The Cerulean Queen

by Sarah Kozloff

  “But we don’t know yet if the hawk’s message is accurate,” said Cerúlia. “Bird to bird can get garbled, especially across species. I have to send out more seabirds and be the one to confer with each directly.

  “And if there’s a plot in progress, Belcazar might be being held hostage by people who know that I could not refuse his plea. Perchance he needs to be rescued? That is why I wish you to continue. But be careful.”

  “Of course I’ll be careful,” he said, pushing her back into the bale of hay, capturing her with one arm on each side. “One way to be careful is to make everyone think that we came out here for another reason.” He kissed her until she started having trouble catching her breath, and then he sprinkled a bit of hay in her hair.

  “Now I know you’ll ride back posthaste,” he said.

  Cerúlia and he walked back to the tavern hand in hand. Belcazar’s man, fortunately, was already inside by the fire, while Captain Yanath and several of the Raiders lingered outside tending the horses and watching out for the queen.

  When Cerúlia bent down to converse with her canine corps, Thalen spoke to Yanath, who decided on a shield named Pontole, while Thalen chose Fedak, as a swifter rider than either Kambey or Kran and almost as good a swordsman. He sent Tristo inside to make sure that Chamberlain Gruber was occupied, and asked Dalogun to get three horses ready for a sprint.

  “Go inside and act normal,” said Cerúlia. “Say I decided I needed a quiet rest in the carriage. I’ll catch up with you soon—really, you have no idea how fast Smoke is when I give him permission to fly.”

  “May I kiss you good luck?”

  “In front of all these people?” she mocked him.

  So he kissed her one more time and then strode into the building, full of false heartiness, knocking mugs and chairs about to cover the sound of hoofbeats.

  The trip continued throughout the cold afternoon. The next likely stopping point was a village called The Crossing, along the High Road. The travelers reached it once the moons had been out for over an hour. When they disembarked at the two small inns that had prepared to receive the royal party, the chamberlain noticed that the queen was missing.

  He turned on Thalen in the small common room. “But, but my orders, I was to—I have to bring the queen tomorrow.”

  “Unfortunately, she was called away,” Thalen said with narrowed eyes. “She will return when she can. Why is it so crucial that she appear in Vittorine tomorrow?”

  “My master wishes to see her desperately. The healers have given him only days to live!” Gruber repeated.

  Thalen and Captain Yanath exchanged looks, but neither of them had the stomach to force the full truth out of the frightened, elderly man.

  Yanath turned on his heel, and Thalen followed him into the entryway.

  “I’m going to post extra sentries tonight,” the captain told him, “armored.”

  “Good. Let’s all turn in early. The sooner we get to this councilor’s manor and make sure he’s all right, the sooner we can head back to Cascada and the queen.”

  When he returned to the common room, he almost bumped into Destra, who had her long white skirt gathered up in her hands.

  “Ah, Commander,” she said. “I’m fatigued from the journey. You set a lively pace! The innkeep has said my room is prepared. Mabbie will bring me some supper and I’m going to bed. One never knows what challenges Fate has in store; best to be prepared.”

  * * *

  Cerúlia did not rejoin the party in the night.

  Pushing their horses hard, the expedition reached the turnoff to Belcazar’s estate, called Pineywoods, just after midday. It was a handsome, two-story, white stone building backed by a stand of towering green-black pines that stretched up the hill behind it. The whole would have presented a picture especially pleasing to the eye—because the barn, walkway, fences, and other outbuildings had been situated with great care to fit the landscape—but the estate wore an air of dishevelment: the shrubs had gotten scraggly, and the glass-paned windows wore a coat of grime. A dozen men sauntered in the yard, but Thalen could tell at a glance that they were not ordinary workers; their posture and their clothing didn’t fit either household staff or field hands.

  When these men approached the riders to take their horses, Vaki started growling at them.

