‘Indeed, not,’ the Sun Lord said, bowing. ‘Indeed not, sire.’ He had them. If they accused him of that, they accused the Queen, and Finn knew that would never happen. He cursed the boy’s cleverness, his plausibility, his easy elegance. He cursed his own rough awkwardness.
The Pretender watched the Sun Lord sit and the Shadow Lord stand. If he was apprehensive there was no sign of it.
He leant back, almost negligent, and beckoned for water.
The dark man watched him drink it. As soon as the cup was back on the tray, he said, ‘At the age of eleven you left the Academy.’
‘I was nine, as you well know. My father felt it more fitting that the Crown Prince should study privately:
‘You had several tutors, all eminent Sapienti.’
‘Yes. All, unfortunately, now dead.’
‘Your chamberlain, Bartley. . .’
‘Bartlett.’
‘Ah yes, Bartlett. He is also dead.’
‘I have heard. He was murdered by the Steel Wolves, as I would have been, if I had stayed here.’ His face softened.
‘Dear Bartlett. I loved him greatly.’ Finn ground his teeth. A few of the Council glanced at each other.
‘You are fluent in seven languages?’
‘I am.’ The next question was in some foreign tongue that Finn couldn’t even identify and the Pretender’s answer was quiet and sneering.
Could he have forgotten whole languages? Was it possible?
He rubbed his face, wishing the prickle behind his eyes would die away.
‘You are also an accomplished musician?’
‘Bring me a viol, a harpsichord.’ The Pretender sounded bored. ‘Or I could sing. Shall I sing, lords?’ He smiled and burst suddenly into an aria, his tenor voice soaring.
The Privy Council stirred. The Queen giggled.
‘Stop it!’ Finn leapt to his feet.
The Pretender stopped. He met Finn’s eyes and said softly, ‘Then let you sing, sire. Play for us. Speak in foreign tongues.
Recite us the poems of Alicene and Castra. I’m sure they will sound most alluring in your gutter accent.’ Finn didn’t move. ‘Those things don’t make a prince.’ he whispered.
‘We might debate that.’ The Pretender stood. ‘But you have no cultured arguments, have you? All you have is anger, and violence, Prisoner.’
‘Sire,’ the Shadow Lord said. ‘Please sit.’ Finn glanced round. The Councillors watched him. They were the jury. Their verdict would condemn him to torture and death or give him the throne. Their faces were hard to read, but he recognized hostility, bewilderment. If only Claudia was here! Or Jared. He longed most of all for Keiro’s harsh, arrogant humour.
He said, ‘My challenge still stands.’ The Pretender glanced at the Queen. In a low voice he said, ‘And my acceptance.’ Finn went and sat by the wall, simmering.
The Shadow Lord turned to Giles. ‘We have witnesses.
Boys who were at the Academy with you. Grooms, maids, the ladies of the Court:
‘Excellent. I want to see them all.’ The Pretender settled back comfortably. ‘Let them be brought in. Let them look at him and look at me. Let them tell you which is the Prince and which the Prisoner.’ The Shadow Lord looked hard at him. Then he raised a hand. ‘Bring in the witnesses,’ he snapped.
The Esoterica are the broken fragments of our knowledge. The Sapienti will spend generations restoring the gaps. Much of it will never be recovered.
PROJECT REPORT; MARTOR SAPIENS
‘I should punish you. You were the one who told Claudia she was not my daughter.’ It was not the Prison’s metallic sneer. Attia stared up at the red accusing Eye.
‘I did tell her. She needed to know.’
‘It was cruel.’ The Warden’s voice sounded grave, and weary. Quite suddenly the wall of the room rippled, and he was there.
Rho almost screamed. Attia stared, astonished.
A man stood before her in three-dimensional image, his edges frail and rippling. In places she could see right through him. His grey eyes were cold, and she had to make an effort not to flinch, or kneel, like Rho had hastily done.
She had only ever seen him as Blaize. Now he was the Warden. He wore a black silk coat and black knee—
breeches; his boots were finest leather, his silvered hair caught back in a velvet ribbon. At first she thought that despite his austerity she had never seen anyone so fine, and yet as he stepped closer she caught the wear on his sleeve, the stained coat, the slightly untrimmed beard.
He nodded sourly. ‘Yes. The conditions of the Prison begin to affect even me.’
‘Do you expect me to feel sorry for you?’
‘The dog-slave grows a little bold, it seems. So where is Sapphique’s Glove?’ Attia almost smiled. ‘Ask my captors.’
‘We’re not your captors,’ Rhos stammered. ‘You cui go, anytime.’ The girl was gazing furtively up at the Warden with her grey and gold eyes. She seemed both fascinated and appalled.
‘The Glove!’ the Warden snapped.
Rho bowed, scrambled up and ran out.
At once Attia said, ‘They’ve got Keiro. I want him released.’
‘Why?’ The Warden’s smile was acid. He looked around the Nest with interest. ‘I doubt very much whether he would do the same for you.’
‘You don’t know him.’
‘On the contrary. I have studied his record, and yours.
Keiro is ambitious and ruthless. He will act for himself, without a qualm.’ He smiled. ‘I will use that against him.’ He adjusted an invisible control; the image wavered, and then became clearer. He was so close she could have touched him. He turned and gazed at her sideways. ‘Of course you could always bring the Glove yourself and leave him behind.’ For a moment she thought he had read her thoughts. Then she said, ‘If you want it, tell them to release him.’ Before he answered Rho was back, breathless, the doorway behind her crowded with inquisitive girls. She laid the Glove down carefully before the Warden’s image.
He crouched. He reached out for the Glove and his hand passed right through it. The dragonskin scales glittered. ‘So!