she grant them a private audience. Neither of the names meant anything to her. She sighed, realising she'd been naive to think the Pontifect might make a trip to Ustgrind herself, even though the reason was of paramount importance, but it was some added information from Prime Mulhafen that had truly shocked her. He hadn't any knowledge of why the Pontifect had sent anyone, and he'd casually mentioned that one of her emissaries was merely a young lad.

That, she didn't understand at all.

Surely, surely the Pontifect had not told a mere lad that the Regala of Lowmeer had given birth to twins and one of the babies had been spirited away? By all that was oak holy, her lifeand Karel'swas forfeit if anyone in Lowmeer learned the truth! She'd asked Sorrel to take the other twin to the Pontifect, wanting help and advice. She'd wanted to be told that there was no such thing as devil-kin; she wanted to be praised for her courage; she needed to be told that all was well and her secret would never be known to anyone who would ever utter even a hint of it.

A lad? Had the Pontifect lost her wits?

A shiver went up her spine. How many times had that horrible dream returned? Red-eyed crows on the traitor's wheel stabbing at her eyes... Dearest Va, anything but that.