Interlude I

The chamber seemed smaller at night.

Candlelight drew the stone walls closer, and shadows gathered beneath the chairs, beyond the reach of the flames. Rhaevan had ordered torches lit in the corridor and lanterns placed by the doors, but inside he wanted a steadier light.

Light by which he could see the faces of his councillors.

He took his place at the head of the table.

Seven chairs were occupied.

There should have been eight.

Meran’s chair stood empty, drawn neatly up to the table’s edge, as though its owner had stepped away for a moment. It was plain, without carving or armrests.

Rhaevan’s gaze kept returning to it.

Someone had already cleared Meran’s place. No documents remained, no seals, no notes in his small, spare handwriting. Even the paper dust had been wiped from the wood.

The state needed no order from the king to protect its own machinery.

Rhaevan said nothing.

The men at the table watched him, trying not to show it.

Averan Sorn rose.

He held several sheets before him.

“Your Majesty. We have established the following facts.”

Rhaevan nodded.

Averan set them out without embellishment.

Meran Vey had been found dead in the winter garden before the third morning bell. A single cut beneath his left ear ran down towards his collar. No weapon had been found.

There were small fragments of red wax beneath his fingernails.

They might have come from a seal or a document.

At this stage, nothing linked them directly to the murderer.

No one in the neighbouring wings had witnessed the murder.

Rhaevan laid his hands flat on the table.

The report was precise.

It told him almost nothing.

Averan turned a page.

“There is also the matter of Master Saeron.”

The silence around the table changed.

One of the councillors shifted in his chair.

“Speak.”

“When he was shown the body, he recognised the wound before any of the guards had time to describe it. I asked whether he knew anything that might be relevant to the investigation. He said he did.”

Averan hesitated just long enough for everyone at the table to notice that the next part of the report would be different.

“Meran’s wound had appeared earlier on The Image of Unity.”

No one spoke.

Rhaevan felt his fingers tense.

He did not let them move.

“Earlier?”

“Saeron claims it appeared on the painted figure of Meran before his death. His apprentice confirms this account.”

“Eiran.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

Rhaevan looked at the empty chair.

“The word of a painter and his apprentice.”

“There is more.”

Averan laid another document on the table.

It was not in a clerk’s hand.

The writing was uneven, pressed too hard into the paper in places.

“Before Meran died, Eiran made a note describing the wound.”

The first secretary slid the sheet towards the king.

“The date. The approximate time. Vey’s name. A description of where the cut began. Its direction. Its length. The composition of the pigment.”

Rhaevan picked up the sheet.

There were two signatures beneath the text.

Eiran.

Saeron.

Beside them was a simple sketch of a neck.

A thin line began beneath the left ear.

It ran downwards.

Rhaevan read it all again.

“When was this written?”

“At least a day before Meran’s death, if the date on the sheet and the testimony of Saeron and Eiran are to be believed. We have not independently confirmed this. The sheet had been fastened to the rear crossbar of the frame holding The Image of Unity.”

“Who found it?”

“I did.”

Rhaevan looked up.

“You were in the studio?”

“Saeron took us there.”

One of the councillors leaned forward.

“Willingly?”

Averan looked at him.

“He made no attempt to escape.”

“That was not an answer.”

“It will suffice for now.”

Rhaevan let the exchange pass without comment.

He looked at the note again.

“What happened to the painting?”

“It has been secured. The Crown’s men took it out of the studio through the loading entrance on the courtyard side. It was covered throughout. The labourers know only that they were ordered to move a royal commission.”

“Where?”

“To a locked preparation room beside the west gallery.”

“Who has seen it?”

“Saeron. Eiran. Myself. Two guards whom I ordered to examine the wound before the painting was secured.”

Rhaevan tightened his grip on the sheet.

“Too many.”

“Yes.”

A treasury official stirred at the table.

“The simplest explanation is obvious.”

Rhaevan looked at him.

“Go on.”

“Saeron knew of the planned murder.”

“How?”

“Because he knew the men planning it. Perhaps he was one of them.”

“And so he painted the wound on a royal commission, showed it to his apprentice, allowed him to make a note, signed his own name to it and kept it until the murder?”

The official fell silent.

“People can be fools,” he said after a moment.

“True. But we cannot base an investigation on the hope that we happen to have found one.”

Rhaevan slid the sheet towards Averan.

“Where is Saeron?”

“Under guard.”

“Who gave the order?”

“I did.”

The chamber grew quieter still.

Averan did not lower his gaze.

“I judged that leaving him unsupervised once the painting came to light would pose a greater risk than exceeding my authority.”

“By what authority?”

“Yours, before you could be reached.”

Rhaevan studied him for a moment.

A necessary precaution.

A convenient phrase for them both.

He could punish Averan for exceeding his powers or approve the decision after the fact.

Either way, Saeron was already behind a guarded door.

Foreign envoys still occupied the palace chambers.

Meran had helped create an image of political unity in Valen.

Now his death was on that same canvas, painted before it had happened in life.

If word escaped this chamber, every faction would give it a shape of its own.

The painter as accomplice.

The painter as prophet.

