Part 11 (2/2)
”Ach,” Keagan mutters again. ”I told you, I'm no traitor. I'm a militant. A member of the Order of the Rose.”
The men exchange rapid glances; even I'm surprised. The Order of the Rose is a resistance group comprised of students at the university in Airann, founded four years ago-just after Blackwell became Inquisitor-in response to his antimagic laws. But it makes no sense that this girl, Keagan, is here in Harrow; even less that she's with Malcolm. The Order, at least as I know it, is an intellectual organization. They distribute pamphlets, write scathing treatises for underground journals. They don't kidnap kings.
”The Order,” Fitzroy says. ”Of course. A fine group. I've been following your movements since you began. I always did enjoy your tracts.” He rocks back on his heels. ”A Tale of a Tub was my favorite. When the brother relied on inner illumination for guidance, then walked around with his eyes closed after swallowing candle snuffs? Amusing.”
Keagan grins.
”Your protestations of late have certainly moved beyond satire, though, haven't they?” Fitzroy continues. ”Rudimentary explosives. Burning effigies. Defacing buildings. And, most recently, bridges.”
Keagan lets out a girlish peal of laughter. ”Defaced is right. Did that one myself. Crawled up onto Upminster Bridge, stuck pamphlets on the spikes through those severed heads. Reckon they don't mind, though. What with being dead and all.”
”Heads?” Gareth says. ”Whose?”
Keagan shrugs. ”Some of Blackwell's, some of yours, some just in the way.”
Gareth doesn't reply.
”And now you've taken a king captive.”
Keagan nods, all earlier levity gone. ”That's just the start.”
”A student group,” Peter repeats in a mutter. ”G.o.d's blood.”
”No need to invoke,” Keagan says calmly. ”Now, much as I'd like to chin-wag all day long, I've got a bit of a pressing matter.” She lifts her chained hands, points her thumbs over her shoulder. ”This dagger you clapped in me, she stings diabolical.”
Fitzroy starts toward her.
”Wait a moment.” Gareth holds out a hand. ”You don't know who she is. She said she's part of this Order, but we don't know that. She could be one of Blackwell's. She could be lying.”
”I told you-” Keagan starts.
”She's not lying,” Fitzroy finishes for her. ”Her actions prove that. Were she one of Blackwell's, she wouldn't have broken his nephew out of jail, she would have killed him. Hold very still.” He places one hand on Keagan's shoulder, the other around the hilt of the dagger. ”On three,” he says. ”One, two-” Before he can get to three, Fitzroy rips the knife from her back.
Keagan lets out a soft groan, pitching forward onto the ground. Fitzroy fishes a handkerchief from inside his doublet and presses it against the wound to stop the bleeding.
”You said taking the king-Malcolm”-Nicholas glances at him; Malcolm has wisely kept his mouth shut since Nicholas's arrival-”was just the start.” He steps to Keagan's side, touches a finger to her back. A soft white glow emanates from his hand and at once, the cut is healed. Keagan shuts her eyes, briefly, in relief. ”The start of what, exactly?”
”The plan to knock Blackwell off the throne, 'course,” Keagan says. ”What else?”
I could laugh-I very nearly do-at the idea of a student group believing they can overthrow Blackwell. But Nicholas doesn't look amused at all.
”I see,” he says. ”And you've taken Malcolm because you believe he should remain as king?”
”Him? No. I mean, he had his chance, didn't he?” Keagan glances at Malcolm, a look of utter disdain on her freckled, ruddy face. Malcolm stares back at her, jaw and fists clenched; I've never seen him look this angry and I almost-almost-feel sorry for him.
”Didn't do much with it,” Keagan continues. ”If he had, we wouldn't be here, would we? No.” She answers her own question. ”But he does have his uses. If Malcolm is dead, Blackwell's no usurper: He's the rightful heir to the throne of Anglia, and no country in this world would support overthrowing him. The only chance we have is to keep Malcolm alive. Dead? We're no longer resisting. We're contending. You'll find, I think, we won't last long if that's the case.”
I hadn't considered this. And judging by the way the men of the Watch look around at one another, s.h.i.+fting uneasily in their gray cloaks, they hadn't, either.
Nicholas nods, his dark eyes intent. ”So you were planning on holding him as a political prisoner. Have you facilities for that? Guards? Troops?”
”In a manner of speaking,” Keagan replies.
”To take custody of a deposed king puts you, your university, your city, and your country at terrible risk,” Nicholas says. His voice is firm, but it is not unkind. ”You risk attacks from Blackwell, once he discovers you have Malcolm. You risk attacks from those in Airann who oppose his being there, and from those in Anglia who want revenge. You risk retaliation from opposing countries. Retaliation from supporting countries. Interest from neutral countries hoping to profit from the chaos, sending in spies and bounty hunters.”
For the first time, Keagan's bright eyes flicker with uncertainty.
”He can't stay here,” Gareth says. ”We cannot risk this falling on us. We are enough of a target as it is. First her”-he glances at me-”now this.”
”We cannot kill him,” Fitzroy says.
”No,” Nicholas agrees. ”We cannot. But we can detain him for the time being, until we determine the best course of action.”
”You're not suggesting we keep him here,” Peter says. ”You're not suggesting you put this man in the same prison where my son is.” It's too much, then, for him. Too much that his son is in jail because of me, too much that Malcolm still breathes air because of me. Peter sheathes his sword, spins on his heel, and walks across the field toward the road.
”Fitzroy, could you and Gareth escort our two guests to Hexham?” Nicholas says. ”And Schuyler, could you please accompany them? Schuyler is a revenant,” Nicholas adds. ”With all that it means. So I very much advise against an escape attempt.”
Malcolm swallows. Keagan's eyes go wide again.
Nicholas turns to the remaining five men in the Watch. ”I'd like you to go with them to Hexham, and to stay as additional guards there this evening. And I would request that you not speak of this to anyone else.” He looks at Fifer and me. ”You're dismissed.”
The men of the Watch step forward, grasp Keagan and Malcolm by their shackled arms, and lead them away. Keagan goes without protest. But Malcolm twists in their grip, as much as he can, looking over his shoulder at me. In his face is a plea: for me to speak to him, to speak for him. For me to stay with him.
But he is not the king anymore and I am no longer his mistress, so I do neither. Instead, I turn on my heel and, for the first time, I walk away.
”DISMISSED!”
I'm halfway across the field before Fifer catches up to me.
”Nicholas hasn't dismissed me since I was twelve,” she goes on. ”Since the time I was angry at him and cursed him and made his eyebrows fall out. He looked ridiculous, he was furious with me but it was so funny-” She stops. ”Either way, I'm going to hear about this later, we both are, and it won't be pleasant.” A pause. ”It's always trouble with you, isn't it?”
I don't reply.
”What do you make of all that?” Fifer switches tack. ”That girl, Keagan. Bold as bra.s.s, going into Upminster like that, breaking into Fleet. I wonder how she did it.”
Still, I don't reply.
”And the Order of the Rose. I've heard of them, of course, we all have. There've been a fair few from Harrow who are supposedly members, but no one really knows. Their members.h.i.+p, their magic, it's all shrouded in secrecy. I suppose it has to be, doesn't it? Otherwise it's just more names for the Inquisition.”
I step from the field onto the road and keep walking. I don't make it more than a few dozen yards before I feel a hand on my sleeve.
”Elizabeth.” Fifer's breath comes short. ”Rochester is this way.”
I spin on my heel, begin walking in the other direction.
”Elizabeth!” Fifer steps in front of me then, takes me by the shoulders. Leans into me, her eyes searching mine. ”What is it? It's him, isn't it? Malcolm?”
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