“Perhaps you can tell me who I should speak to in order to find a match for my cousin,” Rey said. “You know that’s the only reason any of us are deployed to the city—at least, so far as our mothers and fathers know.”
Olivier smiled. “I won’t say a word if you spend their money on a courtesan or two. But you may not have to.” He raised a glass toward one of the fountains. “We already have onenoblecourtesan in attendance.”
“Really?” Rey searched the crowd.
“Right there.” Olivier lowered his voice. “There’s Laurent de Rue and his pet whore.”
Eli felt his body go cold as he saw Olivier toast a pair of men across the garden. Sabre was dressed simply again, looking absolutely bored at Laurent’s side, while Laurent had a hand at the back of Sabre’s neck and was smiling with empty-eyed charm at an elderly noble. On their other side was Isiodore de Mortain, holding a glass of wine with his hair in a perfect queue and his expression wooden. A rush of fury rolled through Eli—how dare Isiodore stand next to Sabre when he was the one who had signed his family’s execution orders? How dare he be so put-together, so casual, when he’d helped orchestrate the moment that ruined Eli’s life?
Eli took a slow, steady breath as Isiodore turned to Sabre and spoke in his ear. Sabre’s smile quirked in genuine humor, and Eli’s stomach twisted.
“I don’t understand,” Rey said. “That’s Sabre de Valois, isn’t it?”
“Surely you know,” Olivier said. He lowered his voice, and Eli moved closer, almost to Rey’s right shoulder. “When his sister and mother were hanged, he was sent off to the pleasure houses. They say it was some ruse by the king to flush out assassins, but I took the liberty of hiring his services more than once, and I assure you, if it moans like a whore and fucks like a whore, it’s a whore.”
“Oh.” Rey’s voice was distant, and Eli felt him reaching for his arm. “I suppose I was in Gerakia when that happened.”
Eli felt like he was slowly coming unmoored from his body. King Emile couldn’t have done that to Sabre. Isiodore wouldn't have agreed to it. Sabre was innocent, had always been innocent. Anyone could see it! And if it was a ruse, why would Olivier have hired him?
What had Sabre endured while Eli wandered Staria in search of a ridiculous sword?
“Shame. Sometimes I entertain the thought of hiring him again, you know. He was such a slut for it, I sincerely doubt old de Rue doesn’t pimp him out now and then, but it just wouldn’t be the same. There was one night, Roland Garnier and I made him come with a rope around his neck. Who comes from that? Depraved, honestly. But his ass wasn’t half bad. If you can get him behind one of these fountains and squeeze his neck tight enough…”
“My lord,” Eli whispered. He let his dominance sink into his voice. “May I borrow one of your gloves?”
“What?” Rey blinked quickly. “Oh, yes.” He was already tugging his glove halfway off before the effects of Eli’s dominance wore off enough for him to question it, but that was all Eli needed. He ripped it off the rest of the way, walked around him, and backhanded Olivier with the hand holding the glove.
The murmuring chatter around them died as Olivier stumbled, holding his mouth with one hand. He looked at Eli, and his confusion twisted into rage as he drew himself up.
“I demand?—”
“Satisfaction for treachery against the crown,” Eli snapped. No one was speaking now. He could feel their gazes on him, every noble he’d ever known watching him like a wild dog set loose in the middle of their garden party. “Duke de Valois is King Adrien’s voice at court, is he not? Any ill word spoken against the duke is a word spoken against the king. I demand blood, here and now, by the sword.”
In the corner of his eye, he could see Isiodore de Mortain give his drink to a passing servant and lay a hand on Sabre’s shoulder.
“You can’t demand anything,” Olivier snarled. His lip was bleeding sluggishly, smearing blood over his hand and chin. “And you can be certain I’ll be pressing charges with the city guard.”
“Wait!” Rey rushed forward. “Wait. You’re mistaken. He isn’t just a commoner.”
Eli stared at Rey. What was he doing? Surely he wasn’t about to reveal who Eli was in front of everyone?
“He’s a knight,” Rey said. “A knight of Staria.”
“A what?” Olivier asked.
“My dear boy,” someone said. “Knights don’t exist in Staria anymore, not in at least a century.”
“But they can, and they do.” Rey’s voice echoed over the garden, and Eli glanced to the side to see Sabre watching themkeenly, a hand on Laurent’s arm. Isiodore’s expression was carefully blank. “The trials still count, don’t they? You must go three years accepting no offer of food or shelter. When did the three-year limit pass for you, Art?”
“Two years ago,” Eli said, carefully. What on earth was Rey on about?
“And you have to do three charitable deeds,” Rey continued. He held up a hand. The audience turned to him, every eye on his open palm, and Eli gritted his teeth. This was magic, Rey’s trickster spirit compelling every noble and servant in attendance to hang on his words. A fly landed on Lord Beaucourt’s cheek a few paces away, and he barely raised a hand to brush it aside. “One. Bringing the killer of a dead child to justice in southern Staria four years ago. A drowned boy, one of many young victims, was abandoned in a river, and this man was the one who dragged his killer’s body into the light.”
His voice was taking a strange cadence, now, almost dreamlike, like Eli wasn’t a real person at all, but a story Rey had dreamed up around a campfire.
“Two. Rescuing seven girls from a cellar just outside of Duciel. Imagine, if you will, the oldest girl waiting in the dark for her tormenter to return, and hearing the snap of a lock breaking, a figure appearing at the door, blocking the sun?—”
“That was him?” Lord Aubert said. “That was in my lands. Terrible business.”
