“What news from Tatton Hall?” the king demanded of Ratcliffe in an undertone. Owen had clearly not heard the spymaster or Dunsdworth enter the room earlier, for he had been too caught up in reading the book. As Owen silently began moving pieces, he kept his eyes on the game board while his ears listened keenly to the king’s conversation.

“I hate this game,” Dunsdworth seethed.

I hate you, Owen almost said, but managed to bite his tongue in time.

“As you requested, my lord, I delivered your summons to Duke Kiskaddon at Beestone Castle. As you can imagine, he wanted to know the nature of the summons. I explained that you were holding the Assizes. He then had the temerity to ask whether he would be participating in the Assizes as a justice.” Ratcliffe chuckled.

“And what did you tell him?” the king asked with amusement.

“I said, of course, that Duke Horwath was the chief justice and he would learn more when he obeyed the summons.”

“Do you think he will come, Dickon?” the king asked softly.

“If he doesn’t, he’s guilty of treason. If he does, he’ll be found guilty of treason. Either way, we have him.”

“There are three estuaries with ports in Westmarch,” the king said. “Mold and Runcin in the South and Blackpool in the North. No one sails from any of those ports without my approval. And the King of Occitania would not want his territory to help Kiskaddon.”

“The only place he can go is sanctuary. And you can be sure, we have Espion watching all of them and watching the estate. He won’t be able to use the privy without us knowing.”

There was a smile in the king’s voice. “Thank you, Dickon. You’ve done well. It’s time for the lad to see his parents again. You told them I brought the boy with me?”

“Indeed, my lord. They know the price for open treason.”

“He was guilty of that at Ambion Hill. Stiev, how long would it take for him to summon his retainers and an army from the borderlands?”

Duke Horwath’s voice was gruff. “Do you think he will, my lord?”

“Beestone has a thousand men, and more have been arriving all day. A thousand more will join us from the North. How many can Kiskaddon summon, and how quickly?”

“Only a few hundred men by tomorrow. Maybe half of that. It would take him a fortnight to collect the rest of those who owe him service, and I doubt they would join him against you now that you are already established here. You didn’t give him enough time to react.”

The king chuckled. “That was my intent. The wolf is at the door. The sheep are bleating. What will you do next, Kiskaddon? It’s your move.”

Owen made his final move, having defeated Dunsdworth in five turns. His stomach was twisting into knots. Dunsdworth grunted with disgust at the loss and swore under his breath.

When Owen made it to his bedchamber after the evening meal, his thoughts whirling with both what he had read and what he had overheard, he realized that his parents had failed their test of loyalty and his own life hung in the balance.

He stopped in surprise.

On the floor in his room was the satchel he had left behind at Kingfountain. Tiles on the floor spelled his name: O-W-E-N.

My master taught me certain maxims. A prince ought to inspire fear in such a way that if he does not win love, he avoids hatred. He can avoid the hatred of his people as long as he abstains from the property of his subjects and from their women. But when it becomes necessary for him to proceed against the life of someone, especially one of the nobles who hold so much power, he must do it with proper justification. But above all things, he must keep his hands off the property of others, because men will more quickly forget the death of their father than the loss of their patrimony. History teaches this plainly, and many a king has lost his crown after stealing what belonged to another man. It’s ironic that even though it causes more trouble to take away land than to kill, it’s more difficult to find justification to take someone’s life. That’s why it’s best to strike your enemy down after he’s given you the opportunity to do so. The Assizes of Westmarch are just such a pretext.

—Dominic Mancini, Exhausted Espion of Beestone Castle

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

Well of Tears

It was after nightfall, but there were enough torches to illuminate the castle bailey as if it were day. There was no end to the clattering of wagons as arrivals from the king’s court continued to ascend to Beestone Castle throughout the night. Soldiers wearing the badge of the white boar were everywhere, but Owen made his way through the bailey yard anyway, careful to keep away from adults who might send him to bed. After seeing his name spelled with tiles, he had been searching for Ankarette.