“Well,” Gunnit commented, pulling back the spit-soaked scarf that protected his lower face. “I guess it’s possible to move a nest. Now what?”
“Now we have to make my wagon one big yellow jacket home.”
Peddler drove his wagon to Dewpepper’s near neighbors. In exchange for two new saucepans, the family was happy to let him store his trade goods in their dry barn for as long as needed.
Back at Dewpepper’s they got into long arguments about caulking the wagon. Gunnit and Peddler wanted to close all the small gaps between the planks of the wooden wagon to make themselves safer from their yellow-and-black assailants. Dewpepper insisted that the wasps would need air and that, besides, no matter how well they attempted to fill up the old wagon’s myriad holes, the agile creatures would be able to wiggle out. Much to the dismay of man and boy, the beekeeper’s expertise won out.
So the next day, when the family safely took themselves off to a market town (with the sweet mare and a shopping list from Peddler), the duo spent frightening hours stupefying yellow jackets with burning hemp and stashing their hives in Peddler’s wagon. One hive broke when Peddler detached it from a branch; he thought he was a goner, but Gunnit jumped forward to protect him with his hemp torch, stilling any revenge-seekers.
Peddler set the hives either on the floor of the wagon or on shelves and hooks; Gunnit kept feeding more hemp into a tiny fire he tended underneath the wagon, making more smoke to subdue the aggressive colonies. A few hundred insects flew away from crevices in the wagon’s roof, but Peddler and Gunnit didn’t care because they still had thousands. Finally, when dark came, the buzzing in the hives ceased altogether.
During their labors, wasps stung Peddler four times and Gunnit twice; now, however, Peddler was perversely delighted by how much the stings hurt, because they were proof of their weapon’s potency. Or all the hemp smoke he had breathed in might have made Peddler a little giddy.
“Look at this one!” he crowed, showing Gunnit a nasty welt on his neck. “Who would want to stay where they were exposed to hurts like this?”
In the middle of the night they drove Aurora and the wagon close to the Oro settlement the invaders called “Camp Diamond.” They had named all their encampments after jewels; this was the southernmost Oro settlement and also the site most responsible for pitiless raids.
In the morning they approached down the Trade Corridor with all of Aurora’s bells loose and tinkling, the better to cover the buzzing in the wagon. The camp was as large as a small village, with two-family sleeping tents laid out in an orderly fashion, and larger structures for cooking, schooling, washing, and worship clustered in the middle.
The Oro soldiers minding the gate recognized Peddler and his distinctive yellow vehicle; to keep on top of their activities he had made sure he was a welcome guest.
The fifth-flamer in charge came out of his tent to greet them. “Hey, Peddler. I hope you’ve brought something worthwhile this time.”
“Goatherds in the mountains need to root out poison vines, and they’ve no gloves,” Peddler said. “I’m in the market for all the gloves you are willing to part with. In exchange, I have brought a special treat—lookee here, a bushel of fresh plums.”
“Plums!” said the officer, smacking his lips. “We can give up a few pairs of gauntlets for plums! Fetch what you can,” he told his orderlies. Gunnit passed out the fruit, handing as many as he could to soldiers and men rather than the women or children.
“You don’t mind if I drive around the camp, do you?” Peddler asked after he received some gloves in return. “I’m on the prowl for rare items to trade, and I’ll take a gander to see what folk may be missing.”
With plum juice running down his chin and dripping onto his clothes, the officer casually waved Peddler on.
Dispensing kindly nods, Peddler drove around the camp in a U-shaped pattern, while Gunnit surreptitiously tipped out a constant drizzle of honey from jugs hidden under the wagon seat. They treated the western, southern, and eastern boundaries of the camp, leaving the northern roadway clear.
“Here, fellas!” Peddler tossed the last plums to the guards at the settlement’s gate when he had completed his circuit. Then he waved farewell and drove out of Camp Diamond. They halted the wagon behind a stand of trees just out of sight. Fingers trembling, Peddler fumbled as he unhitched his old mule.