The painter as a weapon concealed by Ardelon.

Rhaevan rose.

The others did the same.

“Nothing said here will leave this chamber.”

He looked at each man in turn.

“We will not call Saeron a murderer without evidence.”

His gaze moved to Averan.

“We will not call him a prophet at all.”

No one spoke.

“Question everyone who passed through the winter garden or the neighbouring wings that night. Separately. Examine the body again. Check every document Meran signed or carried in the last two days.”

“Including correspondence with Vell’s office?” Averan asked.

“Everything.”

Rhaevan looked at the empty chair.

“I want to know where the wax came from.”

Averan nodded.

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

“The rest of you may leave.”

Chairs scraped across the stone.

The councillors left the chamber one by one.

Rhaevan waited until the door closed.

“Averan.”

The first secretary stopped.

“You will stay.”

The preparation room beside the west gallery was large enough to hold a painting intended to fill almost an entire wall.

It had been built for sculptors, decorators and painters working on royal commissions. Tall doors led directly into the gallery. A second, wider set opened onto a service corridor.

That night, both entrances were guarded.

Rhaevan entered first.

Four lamps burned inside.

They were not enough to light the whole room.

The Image of Unity stood against the longest wall, still mounted in its heavy transport frame. Thick linen covered it.

Averan closed the door.

Rhaevan looked at the vast rectangle.

“Show me.”

Averan approached the canvas.

He gripped the cloth with both hands.

He pulled it off.

The painting emerged by degrees.

First the tall windows.

Then the table.

The empty spaces between the delegates.

Most of the figures had no faces yet. They were only arrangements of light and dark, sketches of people still to be committed to canvas.

In the place reserved for the king, there was barely the beginning of a figure.

Rhaevan stepped closer.

Among the unfinished figures, one had a face.

Meran.

He stood a little to the rear, behind the main line of delegates.

Saeron had captured the narrow face, the tight lips and the distinctive crease between the brows. The black collar was more finely worked than the rest of his clothing.

Beneath his left ear was a wound.

Rhaevan stopped.

It did not look like a line added afterwards.

The light that gave the face its shape also defined the cut. The shadow around it followed the direction of the light falling on the cheek. The bruising beneath the skin did not sit on the surface of the painting.

It was part of the face.

Rhaevan moved the lamp.

The wound changed with the rest of the painted skin.

“Is that how it looked on the body?”

“Yes.”

“Exactly?”

“Closely enough for Saeron to know where to look before anyone told him anything.”

Rhaevan moved closer still.

The Meran in the painting did not look dead.

That was the worst of it.

The face remained calm.

Alive.

The wound belonged to a man who did not yet know he would be killed.

Rhaevan looked at the rest of the composition.

The painting was meant to portray unity.

Most of Valen was still faceless on the canvas.

The only man painted in enough detail to be recognised was a murdered official.

“Who else was in the painting when the wound appeared?”

“According to Eiran’s records, no other figure was as far advanced.”

Rhaevan watched the canvas.

“Why Meran?”

“Saeron says his position in the composition was one of the first the Chancellery decided on.”

“That explains why he painted him.”

“It does not explain the wound.”

Rhaevan looked at Averan.

The first secretary stood beside a table where the documents lay.

“You have a theory.”

“If the date on the note is accurate, I see two possibilities.”

“Go on.”

“First. Saeron knew Meran would be killed.”

“I have heard that already.”

“If so, we must establish the source of that knowledge. Who told him. Why. And why Saeron left evidence leading directly to himself.”

Rhaevan looked at the painting again.

“The second.”

Averan hesitated, as though he lacked the right word, not the courage.

“Saeron had information that did not come from a conspiracy.”

Rhaevan turned his head.

“What information?”

“I do not know.”

“From where?”

“I do not know.”

“Convenient.”

“No more so than the first possibility.”

Rhaevan had to concede the point.

He did not do so aloud.

He moved to the side of the frame.

“Show me the note.”

Averan went round the painting.

Rhaevan followed.

Four small nail holes remained in the rear crossbar. Averan handed the king the sheet he had shown at the Council meeting.

It did not look like a document prepared for a court of law.

It was a working note.

Hasty.

That was precisely why it seemed more credible.

Rhaevan read what Eiran had written, including an account of Meran’s visit the previous evening and a statement that his neck had been uninjured then.

“Why did Eiran do this?”

“According to Saeron, his apprentice would not let him paint over the wound.”

Rhaevan looked up from the sheet.

“Saeron wanted to remove it?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“He was afraid of it.”

Rhaevan almost smiled.

“A painter afraid of his own paint.”

“In this case, I do not find it amusing.”

“Nor do I.”

Rhaevan straightened.

On the other side of the canvas lay an unfinished vision of peace.

On this side, two men had left a record in case they ceased to trust their own memory.

Rhaevan went round the frame again.

He stood before Meran.

“If we accuse Saeron publicly, this painting becomes evidence.”

“Yes.”

“We will have to show it.”

“Probably.”

“And then every delegation in the palace will learn that a man’s wound appeared on a royal painting before his death.”

“Yes.”

“If I release him?”