  “I see them, dog. Don’t cause a ruckus,” Thalen said, hoping the creature understood him.

  Thalen rode his horse next to Captain Yanath’s at the hitching fence and crossed under his mare’s belly, undoing the cinch, so that he and Yanath were hidden between the horses from general sight.

  “Matwyck’s Marauders, I’ll wager,” Yanath mouthed. “Thugs, mercenaries who worked for Regent Matwyck.”

  “How many?” Thalen whispered.

  “Could be the missing fifty.”

  “I only count twelve.” Thalen answered.

  “Movement in the barn,” Yanath whispered, as he patted his horse’s rump.

  An elderly lady, drawn and bloodless under her caramel complexion, appeared in a mended silk gown, waiting at the front door with a stirrup cup.

  “Gentlefolk, I am Master Belcazar’s wife, Engeliqua. We are delighted that you have arrived.”

  Destra spoke for the group. “Queen Cerúlia has been detained, but she believes she will rejoin us soon.”

  “I just heard this from Chamberlain Gruber,” said Engeliqua stiffly. “We are so disappointed. May I offer you a drink after your long, cold journey?”

  Cici trotted over and whined at the hostess.

  “It would please me if you would leave the dogs outside,” Engeliqua said. “Also, we weren’t expecting quite so many guards. Your men will be comfortable on the lawn? We will serve them from a spit out here; we started a fire, and we have plenty of ale.”

  “Come along, chaps,” said one of the Marauders dressed as a stableman, putting his arm with false friendliness over Dalogun’s shoulder. Most of the hungry Raiders and shields started drifting toward the wooden trestles visible to the side of the manse, but Thalen managed to catch Kambey’s and Wareth’s eyes and convey a warning. Kambey nonchalantly ran a hand down his own chest from neck to belt; if Thalen read the gesture aright his sword master was pointing out that the Marauders wore no breastplates.

  Apparently, Tristo was determined that Thalen not disappear inside this house without him. He ran up to the doorway. “I am the Commander’s adjutant,” he told the lady with his most winning smile. “I stand by his side.”

  “Not today. You may go with the female servants”—she nodded her head at Mabbie and Geesilla—“to the kitchen. My man will show you the way.” So Tristo unwillingly allowed himself to be led around the back.

  Cerf stepped forward. “Madam, I am Queen Cerúlia’s healer. Perhaps I can be of service to your husband.”

  “Oh, I don’t think so,” said Engeliqua. “The other healers have quite given him up.”

  “You’d be surprised,” said Thalen, “at Cerf’s special skills. Were I Councilor Belcazar, I would want the very best of the medical profession attending me.”

  Engeliqua ungraciously inclined her head toward Cerf. So four of them entered the front door: Captain Yanath (who knew Councilor Belcazar from Queen Cressa’s days), Destra (who took all this strangeness with poise), Cerf, and Thalen.

  The lady of the house led them into a washing room where a maid poured hot water into basins for them to scrub off the road dust and brushed off their clothes.

  “Gentlemen, wouldn’t you be more comfortable without your swords?” she asked with downcast eyes.

  “No,” said Thalen.

  When they emerged, Engeliqua led them to a room with a vaulted roof that doubled as a sitting room and a dining salon. A fire burned in a stone hearth; the rug lying before it boasted scattered small burns and scorch marks.

  A man with amber hair, nearly seventy summers old, awaited them near the fire in a wheeled chair with blankets spread over his legs. One half of his facial muscles d
rooped, causing the left eye to tear and the left half of his mouth to drool a bit.

  One glance substantiated that the man was unwell. But he had loads of flesh on his bones.

  Captain Yanath came forward. “The last time I saw you, Councilor, was on the quay, near Sea Sprite that fateful night. I grieve not to see you on your feet.”

  “Yanath, is it? Aye, I’d heard that the queen named you captain of her New Shield. Congratulations. Of course, we still miss Captain Clemçon, don’t we? Ah, there was a formidable man.” His speech was slurred.

