Hake patted his lap. “Would you care to try?”
That made Pallia laugh her familiar laugh. “Not today, if that’s all right with you. It took all my courage to come here and ask. But another day?”
“I’m going to hold you to that. Now.” He cleared his throat again and settled his shoulders while she wiped the corners of her eyes with her fingertips. “Let’s plan our courtship. It has resumed somewhat peculiarly. Would you like to come for dinner tonight at Lantern Lane? Or would you prefer me to come to you? Speak to your mother?”
“How about tomorrow night? I’ll come to Lantern Lane.”
“That’s grand, because I can give Teta Norling a warning and she will set out a feast. Promise you’ll come. You won’t change your mind and disappear again?”
“No,” said Pallia. “You are going to be stuck with me, like—like melted wax in a holder. But right now I’m going to leave to give us time to recover. I feel like such a brazen hussy.”
Hake said, “I don’t think I’ll ever recover.” He meant that as an expression of his happiness, and since she grinned she must have caught the meaning of his maladroit comment. “Let me escort you to the street.” He wanted to demonstrate his adeptness in the pottery, to show that he was not as helpless and useless as he might look. He wheeled beside her to the front yard. At the gateway, she briefly gave him her dry hand and then walked off up the street, her back held very straight.
Long ago Mater had made a disparaging comment about Pallia. “Very pretty, but I don’t think she’s got any grit.” Either Mater was wrong then, or the war had given Pallia grit.
Hake wished his mother were here to take back her words. And grand-babes! How Mater would have fussed over them! Hake tried to imagine holding a babe in his arms, or rolling around with a toddler on his lap.
23
Riverine
A day and a half after Naven and that seamaster delivered their risible ultimatum, General Yurgn, fully dressed in his uniform, as usual, came down to fastbreak with a spring in his step. The delegation had gotten a good look at his wall, gate, and well-trained forces, and it had departed after a brief conversation that had gone entirely to the general’s satisfaction. The queen’s deadline had come and gone, and of course he still ruled his household—his own private kingdom—unmolested.
The five grandchildren waiting for him to start their meal greeted him with smiles and little bows, as was fitting. He ruffled the hair of the two youngest and nodded to the footman to begin serving, even though the middle generation had yet to make an appearance, which was unusual, since his sons and daughters liked their food. Especially Clovadorska, who had eaten at his table all these years.
The general had just tucked in to his egg tart and cold meats when his daughter, Yurgenia, swept in with a curdled expression.
“What ails you, Daughter?” he asked, surprised that she brought such a face into his presence.
She threw a packet of papers beside him on the table. Yurgn used his knife to lift the first few pages of the sheaves, realizing that she’d gotten her hands on a stockpile of broadsheets. She must have read all the slanted, hysterical accounts coming out of Cascada about his “treachery,” “venality,” and “butchery.”
“How did you get these?” he asked. “I’ve forbidden anyone to bring such calumnies on the grounds!”
When she didn’t answer, he stabbed his dagger through the pile and into the tabletop. The knife swayed back and forth.
Yurgenia was not the biggest ninny in his household, but the sound of the knife striking wood prompted a tiny shriek to escape from her lips.
“Is this true? How much of it is true?” she dared to ask her father.
“Of course this isn’t true. Everything I did, I did for good reason. For Weirandale. To keep the people safe. To keep order. To stop malcontents from spreading restlessness.”
“But, Father! What have you done? You’ve ruined us!”
The children gaped at the argument, their open mouths full of victuals he had provided.
Yurgn stood up with dignity. “Ruined? Ruined? When was the last time you looked in the storeroom? We are rich, rich for years to come!”
Yurgenia made no reply, but she moved to drape her arms around the shoulders of her two boys.
This protective attitude enraged her father.
“I don’t have to justify my actions to you lackwits! Who has kept you fed all these years? Who paid for your healers, your necklaces? Your feasts? Who paid for the well, the new wing, and the new roof? Would you rather the roof dripped on you as you slept?