“Someone will try to speak to him.”

“Jahrann?”

“Perhaps.”

“The Marches?”

“Perhaps.”

“Someone on our own Council?”

Averan said nothing.

Rhaevan looked at him.

“That also means ‘perhaps’.”

“Yes.”

Rhaevan turned back to the painting.

“And if he dies in custody?”

“Then his paintings will remain.”

“And the rumour that the king killed a man who could paint the future.”

Averan did not deny it.

Rhaevan felt a dull ache in his right knee.

He shifted his weight to the other leg.

“Cover the painting.”

Averan approached the frame.

The cloth slid over the top crossbar.

The unfinished figures vanished first.

Then the table.

Meran’s face last of all.

Rhaevan watched the wound disappear beneath the cloth.

“Seal the room.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

“No one is to see the painting without my express permission.”

“I understand.”

Rhaevan went towards the door.

He stopped before it.

“And Saeron?”

“He awaits your decision.”

“Then he should not have to wait long.”

The document lay on Rhaevan’s desk, held down by a brass paper knife.

Averan had drawn it up in a careful hand.

Each line aligned with the one before it.

It named Saeron as a man suspected of complicity in the murder of Meran Vey.

A man who had known how the murder would be committed before it took place and had failed to inform the authorities.

Such wording justified questioning him.

Searching the studio.

Seizing every document, sketch and painting.

Rhaevan read the document twice.

Then he dipped his pen in the ink.

He struck out the charge.

The first line crossed the words without obscuring them completely.

He drew a second.

More slowly.

Until the accusation could no longer be read at a glance.

Averan watched the ink sink into the fibres of the paper.

“No.”

The first secretary waited.

“A public accusation requires public evidence,” Rhaevan said. “We do not have enough evidence to take that risk.”

He put down the pen.

He looked at the words he had struck out.

“Whatever the verdict, Saeron would leave the courtroom as a murderer, a fraud or a prophet. None of those outcomes would serve us.”

Averan nodded.

Rhaevan reached for the pen again.

He wrote a few words beneath the crossed-out paragraph.

“He will remain under the protection of the Crown as a witness whose testimony is crucial to the ongoing investigation.”

“Protection.”

Averan spoke the word without irony.

That made it worse.

“No questioning without my permission,” Rhaevan continued. “No visits. No messages passed in or out.”

“The painting remains under seal. Eiran’s note as well.”

Averan opened his notebook.

“The studio?”

“Make an inventory of everything in plain sight. Every canvas. Every sketch. Every document.”

“Seize them?”

“No.”

Averan looked up.

“We have taken the painting. That is enough.”

Rhaevan put down the pen.

“I do not want Saeron to find an empty studio when he returns.”

“You assume he will return.”

“I assume only that decisions should not be made too soon.”

Averan noted the instruction.

“Are we to search the locked cupboards?”

Rhaevan considered.

“Only those that can be opened without damaging the locks. Force nothing. Take nothing else away.”

“I understand.”

“Keep the studio under watch.”

Averan wrote another line.

“And Eiran?”

Rhaevan leaned back in his chair.

He remembered the two signatures on the back of the painting.

The apprentice knew about the wound.

Perhaps he also knew things Saeron had not told Averan.

“Watch him.”

Averan waited.

“Do not detain him.”

“He is a witness.”

“Precisely.”

Rhaevan saw the question in the first secretary’s stillness.

“Arresting him will tell him we fear what he knows. Let him walk the city. Let him return to the studio. Let him try to reach Saeron.”

“He may also take something.”

“Then we will learn what he thought worth taking.”

Averan wrote down the order.

“If Saeron has hidden something,” Rhaevan said, “his apprentice may lead us to it sooner than a search would.”

“And if he notices he is being watched?”

“Then you chose the wrong men.”

Averan closed his notebook.

For a moment, he looked at the document before the king.

“Protection and imprisonment,” he said. “In this case, they amount to much the same thing.”

Rhaevan opened a lacquered casket.

Inside lay the royal seal and a stick of red wax.

For a moment, both men looked at its colour.

Rhaevan made no comment.

He held the wax over the flame.

A dark drop gathered at the tip.

It fell onto the document.

The scent of heated resin sharpened the air.

Averan’s gaze dropped briefly to the seal.

Rhaevan thought of the fragments of red wax collected from beneath Meran’s fingernails.

Wax of the same kind was used every day in dozens of rooms throughout the palace.

On orders.

On letters.

On accounts.

On documents that could decide a man’s fate before he knew they existed.

Rhaevan pressed the royal emblem into the soft surface.

He pressed harder.

He lifted the seal.

The impression was clean.

Averan held out his hands for the document.

Rhaevan did not release it yet.

“Do not accuse him,” he said.

Averan met his eyes.

Rhaevan let go of the paper.

“Not yet.”

The first secretary received the order in both hands.

“As you command, Your Majesty.”

The door closed behind him.

Rhaevan remained at his desk.

Beyond the wall, the guards shifted position. Leather creaked. Metal touched stone.

The machinery of the palace was moving again.

Rhaevan looked at the red impression of his own seal.

Then he put out the lamp.