The Cerulean Queen

by Sarah Kozloff

  “Well, that’s good. It will keep them from untangling the rest of your network.”

  Yurgn nodded assent. “And I got a foolish letter from Latlie.”

  “What does that ancient cow want?” said Matwyck, trying to shift his body so he sat up a little straighter.

  “Ancient?” Yurgn replied, with a hint of surprise. “She’s ten years younger than I am.”

  “But she doesn’t wear her years anywhere near as well.”

  “No,” agreed Yurgn. “I’ve sat beside her at meals; she eats too much custard. So much cream puts a strain on the body.”

  “While you’ve stayed as trim as any military man,” Matwyck commented, “which is why you’ll dance on her grave.”

  The general proudly patted his muscular belly, enjoying the hollow sound the slap made enough to do it again.

  The erstwhile Lord Regent had to prod him back on the subject. “What did she say in the letter?”

  “Oh. She wants a loan. Claims that her own funds are out of reach for the nonce and she needs money to escape with all her family and retainers to the Free States or the Green Isles.”

  “And you will respond…?”

  “I shan’t respond at all! I don’t have time for idle correspondence. Let Latlie see to her own. I’ve already paid out a fortune these last moons, what with my agents angling for double prices, and what with healer’s fees and paying off the crew who brought you.…”

  Matwyck caught the general’s gaze. “I know you shelter me here out of military virtue—leave no comrade behind on the field and so on—but you have my word of honor that you will be repaid threefold.”

  Actually the night the cart brought me, he took me in with bad grace, and then only because he feared that if I were captured and talked, the full extent of his involvement would be revealed.

  Yurgn had heard this promise before, so he just grunted. He started to clutch the chair arms, in preparation for rising.

  Matwyck rushed to say, “What do you think her next move will be?”

  The general understood they were no longer talking about Latlie. “She will consolidate her hold on the city and the harbor, which do offer certain strategic advantages.”

  “Such as popular support.” Matwyck tapped his fingers together as if deeply considering the general’s military acumen.

  “The little people can be such a pain in the arse! Properly whipped up, you can make a mob,” his confederate added, as if this was a rare pearl of wisdom. “But I purposely chose this manse because it lies between the Catamount Cavalry barracks and the Ice Pikemen stockade. The officers are bought and paid for. I have fed those troops, led those troops, and personally trained them. They know who butters their bread.

  “What’s that little queen going to do—challenge five hundred cavalry and one thousand pikemen and archers with the palace guards, a crowd of rabble, and flocks of geese? Ba!” He swatted away the notion.

  Matwyck rubbed his beard stubble, annoyed that Cosmas never shaved him properly. “She wants us both, Yurgn. Does she know I’m here?”

  “How do I know what she knows?” his visitor said.

  Matwyck tapped his fingers together thoughtfully.

  “If I were you, I’d make sure of your neighboring officers.”

  “Offer more?” Yurgn gripped the chair’s arms.

  “Attention or flattery often works as well as funds,” answered Matwyck. “You know that. Why don’t you have them over for dinner? You used to host such lavish feasts, storied parties.”

  “That was before the price of beef went up fourfold!” said Yurgn.

  “Come, come,” said Matwyck. “Doesn’t red meat nourish the blood? Wouldn’t it be good for your health?”

  “Well, that’s not really a bad notion,” the general admitted. “Men can be frail. Sometimes junior officers need a bit of fortifying, a sense that their superior is watching them.”

  “Just so.”

  “Well”—he levered himself off the chair with an effortlessness that Matwyck now envied—“I must be off; if I’m going to host a party like that, I’ll want to talk to my daughter about preparations.” The general looked around the sickroom vaguely, adding his routine farewell, “You have everything you need, I take it.”

  “Yes, yes, I do, thanks to your generosity.”

  As the general left, Matwyck leaned back against his bolster. He found it hard to judge whether he was healing or weakening. The sadistic prick of a military healer had cauterized the arrow wound all the way through and it hadn’t festered, but bed confinement did nothing to reknit the mangled muscles. Yet he couldn’t move about because of his fractures; he was forbidden even to stand up lest he disrupt the bones. And if his innards hadn’t totally ruptured, they still leaked blood. Some days he thought the bleeding had stopped, and the next day the white chamber pot would again fill with red.

