The Cerulean Queen

by Sarah Kozloff

  Soldiers and healers helped the men out of their cell. The floor was disgusting with urine, but Marcot soon figured out why these prisoners had survived: before absconding their posts, these jailers had rolled into the room a large barrel of water. Even with this precious gift, three bodies lay stretched out near the back of the cell.

  Two men—one very old and one very young—sat together on a bench near the bodies instead of rushing toward freedom. The younger one looked familiar.

  Marcot knelt down even with their faces. “Can I help you?” he asked.

  “Lordling Marcot?” the young man asked.

  “Yes?”

  “I am Lemle, from Wyndton.”

  “Lemle! I feared something like this had happened to you! Oh, won’t Percia be overjoyed I’ve found you! Here, let me help you stand up.”

  “Lordling, see to my friend first, would you?” the gaunt young man pleaded.

  Marcot turned to the old man, whose thin hair stretched down his back. He didn’t talk or react, but he still had a pulse in his neck and wrists.

  “What happened to him?” Marcot asked Lemle.

  “He was all right—he was himself—just a few minutes ago. But when we heard you calling out, he just went blank.”

  “He might have had a heart attack or a stroke,” said Marcot. “I’ll see that he’s brought to the palace healers. Come now, Lemle, let me get you taken care of,” said Marcot, putting his arm around the scrawny back and draping the boy’s arm around his neck. “Let me take you away from this place!”

  Marcot dispatched Lemle and his elderly cellmate to Finzle’s care in the palace infirmary and then returned to Yanath’s office. He heard from Yanath that at the western address keepers had still held their posts, so his Shield had the satisfaction of rescuing living captives, killing jailers, and taking prisoners. Two messengers from farther-away locations returned at nightfall, with the glad news that in one case, the local populace, once the news of the queen’s return had reached them, stormed the jail, killed the captors, and rescued the incarcerated. In the other case the keepers had fled, but tossed the keys inside the cell. The prisons in the central duchies were too far away for any news to reach the palace for several days.

  With nothing more he could do this evening, Marcot turned to personal matters. He sent a note to the queen and escorted Stahlia, Percia, and Tilim to the infirmary, where Finzle, who had finished inspecting and treating his patients, came out into the corridor to speak to them.

  Finzle was discoursing at tedious length about all the effects of malnourishment on a human body when Mistress Stahlia literally pushed him to the side and stormed the door.

  Lemle had been sleeping in a narrow cot, but he woke when the Wyndton family ambushed him.

  “Hey,” he said, half rising on his elbow. “Did I miss the wedding?”

  “Hey, yourself,” said Tilim. “That you did! And a bit of other excitement!”

  “Oh, Lemle! To think of feasting ourselves while you were starving!” said Percia, bursting into tears.

  Stahlia’s response was more helpful: she spoon-fed the patient more of the gruel that sat by his bed while Percia held his hand and stroked his hair and cried over him. Tilim stood at the foot of the bed, patting Lemle’s feet.

  Knowing that Lemle was only one of the newly freed prisoners and that similar scenes might be taking place throughout Cascada, Marcot found the scene too painful to witness. He slipped out of the room and headed back in the direction of his own quarters, contemplating all the suffering his father had inflicted. As he turned a corner, Queen Cerúlia, voluminous silk skirts gathered up in both hands, ran into him—the collision sent him sprawling on the floor.

  “Beg pardon,” she shouted over her shoulder as she sprinted onward, dogs bounding around her. “Which door? For Water’s sake! Marcot!”

  “On your left—past the staircase—three more down!” he called to her.

  The strange bodyguard helped him regain his feet. “Lord,” he said with a slight incline of his head, “you have done her a service. You have gladdened her heart.”

  As Marcot continued on his way, he saw the old nursemaid, Nana, hustling down the corridor in the queen’s wake; she cradled water in a golden bowl.

