“I expect he’ll be a lot less liberal when he hears about Sir Ambrose and how intelligent and considerate he is. You’ve a lot to learn about men, Catherine. Prince Tzsayn expects his bride to be a virgin and for there to be no doubt about it.”
Catherine blushed hard. She had never heard her mother even say that word before.
“Tzsayn may be different from your father, but no man likes to be made to look a fool.”
Whereas we women love it, Catherine thought, and at the same time glanced at herself in the mirror in the absurd red dress. She said, “I will ensure at all times that my devotion to Prince Tzsayn is made clear,” she said coldly. “But perhaps it doesn’t matter. Noyes has probably caught Ambrose, and the king has summoned me to require that I attend another execution.”
The queen took Catherine by surprise, moving quickly to her side and kissing her on the cheek.
“I’ve not heard that he’s been caught. Calm yourself. Go to the king like the princess you are. But be mindful of your own honor, Catherine. Make sure there can be no doubt of it, as without it you are lost.”
Catherine looked down at her slashed red dress.
“I can’t go like this.”
“Of course you can. There’s no time to change now; we’ve already kept the king waiting. And, besides, the dress is stunning. It’s the perfect royal red. Just hold your shoulders back and have confidence.”
Catherine was sure her mother wouldn’t say that unless she meant it, and it did help. She walked through her outer chambers and followed the Royal Guard toward the Throne Room. Could this just be about her wedding, or was her mother mistaken? Was Ambrose dead or lying in the castle dungeons below, his tongue cut out, his soft lips sewn up? Well, whatever it was, she was going to handle it. She pulled her shoulders back, telling herself: I won’t flinch. I won’t faint. I certainly won’t scream.
Catherine had only been inside the Throne Room on a handful of official occasions—royal proclamations or visits from an ambassador or some such infrequent occasion when the king wanted to impress or intimidate some lord. Each time she’d been part of a great crowd. Today she was alone.
Catherine arrived as the doors were swinging open. The king, her father, was sitting on his throne at the far end of the long, elaborately decorated room. Boris stood to his right, Noyes behind him to his left. A few other courtiers and soldiers lined the walls. Ambrose was not there.
Catherine wasn’t sure if she was supposed to wait to be announced or go in. Her mother’s voice seemed to whisper in her ear: A princess doesn’t wait. And neither does a queen.
Catherine straightened. “I am not afraid,” she murmured to herself, and discovered, to her surprise, that it was true. Still, as she advanced into that great chamber, she felt as conspicuous as a red ant on a gray paving slab.
She came forward—slowly, slowly—and kept coming, past the chancellor and the steward and the castellan, until she reached the bottom of the dais and stopped directly in front of her father. His hair was gray at the temples, but he looked as strong as ever. He sat upright in the wide, heavy throne, and Catherine thought how he never seemed right sitting down—striding around suited him better. His gray eyes were on her and met her gaze, which she instantly dropped, and she curtsied as low as her dress would allow.
“Your Majesty.”
“Straighten up. Let’s see you.”
“We can’t not see her,” Boris said loudly, and there was a short laugh from one of the courtiers. Noyes had his head on one side but no half-smile on his lips.
Catherine stood as tall as she could.
“You’re off soon. To be married.”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
The king tapped the arm of the throne with a nail that was bruised black.
“It’s a fine match that I’ve arranged with King Arell for you.”
Could that really be all this summons was for? A conversation about her marriage?
“Yes, thank you, Father. But much as I look forward to my marriage, it grieves me more than I can express to leave my home and my family. I am thankful you have asked to see me before I go.”
“I summoned you to give you instructions, not for an emotional farewell.”
Catherine watched the king’s finger tap-tapping on the throne, and then it went still.
“You ordered one of my Royal Guards to leave Brigane.”
There was nothing to be gained by denying it.
“Yes, Father. Boris’s companion, Viscount Lang, challenged one of my bodyguards, Sir Ambrose Norwend, to a trial of honor. Sir Ambrose beat him, though he generously allowed him to live. Then Boris ordered Dirk Hodgson to challenge him too. He was killed. I thought it best that Sir Ambrose should leave before any more nobles came to harm.”
Catherine glanced meaningfully at Boris, and there was a short laugh from one of the onlookers that was quickly stifled.
Boris flushed angrily. “He fought like the villain he is.”
“You are the villain in this, brother.”
“Silence!” The king tapped his throne.
Catherine stayed still. She’d forgotten herself.
“Do you think Tzsayn will put up with this behavior?” grunted the king.
“I’m sorry, Your Majesty, I don’t understand. What behavior might he object to?”
“You failed to follow your brother’s instructions to return with him to the castle. And even now you disagree with him.”
“I followed your own instructions, Your Majesty. Those that I have always been told are vital to my safety: that I stay always with my maids and my bodyguards. Boris’s men followed his orders, and as a result one lost a hand, the other his life. I wasn’t certain that Boris’s instructions were sound.”
“It’s not your place to judge them but to obey them,” Boris hissed.
“I disagree. Where my safety and honor are concerned, I must choose who I obey. And I chose not to obey you in that instance.”
