The prince glared defiantly, but the color slowly drained from Janson’s face. Beads of sweat had broken out on his forehead, even in the cool spring morning. “You know much about the Krasian people for a Cutter, Mr. Flinn,” he noted.
“I spent some time in Fort Krasia,” the Painted Man said simply. Janson made another mark in his strange shorthand.
“You see why we must speak with His Grace, minister,” Leesha said. “The Krasians can afford to take their time. With their grain silos, Rizon has resources to support an army indefinitely, even as they cut off the flow of food to the north.”
Janson did not seem to notice she had spoken. “There are some who say you are the Deliverer, yourself,” he said to the Painted Man.
Thamos snorted. “And I’m a friendly coreling,” he muttered.
The Painted Man didn’t look at him, keeping eye contact with the minister. “I make no such claim, Lord Janson.”
Janson nodded, writing. “His Grace will be relieved to hear that. But on the matter of the fighting wards…”
“They—” Leesha began.
“They will be shared with all who want them, free of cost,” the Painted Man cut her off, drawing looks of shock from everyone.
“The corelings are the enemies of all humanity, minister,” the Painted Man said. “In this, the Krasians and I agree. I will deny no man the wards to combat them.”
“If they even work,” Thamos muttered.
The Painted Man turned to face Thamos fully, and even a prince could not long weather his glare. Thamos dropped his eyes, and the Painted Man nodded.
“Wonda,” he said without turning to the young woman, who started at the sound of her name, “give me an arrow from your quiver.” Wonda took an arrow and placed it in the waiting hand he threw over his shoulder. The Painted Man laid the missile flat across his hands and presented it to the prince, but he did not bow, standing as an equal.
“Test them, Your Highness,” he said. “Stand atop the wall tonight and have a marksman fire this at the largest demon you can find. Decide for yourself if they work.”
Thamos drew back slightly, and then straightened quickly, as if trying not to appear intimidated. He nodded and took the arrow. “I will.”
The first minister pushed back from his seat, and Pawl darted forward to blot the wet pages and shuffle them back into the leather paper case. He collected the writing implements and wiped down the table as Janson got to his feet and went over to Prince Thamos.
“I believe that should be all for now,” Janson said. “His Grace will receive you in his keep tomorrow, an hour past dawn. I will send a coach here for you in the morning, to avoid any…unpleasantness, should you,” his eyes flicked to the Painted Man, “be seen on the street.”
The Painted Man bowed. “That will do well, minister, thank you,” he said. Leesha curtsied, and Rojer bowed.
“Minister,” Leesha said, moving close to the man and dropping her voice. “I have heard that His Grace…has yet to produce an heir.”
Prince Thamos bristled visibly, but Janson held up a hand to forestall him. “It is no secret that the ivy throne is heirless, Miss Paper,” he told Leesha calmly.
“Fertility was a specialty of Mistress Bruna’s,” Leesha said, “and it is one of mine, as well. I would be honored to offer my expertise, if it were desired.”
“My brother is quite capable of producing an heir without your help,” Thamos growled.
“Of course, Highness,” Leesha said, dipping a curtsy, “but I thought perhaps the duchess might bear examination, in case the difficulty is hers.”
Janson frowned. “Thank you for your generous offer, but Her Highness has Herb Gatherers of her own, and I would strongly advise you not to broach this topic before His Grace. I will mention it along the proper channels.”
It was a vague response, but Leesha nodded and said no more, curtsying again. Janson nodded, and he and Thamos headed for the door. Just before he left, the minister turned to Rojer.
“I trust that you will be visiting the Jongleurs’ Guild to clarify your status and settle your outstanding debts before leaving town again?” he asked.
“Yes, sir,” Rojer said glumly.
“I am certain tales of your recent adventures will be of great value to the guild, and likely pay your debt in full, but I hope you will show discretion regarding certain,” he glanced at the Painted Man, “subjective interpretations of events, however tempting it may be to use the more…sensational interpretations.”
“Of course, minister,” Rojer said, bowing deeply.
Janson nodded. “Good day, then,” he said, and he and the prince left the hospit.
