When Nana turned her attention back to the front of the room, the judiciary was asking, “What do you know about the theft of this Truth Stone?”
“Only that I discovered a large bag of jewels missing, and when I asked Matwyck about it he said to shut up—that with General Yurgn’s help he had purchased something that would help us find the princella. Now, I put two and two together.”
Cerúlia interrupted by asking, “What do you know about the death of Lady Tenny?”
“Nothing direct. But I suspect Matwyck had her killed because she didn’t capture the princella when she had a chance to do so in Gulltown.”
Cerúlia snapped, “Don’t bandy words with me. Who would know the full details about her death?”
“Captain Murgn took care of such … details. And General Yurgn would have been kept informed. Perchance Matwyck’s secretary, Heathclaw.”
Captain Yanath stood, drawing everyone’s attention. “Do you have a comment to add, Captain?” asked the lead judiciary.
“Milady, I just wanted to remind everyone that Heathclaw was among the Throne Room casualties.”
The judiciary nodded. “Pity. So noted.”
A younger judiciary took over questions about the council’s governing practices. Prigent didn’t know the location of the secret prisons, even though he had allocated funds for them. How did the council decide who received lucrative royal contracts? What kind of kickback schemes occurred? How much public funds had Prigent himself embezzled? How had he spent these monies?
Everyone laughed at revelations of how much he had lavished on his mistress.
A fourth judiciary, a man with webbed fingers on his left hand, which he tried to keep hidden in his robe but kept bringing out when he got excited, took over on the subject of this week’s Battle of the Throne Room. Prigent had not been present and thus knew nothing about what transpired there except for the comments he had overheard in the stable. Instead of rushing in the direction of the commotion like everyone else, he had hurried to his office to burn his most incriminating ledgers.
“I burned the ledgers in the fireplace. Paper—it burned well and quickly. I have no idea how the big fire started. I did nothing but burn the ledgers, in the hearth.… I started the fire with a big clump of these and threw in more once it got going.”
The last questions had to do with Matwyck’s escape from his sickroom. But on that matter, Prigent, being already confined to the stable, had no firsthand information. He did agree, however, that having an escape plan would be typical of Matwyck’s character.
When the judiciaries had finished, Cerúlia herself addressed Prigent. “I have a most urgent question that has not been covered. Councilor, why did you act in the ways that you have described for us here?”
“I felt no loyalty to Queen Cressa,” Prigent answered. “She’d never shown me any favor. Like the rest of the gentry, she looked down her royal nose at me, because I was just an administrator, and common-born. Why should I stick my neck out to protect her? And Lord Matwyck, as everyone in this room knows, is much too strong a personality to oppose. If I’d even thought of warning the queen or upsetting the plans, he would have had me killed.
“And then the money…” He smiled in remembrance. “Matwyck sent me with Vanilina to this tropical island to do paperwork. Every night we dined sumptuously and drank the best wines. I bought her jewels I’d never have been able to afford. When it was hot we hired servants to fan us all night long. I’d never have been able to do this on my paltry salary.”
“And so,” Cerúlia pressed, “for those things you betrayed your queen and pilfered from your countrymen?”
“Anyone in my position would have done the same—haven’t all of you sitting in this room profited from some fiddle, large or small? Life is short. Why shouldn’t I live as well as anyone? I was able to make my brothers look up to me; little people pulled their fetlocks to me. The money bought me comfort, prestige, and respect.”
Then he looked up at the queen. “Besides, fiddling with funds isn’t such a big deal. Unlike others I could mention, I’ve never stabbed anybody.”
During his speech, the queen had gazed at him in rapt contemplation; now her eyelashes batted together in an angry gesture that Nana recalled too well. Cerúlia motioned to the little terrier, who stalked over to the prisoner, raised her hind leg, and pissed on his legs.
