Chapter Two: One Cup Kills Three Men

Yet war had not begun. The Red faction had lost an agent, the Frost faction a financier, and Mordred had been forced to cut off his own nephew. Lain stepped away from the black wine as if too frightened to stand. “Pewter,” Ysolde said. “What?” “Royal cups are silver. Yours is pewter.” She had seen. Lain looked down in surprise. “No wonder it felt so light. The servant must have made a mistake.” “Did he?” Their eyes met across the dragon-bone table. Ysolde did not expose him. A Lain capable of switching cups was more valuable than a true fool. The bodies were removed, the musicians resumed their lament, and nobles continued praying as if the blood were spilled wine. At the side door, Cassian blocked Lain’s path.