At three bells after midnight, the peaceful quiet of The Drayman’s Rest was shattered by the sharp, echoing clatter of iron-shod hooves striking the wet cobblestones of the South Wharf. A heavy four-horse carriage painted in black lacquer and adorned with the golden sun crest of the Royal Citadel drew to a halt directly outside the tavern door, its iron wheel-tires throwing up sheets of river spray.
The heavy oak door of the tavern swung inward, admitting a cold gust of rain and river mist. Standing in the entrance was Captain Sir Branoc of the King’s Royal Bodyguard. His polished steel cuirass shone in the tavern’s candlelight, his velvet surcoat soaked through with autumn rain. His face was gray with tiredness and solemn dread.
Sir Branoc removed his wet bonnet. He stepped directly to the hearth booth where Tomas, Hester, and Sile sat. He bowed with stiff, formal deference. “Master Arbiter Reed. Mistress Quill. I bring an urgent summons from the Royal Citadel. The Sovereign King is dying. His physicians state that he won’t survive the dawn. In his lucid moments, His Majesty has commanded that you be brought to his private bedchamber without an instant’s delay.”
Hester Quill adjusted her glasses, her brow furrowing with suspicion. “The King’s Bench has already issued its sovereign decrees, Sir Branoc. The High judge is in the Tower. The escrows are restored. And the monopolies are dissolved. What business has a dying monarch with the Carrier of the Last Claim?”