“I do not explain my actions to anyone. Certainly not a slack-dugged woman who cannot keep her husband from dallying with the maids.”
He looked around the table at the children, who were struck dumb by the confrontation and were staring at him with startled eyes. “Leave the table! All of you!”
Lurgn’s youngest son, a youth of fifteen summers, whined, “But Grandfather, I haven’t finished.”
The general lunged over and cuffed the boy on his ear. He had never struck any of them before. That got them moving—Yurgenia hustled the children out of the room as if she were shooing chickens away from a fox. One of the maids dropped her brew pot and ran out too, but the footmen remained at their posts, even if they trembled a little.
If the servants haven’t read the broadsheets already, they will soon. How dare they deign to judge me? Who’s paid their wages all these years?
Reclaiming his seat, Yurgn tried to finish eating as if nothing had transpired. But the tisane tasted bitter, and the bread had turned stale and dry.
He threw his napkin at the table, deliberately knocking over several flagons, and stamped out.
Shortly after this aborted meal, the general paid a visit to his old ally. Preoccupied with events and giving orders to his soldiers, he had forgone the visit yesterday, but resuming his habit (reminding himself of his routine and duty) had a steadying effect after the unpleasantness.
Sweat ran down Matwyck’s forehead, either from the heat or from a fever—the healer last week had spoken about an infection of the kidneys—and the room smelled more than usual, while the bedding looked none too clean.
“Ah. Matwyck, how are you feeling today?” Yurgn settled in the chair, not pausing for a response. “She sent me a threat, that uppity bitch.” He waved the parchment at the invalid.
“Has she indeed? She must be feeling her oats. Tell me.”
So Yurgn recounted the visit that had transpired, regaining his good temper as he described how Naven and the woman seamaster had come with a tiny escort of twelve, and how one of his own guards had ruffled their feathers by shooting an arrow just close enough to their horses to make the animals shy.
The general read from the parchment: “‘If you do not take advantage of this offer within one day, your life will be the forfeiture.’ Ha! It’s been more than that since I sent them away. There’s no march of boots down the road, no dust in the distance. Whimpering little queen with water in her veins instead of courage, just like her mother.
“She can’t touch me in here; she daren’t even try.”
“And if she did,” said Matwyck with a glint in his eye, “you’d offer me up as a bargaining chip.”
“So you’ve figured that out?” Instead of feeling ashamed, Yurgn was pleased by his colleague’s acumen. “Well, Matwyck, you must admit it is the most logical solution.”
Matwyck did not remonstrate against him, which spared the general an argument. He’d already had enough scenes for one day; Matwyck (like himself) understood the ways of the world and would not give in to hysteria.
“At this point,” Matwyck said dryly, “I would almost welcome arrest, because I would delight in a change of scene. These walls are driving me mad.”
Yurgn looked around the small room, but he didn’t see anything wrong with the grayish walls, though the room was indeed very hot.
“Why are children so ungrateful?” Yurgn mused alou
d. “Your son, and now my daughter. Don’t they know how much we have sacrificed for their benefit?”
“I’ve had a lot of time to puzzle on that,” answered Matwyck, “and not come to any satisfactory conclusion.”
“Well.” Yurgn slapped his knees. “You have everything you need, I take it.”
“Yurgn, I’d like more wine.”
“More wine?” the general repeated, wondering how much his generosity was going to end up costing him. “Oh, very well,” he assented with poor grace.
* * *
General Yurgn took midmeal and dinner in his chambers, rather than with his family. He’d decided to deprive them of his company until they mended their ways. After eating he grew restless and elected to take a turn before bed. It was hot and stuffy inside his bedchamber; the air outside was fresher.
He stopped at the iron front gate. “All quiet?” he asked the guards.
“Yes, sir!” His guards saluted.