The king sat back an inch in his throne and regarded Catherine as if he’d never seen her before. Catherine wasn’t sure if she’d gone too far, but knew she should go no further.
“You are my daughter, and a royal princess. But you are a woman and must obey the men who are there to protect you. Let me be clear, from this moment until the moment Tzsayn puts his ring on your finger, you will follow Boris’s instructions in every detail. You will not bring dishonor to me or to Brigant. You will not bring my name into disrepute. You will do nothing to endanger your marriage. Is that clear?”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
“Tzsayn may tolerate your behavior. He may even find it curious and charming; after all, he is a foreigner and has strange ideas—but if I were him I’d whip it out of you once and for all.”
Catherine swallowed. “I will try to be a good wife to Tzsayn, and I am and always will be your loyal daughter.”
“See that you are. Now, Noyes has some news for you.”
Catherine felt dread creep over her. She took a breath and looked at Noyes. He held her gaze for what seemed like forever before saying, “We caught the traitor yesterday.”
Catherine felt dizzy. “Caught?”
“My men found him, riding north. It seems they were more than a match for Sir Ambrose. But sadly we won’t have the pleasure of a second Norwend execution this week. The traitor died of his wounds in the cells last night.”
The half-smile was back on Noyes’s face, and Catherine wanted to run at him and rip it off.
“You look pale, sister,” Boris said.
Catherine had no tears, at least not yet. She remembered Lady Anne, and stood straighter and forced out some words, though she wasn’t even sure of what she was saying.
“It saddens me to hear of another death. Perhaps I’ll find a more peaceful life in Pitoria.”
Boris actually snorted a laugh, the
n cut it short.
“If you want a peaceful life,” grunted the king, “make sure you follow my instructions. Now, get out.”
MARCH
WESTMOUTH, PITORIA
MARCH AND Holywell had landed in the bustling port of Westmouth and immediately begun to inquire about Lord Regan. He hadn’t been hard to trace. The ship on which Regan had traveled was still in port, and the captain provided information for a small fee. The stable where Regan had bought a horse wasn’t hard to find either, but neither the ship’s captain nor the stable boy knew which direction he was traveling.
“When did he leave?” asked March in shaky Pitorian.
The stable boy replied. “Two days ago, in the morning.”
March said to Holywell, “So Regan spent a night here. Maybe he told the innkeeper where he was going.”
Holywell shook his head impatiently. “Regan is clever and cautious. He will not have given such information away. We’ll get horses from that stable and take the road south. If we find no news, then we try the east road and then the north.”
March considered this a poor plan—they were already two days behind Regan—but he didn’t have a better one. He didn’t know how many roads there were or how they might lead to other roads. He asked Holywell, “Do you have a map of Pitoria?” And then, saying that, a new idea emerged: “Does Regan have a map of Pitoria?”
Holywell smiled. “Clever, brother. Find the nearest mapmaker.”
Soon they were in a small shop in a narrow cobbled lane just off the harbor.
“Yes, the gentleman you describe was here,” said the shopkeeper. “But he didn’t want a map. He was after something else.”
It took the purchase of a map before the man revealed what Regan had wanted.
“Ah yes, the gentleman took the schedule of the summer trade fairs. A full schedule costs two kroners. They are pieces of art, really.”
“They’re bloody expensive,” muttered March, but Holywell just smiled at the mapmaker and said, “I’m sure they are.”
“Did our friend say where he was going?” asked March.
“No, but if you look at the schedule you can see where the fair is at present.”
“Can I see the schedule?”
“Can I see two kroners?”
Holywell slammed the money on the counter.
The schedule was simple. From April to September the fair moved every three weeks to a new town in northern Pitoria. It was now at Dornan and would remain there for another two weeks.
Holywell and March set off back to the stables.
“Now we know where our man is bound. We’ll have to ride hard, but we can catch him.” Holywell glanced at March. “How is your riding?”
Like all the people of Abask, March had been brought up riding small, stocky mountain ponies. But that was a long time ago.
“Servants don’t get to do much riding.”
“Much or any?”
“Don’t worry. If I fall off, I’ll get back on.”
“Oh, of that I’m sure, my determined friend. But our future together doesn’t just depend on being able to climb back onto a horse. You need to be able to learn quickly and act decisively.” Holywell grinned. “Time to try out your training.”
“My Pitorian?” March asked. He had been spending every spare moment going over words and phrases he’d learned, and was always asking Holywell about new ones. “I managed well enough with the stable boy. And I followed most of what you said to the mapmaker.”
“No, not that. I showed you how to take a purse, didn’t I?”
Holywell had been teaching March to pick pockets because “it’s a useful skill to be able to deprive someone of something they value.” It was a lot harder than learning a language.
“You know I’m not good enough,” March objected. “Why waste time on this now? If I get caught, we’ll be delayed and Regan will get to the prince’s son before we do.”
“If you get caught, you’ll get more than delayed: you’ll be lashed and you’ll be imprisoned. And I’ll follow Regan alone.” Holywell was serious now. “We need the money, brother. I paid for passage for two of us on the ship, and those maps were hardly cheap. I like you, March, but you wanted to come with me. Now I need you to contribute your share.”