  PART TWO

  Reign of Queen Cerúlia

  SUMMER

  14

  Jutterdam

  After the last petitioner left, Destra exhaled and rested her forehead on the bottom of her palms. Not for the first time she wished she had a magic wand to erase the crimes of the Oros and to ease the suffering and grievances of the Free Staters. Although the Jutters had named her “first minister,” she rued the limits of her powers and resources.

  “Let’s get out of this stuffy room and go for a walk,” suggested Quinith, who was serving as temporary treasurer, and who had sat by her side through the long afternoon in the Assembly Hall of Jutterdam, a dark wooden chamber.

  The late-afternoon sea breeze made their hair and clothes ruffle. Destra breathed in the air, thankful that it no longer smelled of charred flesh. They ambled around the center of town with no particular destination. Summer Solstice Fest approached, and wreaths hung on many doorways.

  “Much better than the decor here when we first entered the city,” Quinith remarked, nodding his head at a particular cheerful array of dried flowers and greenery.

  “Indeed,” said Destra, thinking back on the burned bodies that the Oros had hung on every street corner.

  It had taken only four days for the occupiers to board the Green Isles ships she had arranged and retreat from the city, but it was taking moons to bring the city back to life from its traumas. Commander Thalen had organized burial crews to remove those grisly sights while teams of searchers broke down every door, locating the wounded, malnourished, and terrified citizens hiding away. Destra had been arranging for the succor of Mìngyùn’s people ever since.

  The Spirit of Fate communicated with its Agent much less frequently these days. Destra assumed that this silence connoted satisfaction with her efforts to shape the peace.

  As Quinith walked beside her at a steady pace, Destra realized that she could see small yet tangible signs of recovery in every direction. Shops had their doors open for evening custom, and the open-air market boasted more stalls and more customers than just a few weeks previously. Now that cold weather and spring rains had passed, reconstruction projects had begun; the two strollers constantly needed to detour around piles of bricks and lumber. Some roofers were working through the last moments of light, their hammers beating a loud but cheerful tattoo.

  When they turned a corner and stumbled upon a group of children playing a game with a ball, they paused to watch the scene for a few moments.

  “Did you know we would see this?” she asked Quinith.

  “Not this precisely, but I saw other children playing during Planting Fest while you were busy entertaining the Jutter luminaries and listening to their complaints.”

  “They have a right to their sorrows and grievances,” Destra answered mildly. “Jutterdam suffered. To the extent I listen to and acknowledge their claims, I can lessen their pain.”

  “I understand,” said Quinith, “though I don’t know how you manage it—you didn’t cause the Occupation.”

  “No, but like every Iga citizen who refused to accept that the threat loomed and take active steps, I bear a portion of responsibility.”

  “These very Jutter merchants and gentry bear more. They, at least, were living here in the years before the Oros invaded and they didn’t take the proper steps to protect themselves. You weren’t even in the country.”

  “That’s true, but I wasn’t here to help my people because I was preoccupied with licking my personal wounds in the Green Isles.” She lightly touched his shoulder and met Quinith’s gaze. “Oh, reason not the apportionment of guilt, Quinith. Now that we have picked up the reins of government, the redress of suffering lies in our hands.”

  Half the children t
hey watched broke into cheers. “What’s happened?” Destra asked.

  “The ball hit that gutter; I take it they are using that as a way of winning a point.”

  “I’m hungry,” said Destra. “There’s a tavern down by the wharf that doesn’t overcook their fish. Shall we head in that direction?”

  They walked on to the eatery, pointing out to one another more encouraging signs of progress, such as the number of ships berthed in the harbor that Jutters had so laboriously cleared of sunken boats.

  Apparently others had also discovered the cookery skill of this establishment, because all the seats of Hulia’s Tavern were filled and many other would-be diners gathered by the doorway.

  “They are going to set up tables out here in the street,” Quinith relayed to Destra after he pushed his way back through the press. “Is that all right with you?”

  “Of course.”

  After a short wait, the proprietor fixed them up with a trestle table and stools, and—when she realized her guests included Minister Destra, the savior of the city—a carafe of their best wine.

