46

One morning in your bedchamber, a bit of post comes your way courtesy of an unwitting Herald—a scroll of fine parchment from dear Lord Bisqueath, commending you in bland tones on your efforts at the feast. You shouldn't have, M'Lord, you think.

As you unwrap the whole scroll, a second scrap of parchment falls to the floor. You snatch it up and peruse it:

"I fondly recollect our tête-à-tête, and shall be ever attentive to thy work."

In other words, please get on with the skulduggery, you think, folding the scroll back up with a few sharp twists of your hands.

You let out a sharp sigh, leaning your back against the stones. Is today the day you make good on your promise to the treacherous taxmaster and try to spy on King Saul?