“Very well,” he said. Then he added words of praise and warning: “You’re all good men. Keep alert now.”
Slowly he climbed the stone steps that led up to the fortified wall around his manse. He touched the stone balcony, reassured by its thickness, marveling at how it retained its heat even as the sun began to sink.
Bringing his midmeal tray his daughter had shouted at him, “You don’t care what happens to us! All you care about is your money.”
Do I like riches? Of course I do. Everybody does. Show me a man who says he scorns gold, and I’ll show you a liar and a fool.
In the dark the general reached the walls. The breeze was brisker up here, cooling the sweat under his neck. His uniform was hot, but of course he wouldn’t unbutton or discard any layers. He could breathe more easily out here. He looked north in the direction of Cascada but could see nothing in the gloom, certainly no torches heralding an approaching force. He gazed east toward the pikemen’s camp, but even in daylight the lay of the land hid their barracks. All he could see by moonlight and starlight were a few lanterns twinkling in cottages clustered near the manse’s walls.
He had tripled the guard tonight. His men walked the walls assiduously—very assiduously now when he had come out to monitor them.
The guard on that section of wall kept marching back and forth. The general liked his company, though he wouldn’t say so. The rhythmic slap of his feet soothed his disquiet after the disagreeable events of the hot day.
General Yurgn was startled from his reverie by a gust of air from the flap of a bird’s wing. An owl swooped down from the dark and perched on his shoulder for a moment. Yurgn felt its sharp talons rip through his clothing and cut into his flesh. It sailed off before he could react, other than to cry out.
“General! General!” called the guard. “General, are you all right?” he asked from far away.
Spasms of pain built to a wave of agony that crashed and shattered within him.
24
Riverine
Of all slights or insults, Matwyck couldn’t abide being ignored. Everything about his situation was intolerable, but when Yurgn had failed to visit him yesterday—had failed to show him the least scrap of courtesy nor even sent his regrets—Matwyck had stewed in anger.
He’d had his revenge, of course; he’d sent Cosmas to distribute the broadsheets throughout the manse. He might be flat on his back, poorly tended, and losing strength every day, but he still had his wits, and he was able to strike back against those who treated him badly. The servant had insisted on recompense for this trifle of a commission (the man’s greed knew no bounds), but Matwyck had been able to persuade him with promises of more wine.
Even though the Lord Regent himself thirsted mightily for wine’s balm, he handed over the flask off his dinner tray. Cosmas in return passed him his nighttime milk of poppy, so Matwyck drifted off into sleep idly listing all the wines, sherries, clarets, and ports he had ever sampled. He’d taken them for granted in his past life; when he recovered and left this horrid sickroom, he vowed he would savor every swallow.
He didn’t sleep as deeply as usual after his tonic. Movements disturbed the courtyard below his tiny window—people screaming? Shouting? Toward morning, as the drug wore thinner, he heard more distinct noises of a gathering of many people, the clop of horses, the wheels of carriages. The floors vibrated with the sound of running footsteps; women wept; and the flicker of torches danced on his spotted ceiling. At first Matwyck grew anxious, thinking the manse had been stormed, but he didn’t hear any clash of swords. After a while, the house and grounds grew still, and Matwyck slept again.
The next day broke hot and humid and no one brought Matwyck his fastbreak. Cosmas didn’t show up to help him with the chamber pot or help him wash. Matwyck marinated in fury for hours, trying to think of what revenge he could take on the neglectful attendant.
As the morning grew hotter, Matwyck began to shout out for attention. He shouted until his throat felt raw and his thirst redoubled. Only when no one appeared to his summons did it begin to occur to him that the nighttime noises had not been a poppy dream: he had been abandoned.
Abandoned! And helpless. After all I’ve done for Yurgn.
