As if to intensify that thought, the boy realized that the clerk was sitting where his father ought to be. Nothing unusual, especially if his father had planned to be absent, but then the premonition hit him: His father would never again sit at the desk of the Lord Mayor. And there could be only one reason for that—

Which is why the boy nearly burst out laughing when Dryden said, "Windemere has been slain."

The boy managed to release his exclamation of relief as a long, drawn-out sigh. Shaana's father rested a hand Blackthorn's shoulder, and Blackthorn thought about telling the captain that his comfort was not needed: His father was not dead as he had briefly feared. Then Dryden lifted his head and locked his gaze with Blackthorn's. The boy did not like those eyes. They were too compassionate. Another emotion he had never thought the clerk capable of.

The sunlight around the clerk, provided by the windows high above, dimmed as a cloud passed overhead. "When Windemere emerged from the moongate near Britain, a crossbow bolt took him between the eyes. His escort and those of the Royal Guard who awaited him had no chance to intervene. Windemere died instantly."

At least Windemere had been spared the torment of being crucified, the boy Blackthorn noted. The destitute woman, Nyomae, had had no such consolation. Immediately, he shamed himself for his bitter apathy. He thought of Lady Windemere, her sons and daughters, and grieved for their sorrow.

"I will tell my father," the boy Blackthorn said. "He will be saddened by this news."

The hand on his shoulder tightened. Dryden spoke again. "'Twas only a matter of hours before Captain Geoffrey and the Royal Guard tracked and cornered the assassin, but in the process, she managed to take the life of one of Geoffrey's men." Dryden managed a smirk. "A very gifted girl, it seems, not too much older than thee. Nonetheless, she was captured and brought before His Majesty, Lord British, for questioning."

Dryden squinted up at the rays of light that fell from the windows. "There is something about His Majesty that I will never be able to fathom. I can question prisoners for hours, and they will tell me nothing. Threaten them with life imprisonment, and nothing. Hint of execution, and still . . . nothing. I do not know why. Perhaps my technique is lacking." He sighed, forlornly shook his head. "But His Majesty—he simply gazed at her, and within moments, she who had been staring defiantly at him dropped to her knees, bowed her head, wept, and confessed . . . everything." His shrug and grunt were one of perplexed amusement. "She knew of the arrangements between the Royal Guard and Yew's Guard, knew exactly when Windemere would step through that gate. She needed only to wait, then flee, then return to Yew to collect the last half of her payment from the man who had hired her. Who that person was, she named and described, and Lord British, accompanied by the Captain Geoffrey of the Royal Guard, came to find him." The clerk looked away from the windows and back at the boy Blackthorn. "They arrived this morning."

With that, a figure emerged from one of the halls leading into the chamber, a figure tall beyond height, the pale sunlight brilliant upon his white robes, golden upon his crown, a sinewy streak of silver upon his serpentine amulet. Behind him, another figure emerged, taller in height if not stature, the emblem of the Royal Guard upon his tabard.

Now the boy Blackthorn understood why Shaana's father gripped him, for his knees buckled. He would have fallen forward had not the captain held him steady. His limbs seemed to have melted away along with his voice. He could not feel. Could not speak.