Leesha turned to Rojer. “Brothel incident?”
“A copse of wood demons couldn’t get me to tell you about it,” Rojer said, “so you might as well quit asking.”
Leesha watched from Jizell’s kitchen window as a coach pulled up the next morning, its wide doors emblazoned with Rhinebeck’s seal—a wooden crown hovering over a throne overgrown with ivy. The coach was accompanied by Prince Thamos in full armor astride a great charger, and a squad of his elite guardsmen, the Wooden Soldiers, following on foot.
“They brought an army,” Rojer said, coming up beside her and peeking out. “I can’t tell if we ’re being protected or imprisoned.”
“Why should the day feel any different from the night?” the Painted Man asked.
“Maybe it’s normal for those the duke has invited to audience,” Leesha said.
Rojer shook his head. “I rode in that coach plenty of times when Arrick was herald. Never needed a squad of Wooden Soldiers at our backs for a ride across town.”
“They must’ve tested the arrow last night,” Leesha said, “which means they know that what we ’re offering them is real.”
The Painted Man shrugged. “What will be, will be. Either they’re here as escorts, or Rhinebeck will have a squad of crippled soldiers.” Leesha’s mouth fell open, but the Painted Man walked out into Jizell’s courtyard before she could respond. The others followed him.
The coach’s footman placed a stair beside the coach and held the door. Thamos watched them from astride his charger, nodding to the Painted Man slightly as they climbed into the coach. They were quickly clattering along the boardwalk toward Rhinebeck’s palace.
The duke’s keep was the only structure in the city made entirely of stone, a tremendous show of wealth. As with Duke Euchor of Miln, Rhinebeck’s keep was a self-sufficient mini-fortress within the larger fort of the city proper. There was open ground on all sides of the thirty-foot-high outer walls, which were carved with great wards, the grooves filled with bright lacquer. They were impressively permanent, though they had likely never been tested by anything more than a lone wind demon. If the walls of Fort Angiers were breached and demons entered the city in numbers, Rhinebeck could shut the gates and await the dawn in safety, even if the entire city were in flames around his keep.
Inside the walls, they passed the duke’s private gardens and herds, along with dozens of buildings for his personal servants and craftsmen, before reaching the palace. Its sheer walls climbed several stories, with lookout spires reaching even higher, past the keep’s wardnet.
The palace wards were works of art as well as function, and Leesha could sense the strength of the symbols, her eyes dancing along the invisible lines of power they created.
“Please follow me,” Prince Thamos said to the Painted Man when the carriage pulled to a stop at the palace entrance. Leesha frowned as they followed the prince into the palace, wondering if she was to be ignored in favor of the Painted Man throughout the interview. He had said repeatedly that he took no responsibility for the Hollow, any more than Marick did the Rizonan refugees. Could she trust him to speak the town’s needs before his own?
The vaulted ceiling of the entrance hall soared overhead, but the great room was empty of petitioners. The prince led them away from the main throne room, down halls thick with carpet and covere
d in tapestries and oil paintings. They came to a waiting room with velvet couches and a warm fire, set in a marble mantel. “Please wait here on the duke’s pleasure,” Thamos told the Painted Man. “The attendants will see to your refreshment.”
“Thank you,” the Painted Man said as a valet arrived with a tray of drinks and small sandwiches. Two Wooden Soldiers stood rigid outside the door, spears at the ready.
Time went by, and Rojer, bored, began to juggle their empty teacups. “How long do you think Rhinebeck will have us wait?” he asked, his feet beating a pattern on the floor as he moved to keep his crippled hand in position to throw and catch.
“Long enough to establish that he’s holding the reins,” the Painted Man said. “Dukes make everyone wait. The more important the guests, the longer they’re left to count rug threads. It’s a tiresome game, but if it makes Rhinebeck feel secure, there’s no harm letting him play it.”
“I should have brought my needlepoint,” Leesha said.
“I have a great number of unfinished hoops, dear,” a voice behind her said. “I’ve always been good at starting patterns, but somehow I never get to the end.” Leesha turned to find Minister Janson standing in the doorway, holding the arm of a venerable woman who looked to be in her late seventies.
