He sought refuge in trying to be clever. Cleared his throat. “I thought you said you were never a soldier.”

“Never was,” Medor said calmly. “But there’s very often violence in the city, as you know. And we train. All the time. You learn. You’re all right?”

“As I said, neither came close. Just the two of them?”

“Seems so. I’ll have someone come with a wagon. Can’t leave dead wolves in the street for other animals. But I don’t think they were diseased, just hungry.”

Thierry drew another deep breath. “Indeed,” he said, for lack of any other response that came to him just then. He was still gripping his knife, he realized. He sheathed it. “More violence than I’m accustomed to,” he said.

Medor Colle looked at him, tilted his head to one side. “You’ve done well enough,” he said. “Let’s go. We’ll report. De Vaux will give us food and drink. Aren’t you hungry?”

“I suppose I am,” Thierry said.

“He has a good cook,” Medor said. “Come.”

Thierry couldn’t be sure, but thought he saw the other man smile. They walked on. One moon, winter stars. The life you chose, or were given.

—

Later that night, by way of a boy defying curfew for a coin, Thierry sent word to Silvy at The Lamb that he was all right. Only that. Nothing more. Not where he’d been all day, or where he was now.

It was, Silvy thought, when the last patron left and the tavern was clean again and she finally fell into bed, enough for the moment. She dreamed of punching him: on the nose, on the chest, high up between his legs, really hard. It was satisfying.

Chapter VII

The two pre-eminent dukes of Ferrieres, the king’s surviving uncles, were men of great sophistication, although neither was particularly engaged by the business of the state and its survival.

The murder of their nephew had shaken both to the core, and also induced feelings of dismay that they now appeared tasked with addressing it. They did not share this latter feeling with anyone, of course.

The Duke de Barille had firmly intended to spend what years Jad saw fit to leave him engaged in commissioning and acquiring and enjoying works of art. Dealing with something as savage as an assassination had not been in his plans.

Accordingly, along with the Duke de Regnault, his brother, he eyed inimically the provost of Orane—and a number of his serjeants—in their path on the roadway to the palace the day after their nephew’s funeral. They wanted to mourn, and be left in what could pass for peace in such a time, after necessary discussions as to the governance of Ferrieres now.

It was not to be.

The provost was in black, as were they. In a world replete with colours, the black stood out—as it was meant to, of course.