  And the pain. Each day Matwyck resolved to wait until after his early supper to ask Cosmas for milk of the poppy. That meant he still had tiresome hours to get through.

  He took out the cache of broadsheets he kept hidden under his pillow. Yurgn forbade these on his grounds probably because he didn’t want his family or retainers to know what had been revealed as the new administration started poking around, going through the ledgers, picking up rocks that were better left undisturbed. Matwyck had had to bribe the illiterate laundress with his pinky ring to fetch them, and he had to bribe Cosmas into silence about his forbidden trove by giving the man his own daily portion of wine. Yet no matter how many times Matwyck reread the Cascada News, the crumpled and smudged sheets never fully answered his questions.

  That country girl! He’d have had her, if he hadn’t been distracted by Lolethia’s murder. Not the murder itself so much, but the placement of the body in Burgn’s chamber had provided just the right diversion. Sly little fox. Cressa, so naive, would never have had those wiles.

  If only I’d carried through with arresting her the night of the wedding. My instinct was right. If only. If only.

  He shoved the broadsheets back and picked at lint on his coverlet. He rubbed again at the patch of stubble on his jawbone, eager to upbraid the careless servant, suddenly desperate to be rid of the aggravating scruff.

  He closed his eyes and tried to think—if he could have anyone’s company in his sickroom to make the time go faster, whom would he want? Not Marcot; he had soured on the boy. Not Lolethia; she would just flirt and pout. Not Tirinella. Not the mother he barely remembered.

  Eyevie. He recalled that whenever one of his siblings was poorly, his older sister would sit by the bed and read to them. She would act out the voices of the characters in such a creative way that they’d be distracted from their illness. He’d always meant to find her and favor her with his acknowledgment and riches. It would be such a balm to have a loving family member with him now.

  I wonder if I could get Yurgn to smuggle her in here. I wonder if she’d cry a little, seeing how I suffer. Her hands would be soft as she shaved me perfectly, and she would move all the pillows around without my having to cajole. She would anticipate all my needs and add little touches to show her concern and devotion.

  * * *

  Leaving the guest wing, which lay in the oldest section of the stone edifice, the general consulted with Yurgenia, the daughter who ran his household since his wife’s death, about a fancy dinner. He’d decided to follow Matwyck’s suggestion. Matwyck was always a clever shopkeeper—very clever—even if he was common to his balls.

  As he marched an inspection circuit around his bailey, Yurgn relished his security here; he’d chosen to restore this ancient keep, which long ago had been a ducal seat, because of its high and thick stone walls and its single gateway. Comfort and grandeur might be sorely lacking, but it had been designed for defense. Over many years he had strengthened this fortress until it was nearly impregnable.

  The manse’s well was deep, and his storerooms bulged with food enough to survive a long siege. His treasure room,
where he passed many a pleasant hour rearranging and polishing, held coin, jewels, and rarities such as expensive swords and bolts of silk brocade. If truly necessary, more bribes could be paid.

  And if the physical defenses should show signs of weakening, he had a trump card. Yurgn planned to offer the new queen a trade: he would deliver her the Lord Regent, to do with as she would, if she would leave his manse in peace.

  “Catreena died; Cressa died; Cerúlia will die. Sooner, rather than later,” he said to the sky. “I outlived them all. I will dance on her grave.”

  16

  Travels in the Free States

  When their grim work in Jutterdam was complete, Thalen asked his followers—Kambey (the weapons master), Cerf (the healer), Fedak (the cavalryman), Kran (the swordsman), Wareth (the scout), Jothile (the traumatized), Dalogun (the young archer), and Tristo (his adjutant)—if they wanted to disband and return to their families or hometowns. To a man the Raiders protested that they either had no family left or carried no attachment to their life before; they preferred to stay together, and they wished to follow him, wherever he chose to settle.

