The Queen's Poisoner (Kingfountain, #1)(75)

A silence hung between the two men as they shared memories like a cup of bitter wine.

“My lord,” Ratcliffe said, his voice so humble it was almost convincing, “if you will but give me one more chance. Let me prove my loyalty to you. I have no doubt that Tryneowy was behind Tunmore’s disappearance. I wouldn’t put it past her to have stolen your ring off your finger in the night.”

The king looked at him coldly. “That would be impossible,” he said. “For I did not sleep. I will not announce the change yet, Ratcliffe. But I will soon.” He tugged off one of his black gloves and stuffed it in his belt, then reached out a hand and clapped Ratcliffe’s shoulder. His voice changed in pitch and tone. “You’ve been loyal, Dickon. I value you, truly I do.”

Owen felt a ripple in the air, heard the murmuring churn of waters. He watched with fascination as the king opened himself up to the Fountain, willing it into their presence, summoning it as he might summon a horse to be ridden.

“You will step down as head of the Espion when I command it. You will curb your resentment and think on what you have learned from the experience. My brother always taught me that men should be lifted up to the point where they fail, but no further. You have ambition. You have many good capacities. You are a loyal advisor and friend. But this task is beyond you, and I must find another more capable to stand in your place. You will assist me in finding your replacement. This I charge you. This I command you.”

Owen remembered how the king had used his power to command him to walk out of the sanctuary of Our Lady. He had felt the flow of the Fountain all around him then, and he felt it now, too, even though the words were not directed at him. This time he was removed enough from the situation to observe the king’s use of his power without being pulled into the current. He was impressed with how the king had dealt with the situation. He hadn’t said anything untruthful or insincere. And he had not done it scoldingly or harshly.

“Look,” Evie whispered in Owen’s ear. “Mancini!”

Owen turned and saw the fat Espion approaching the king and Ratcliffe. He was gazing hungrily at the piles of food on the trestle tables, but he approached deliberately, one hand resting on his enormous belly.

Ratcliffe’s eyes were still clouded, but he was staring fixedly at the king, and he looked to be near tears. The king folded his arms and gave Mancini a shrewd look as the big man made his approach.

“Ah, the man who has increased the expenses of my kitchen,” he said.

Mancini bowed with a flourish. “Your Grace honors me by noticing such trifling details,” he said graciously. “I do have an appetite, it is true. But what I hunger for more than honeyed bread and sack wine is gossip and secrets. And what I have just learned I thought Your Majesty would wish to know straightaway.”

Ratcliffe whirled at the sound of Mancini’s voice, his face flushed with anger. It was known throughout the palace that he preferred for his underlings to report their news to him—and only him. Mancini was breaking protocol, and everyone in the room knew it. The king looked intrigued.

“What news, Master . . . ?”

“Mancini, Dominic Mancini. I’m Genevese, if you didn’t know it. We love our food!”

“I didn’t,” he said, giving Ratcliffe an unidentifiable look.

“Well, Your Grace, I thought you would wish to hear this straightaway.” The big man took another step forward, pitching his voice softly so that it would not carry through the hall. Ratcliffe leaned forward, straining. Owen and Evie sidled a little closer.

“I thought it would be worth mentioning,” Mancini continued, “that John Tunmore was spotted in the sanctuary of Our Lady conferring with the old queen. Well, she isn’t that old, but she is the previous queen. I used to be stationed at Our Lady, Your Majesty, and have some acquaintances there who are not part of the Espion. They thought I would be willing to . . . ahem . . . pay for such news. Of course, I keep a purse of florins on my person for just such a moment.” He jiggled his coin purse and wagged his eyebrows at the king.

The king’s expression changed to wonderment and respect. He completely ignored Ratcliffe. “How did he manage to get through the gate?” the king demanded. “Did he sneak away in disguise? The gatekeepers did not see anyone matching his description.”

Mancini grinned, cocking his head conspiratorially. “I understand he was seen disembarking from a little boat, Your Majesty. It is dangerous, as you know, maneuvering boats so near the falls, but that is what my contacts told me. There are many secret places here in the palace, as you know.”

“I do,” the king agreed briskly with a hint of anger. “Well, that explains the disappearance. What remains is to decide what we should do about it.”

“He’s claimed sanctuary,” Ratcliffe interjected, shouldering his way into the conversation. The look of resentment on his face was implacable. “There is nothing that can be done except guard the gates and wait for him to try and slip away. He’ll hunker down there for months to try and lull us—”

“This may be presumptuous,” Mancini said delicately, interrupting Ratcliffe, “but I have a suggestion.”

The king chuckled and put a hand on Ratcliffe’s shoulder. “Let’s hear him out.”

“Your Grace, let me speak with him first. It would—”