‘A versatile stitch for running, outlining, or filling in large sections, so called because its intricate links resemble chain mail when used as coverage and shackles when in a straight line.’
—An Exhaustive Compendium of Stitches
Both Holy and Base, 4th Edition
Dwale looked just as startled as I was by the sudden appearance of armed men.
“Patrick,” he said, sounding wary. “What is this?”
“Not to worry,” Patrick said smoothly. “King Colin is providing us protection while we are in Mirthwater, that’s all. I sent him a raven on the way to Spire, when I contacted you.”
“The king?” I stared at him.
“Who better to find us a way into forbidden places than the king?” he said. He spoke with a smile, but it did not reach his eyes.
I do not believe him, said Baldbeak.
“Do you think he means us harm?” I whispered to him as Dwale and Patrick busied themselves with loading our things into the carriage.
No, it doesn’t feel like that.He fluffed his neck ruff in frustration.But there is something.
I was making rather a habit of riding in fine coaches since leaving the Tower, but the king’s coach was the finest of all. Clearly he favored gold, because everything that could be either made of the metal or gilded with it had been. Even the cushions had gold braiding at their edges.
The four of us piled in and made ourselves comfortable, Dwale and Patrick on one side and Baldbeak and I on the other. Dwale took up most of the space on the men’s side, squashing Patrick against the door. I lay back in the blessedly cushioned seat and closed my eyes, while Baldbeak made himself useful tidying my Hair—or, at least, picking the worst of the mud out of its strands.
“We will have to get the rest of that dye out of your hair when we arrive at the palace,” said Patrick. “And clean up in general,” he added with a grimace, flicking dried mud from the tops of his boots.
Dwale said, “So are you going to tell us why we’re really in the king’s carriage?”
“I told you why,” said Patrick blandly.
“It smells fishy.”
“It’s the eels,” said Patrick. “I didn’t want to mention it, but their … juices left rather an odor on your doublet.”
Dwale snorted. “I’ve known you for a long time, Patrick Foley, and your tricks don’t work on me. You have some other reason for taking us to the palace.”
“I told you: The king will help us get into the catacombs. Even the Pontiff is answerable to the monarchy.”
I wondered if I could push open the carriage door and jump out into the street. The shadow of the footman’s head through the glass told me that wasn’t going to work.
Dwale told me as we rode that Mirthwater sat betweenfreshwater and salt, where the Mirth emptied itself into the ocean in a spreading stain of brown against the blue. It was a grand city, but a harsh one, in appearance as well as nature. Winds rough as a cat’s tongue blew off the sea and had worked like sandpaper on the rock and wood, rubbing every building raw and giving the city a rather scruffy, beleaguered look. As we rattled towards the palace, the buildings became larger and more ornate. Terraced houses of pale stone lined the street.
We finally came to a halt outside a building that had to be the palace, because only a palace could look so much like an elaborately iced cake.
“So we’re about to meet the king?” I said. I gestured at my filthy dress. “Looking like this?”
“Tonight. We have time to wash. Come on.”
We piled out of the carriage, Baldbeak taking the opportunity to stretch his wings and flap about in the crisp breeze. The king’s guard watched as another set of guards, these ones on foot, escorted us up the staircase and into the palace. Patrick walked into the place as confidently as if he lived there, and Dwale followed suit, while Baldbeak and I followed with significantly less confidence, looking about.
Spotless black-and-white tiles covered the floor, and the walls were papered with creamy flocked velvet. A gigantic gilt-framed mirror startled me for a moment, making me think there were other people in the room. I stepped over to it. The reflection of the chandeliers and candelabras was quite dazzling in the silver. I, on the other hand, looked like something recently dredged out of a bog.
“We’re getting mud on the nice floors,” said Dwale in mock concern.
A servant scurried up to take Patrick’s coat and another his gloves.
“Lord Foley,” they said, bowing, and then, “Lord Skarnesh,” to Dwale as they divested him of his heavy coat, too.