“Gunnit, you know the plan. You get yourself, and you pull this stubborn old girl all the way into the pond we spotted. I don’t care if you’re cold; I don’t care if it’s mucky or scummy—you wait in the water, safe from stings, until I come fetch you.” He slapped his mule on the haunches. “Aurora, you mind Gunnit. I doubt that a wasp could penetrate your thick hide, but I ain’t taking any chances with you.”
When he returned to the wagon, Peddler dressed himself in two layers of clothes and one of his new pairs of gauntlets. Then he threw a cloak over his head and for good measure tied a blanket around his body, trying not to allow even the smallest gap.
When he had waited long enough that he calculated that Gunnit and Aurora were safe, Peddler lifted the latch on the back of the wagon with a long stick, then threw himself to the ground, covering his head and face.
From the noise, the angry yellow jackets swarmed out of the wagon in a dark cloud. Peddler lay facedown in the dirt in terror, for without a doubt he had unleashed enough venom to kill dozens of men. The insects hung around the wagon for several heart-stopping minutes; then a breeze must have carried them the scent of sweetness. They took off like a starving, avenging army, straight toward the Oro settlement.
The shouts and screams would have been pitiful, but Peddler had hardened his heart to the men who raped and kilt Alpetar girls. He peeked out of his blanket: in the distance he saw figures racing north. The first looked to be soldiers, but civilians ran hard on their heels.
Within half an hour, Camp Diamond lay quiet and deserted. When Peddler gathered enough courage to visit the abandoned site, he saw that wasps had started building new nests in abandoned structures and the holes around tent poles. He doubted that any Oro would want to resume living here.
Later that afternoon, Gunnit put cooling mud on the two new stings Peddler had received from wasps that had still gotten inside his blanket, while Peddler picked bits of drying algae off Aurora, who was in a foul mood.
Gunnit broke into Peddler’s thoughts. “Did you just make up the idea of poison vines? ’Cause I’m a-thinking that for Camp Topaz, mayhap we could use smoke from poison ivy plants. My father always told me that that’s wicked dangerous.”
PART THREE
Reign of Queen Cerúlia
AUTUMN
33
Tidewater Keep, Lortherrod
Again tonight, Arlettie had begged off from joining Mikil at High Table. As the guests waited for King Rikil to join them, Mikil pondered how the closeness they’d shared on the isle had given way to frozen silences. Tidewater Keep had accepted her with somewhat grudging politeness, but instead of trying to become more habituated, she brimmed over with complaints that courtiers left her out of conversations; everyone compared her unfavorably to Mikil’s previous amours; it was too cold and the sun never shined. Mikil knew that the crux of her discontent lay in his neglect, and the time he devoted to his duties as Sailor.
So Mikil was especially relieved when the king distracted him from his worry and guilt by entering with an invitation from Queen Cerúlia on a silver tray, which he passed around amongst the family, with great satisfaction that he had been proven correct.
Everyone was overjoyed to receive it and remarked on the card’s fine engraving.
“To arrive by Harvest Fest doesn’t give us much time,” said Rikil. “We probably need to travel the longest distance. I shan’t go myself, as the Moot of the Nobles is regularly scheduled then. But Mikil, would you represent Lortherrod?”
The-king-that-was banged his hand down on the table. “I’ll sail to Cascada. My ship. My sailors. I’ll take the old bid
dy.”
Rikil and Mikil looked at each other over their father’s head.
“What do you think, Mikil?” asked his brother.
Mikil addressed his father. “Might I come with you?”
Nithanil glared at his younger son. “I’ll be seamaster, and I’ll brook no interference.”
Mikil said, with an irony that only he understood, “I am content merely to be a sailor.” Still, he wondered whether his father was up to such a voyage. True, he had recovered from his last illness, and he appeared fairly hale these days. As to sailing, his father could outsail any of them from the grave. And Nithanil’s determination could not easily be gainsaid.
Buying for time, Mikil asked, “Sire, have you finished Cerúlia’s present?”
His father smiled his rare smile. “Aye.” He bobbed his head. “Send a page to fetch it from the old biddy.”
In a few minutes the page returned with a velvet box. Inside lay a pin crafted out of blue sapphires. It was the shape of a dolphin, and his father had used a tiny fleck of aquamarine for the eye.
“’Tis a present worthy of a queen,” said Mikil truthfully, handing the box around so others could exclaim over it.