He swung his legs to the side of the bed and sat up. The room swayed with his dizziness. Very tentatively, he bent down to reach under the bed for his chamber pot. He hitched up his nightshift, held it between his legs, and pissed, feeling the relief of pressure as a blessing, but dismayed by how dark the liquid looked. He set the bowl back on the floor, disgusted by the fact that his arms were unsteady and he sloshed a little on the floor.
He collapsed back on the bed for a while, gathering his strength. He must have water. There was no pitcher or basin in his room, but water had to be available close by in the house, because Cosmas always fetched it.
He inched his feet back onto the floor. Gingerly he put some weight on his left leg. The son of a bitch of a healer wanted him to stay in bed for three moons while his pelvic bones healed, but Matwyck didn’t have a choice.
Aha! This doesn’t hurt much. I will walk out of here; I will tend to myself. My vengeance will be epic.
His right leg, the one with the wound and mangled muscles, screamed when he tried to stand, and Matwyck staggered, barely managing to stay on his feet.
Crossing to the door took all of his strength and willpower. He stood on his left leg and rested his forehead against the door, taking shuddering breaths, sweat pouring down his face. When he opened the door, the air in the hallway had a sheltered coolness he found refreshing. His room, he discovered, was at the end of a disused wing. The floor showed the dirty footprints of his servant and the general, while discoloration from roof leaks intermittently painted the walls.
Laboriously, Matwyck made his way down the hallway, trying each door. Most were locked; others opened onto rooms that were barren or in which the furniture sat clumped under dustcloths. No signs of fresh water anywhere.
Matwyck’s dizziness worsened, and drops of fresh blood leaked down his leg. Ahead he saw a steep flight of stairs; undoubtedly these led down to the more populated parts of the house. And water.
He managed the first two steps. On the third he put too much weight on his right leg, which buckled beneath him, and he fell, scraping his skin in innumerable places. Dazed and smarting, terrified that he had jarred his pelvic bones out of place, he lay still on the staircase, waiting for his pulse to quiet, and took inventory.
The pain of his injuries was nothing compared to his thirst. He was tormented by his chalky throat, his pounding head, his longing for water. At least the staircase was cooler than his bedroom. He crawled a rung downward. He crawled another, and he was craning his dizzy head to see how many more he needed to manage when a faint overtook him.
25
Riverine
In late afternoon on a long summer’s day, Cerúlia rode up to the inhospitable gate of General Yurgn’s keep. The massive, high stone walls looked down on the entourage she had led out of Cascada after she had assa
ssinated the general.
A little more than an hour before, the queen had paused at the campsite on the High Road to confirm that the cavalry and pikemen had surrendered their headquarters and taken the knee once news reached them of the general’s assassination. As she had expected, the general’s death was the only drop of water they needed before their resolve broke.
She invited Captain Yanath, Seamaster Wilamara, and Duke Naven to accompany her for the last leagues, but she had ridden from Cascada because she intended to take the defiant traitor’s lair herself.
From a few paces behind Smoke, Ciellō scanned the walls warily, not quite trusting the crows’ reports she had conveyed to him. No helmets showed over the crenellations, and no arrows pointed outward.
Captain Yanath urged his horse to the protective front doors. He called out in a loud voice, “Open in the name of the queen!”
No one answered.
“Whoever is within,” Yanath shouted again. “Open the gate!”
Again, no response came back.
Yanath walked his horse forward and pushed at the massive oaken door leaves, finding them unbarred and the iron portcullis raised.
“Your Majesty, please wait while we take a look inside,” he called over his shoulder, then he and a squad of shields disappeared inside the walls.
Cerúlia patted Smoke’s neck, knowing that her guard would not encounter any soldiers or armed resistance, but allowing the men to discover this for themselves. Her canine corps took advantage of the pause to flop down in the grass, tired from the long, hot journey. She reached around to the pannier behind her saddle and grabbed little Cici; then she leaned to the side of her horse so the terrier would not have too far to leap to the ground. The dog relieved herself, then sniffed the noses of her pack, taking stock.
The Cerulean Queen Page 17
