ache took up in his chest. Then, as suddenly as they had appeared, Yarrow was gone. Ko-Jin alone took off down the hill, his braid whipping in the wind, his gait slouched.
Vendra laughed, a chilling sound. “He’ll be suffering from the stoppage in his dosage. He’ll not pose much of a threat just now. We proceed as planned.”
Arlow trailed after her, but the gnawing in his gut redoubled.
The throne room extended before them: a long hall, all gleaming marble and gilded molding, lit by wide windows in the ceiling. The moderate-sized crowd parted for them, allowing Arlow to position himself at the head of the standing gallery.
The hall was manned by dozens of green-coated security guards, all standing with their famed rigid uprightness. Those on the ground had hands to sword hilts. Above, a second group with crossbows gazed down on the proceedings. Arlow scanned their impassive faces until he made eye contact with Pappon Jasser, second-in-command of the guard. Pappon’s features were as inscrutable as his men’s, but upon meeting Arlow’s eye he bowed his head ever so slightly.
Arlow hadn’t attended an audience since his first month at court. Spirits, how excited he’d been then; how naïve. Back before he had discovered that the audiences, as with most of what the king did publicly, were a mere pageant. He heard only three petitions a day, and those were patently spurious. It was all designed to give the king the appearance of caring for his people, without his having to actually care for them.
The thought made Arlow’s jaw tighten. He could never forgive this king for the disillusionment he had inspired. After idolizing the man as a child, after spending nigh on a decade in the study of governance and state management, to find the leader of the three nations indifferent and indolent was a blow.
It would seem the man was feeling especially indifferent and indolent on that day, as the minutes steadily ticked beyond the appointed time of the audience. After thirty minutes of standing, the crowd grew shifty.
At forty-five minutes past, Arlow began to hope that there would be no audience that day. Almost as soon as the thought entered his mind, the door beyond the golden thrones opened and the king himself appeared, his broad chest bound in a garish red satin waistcoat, his bald head gleaming brighter than the crown atop it.
“About bloody time,” Vendra murmured beside him.
Arlow, with the rest of the assembly, went down to a knee and pressed his forehead to his fist. He turned to Vendra and whispered, “Yes, rather unsporting of the chap, being late to his own assassination.”
“All rise,” a deep voice commanded.
Arlow stood, his knees popping as he did so, and found that the queen and prince had appeared as well. The king’s throne boasted a tall, intricately carved back that towered like a spire. It was topped with a great diamond, the size of an apple, which cast small rainbows on the far wall. The queen and prince flanked him in more modest, though still ornate, seats.
A stroke of good fortune: three of the four in one place. Yet it gave Arlow no pleasure. The prince was a good sort; it seemed a pity that he should have to die.
One cannot remove a monarchy without removing the monarchs, a part of his mind that sounded rather like Quade Asher said.
The first petitioner came forward, a small man in a clean but worn suit. “Your majesty,” he began, in suitably deferential tones.
Vendra nudged him. “Give the signal, Arlow,” she said between her teeth. “No reason to wait.”
She regarded him, her lips pressed in a smug smile. Clearly she didn’t believe he would do it.
He wasn’t so certain himself. As the small man droned on, Arlow’s thoughts were at war between the resolve he had formed with cold logic and the uncertainty born of human sympathy.
Perhaps there is another way…a third option. Perhaps, if I could speak to Yarrow, we could work together to find some alternate, peaceful solution…
This introspection, and the pleas of the petitioner, were cut short by the sound of the great main doors being thrown open and banging against the wall. In the entryway stood the impressive form of Arlow’s old friend, Sung Ko-Jin.
His time of imprisonment had altered him. Now, at this closer vantage, Arlow could discern a new hollowness in his cheeks, the bruise-like circles beneath his eyes. He looked wretched (though, blight the man, even wretchedness seemed to suit him).