His father banged the table with his fist once more. “Get the ship ready, Rikil. I’m sailing a week from today.”
Rikil, the king, took being ordered about more graciously than Mikil would have predicted. “Aye, aye, Skipper,” he said with a salute.
His father chuckled, and as he left the table (wrapping his own tart in a napkin to take it up to Iluka, crumbled and broken), he rubbed his eldest son’s hair with an even rarer affectionate gesture.
Rikil turned to his brother. “Will you take Arlettie and Gilboy with you?”
“I’ll have to consider,” Mikil replied. He wanted to revel in Shrimpella’s return without distraction. And Lautan might have duties for him to perform that he could not explain to his wife.
It was late when he returned to the room he shared with Arlettie. Sometimes, so as not to disturb her, he slept on the couch in their antechamber, but tonight he entered the bedroom. Although the chamber was dark, he could tell from her stirring that she wasn’t asleep. He lit a lantern.
“How are you feeling?” he asked.
“A little better.”
“Are you cold? Shall I build the fire back up?”
“No, the blankets were warmed.”
“There was news at dinner tonight. Queen Cerúlia has invited us to a Harvest Fest celebration.”
“Ah.”
“Sire and I will be sailing to Weirandale as soon as arrangements are made. We’ll be gone for some moons. You and Gilboy will have to keep each other company.”
“As we always do,” she said, her bitterness clear in her tone.
“If you’re that unhappy here, Arlettie, you could return to the Green Isles. I would not keep you here against your will.”
“Thank you for your gracious ‘permission.’ Don’t think I haven’t been considering this.”
Now was the moment when Mikil was supposed to speak up about how much he loved her and how much it would break his heart to lose her. He temporized by pouring himself wine from the carafe on the table.
In the bottom of his flagon Mikil saw the truth he shied away from admitting: that Lautan had rescued Arlettie and Gilboy to use them in service of himself and Cerúlia. At this point, Arlettie and her unhappiness meant nothing to the Spirit. Another woman, with more education and resources, would have found interests and occupations in court—perchance even taken a lover out of need or revenge. But the courage, inventiveness, and softheartedness that had made Arlettie so valuable on the isle didn’t stand her in good stead in a Lorther court. And to Mikil, their years of closeness had floated away, crowded out of his heart by the tide of his spiritual rapture. She had become mostly an encumbrance and an obligation.
So instead of saying the things she wanted to hear, he blew out the lantern and got into bed.
“Sleep well,” he murmured. And then, because he wasn’t actually a cruel person, though the words were a pitiful substitute, he added, “May you have pleasant dreams, my sweet.”
34
Latham
Wareth, Cerf, and Kambey sat at the bar in the Humility Tavern, nursing tankards of ale and discussing the upcoming trip to Weirandale for this highfalutin festival. An invitation for the Raiders had found its way to Minister Destra in Jutterdam, and her courier had brought it to the Scoláiríum two days before.
Wareth, who felt restless in this rural town, was the most eager to go. Cerf and Kambey thought it might be a lark, but they approached the prospect with less enthusiasm.
“You’d think,” said Kambey, “that after all the sailing and trekking and fighting, the commander would be happy to just stay still. This is a likely place; as likely as any other. We don’t need no honors from the Weirs for what we did. We didn’t do it for them, anyways, but for the Free States.”
“I know,” said Cerf. “And I thought the commander was so dead set on getting here. Barely unpacked our saddlebags and now off we go again.”
“Thalen didn’t say you have to come,” rejoined Wareth. “He invited you. You are free to stay here while me and Tristo go. You could stay and make eyes at Rector Meakey, Cerf, though I don’t think she’d be such a lackwit as to have you.”
“We didn’t say we wasn’t coming, Wareth,” Kambey replied. “Where the commander goes, I go. Think I’d trust you and the lad to watch over him in a foreign land? Not fuckin’ likely. Besides, Jothile will follow Thalen, and he’ll need help looking after him.”
“Did the rector say anything, Wareth,” asked Cerf, “or are you just spouting your usual slop?”
“Don’t worry. She didn’t say anything.” Wareth grinned. “But I got a good nose for romance. I see the way you look at her and the way she gets all fidgety.”