“But you can pick pockets better than me.”
“True. And I will if I need to. But I also need to know you will if you need to. You’re sharp enough, I’ve seen that, but I need to know your will. We’ve come to Pitoria to take a man. To do that, you need determination. You’re not going to serve wine and spy on other people’s conversations; you’re going to exert your will on others. And I need to know you can do this, otherwise you’re wasting my time, and my money.”
And March knew Holywell really would leave him there and carry on alone if he didn’t prove himself.
“Fuck it then. I’ll exert my will.” March surveyed the marketplace, looking for a likely target. “On that man there.”
“What, the old fella? His heart will give out when he finds his money is gone. We don’t want an old man’s death on our conscience.”
March frowned and said, “Well, him then,” nodding to a fat gentleman in a green woolen cape.
“No,” Holywell replied. “Pick on someone your own size. Him.”
The young man Holywell indicated was probably a few years older than March. Tall, strong. And wearing a dagger.
“Hardly anyone in this country is armed and you pick the man with a knife!” March spluttered. “I thought you didn’t want a death on your hands?”
“The man in the cape was armed too. His dagger was hidden.”
March was irritated now. He said, “Fine. The young man with the dagger.”
Without another word to Holywell, he set off, following his target through the market. March moved close and saw where the man’s coin purse sat inside his jacket. He would have to brush into him or distract him as he slid his hand inside the jacket. But there were too many people here; he knew he’d fail. March felt his chest tighten. How can I do it without getting caught?
The young man left the market square, so March set off down a backstreet, hoping to come around ahead of him. He was just speeding up when, to his surprise, the man appeared before him, taking a shortcut, no doubt.
March seized his chance, rushing into the young man and pushing him against the wall. In his broken Pitorian he managed, “I want your money.”
“What?”
“Give me your money. Now!”
March slid his hand into the young man’s jacket, but his victim grabbed that hand with his left, while his right hand went to his knife.
But the knife stayed in the scabbard.
March smiled at the man. “Why don’t you take it out?”
He wasn’t sure he said it correctly, but the young man looked terrified, his hand gripping the knife yet seeming to push it farther into the scabbard. And the thrill of it was wonderful. For once March felt like he had some power.
March hissed at the young man, “Give me your money. Now. Or I . . . cut . . .” March’s Pitorian ran out, so he gestured a slit across his throat. He wasn’t armed, but the man didn’t know that. The man had only to take the dagger from his scabbard, to run March through, but he seemed frozen still.
“You want to die?” March jolted the man against the wall.
The young man shook his head.
“Give me your money. Now.”
“Take it,” the man croaked, and he reached into his jacket and handed over his purse.
It wasn’t heavy.
“Now run,” March barked, and he pushed the young man away. His victim ran, stumbling past Holywell, who was walking toward them.
Holywell beamed and clapped his hands slowly. “Not exactly the technique I taught you, but we each have our own methods.” Tha
t he said in Calidorian but the rest he spoke in Abask: “You are quite special, March. You do know that, don’t you?”
March stared back at Holywell. He felt exhilarated. It had been good to exert his will, to have someone do his bidding for a change.
“You look like you will kill; there is no doubting it. That gleam in your eye.” Holywell squeezed March’s shoulder. “A fine asset, that look. But don’t be killing anyone just yet. There’s plenty of time for that, brother.”
EDYON
DORNAN, PITORIA
EDYON ENTERED the dimly lit tent and took a moment to let his eyes adjust. Across the small wooden octagonal table sat Madame Eruth. Her body was covered—dressed seemed the wrong word—in faded patterned scarves that blended so well with the rugs it was always a challenge to know where the tent ended and she began.
“You’ve brought the bones this time.”
Madame Eruth spoke with certainty, as she did all things. Her comment wasn’t a prediction but a statement of the obvious.
Edyon put a kroner and the bones on the table.
“Tell me my future.”
The kroner and the request were the same as Edyon gave every time he and Madame Eruth met, which was at least three times a year, but the bones were a new development in Edyon’s search for knowledge. Madame Eruth had a crystal ball, which she preferred. However, with Edyon she’d also used tea leaves, palm reading, and cards. Edyon had had his future told and retold based on these devices for many years, but the last time they met, at the fair at Gorgant in the autumn, Madame Eruth had said he should kill an animal and bring the bones with him next time.
And as luck would have it, at least for Edyon, a chicken had come into his possession a few days earlier. He’d managed to kill it, though he hadn’t wrung its neck properly and the wretched creature had squawked and flapped and clawed until Edyon had cut its head off, apologizing at the same time. Once it was dead he’d boiled the body until the meat fell off the bones and he left them to dry in the sun. He’d scattered the meat in the woods for the foxes to find, hoping some gift to nature might help with the prediction. He didn’t really believe in the power of nature and spent half his time telling himself Madame Eruth was a fraud, and yet he always came back. There was something here in the tent, with her, away from books and learning and logic, something deeper that he hoped would help him.