Rojer gave a start, and Leesha winced as one of the cups he was juggling hit the floor. Thankfully, it bounced on the thick carpet and did not break.
The woman fixed Rojer with a look that would have done Elona proud. “Arrick never got around to teaching you manners, I take it.” Rojer’s face turned redder than his hair.
The woman was small, even for an Angierian, barely five feet tall from the white Krasian lace at the hem of her wide, green velvet gown to the top of the lacquered wooden circlet resting upon the severely pinned gray hair atop her head. The circlet’s points were banded in gold and set with precious stones. She was thin like a reed, and stooped slightly, leaning on the first minister’s arm. The hands that clutched him were covered in wrinkled, translucent skin. A velvet choker around her neck was set with an emerald the size of a baby’s fist.
“Please allow me to present Her Grace the Lady Araine, Duchess Mum, mother to His Grace, Duke Rhinebeck the Third, Guardian of the Forest Fortress—”
“Yes, yes,” Araine cut him off. “Everyone in the world knows my son’s titles, and I’m not getting younger as you recite them for the thousandth time this week, Janson.”
“Apologies, my lady,” Janson said, bowing slightly.
Leesha dipped into a curtsy at the introduction, and the men bowed. In her men’s breeches, Wonda had no skirts to spread, and assumed an awkward posture that was neither.
“If you’re going to dress like a man, girl, then bow like one,” Araine said, looking down her nose. Wonda blushed and bowed deeply.
The duchess mum grunted in satisfaction and turned to Leesha. “I’ve come to rescue you from all this tiresome men’s business, dear.” She glanced at Wonda. “The young lady, as well.”
“Apologies, Your Grace,” Leesha said, curtsying again, “but I am serving as Speaker for Deliverer’s Hollow, and must remain for the audience.”
“Nonsense,” Araine tsked. “A woman Speaker? They may practice such frivolity in Miln, but Angiers has the right of things. Women were not meant to handle affairs of state.” The duchess mum let go Janson’s arm and latched on to Leesha’s, pulling her toward the door even as she pretended to lean on it for support.
“Leave the men to their ledgers and proclamations,” Araine said. “We will speak of more feminine matters.”
Leesha was mildly surprised at the woman’s strength. She wasn’t quite as frail as she appeared. Still, the idea of sitting around with a bunch of pampered women vapidly discussing weather and fashion while the men charted the course of Deliverer’s Hollow was unacceptable.
Janson leaned in to Leesha as she resisted the old woman’s pull. “It isn’t wise to upset the duchess mum,” he whispered. “Best humor her for now. The duke will not receive the others for quite some time, and I will come for you before you’re needed.”
Leesha looked at him, his face unreadable, and frowned. Not wanting to antagonize the royal family, she reluctantly allowed herself to be led away.
“The women’s wing is this way, dear,” Araine said, leading Leesha down a long, richly appointed hall. Outside of the Painted Man’s treasure room, Leesha had never seen such largesse as in the duke’s palace. Her father had been the richest man in Cutter’s Hollow while she was growing up, but the duke made Erny’s wealth seem like the scraps that one might throw to a dog after a great feast. Lush carpets caressed and cushioned her every step, woven with vibrant patterns, and tapestries and statues on marble pedestals lined the walls. The ceiling was painted gold, and glittered in the light of the chandeliers.
Throughout the duchy Rizonan refugees were starving, but could the royal family ever truly understand what that meant, surrounded by such opulence? It reminded Leesha of her mother, always seeing to her own comfort first and others’ only when someone was watching.
Araine’s shuffling steps became firmer as they went, the frail-looking old woman guiding Leesha through the vast palace as a man might lead a woman through a dance. Wonda trailed along silently behind until they passed through a final door and Araine looked back at her.
“Be a dear and close the door, there’s a good child,” she said. Wonda complied, pulling the sturdy oak portal shut with a click.
“All right then, let’s have a look at you,” Araine said, releasing Leesha’s arm with a push that sent her into a spin for the duchess mum’s inspection.
