Chapter Text
Murtagh rested his hands on the edge of the balcony, overlooking the hall where Nasuada’s court danced. His was to watch. Nearly a hundred nobles were dancing in paired lines. Two bards stood at the top of the hall on a low dais. The tune they played was ancient, an old camp song that had developed a dance before Galbatorix was born. The dance, The Parting, was easy. A dance for the old or the lame.
Step, step, sweep out, salute left
In spite of himself, Murtagh felt his weight shifting, as though to step through the dance. Nasuada was there, near the head of the line, forearms bare, scars proud in the candlelight. She’d had the lighting changed to favour him, to make it easy for him to see, but very hard for him to be seen. The dancefloor was well lit, dresses and doublets shone bright, but the balcony above was in almost total darkness.
Retake hands, arch hands, turn her, draw in
Nasuada’s smile was radiant. She moved through the steps of the dance with an easy grace, articulating each step clearly. The sway of her wine-red skirts only emphasised it. She seemed to be giving her partner, Lord Cyllin, her full attention. Cyllin had been part of The Imperial court. He was twice Nasuada’s age. He’d been promoted to chancellor in Murtagh’s absence, before… A man of more brain than breeding. Timorous, yes, but clever. And definitely not a Draumar, not that Murtagh recognised anyway. He wrenched his eyes away from them before the pattern started again.
Step, step, sweep out, salute left
Murtagh ran his eyes slowly up the column of men. He remembered a man’s face, not a woman’s. The fair-haired man in blue looked similar, but something about the set of his brow was different. He needed to see the man face on to be sure. He waited.
Stamp, strike, clap, stamp strike clap
As the dance reached its coda, the only bit that actually required those dancing it to pay attention, the fair-haired man turned towards Murtagh. Not him. Murtagh kept looking, at men further and further away. His eyes alighted on another fair-haired man, this one in green, a little older than the first. Murtagh furrowed his brow and leaned out from the balcony to look closer, silently cursing the drug-addled state he’d been in when he’d seen the man the first time and, not for the first time, silently cursing the Draumar who’d drugged him.
The dance reached its end. The lines dissolved far more quickly than was polite. Easily a dozen young men, and some older men, sprung away from their partners like hounds spying a fox and descended on Nasuada, clamouring and baying for her attention, almost barging each other to get to her first. Murtagh wouldn’t have been surprised to see one cut another’s leg out from under him. He felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up, and almost felt a growl rise in his chest. He checked himself. For all that Thorn said that he was more like a dragon than any other man he’d met, Murtagh was not a dragon, and growling was unseemly. And he’d lost sight of the man in green. He clenched his jaw in frustration.
There he was, fetching himself a drink. As he tilted his head up, Murtagh was sure. This was the man. He lowered his guard and reached for Farica’s mind, ever so carefully, so as not to touch anybody else’s. Nasuada had set him and Farica to spend an hour in each other’s minds earlier that day so that this bit would be easy.
The weight of a goblet in her hand, the scent of sweat on the courtiers’ skin
“Murtagh?”
“The fair-haired man in green, three fingers breadth taller than I am, just now setting a goblet down. Look left.”
Farica looked.
“Yes, him.”
Murtagh felt Farica draw breath. “Istivin of Dras Leona.”
Murtagh withdrew.
He watched Farica take Nasuada her drink and whisper to her, he saw Nasuada nod. Farica turned away again and walked towards the Nighthawks who were standing by the door. Servants were invisible to nobles. Tornac had warned him of this long ago. Murtagh flattered himself that he was not so blind, but not a single noble watched Farica, still bearing Nasuada’s cup, walk up to the guards and order Istivin be arrested, as quietly as possible, as soon as he was alone. Nobody but Murtagh saw Farica go and repeat the orders to Trianna.
The man’s amulet would give Trianna grief, Murtagh thought as the bards announced the next dance: Three Willows. Murtagh enjoyed that one more than The Parting, but only if his starting position was in the middle of his set. Murtagh shook himself. He was not here to dance. He was here to look for Draumar and also… maybe.
If he could devise a way of removing Istivin’s amulet before Trianna and The Nighthawks tried to take him, he would save them a lot of trouble. There was no way he could do it by hand or blade, not in a crowd like this, and not without being seen. Casting magic at the man or the amulet directly was simply not going to work.
Nasuada stood between two men, one of whom was looking daggers at the other.
Murtagh called to mind an image of the amulet he’d taken from Sarros – a small piece of iron on a string, knotted at the nape of Sarros’s neck. Did Bachel’s wordless magic cover the string? If he cast a spell to undo any knots at the back of the man’s neck… No, that wouldn’t do. He could end up half undressing the man, and that would be far too obvious.
Murtagh stood and watched Three Willows and saw no more Draumar that he recognised, and the nature of the dance had given him a fair look at every face in the room. Satisfied that Istivin was the only one present, he turned from the balcony, made a tiny red werelight, and took out his book of words. He needed a word either for ‘string’ as distinct from ‘thread’, or a word for ‘clothing’.
Two dances later, he was satisfied with his wording:
“If that man has about his neck a knot which is not part of his clothing, undo it.”
He felt the miniscule wisp of energy leave him as he cast and knew the spell had found its mark. The question was whether the amulet would still protect him.
There was no more he could do, not from where he was. Murtagh turned and padded away through the dark halls.