“No, what happened?”

“There was an assassination attempt a few weeks ago. It didn’t succeed, but—” He broke off as a pair of soldiers strolled nearby, and took another bite of bread, chewing nonchalantly until the two men were out of earshot.

“Anyway, that’s why the gates to the palace are so closely guarded. Cardiel doesn’t dare risk anything happening to one of his bishops. If one of the Six were to be killed now, Loris and Corrigan in Coroth would appoint his successor. And we all know to whom that successor would owe his loyalty.”

“Thereby giving Loris the twelve voices he needs to make his decretals legal in fact as well as in name,” Duncan whispered.

Morgan finished his cheese and dusted his gloved hands against his thighs, then turned to dip water from the well. His eyes flicked to the palace gates as he drank, and then to the towers of the palace beyond. He filled the dipper again and handed it across to his cousin, sinking down on the ledge once again as Duncan drank.

“Y’know,” Morgan murmured, studying the crowd in the square, “I think the crowd is beginning to thin. We’re going to be conspicuous soon, if we don’t decide what to do.”

Duncan handed the dipper back to Morgan and wiped his mouth against his sleeve. “I know. Fewer soldiers, and more and more clergy.”

Bells began to chime in a tower far away and to the rear of them, and were soon echoed by the great bells within the walls of the Bishop’s Palace. Duncan paused as the bells began to ring, his eyes still scanning the crowd, then slowly straightened, an intense look coming upon his face.

“What is it?” Morgan murmured, careful not to betray his emotion by voice or gesture. There were soldiers striding by again.

“The monks, Alaric,” Duncan whispered, nodding toward the gates. “Look where they’re going.”

Morgan turned slowly and let his eyes follow the direction of his kinsman’s gaze. A postern gate had opened in the lower left portion of the huge palace gates to permit a handful of cowled monks to enter. He glanced back at Duncan to find his cousin stuffing the last of the bread and cheese into the saddlebags. As he looked askance, Duncan shot him a quick, conspiratorial wink and took the last apple, polishing it against his sleeve. Mystified, Morgan picked up the saddlebags and followed as Duncan started to stroll slowly in the direction of the gates. He touched his cousin’s right elbow in question as the two of them headed along the edge of the square.

“Do you see where the monks are going?” Duncan murmured around a bite of apple.

“Yes.”

Duncan took another bite and continued walking. “And they aren’t being challenged, are they?” he said. “Now, look where they’re coming from, around to your left. Mind you don’t stare.”

Morgan glanced casually in the direction indicated and finally saw a door leading into a deeply shadowed background, apparently the side door to a monastic church. Periodically, the door would open to disgorge one or two monks in cowled black habits. As far as Morgan could see, all the monks who left the church were heading toward the palace gates. And none of them were being turned away.