  They clinked glasses in the glow of a glass lantern. “May your Spirit bless you,” said Quinith.

  “As Fate disposes,” Destra responded.

  Destra had broken bread with Quinith many times before, but always in the company of Commander Thalen and others, such as the healers Cerf and Dwinny, or Bellishia of Yosta, who had assumed direct responsibility for the city’s security and formed a city watch. But Thalen and the rest of the Raiders had departed yesterday for Sutterdam.

  “We’ll miss Commander Thalen,” she said to Quinith. “I’ll miss our chats.” Many a time, Thalen had accepted her invitation for a cup of Green Isles tisane and they had stayed up late, debating the books that Tutor Granilton had assigned to each of them. This escape into theories and ideas had provided both a needed respite and practical guidance for their day-to-day decisions.

  “It was time for him to go,” Quinith commented. “He was restless here because he wasn’t as needed anymore.”

  Destra took another sip of her wine and pulled on the long plait that fell over her right shoulder. “I would have gladly shrugged more of the responsibility for administration on his shoulders.”

  “He hasn’t your patience or your knack with empathy or diplomacy,” said Quinith. “He would just order folks to do things his way. And if they asked why, he would reel off a passage from a book.”

  “Perhaps so. I’m very grateful you agreed to remain, Quinith. I’ll be leaning on you quite shamelessly.” She looked at the young man across the table from her, conscious of actually studying him for the first time. His gray eyes had tiny flecks of a warmer, hazel color. His lined face made it hard to tell his age, which she guessed at ten to fifteen years younger than herself, but he had an easy way with people and a pronounced aptitude for organization and management.

  “I have nowhere else to go,” Quinith said, with a self-deprecating smile and an openhanded gesture. “Besides, being needed, feeling competent at one’s work, is a great joy. I was never a soldier, but these tasks I can handle.”

  “Building a peace is just as hard and in many ways more admirable than fighting. It takes patience and tact. But weren’t you tempted to follow your fellow Raiders?”

  “A little, but I don’t really belong with that group.”

  “Even though you’ve known Commander Thalen the longest, I heard?” Destra took another sip of wine.

  “Aye, I knew him at the Scoláiríum.”

  “Was he Commander Thalen then? Did he carry the same aura of command and authority?”

  “No.” Quinith smiled and shook his head at the memory. “When he first came he was gawky and shy. Somewhat coltish. He didn’t become ‘the Commander’ until the war started. He changed after the Rout, and after his year in Oromondo I hardly recognized him.”

  The server plunked steaming trenchers of crab poached in wine in front of them.

  “To be strictly honest”—Quinith waved his hand over his food, letting it cool—“that’s another reason why I didn’t travel on with the Raiders. I haven’t told this to another soul, but when you’re with Thalen, it’s rather like the light of every room pools around him. Originally, I planned on being a singer; I’ve always enjoyed the warmth of a crowd’s attention. But with the commander in a group, even when he’s silent and shirking attention, everyone waits to hear him speak.”

  “You’re so right,” Destra agreed. “Whether he wants it or not, the Spirits have set him apart. It’s a burden for him, and in some ways for everyone around him.”

  They addressed their food with appetite. Destra concentrated on savoring both the flavors and the waves of conversation and laughter swirling around their table, finding the sound of happy voices a welcome balm. As the sky darkened, Hulia set up outdoor lanterns on poles. The evening air grew crisper and the wind off the harbor carried a bite even now in midsummer. Destra shivered because her ministerial “uniform”—a dark skirt and a fitted white jacket with a bit of gold braid on the sleeves and yoke—was not particularly warm. Quinith took off his olive-colored coat and draped it about her shoulders.

  “Warmer?”

  “Thank you.” She was glad of Quinith’s coat, which, she realized, carried an odor of maleness. Quinith poured her another glass of wine.

