Next, the lawyer called the monks, who like Countess Amril, were eager to relate how they had been ill-used by the princess. They told how she had insisted the thieves be unchained despite their assurance it was not necessary and explained they were attacked the moment she left the room.

The crowd’s reaction grew louder, and even Lord Valin looked troubled.

Percy Braga observed the audience with satisfaction from his seat at the rear of the magistrates. The faces of the gentry were filling with anger. He had successfully coaxed the spark into a flame and the flame would soon be a blaze.

In the crowd, he spotted Wylin moving in the wings toward him.

“We have them, my lord,” Wylin reported in a whisper. “They are gagged and locked in the dungeon. A little banged up by two of my overzealous men, but alive.”

“Excellent, and has there been any movement on the roads? Has there been any indication nobles loyal to the traitor Arista may attack?”

“I don’t know, sir. I came directly from the sewers.”

“Very well, get to the gate and sound the horn if you see anything. I’m concerned there may be an assault from Pickering of Drondil Fields. Oh, and if you see that wretched little dwarf, tell him it is time to bring the princess down.”

“Of course, your lordship.” Wylin pulled a small parchment rolled into a tube from his tabard. “I was passed this on my way in. It just arrived via messenger addressed to you.” Braga took the missive from Wylin and the master-at-arms left with a bow.

Braga grinned at the ease of it all. He wondered if the princess in her distant tower prison could sense her coming death. Her own beloved citizens would soon be begging—nay demanding—her execution. He had yet to present the storeroom administrator who would attest to the stolen dagger that was later found in Arista’s possession. And then of course, there were now the thieves. He would hold them until the last and drag them out to the floor gagged and chained. The mere sight of them was likely to start a riot. He would have Wylin explain how he apprehended them trying to save the princess. The magistrates would have no choice but to rule against Arista and grant him the throne.

He would still have to deal with the possibility of Alric attacking, but that could not be helped now. He was certain he would defeat Alric. Several of the more disgruntled eastern lords already agreed to join him the moment he was crowned king. Once the trial was complete and Arista dead, he planned to hold the coronation. By tomorrow, he would marshal the kingdom. Alric would cease to be a prince and become a fugitive.

“The court calls storage clerk Kline Druess,” the lawyer was saying, “who was in charge of keeping the knife used to kill the king.”

More damning evidence, Braga thought as he unrolled the scroll that Wylin had presented him. It had no seal, no emblem of nobility, only a simple string tie. He read the message, which was as simple as its package.

You missed us in the sewers.

We now have the princess.

Your time is growing short.

The archduke crumpled the note in his fist and glared around at the numerous faces in the crowd wondering if whoever wrote it was watching him. His heart began beating faster, and he stood up slowly trying not to draw attention to himself.

The lawyer caught sight of his movement and gave him a curious look. Braga dismissed his concern with a slight wave of his hand. He left the court, forcing himself to walk slowly and calmly. The moment he passed out through the chamber doors, and out of sight of the crowd, he trotted through the castle halls, his cape whipping behind him. In his fist, he held on to the note, crushing it.

It wasn’t possible, he thought, it couldn’t be! Hearing footfalls approaching rapidly from behind, he stopped and spun, drawing his sword.

“Is there a problem, Braga?” Archibald Ballentyne inquired. He held his hands up defensively before the point of the archduke’s blade. Braga silently threw the crumpled note at him and resumed his march toward the dungeon.

“It’s those thieves, those damned thieves,” the Earl of Chadwick called out as he ran after Braga. “They’re demons! Magicians! Evil mages! They are like smoke, appearing and disappearing at will.”

Archibald caught up with Braga and they descended the stairs to the detention block where the door guard dodged aside just in time to avoid the archduke. After trying the door and finding it locked, Braga hammered on it. The warden promptly left his desk and brought his keys for the red-faced archduke.

“My lord, I—”

“Open the cell to the prisoners Wylin’s men just brought in. Do it now!”

“Yes, my lord.” Fumbling with his great ring of keys, the warden moved quickly to the cell hall. Two castle guards stood watch to either side of a door and promptly stepped aside at his approach.

“Have you two been here since the prisoners were brought in?” Braga asked the guards.

“Aye, my lord,” the guard on the left replied. “Captain Wylin ordered us to stand guard and to allow absolutely no admittance to anyone except him or you.”

“Very good,” he said. Then, to the warden, he added, “Open it.”

The warden unlocked the door and entered the cell. Inside, Braga saw two men chained to the wall, stripped to their waist with gags in their mouths. They were not the same men he saw the night of the king’s murder.

“Remove the gags,” Braga ordered the warden. “Who are you? What are you doing here?”

“M-m-my name’s Bendent, your lordship, I’m just a street sweeper from Dock Street—honest—we weren’t doing nothing wrong!”

“What were you two doing in the sewers under this castle?”

“Hunting rats, sir,” the other one said.

“Rats?”

“Yes, sir, honest, we was. We was told there was a big event here in the castle this morning and the castle kitchen was complaining about rats climbing up from the sewers. ’Cause of the cold, you see, sir. We was told we’d get paid a silver tenet for every rat we done killed and brought out—only…”

“Only what?”

“Only we never seen no rats, your lordship.”

“Before we found any, we were knocked out by soldiers and brought here.”

“See? What did I tell you?” Archibald told Braga. “They took her already. They stole her right from under your nose just like they took my letters!”

“They couldn’t have. There’s no way to get up to Arista’s tower. It is too high, and it can’t be climbed.”

“I’m telling you, Braga, these men are skilled. They scaled my Gray Tower well enough, and it is one of the tallest there is.”

“Trust me, Archibald. Arista’s tower can’t be climbed.”

“But they did it,” Ballentyne insisted. “I didn’t think it was possible when they did it to me either, not until I opened the safe and my prize was gone. Now your prize is gone, and what will you do with that crowd out there when you have no princess to burn!”

“It’s just not possible,” Braga repeated, pushing Ballentyne out of his way. “You two,” he said to the guards still standing outside the cell as he walked out, “come with me and bring one of those gags. It’s time the princess came down for her court appearance!”

Braga led them through the castle and up six flights of stairs to the residence level. The hallway here was empty. All of the servants were gathered with the others, listening to the proceedings of the trial.

They passed the royal chapel and continued up the hallway to the next door. “Magnus!” Braga shouted, throwing the door open. Inside a dwarf with a braided brown beard and a broad flat nose lay on a bed. He was dressed in a blue leather vest, large black boots, and a bright orange puffed sleeved shirt that made his arms appear huge.

“Is it time?” the dwarf asked. Hopping off the bed, he yawned and rubbed his eyes.

“Is there any chance someone could have gotten up in her tower and stolen Arista out of there?” Braga asked urgently.