48

You turn Brute loose in a hayloft adjoining the stables to play while you go off for your intrigues. The stablehands are happy enough to pay you a favor. One of the privileges of being increasingly well-known.

Your footsteps echo louder than normal in Westfenster's narrow corridors…or perhaps that's your heart sounding in your ears.

It's but a question or two to the cooks preparing the royal repast to track down where each of the Royals is at this moment. Hail is relaxing in the Royal Chambers by throwing daggers against the wall; Queen Hero is seated in the parlor playing Ten-Staves against certain of the younger Gramercy nobles (and likely filling the Royal Treasury nicely with her winnings).

"And His Eminent Glorious Majesty our King?" you say, ever-so-casually.

The cauldron-boy grimaces as he scrapes a bit of earwax free from the cavern in his head. "Off to the Chapel, yeah? With Lady Hotfoot?"

A grunt of assent rises up from the others nearby. You rap a knuckle on a skillet by way of thanks and slink away towards the corridor. Lady Hotfoot and King Saul locked in private conference, just as Lord Bisqueath said they were likely to do during the visit.