The Cerulean Queen (The Nine Realms #4) - Sarah Kozloff Page 0,1

dropped tidbits until the fireworks started; these sent the dog into paroxysms of terror. So the Zellish bodyguard had taken him back to the Sea Hawk and coaxed him into a nearly closed wardrobe to muffle the noise of the explosions. By the time the men with whom he shared the room returned, dead drunk, in the wee hours, the fireworks show had concluded, and Whaki—exhausted from his fright—snored loudly under Ciellō’s bed.

This morning the thoroughfares stretched deserted except for the loads of rubbish strewn about and a few unconscious drunks curled up on their sides.

In Zellia, after a fete, the mayor would hire the poorest of the poor to sweep up the refuse. Ciellō wondered if that was the custom here. Certainly, street sweepers needed to clean these streets; their disarray offended his sense of order.

Ciellō allowed the dog to lead the way. This morning Whaki didn’t detour to sniff or eat the meat scattered on the ground. His nose stuck high in the air and he loped onward without wavering. Whatever was bothering Whaki this morn, Ciellō knew it had to do with the woman he guarded. Whaki rushed up the streets so urgently that Ciellō, supremely fit as he was, had to struggle to keep up.

The white towers of the Nargis Palace, perched on the top of the hill, flashed in the morning sun, and grew larger as they approached.

* * *

Regent Matwyck had tossed and turned the whole night through, disturbed by the rich fare of his son’s wedding feast, and—more than he would care to admit—by the image of his intended, Duchette Lolethia, lying murdered in Burgn’s chambers.

The hole in her throat had gaped with an almost lewd intimacy, and her blood had soaked the floor black. A small quantity of this blood had stained his shoes and the side of his doublet, both of which he tore off with disgust and ordered his valet to burn, even though they were new and quite costly. Even after washing his hands three times he still felt the touch of her clammy palm in his own.

Although the Regent knew he had no cause to feel guilty—he had not killed the girl, nor ordered it done—an unease lingered, perchance because of how angry he had been when she failed to appear for the wedding and the banquet. Lolethia’s murder—while it explained her absence—did not really douse his fury. Even if she had not, after all, purposely missed the grand wedding, he could conjure no innocent explanation as to why she had gone to Burgn’s chamber.

Giving up on sleep, Matwyck pushed aside his bed-curtains and rang for his valet. His head pounded so that he poured himself a glass of wine while he waited for the man to appear.

“No word yet from the Marauders who went after Burgn?” he barked when the valet entered, carrying his fastbreak tray.

The man shook his head.

Matwyck was not surprised. It really was too soon for them to have caught up with the muckwit and returned. He would have to think of the proper way to punish the man once he had him in his possession.

“Fetch Heathclaw and Councilor Prigent,” Matwyck ordered as he sat down to his food. Undoubtedly, he was the most put upon of men: after all the time and treasure he had lavished on the wedding his son had run off early, skipping the capstone events, and then that damn minx Lolethia had gotten herself killed. And when Prigent arrived, he would bring the latest expense receipts and wave them under his nose.

His valet dispatched a guard with his requests, received a pitcher of wash water from a chambermaid, and started to lay out an outfit for the day.

“Not brown, today, you shitwit,” Matwyck corrected. “Black. And I’ll need a circlet of mourning.”

The valet nodded, replacing the offensive clothing with black silk, and pulled a box of accessories out of the wardrobe. Matwyck gave upon moving the food around on his plate and crossed to his washbasin, waiting for the valet to pour the water and hold a towel. When the man started to sharpen his razor, however, Matwyck shook his head—his unshaven appearance would show the court just how little he cared about appearances in the midst of his grief.

Matwyck had dressed in fresh smallclothes, trousers, hose, and boots, but he still had his sleeping shift keeping his upper body warm when Heathclaw and Prigent bustled in together. Both of them looked hastily prepared, as if they had been