  Thalen smiled at his mental image of himself as a mother duck, followed by a string of grim and scarred ducklings. But relief washed away his irony, because he knew he would be just as unmoored without his friends nearby as they would feel without him. Like the smaller moon, he was held in place by the bigger moon; without the Raiders, he would just wobble off into the depths of black space. A few of the Raiders were easier company than others, but even Kran’s hot temper or Jothile’s clinginess helped Thalen cart around the burden of so many deaths.

  When they left Jutterdam, he led the Raiders on a meandering route. First, they paid a condolence call on Gustie’s family in Weaverton. Thalen couldn’t determine if her relatives were naturally cold, ashamed of Gustie, or frightened of the Raiders, but the visit was uncomfortable and they did not linger. They rode on instead to the twins’ home in Jígat, where they were more warmly received and Dalogun grieved fully and with honor. Afterward, the Raiders detoured to the gristmill Jothile’s sister ran, wondering if reconnecting with family would help Jothile with his nervous disorder, but they found that, if anything, their comrade’s shakes and startles became worse.

  Ultimately, Thalen recognized he could no longer delay his visit to Sutterdam, so they turned their horses in the direction of Lantern Lane. They didn’t hurry, making this leg of their journey last more than a week.

  “At long last!” Norling scolded him when she met him at the doorway.

  “Where are Hake and Pater?” he asked when he broke from his aunt’s hug.

  “They’re not here. They’re at the factory!”

  She turned to the men waiting politely in the street. “You’re friends of Thalen’s, I assume? I met some of you before? Come in, come in and make yourselves at home.”

  Norling poured them all glasses of buttermilk and relayed that Hake had reopened Sutterdam Pottery, to the delight of the former workers who wanted their positions back and the satisfaction of customers who needed containers to replace everything that had been smashed by the Oros.

  “You should have seen your father when we first put him at his wheel! It was like he’d needed his old occupation. Immediately he starts kicking and humming, and a fellow puts a hunk of clay in the center, and damned if he can’t use his bad hand to shape it. He even paints the oddments he makes. I’ll show you.”

  Norling fetched a set of four goblets to show the Raiders. They were not perfectly symmetrical, and each one had been painted in a different jagged pattern, though they all shared the same color scheme.

  The Raiders politely passed them around. “I like them more than normal goblets,” Cerf commented. “They have a kind of fierceness to them.” Thalen felt a surge of gratitude toward the healer, who often did not show much sensitivity.

  “And how are you, Teta?” Thalen asked.

  “Well, the nights are long—nobody sleeps well in this house.”

  Thalen noted the lines of deep weariness in his aunt’s face. Carefully arranging the odd goblets in a row, he wondered whether solitary and interminable care for two disabled patients was more heroic than anything Raiders had ever done on the battlefield.

  “We won’t add to your burdens, Teta Norling. We’re too many to fit here; we’ll take rooms at the Three Coins.”

  “You haven’t come home to stay, then?” she asked, her face already mastering her disappointment.

  “No. But a longer visit, this time.”

  Thalen managed to linger in Sutterdam for a week. While he spent time with his family, the Raiders alternated between nights carousing at taverns and daytimes taking care of neglected maintenance at Lantern Lane. They brushed out the chimney and repointed its masonry; they reattached broken shutters and then built ramps for Hake’s chair. When Norling chided them about all the extra dirt they spread about the house, Thalen hired a strong fourteen-summers girl, Fordana, to help with the cleaning. She turned out to be an eager young woman who needed the wages and showed no pique at Norling’s exacting instructions. To Thalen’s great relief, Norling started musing aloud about having her sleep in, to help her with Hake and Hartling at night.

  Spending time with his father, aunt, and brother brought Thalen little joy because they all were so altered from the people he had known before the war. Hake had thrown himself into the business with a manic energy that had much to do with restoring the family’s finances but also, transparently, with restoring his own feelings of competence. Try as he might, Thalen could not work up any genuine interest in kiln temperatures or the number of commissions from Yosta and Jutterdam.