Grabbing her long skirts, the Rorther envoy rose to move away from the trickle, trying to restrain herself from laughing. “Your Majesty, this has been such an illuminating event. I would hate to be the one to cut such a flow of valuable information short. And we would dearly like to know more about the theft of our Stone. Perchance you would like to arrange for a few more such sessions while we wait for the escort ship?”
“Envoy Rakihah, I was hoping you might come to this conclusion,” replied the queen. “Might you be free to discuss this matter further with me over dinner?
“Chief Judiciary”—Cerúlia turned to the functionary—“I know you must digest the information that we have received today and make decisions about how best to proceed. But we must not presume upon the Rorthers’ generosity. The most important thing we must concentrate on tomorrow is the location of the secret prisons.”
13
By changing horses at every hostelry along their route, Marcot and Percia’s carriage arrived at the palace in the dead of night, five days after the wedding, four days into the reign of Queen Cerúlia. The newlyweds’ anxiety and distress pummeled them so they couldn’t wait until dawn; when they found out that Stahlia had forestalled her move to West Cottage and still stayed in the guest suite she’d occupied before the wedding, Percia charged in to wake her up.
Marcot paced the corridor and ordered a sleepy footman to fetch them all coffee and whatever was handy in the kitchens to eat.
When the women invited Marcot inside to join them, Stahlia had thrown Percia’s traveling cloak on over her nightshift, while Percia had made herself more comfortable by shedding her boots and taking down her hair, which she twisted in her hands as they talked. The three pulled up chairs and drank the coffee while Stahlia—thank the Waters he had such a steely mother-in-marriage!—managed to narrate the events they had missed in a coherent fashion.
By daybreak, Percia, incensed about all those years of secrecy and duplicity, announced that she simply could not hold back any longer from seeing her sister.
Marcot tried to dissuade her. “She’s probably still sleeping. You can’t go barging in on a queen without a by-your-leave.”
“I don’t care if she’s queen,” Percia snapped at her husband. “She’s also my Birdie, and she’s played me false!”
Marcot tried to restrain his bride from running shoeless through the corridors, but Stahlia said, “Let her go. The girls will need to work this out between themselves.”
Dazed from this rush of information, Marcot took leave of his mother-in-marriage. Stahlia offered him a sheaf of special broadsheets rush-printed by the Cascada News (and chockablock with spelling and printing errors); these he carried back to his own quarters and read three times to try to absorb all the startling information.
Then he sat a while with his eyes closed and his head in his hands. For the first time, Marcot was glad that his mother was dead. He knew how much she would have suffered from these revelations of his father’s misdeeds—he knew because of how much he writhed.
Oh, he’d been fully aware that not everything his father did was ethical. He knew his father was an ambitious plotter and that money flowed through his hands much too easily for it all to be fully legal. But treason? Multiple murders? Marcot wanted to deny such serious charges, but he realized that over the years he had avoided facing clues and inconsistencies because he couldn’t bear to face the truth.
Guilt settled like a stone in his gut.
He would have to spend the rest of his life atoning for his father’s actions.
After a few hours of fitful sleep, Marcot made an appointment
to see the queen. A strange man with braided hair made him relinquish his dagger in the hallway outside her closet, and then an unfamiliar figure serving as secretary announced him.
Entering the room, Marcot was taken aback, because the face between the blue hair and the necklace of Nargis Ice surely belonged to the sister he had met a week ago, and yet the queen who sat at a table before him was a different person in dress, bearing, and voice.
“Your Majesty.” He bowed. She rose and crossed to him, holding his hands for a moment. “Marcot, my brother, how are you bearing up? A difficult business, I know.” She reseated herself, holding her right arm in pain, and motioned for him to sit, but he preferred to stand.
“‘Difficult’ indeed. During the wedding festivities I behaved like such a fool; I thought I was noble and high-minded for defending you and your family. Now I discover that the Weir gentry and I are about as noble as the dirt beneath your feet.”
“Marcot, no one blames you for your father’s crimes.”