  Because the comment was pitched so ambiguously, Thalen couldn’t tell whether it conveyed sorrow for the lost captain or was a deliberate insult to Yanath.

  “We shall always miss Captain Clemçon,” responded Yanath. He continued, “I should like to introduce my companions: this is Minister Destra, a visiting dignitary from the Free States; Commander Thalen of Thalen’s Raiders; and Master Cerf, the new palace healer.”

  Councilor Belcazar took each hand in turn and eyed the guests up and down, but offered no polite remarks.

  His hand is plump and warm.

  Madam Engeliqua gestured to the polished table, which was prepared for midmeal.

  “You must be hungry after your journey. Pray, won’t you be seated?” She wheeled Belcazar’s chair to the head, placing Destra on Belcazar’s right and Thalen on his left. Cerf sat next to Thalen, and Yanath next to Destra, with the mistress at the foot of the table.

  She rang a bell, which brought in two burly footmen in ill-fitting uniforms who poured wine and water and started gracelessly passing around platters of pickled onions and cucumbers.

  Destra allowed Yanath to seat her as if she had no misgivings about arriving at the home of a “dying” man who was actually well enough to join them at the table with pickled tasties.

  “Such lovely porcelain,” she said to her hostess, admiring the pattern of multicolored rings that decorated the white plate. “Beautiful. It calls to the mind the Fountain Reel. I do so admire a nice setting. It makes the food taste better, doesn’t it? How long has this service been in your family?”

  Madam Engeliqua opened her mouth to reply.

  “I’d like to offer a toast,” Councilor Belcazar interrupted, “to my honored guests.”

  Destra held up her glass, cutting him off with a gracious smile. “I’d like to offer a toast in return, Councilor. To those who remain faithful when all around are faithless.”

  Everyone held up his or her glass. Yanath was just about to drink when Destra’s musical tones forestalled him.

  “Before we drink, however,” Destra said, “I’m sure you will indulge me: it’s a time-honored custom of the Free States that we exchange glasses at the table.”

  Thalen took in a breath. Destra had just invented this “time-honored” custom—she didn’t need any warning.

  Destra continued, “I believe this practice goes back to King Siga’s day, when treachery and poisonings were rife, but we have kept it as a sign of friendship and trust. So, if you will just exchange glasses with me”—she took Belcazar’s glass out of his hand and replaced it with her own—“and your lovely wife with Captain Yanath”—Yanath followed her lead—“we can all set to this very tasty-looking repast.”

  Belcazar pretended to sniff the wine. “Oh, bah! Wine steward, this cask has gone bad. Nobody drink it. Let me send for a fresh cask.” He put his glass back on the table with a gesture of disdain.

  An elderly (authentic?) servant moved forward to reclaim the glasses, but halted midstep when Thalen rose, drew his rapier, and pointed its tip at the host’s throat. “I’m afraid we must decline all food and drink at this table. Poison ruins our appetites, as does being enticed into a trap. Councilor, I await your explanation.”

  Belcazar yanked back from Thalen’s sword point, but it was really Cerf’s dagger—now held across his wife’s throat—that riveted his eyes.

  “’Zar,” said Madam Engeliqua, tears starting as her hand patted her lower neck. “’Zar—I’m bleeding.”

  “Never fear, madam,” said Cerf. “Just a trickle. I know how far I can cut. Your skin is on the thin side, but your windpipe will be just where everyone else’s lies.”

  “Leave her be,” Belcazar ordered hoarsely.

  Three more “footmen” rushed through the doorway. All five grabbed swords that had been stashed behind a curtain and started circling round the table to come at Cerf and Thalen from behind.

  “Tell your men to stop and lay down their arms, or we’ll kill you,” said Thalen.

  “They don’t care if you kill me. They aren’t my men,” said Belcazar slurring.

  “I was afraid of that.”