Araine looked her up and down, her lip curling slightly. “So you’re the young prodigy Bruna was so proud of.” She sounded less than impressed. “How many summers have you seen, girl? Twenty-five?”
“Twenty-eight,” Leesha said.
Araine snorted. “Bruna used to say a Gatherer wasn’t worth two klats before fifty.”
“You knew Mistress Bruna, Your Grace?” Leesha asked, surprised.
Araine cackled. “Knew her? The old witch pulled two princes from between my legs, so yes, I’d say I knew her. Pether was nigh fifty years ago, and Bruna was almost as old then as I am now. Thamos was a decade later, a giant babe like his brothers, but I wasn’t as young then as I was for the others, and needed more than some glorified midwife. Bruna was in her eighties by then, and reluctant to leave the Hollow even when I sent my herald to get on his knees and beg. She grumbled the whole time, but came just the same, and stayed in the palace for months. She even took on a pair of apprentices, Jizell and Jessa, while she was here.”
“Jessa?” Leesha asked. “Bruna never mentioned a Jessa.”
“Hah!” Araine barked. “That’s no surprise.” Leesha waited for the woman to elucidate further, but she did not.
“I’d have made Bruna Royal Gatherer if she’d wanted it,” Araine went on, “but the wretched old woman turned and headed back to the Hollow the moment Thamos’ cord was cut. Said titles meant nothing to her. All that mattered were her children in the Hollow.”
The duchess mum looked at Leesha. “That how you feel as well, girl? Putting the Hollow above all, even your duty to the ivy throne?”
Leesha met her eyes and nodded. “It is.”
Araine locked stares with her for a moment, as if daring Leesha to blink, but she finally grunted in satisfaction. “I wouldn’t have trusted another word from you if you’d said otherwise. Now, Janson tells me you claim some of Bruna’s skill with fertility.”
Leesha nodded again. “Bruna gave intensive lessons on the topic, and I have years of practical experience.”
Araine looked down her nose at Leesha again. “Not too many years, I expect, but we’ll forgive you that for now. Can’t hurt, you checking her. Everyone else has.”
“Her?” Leesha asked.
“The duchess,” Araine said. “My latest daughter-in-law. I want to know if the girl is barren, or if it’s my son t
hat’s seedless.”
“I won’t be able to determine the latter by examining the duchess,” Leesha said.
Araine snorted. “You’d be out on your pert bottom if you claimed you could. But first things first. Have a look at the girl.”
“Of course,” Leesha said. “Is there anything you can tell me about Her Highness, before I examine her?”
“She’s fit as a courser, with a sturdy frame and wide breeder’s hips,” Araine said. “Not the sharpest spear on the rack, but that’s how an Angierian lady of quality is expected to be. Her brothers are canny enough, so we ’ll call it nurture and not nature. After Rhinebeck’s last divorce, I picked her out of all the well-bred young hopefuls myself, with an eye on the nursery. Lady Melny was the youngest of twelve children, two-thirds of them male. She has three sisters, and all have children of their own; two boys for every girl. If anyone should be able to give the ivy throne an heir, it’s her. Of course, all my son cared about was the size of her paps, but Melny has meat enough there to suckle even a big baby like Rhiney.”
“How long have they been wed?” Leesha asked, ignoring the comment.
“Over a year now,” Araine said. “The Royal Gatherer brews fertility tea and I have Janson close the brothels when she’s cycling, but still she reddens her wadding each moon.”
Araine brought Leesha through the maze of private halls and stairs used by the women of the royal family. She saw many servants, but not a single man. Finally, they came to a plush bedchamber filled with velvet pillows and Krasian silks. The duchess was standing before one of the great stained-glass windows in the chamber, looking out over the city. She wore a wide dress of green and yellow silk, cut low in the front and laced tight at the waist. Her hair was put up behind a gold and gem-studded tiara, and her face painted exquisitely, ready at any moment in case the duke should summon her to his chambers. She was no more than sixteen summers old.
“Melny, this is Mistress Leesha of Cutter’s Hollow,” Araine introduced.
“Deliverer’s Hollow,” Leesha corrected. Araine gave her a look of bemused tolerance.