“I blame myself. I should have stopped them; I should have denounced him; I should have done something, though I know not what.”
The queen shrugged as if he were just being obstinate, but Marcot knew the hard truth of his responsibility.
“Are there any tidings regarding my father’s whereabouts?” Marcot forced himself to ask.
“No. We suspect that General Yurgn’s people took him in, but whether to protect him or to snuff out what spark remains, we don’t know. You’ve heard he was grievously injured in the Battle of the Throne Room?”
“Yes. I heard that.”
The queen allowed a long pause, and in the silence Marcot heard the plink of water drops from the room’s water feature.
“I regret that I had to interrupt your honey trip. But Marcot, I need to ask you for a service. I am a stranger to the court, and I know little about its factions or its customs. You have partially grown up here, and the people must know and trust you. Would you be willing to serve on my Circle Council?”
“I am yours to command, but I don’t know how you can trust the son of a traitor.”
“Was your mother a traitor?”
“Never!” said Marcot with a flash of heat. “In fact, I now believe she died to get away from my father.”
“I can trust Lady Tirinella’s son,” said the queen. “And, I can trust Percia’s husband. But you are more than the sum of your connections: you are your own person, and I can trust you.”
A dog that had been sniffing him licked his hand, but Marcot was in too much turmoil to pay attention to an animal. Plink!
“As you wish.” Marcot bowed again. “Your Majesty, if I am to serve, could I be given jurisdiction over making amends to those my father wronged?”
“Interesting proposition,” said the queen, rubbing her upper right arm again. “Yes, I think that would restore balance. This afternoon we are holding another questioning session. Our first accused is Captain Murgn, whom we believe to have been in charge of the disappearances. We need to know where folk are being held and who ordered the arrests. I am most eager to find our Wyndton friend, Lemle.
“As long as you are here … Chronicler Sewel urges me to complete my Circle Council. Naven is a duke and you are now a lord; Seamaster Wilamara can represent the military; the citizens will elect a steward. What should I do with the last two seats? Who would give me good counsel?”
“I believe that a person who represents the merchants or the guilds could help us think about how decisions affect trade and business. Suppose I invite five or six notables to a midmeal”—Plink!—“and we see if anyone emerges as a strong and wise voice?”
“Fine. For the sixth councilor we need someone to fill the role Lady Tenny once held as a councilor for diplomacy. Someone who has traveled the world and can advise us on foreign affairs.”
“No one immediately comes to mind, but I will ponder these qualifications.”
“Very well.” The queen changed the subject. “You’ve been through a great trauma; I’m glad you have Percia to support you. By the same token, Percia has been through a shock; she will need your love more than ever.”
For the first time, Marcot felt a hint of a grin move his lips. “If it is not presumptuous, how are you, Your Majesty? When Percia and I parted this morning, she was so distraught I feared for your safety.”
Plink! Queen Cerúlia cleared her throat. “Aye. My sister and I—we had a difficult confrontation this morning. My most sensitive dog started yowling in the middle of it.” She leaned forward to stroke the animal by her side. “I had fretted about Stahlia; but I had thought Percia’s and my bond superseded any barrier.
“Secrets are corrosive,” she said. “For years I knew the toll that keeping so many secrets took on me. But I didn’t stop to consider fully how much their revelation would crush other people. As much as secrets hurt the one who keeps them, they also hurt the ones who have been deceived.”
With a sense of betraying his wife, Marcot commented, “But as I understand the situation, you didn’t have a choice.”
“No,” said the young queen. “I had no choice whatsoever. But it is always a mistake not to take the measure of the pain of others. Even if one is helpless to alleviate their suffering, one must give it the respect it deserves.”
* * *
That afternoon Marcot witnessed a questioning for himself. The room was overflowing with people—people who might be whispering about his years of blindness to his father’s crimes. Marcot avoided their glances, choosing to seat himself on the side of the room on a two-person couch next to Duke Naven, who greeted him with a hearty clap on the shoulders. Stahlia and Percia did not appear in the salon; Marcot hoped that they were lying down.