  “I heard a tale, Quinith, about you losing your fiancée,” Destra remarked with deliberate offhandedness. “I believe we have that in common. Would you care to talk about it? Of course, if the subject is too painful … I don’t mean to cause you any distress.”

  “I haven’t spoken about it to anyone in depth. But it doesn’t feel as raw anymore.” Quinith told Destra the whole story of his relationship with Gustie and her death. Sipping her wine, Destra listened intently, and then, to repay his openness, she told him about Graville’s murder and her years of mourning.

  At the end of these confidences, Quinith asked, “Does one heal from such experiences? How does one go on to have a full life?”

  “If by a full life you mean love, marriage, or children, I’m the wrong person to ask,” said Destra. “I squandered my youth nursing and savoring my grief and fury. Only now, as an old woman, have I found the strength and reasons to move on.”

  “‘Old woman’—I wouldn’t say that! I would say you’ve merely reached your full bloom.”

  “What gallantry!” Destra laughed, wondering if her young companion was just being courteous or whether flirtation lay under his words.

  Glancing around, Destra realized that the noise and crowd had thinned; most of the other patrons had left, and the tavern staff were bringing inside the tables they had set up out-of-doors.

  “We must go back to our lodgings,” Destra said. “The tavern people tire and long for their beds. We have a full day of meetings tomorrow, including the discussion of tariffs and tithing we’ve been putting off with the merchant guild.”

  “Oh, joy,” Quinith remarked sardonically, making Destra grin.

  As they started to stroll back to their inn, Quinith said, “The streets are so dark now; won’t you take my arm?”

  “I’d be happy to,” said Destra, as she threaded her arm through his, and they walked back through the recovering city, chatting about how to convince the guild tomorrow—almost as if they were a cozy couple.

  15

  Riverine

  Despite himself, Matwyck listened for General Yurgn’s boots clicking down the hallway every morning. Yurgn came to visit his guest once a day like clockwork. The rest of the time the former Lord Regent had to make do with only the intermittent attendance of a manservant named Cosmas, an evil-eyed scamp who took advantage of his patient’s powerlessness, often running off for hours, leaving him abandoned and prey to varied discomforts.

  Thus, Matwyck planned conversational gambits to make the general tarry. Usually they deliberated about what they would do once one of their schemes to eliminate the inexperienced queen succeeded. Discussing how they wou
ld gather their forces, whom they would discipline, whom they would forgive (if they showed the right contrition) held great appeal. But as the weeks progressed, these plots had been thoroughly chewed over and had lost most of their savor.

  So in recent visits Matwyck had tried to steer his host to more personal issues, such as confidences about his family. Yurgn fumed about his nephew Murgn’s capture and almost busted a blood vessel when tidings arrived about the captain spilling his guts at the questioning. He assured Matwyck that Yurgenia, Clovadorska, and Burgn had held steadfast. But he didn’t warm to the topic of discussing his children or grandchildren like many people did.

  Actually, this indifference did not surprise Matwyck, because as the years had trickled by he had recognized that the only things the general truly cared about were money and a long life. Inside of his coconspirator was an insatiable hole that could never be filled. Yurgn was a miser, hoarding his gold as he hoarded his days.

  “How are you feeling today?” asked Yurgn, as he always did, a question that set Matwyck’s teeth on edge. How do you think I feel, he wanted to shout, with a shattered pelvis, a gouge straight through my right thigh, pissing blood, and anchored to this bed in your lesser guest wing?

  Instead, Matwyck answered with a forced smile. “I’ll dance on your grave yet, you old bastard, if not by Solstice Fest, at least by Harvest Fest.”

  The general grinned as he settled into the sole chair in the underused room where spiderwebs gathered in the ceiling corners. “Not much chance of that. You forget I’ve seen injuries in my day. Even if your bones knit, that leg will never be strong enough for a jig.”

  “You’re probably right.” Matwyck knew that arguing would hasten his visitor’s departure. “Is there any news?”

  “Dispatches came from my people in Cascada.” The general grunted. “Word is that they sent that Stone back to Rortherrod.”