The Charnel Prince by Greg Keyes Read Free Book Online Page B

king—,” Leoff began.
    “You’re wondering if there’s anyone left to sing to for your supper.”
    “I’m not unconcerned with that,” Leoff admitted, “but clearly I’ve missed a great deal of news while on the road. I’m not even sure of the date.”
    “It’s the Temnosenal. Tomorrow is the first of Novmen.”
    “Then I’ve been on the road longer than I thought. I left in Seftmen.”
    “The very month the king was killed.”
    “It would be a kindness . . . ,” Leoff began, and then, “Could you please tell me what happened to King William?”
    “Surely. He was set upon by assassins while on a hunting expedition. His entire party was slain.”
    “Assassins? From where?”
    “Sea reavers, they say. He was near the headland of Aenah.”
    “And others of the royal house were slain with him?”
    “Prince Robert, his brother, was slain there, as well. The princesses Fastia and Elseny were murdered at Cal Azroth.”
    “I don’t know that place,” Leoff said. “Is it near to where the king was killed?”
    “Not at all. It’s more than a nineday’s hard riding.”
    “That seems a very strange coincidence.”
    “It does, doesn’t it? Nevertheless, it is the case, and it doesn’t go well for those who suggest otherwise.”
    “I see,” Leoff said. “Then can you tell me—who rules in Eslen now?”
    Artwair chuckled softly. “That depends on whom you ask. There is a king—Charles, the son of William. But he is, as they say, touched by the saints. He must be advised, and there’s no lack of advice available to him. The nobles of the Comven give it most freely and at every opportunity. The praifec of the Church has much to say, as well. And then there’s William’s widow, the mother of Charles.”
    “Muriele Dare.”
    “Ah, so you know something, at least,” Artwair said. “Yes, if you had to pick one person to say rules Crotheny, she would be the best choice.”
    “I see,” Leoff said.
    “So you say you’re worried about your position?” the knight said. “Are positions for your sort rare?”
    “There are other patrons who would have me,” Leoff admitted. “I am not without reputation. I last served the Greft of Glastir. Still, a royal appointment . . .” He looked down. “But that’s a small thing, isn’t it, in all this mess.”
    “At least you have some sense, composer. But cheer up—you may have your position yet—the queen may honor it. Then you’ll be right in the thick of things when the war starts.”
    “War? War with whom?”
    “Hansa—or Liery—or perhaps a civil war.”
    “Are you joking with me?”
    Artwair shrugged. “I have a sense for these things. All is chaos, and it usually takes a war to sort things out.”
    “Saint Bright, let’s hope not.”
    “You don’t fancy marching songs?”
    “I don’t know any. Can you sing some?”
    “Me, sing? When your mule is a warhorse.”
    “Ah, well,” Leoff sighed. “Just a thought.”
             
    They traveled in silence for a time, and as evening came, a mist settled, made rosy by the waning sun. The lowing of cattle sounded in the distance. The air smelled like dried hay and rosemary, and the breeze was chill.
    “Will we reach Eslen tonight?” Leoff asked.
    “Only if we travel all night, which I don’t fancy,” Sir Artwair replied. He seemed distracted, as if he were searching for something. “There’s a town where the road crosses the canal up here. I know an inn there. We’ll take a room, and with an early start we’ll be in Eslen by midday tomorrow.”
    “Is something wrong?”
    Artwair shrugged. “I’ve an itchy feeling. It’s likely nothing, as in your case.”
    “Were you searching for anything in particular when we met?”
    “Nothing in particular and everything out-of-place. You were out-of-place.”
    “And what’s out-of-place now?”
    “Did I say anything was?”
    “No, but something is—it shows in your face.”
    “And what would a minstrel know about my