The judiciaries called Captain Murgn first. Murgn struggled against the guards escorting him with his whole body while he shouted out curses and threats. The shields had a difficult time controlling him and looked apprehensive about cutting loose one of his hands to place it on the Truth Stone.
The man whom Naven identified as the queen’s Zellish bodyguard left his post behind her chair and approached the prisoner on light feet. He used his left hand to grab Murgn’s private parts and produced a gleaming knife in his right. With an impassive face he whispered a few words. Murgn froze. The Zellishman nodded to the Queen’s Shield, and they cut loose Murgn’s right hand. Sergeant Athelbern brought forth a tray and placed the prisoner’s hand on the Truth Stone. Then the bodyguard squatted on his heels so he was no longer so visible, though he kept his hands as they were throughout Murgn’s testimony. If his position strained his muscles or his patience, the man gave no sign.
After preliminaries, the lead judiciary asked, “You are the captain of Matwyck’s Marauders, are you not?”
“Aye. Stupid question, bitch. You know who I am.”
“And what were your duties?”
“I reported to the Lord Regent himself. Only the Lord Regent. Not to you.”
“What did Lord Matwyck order you to do?”
“Various things.”
“You are trying my patience. Tell us what you and Matwyck’s Marauders did.”
“We guarded the palace and the Lord Regent’s interests.”
“Against whom did you guard the palace?”
“Against any threat and—and against any woman who might be trying to sneak in.”
The judiciary paced the front of the room. “So against the rightful queen, returning to claim her throne. Your orders were to…?”
“Apprehend her or kill her. Either way.” Marcot felt the room stir and audience members stifle expressions of shock.
“So you guarded the palace. Did you have anything to do with Lady Tenny’s death?”
“Who’s that?”
“She was a councilor, an elderly woman. Reports circulated more than two years ago that she committed suicide off SeaWidow Cliff.”
“Oh, the dried-up cunt with the turban? I carted her up to the cliff, but I didn’t push her off. Sh
e jumped on her own.”
“If she had balked, what were your orders?”
“Oh, she was going over—one way or another.”
“Aside from guarding the palace from its legitimate queen and making sure elderly ladies jumped to their deaths, what else did the Marauders do?” The judiciary tugged on both sides of her blue scarf.
“We arrested people who was disturbing the peace.”
“Disturbing the peace in what way?”
“Plotting to overthrow the government.” Murgn snorted and threw his head high.
“How were they plotting to overthrow the government?”
“Mostly by advocating for the blue-haired one to return.” His eyes briefly flicked over the queen sitting before him.
“Were these people threatening anyone? Harming anyone?”
“They were agitators. Talkers. Plotters.”
“When you arrested them, what did you do with them?”
“Various things.”
“Did you kill them?”
“Some.”
Irritated, the judiciary tugged harder on her blue scarf and phrased her question very precisely. “How many people suspected of being ‘talkers’ did you and your men kill in the last two years?”
“Several hundred.”
“That’s a vague number. More than three hundred?”
“Aye.”
“More than five hundred?”
“Probably not, but I didn’t keep count.”
“Are there any records of the names of the people you went after?”
“No. We aren’t stupid.”
“That’s a matter of opinion,” sighed the judiciary. “The people you didn’t kill, did you beat them?”
“Sure.”
“Punch them in the stomach, break their arms, break their legs? Smash their heads?”
“That’s what beating means.” Murgn smiled at the woman’s ignorance.
“Did you molest them?”
“Only if the gal was really a looker.” Murgn glanced around as if expecting a laugh, but the faces in the room gave him no comfort. Marcot recognized many of the guests his father had invited to the wedding; they seemed to be shrinking away from this bald revelation of his father’s ruthlessness.
The Cerulean Queen Page 9
