Gavriel did not care what any of them wanted. Kota Gelangi was sure to be a vipers’ den, and he had no desire to risk his reputation. “My docket is full at the moment,” he said firmly. “Please convey my sincere apologies.”
“Of course, you must do as you see fit.” Cyranthe cleared her throat. “But . . . oh, never mind. I’m sure you don’t care.”
A final ploy. He suppressed a sigh. “Just tell me.”
She donned a regretful expression. “I’m afraid word has leaked to the scribblers that you accepted the commission.”
He froze. “What?”
“If you refuse now, it will be a grave insult to Satu Jos.” Cyranthe tossed a broadsheet on his desk. “Don’t scowl like that, Morningstar. It wasn’t I who did it.”
He scanned the newsprint. It was the usual blather, but Cyranthe was right. A “high-ranking anonymous source in the Assembly” claimed his arrival was imminent. “They presume much,” Gavriel muttered.
“And yet the fact remains that you are needed,” Cyranthe replied. “For the good of the empire.”
Rain coursed down the library windows, blurring the view. He weighed his options. The scribblers—those ink-stained gossips whose fortunes were built on half-truths and innuendo—would have a field day if he denied the story, framing it as a change of heart. Perhaps even cowardice. Gavriel told himself that he was above such things, yet the prospect of his name being dragged through the mud rankled.
“Whoever did this thinks they’re clever,” he said, “yet they may regret the decision.”
“Oh?” Cyranthe arched a brow.
“Someone will regret it, I can promise you that.” He straightened his broad shoulders. “I will make an initial assessment. Three days, that is all I can spare.” He held up a hand as she started to speak. “But only if I have freedom to call any witness I choose, as well as full access to Casolaba’s papers.”
“Of course,” Cyranthe agreed quickly. “I will send a message.” She moved toward the door, then paused with her hand on the knob. “Time is of the essence . . .”
“Yes, yes,” he muttered impatiently. “I will leave straight away.”
Cyranthe departed, passing Edvin Yarl in the doorway. He had been Lord Morningstar’s secretary for four decades, and though the years had bent his back and silvered his curly hair, the keenness of his gaze had never dimmed.
“What was that about?” he inquired, clutching a diary to his chest with his right hand. Yarl’s left sleeve was pinned at the elbow, a reminder of an old encounter with the Sinn.
“Clear my schedule for the next four days,” Gavriel said. “I’ll be taking a brief trip to Kota Gelangi.”
“Very good, sir. Er, why Kota Gelangi?”
Gavriel gave him a grim smile, feeling a ripple of anticipation despite himself. “Barsal Casolaba is dead, Yarl. Brutally murdered and hung from the dome of the Red House.”
Yarl’s brow twitched—the equivalent of a shocked gasp from anyone else. “How tragic.”
Gavriel was barely listening, his gaze drawn back to the embers glowing in the grate. Consul Barsal Casolaba had been corrupt to the bone—everyone knew it. His death would not be mourned by many, except perhaps those who had benefited from his machinations. But murder was murder, and Gavriel would find the truth of it. In fact, he was starting to look forward to watching the various powerful factions squirm beneath his questioning.
“Sir?” Yarl’s voice broke through his thoughts.
“Pardon, what?”
“Do you mean for me to accompany you?”
“Yes, I am certain to need you,” Gavriel replied.
Yarl swallowed. “I don’t suppose we’ll be traveling by sea?” he asked hopefully.
“I fear not.” Gavriel spread his wings with sudden vigor. The coal-black feathers spanned the width of the library. He clapped Yarl on the shoulder. “There isn’t time. We must get there while the trail is still fresh. But don’t worry, it’ll be a short flight.”
The color drained from his secretary’s face. Yarl disliked travel by air. It was his one weakness, this man who faced down angry petitioners and navigated political intrigues with unfailing composure.
“Very good, sir,” he said, his voice faint.
“Pack what you require for three days,” Gavriel instructed, moving to his desk to send a few urgent letters. “We leave in an hour.” He couldn’t resist a small jibe. “I suggest you bring an extra set of undergarments. I hear it’s quite cool in the hills this time of year.”