“She’s a mighty fine woman. Brightens up any room she enters.”
Kambey winked at Wareth. “That she does, all right. If her clothes were any brighter we’d have to shade our eyes.”
Cerf continued, “And smart. I don’t care about sea life, but you can tell she knows her field backward and forward.”
“You could spend your honey trip discussing the mating habits of seals,” teased Wareth, laughing into his ale at his own jibe.
Cerf laughed too. “Actually, I don’t know whether I am really attracted to the rector or whether I just feel an itch.”
Kambey suggestively offered, “There’s lots of ways to deal with that itch, Master Healer.”
“No, I don’t mean an itch to get bedded—well, that’s part of it—but an itch to get wedded.” Cerf turned around on the stool, idly looking out over the tavern room, leaning backward against the bar. “My Aprella and I—before—we had a home. We had a partner to share our supper, scratch our backs, sleep beside, and be there in the morning, talk about what the new day would bring. An itch to set up a life that’s not about war or killing. Do you feel that way too?”
“I’ve always been a solitary cuss,” said Kambey. “Spending time with you muckwits is about as much company as I can handle. But I think the commander feels that way. He’s often with that red-haired woman.”
“Tutor Helina?” said Wareth. “Aye, I’ve noticed that too. What do you think of her?”
“I barely know her. She seems nice enough,” said Cerf, taking another swallow.
“I’m against the match,” Wareth said decisively.
Kambey snorted in surprise. “Is it any of your business?”
“No,” admitted Wareth. “But I’m still against it. ’Tis another reason why I think this trip is well-timed.”
“What other reasons?” asked Cerf.
Wareth shook his head. “You guys aren’t scouts, so you wouldn’t know, but occasionally you get—you get like a hunch, like the hairs on the back of your neck stand up. Like you don’t want to set up camp in this spot because there’s a better one just over the hill.�
��
“Oh, I get hunches like that, but it’s more—‘better take the limb today because tomorrow will be too late,’” said Cerf. “For instance, with that Oro. If we’d waited one more day, the miasmas would have spread such that he’d have met the grave.”
“Our Oros!” said Kambey. “I didn’t understand what the commander was doing with them. I’d just as lief have killed them and rid ourselves of the vermin. But now … the amputee is so pissin’ grateful every time you hand him a plate, it kind of tugs at you.”
Cerf nodded as he said, “Commander talks with them for hours a day. Pretty soon he’ll know more about that country than they know themselves.”
“I think that’s the idea,” said Wareth. “And you gotta admit—it’s rather fuckin’ brilliant.”
35
On Wave Racer
When his caravel, Wave Racer, finally pulled out of the harbor at Liddlecup, Nithanil, the king-that-was, sighed with relief. His son, Rikil, conscientious and organized, had kept adding presents for his half sister, and Mikil had kept pouring wine off Wave Racer’s bow to entreat Lautan’s blessing on the voyage. Nithanil found all this ceremony tedious; he just wanted to clear the shoals before the light started to wane.
Striding the deck in the days that followed, Nithanil pulled in the tangy air with renewed contentment. It had been too long since he’d left Tidewater Keep behind his stern. Why had he allowed himself to become landlocked and decrepit? His legs felt stronger, his lungs easier, his mind clearer now that he found himself again amongst the gray billows. Almost all of the crew were similarly past their prime; these craggy-faced sailors who had lost tips of fingers in running lines had sailed with him for decades. They knew the ship in their bones, and they kept her sailing smartly with a minimum of gab. Wave Racer needed to make good time in order to arrive in Weirandale by Harvest Fest.
Nithanil recognized that he had not been a skilled ruler—he did not have the knack that Rikil had for listening to and calming the nobles or the people. Even conferring with his ministers had been challenging and often baffling. He would have been happier if he’d been born a craftsman; he loved the concentration of working with his hands and the predictability and malleability of inert materials. As a husband, he’d been equally inept; he had alienated his wives with his quirks, and on any given day he’d been mystified by why they had grown wroth with him. As a father he had made stabs at establishing connections, but he never knew what to say to his three children and rarely seemed to make the right gestures.
The Cerulean Queen Page 24