  He was happy to perform a small commission for his brother: Hake asked Thalen to check on the candle shop that once belonged to Pallia, the girl he had kept company with before the war. Thalen had to report that it had been burned and none of the neighbors had any news about the family.

  And despite—or maybe because of—the closeness he had shared with Norling when he was a boy, Thalen could not lay on his aunt’s slumped shoulders any of his war experiences or his sorrows.

  The only moment of comfort that week came, unexpectedly, from his father, one morning as Thalen assisted in pulling on Hartling’s boots. His father rested his good hand on his son’s upper arm and said with one of his unpredictable moments of clarity, “You’ve grown so strong, Middle. Your mother would be so proud.”

  Sutterdam could no longer be his home. He saw Mater in Lantern Lane and at the Pottery; he heard Harthen’s laughter in the pub room of the Three Coins. When he traversed the city he ran into faded phantoms of himself as a carefree and callow boy on every bridge.

  So soon enough he set off, followed by his remaining Raiders, as he had long dreamed of doing, for the Scoláiríum in Latham.

  While they followed the High Road the riders saw signs of the recent Occupation, such as fields untilled because their owners had died or fled and farmhouses overflowing with children collected from several disrupted families. They passed empty barns, ransacked houses, and bridges with broken spans.

  When they reached Trout’s Landing, they found that the old ferryboat was a casualty of war. Only charred timbers broke the surface of the lake like a giant’s rotted teeth. To get to Latham they would have to detour far around Clear Lake on woodland paths.

  Once riding the thin forest trail, they put the signs of war behind them. Sunlight and birdsong filtered through the greenery of summer trees, so they rode single file, joshing and chatting, without looking over their shoulders or fearing attack—at least most of the time.

  Thalen fell into a muse. He wondered if the Scoláiríum would also be filled with ghosts—if he would see Gustie or Granilton around every corner. But he anticipated it would also be filled with books; more than anything he wanted to read, because only in a book could he escape from his own dark thoughts. He’d read anything, but he was especially keen to get his hands on all the books about Alpetar.

&
nbsp; Would the Scoláiríum rue his bringing in so many mouths to feed? But eight (fairly) hale men, which were now so rare in the Free States, could help with physical work. Thalen also had a vague idea that someday Kambey might teach weaponry at the Scoláiríum. (Never again should students neglect this side of their education.) And perhaps Cerf could open a clinic for the readers and townsfolk who lived nearby, or offer classes in healing.

  Around midday Wareth scouted ahead for a likely place to halt. He came back with news of a small opening to the right of the path, edging Clear Lake.

  They dismounted. It still felt so strange to drink straight from a lake without worrying about it being polluted and to allow their horses to take their fill. Tristo and Kran started a contest of skipping rocks over the water’s surface. Wareth challenged Kran and bested his throw. The champion of them all, however, turned out to be Fedak, whose rock touched down six times before sinking.

  Though the water was cold, most of the Raiders ended up bathing, splashing and dunking one another like children, their bodies crisscrossed with white, red, and black scars against their varied shades of brown. Only Thalen and Cerf declined, sitting like grumpy old-timers, warming their aged bones in the sun.

  Refreshed, the Raiders dressed again and mounted up. A league onward they came to a larger sandy beach alongside the lake.

  “I should have scouted farther,” said Wareth. “Look how pretty this is.”

  “This is quite a spot. Almost as if people cleared it and dressed it. See those stones there? Don’t they look like benches?” said Kambey.

  Wareth and Thalen caught one another’s eyes and simultaneously turned to face in the opposite direction. Silently, Wareth’s index finger traced the path: although the woods had reclaimed its territory, the contours of a broad roadway remained visible, climbing the rise through gentle switchbacks.

  “Let’s investigate,” Thalen said, clucking his horse onto the roadway, and the others followed, the horses’ hooves striking against ancient, moss-covered cobblestones. Overhanging branches created the effect of passing through a green tunnel out of the present day and into some ancient past. Thalen fancied he could almost picture carriages carrying laughing bathers with midmeal baskets down to the lake.