  The false footmen smirked and launched their attack. Yanath sprang into action, parrying and slashing. Thalen was able to knock a weapon out of one enemy’s hand. Cerf had substituted his sword for his dagger and engaged with an assailant. The two leaned together, straining, swords crossed.

  Yanath, the mightiest fencer in the room, had already engaged another attacker. Thalen grabbed a platter at random off the table, ignoring the food that went flying, using it as a shield. Pressing forward with the platter and his rapier, he backed a Marauder into the wall and stabbed deep into the man’s groin more than once. When he looked around he saw that a second man had set upon Cerf, who was bleeding and giving ground. Thalen clunked the nearer man over the head with the metal platter, satisfied to see his antagonist drop like a stone, and Cerf used the distraction to give the first false footman a deep, disabling slash.

  In just moments, injured men lay bleeding and moaning on the floor. Thalen took stock. Madam Engeliqua had backed herself into a corner, cowering beside a carved sideboard. Destra still sat calmly at the table, her hands in her lap, as if bloodshed and flying onions were an everyday occurrence. Noise from outside in the yard and deeper within the household indicated that other members of their party were now under assault. Yanath bolted in the direction of the front door and his men outside. Cerf pressed a napkin to his own wound and called to Thalen, “Going to the kitchen!”

  But Thalen couldn’t leave the room without answers about the threat to Cerúlia. “What is going on here?” he asked, just keeping his voice under control.

  “’Zar! You fool! What have you done to us?” whimpered Madam Engeliqua.

  Belcazar roared, pushing away the blankets on his legs and standing up. He grabbed a short sword that had been hidden by the blankets, taking a wild swipe in Thalen’s direction.

  Thalen slapped Belcazar’s left knee very hard with the side of his rapier, causing the elderly man to topple first against his wheeled chair, which rolled away, and then to the floor.

  “I have no more time to play your games. I thought you were on the queen’s side. Why did you try to kill us?”

  “Why?” sputtered Belcazar, propping himself up on his elbows. “Why? Why was I exiled out here to the countryside, forgotten and abandoned by everyone who counts? Why did Matwyck kill my older son and spoil my daughter’s match?”

  “Don’t listen to him, I beg you!” Engeliqua cried out.

  “Why should Cerúlia waltz back into the realm and enjoy adulation and riches?” said Belcazar.

  Engeliqua took two steps forward, holding out her hands. “He had a stroke six years ago! Since then, he’s not been himself. He used to be a good man, a thoughtful man.

  “General Yurgn began visiting, pouring his venom in his ear,” Engeliqua babbled on. She started to sob. “Then, in the summer, after the general died, Burgn rode up. He left those guards here; they run my household; they’ve eaten all my stores.

  “Burgn said that if we enticed her here exactly when commanded, my husband would be restored to his former stature and more.

  “I told him he shouldn’t; I told him!” She stamped her foot and pointed to the man flopped on the floor. “Rash, addled old fool, stewing in bitterness.”

  “You were trying to poison the queen?” Thalen asked.

  With
out a shadow of remorse, the old man boasted, “While she struggled for air I would tell her what a trusting little twit her mother was. Helping a Nargis Queen ruined my family.”

  Thalen regarded the incapacitated figure on the floor. He wanted to kill him, but what purpose would that serve? And what if his twisted plan came from a mind twisted by his stroke?

  One of the wounded false footmen on the floor started to try to gather himself on all fours. Destra grabbed her beautiful plate and smashed it over his head.

  With effort Thalen controlled his fury at Belcazar. “Destra! Grab a weapon and keep an eye on them and the injured guards.” Thalen ran to join the battle raging outside.

  Oaths, screams, and growls filled the air, along with the clatter of swords.

  The Marauders were husky men who enjoyed cruelty; they were accustomed to pushing around unarmed and frightened civilians. But they had no great fencing skills, and they had never fought disciplined, experienced soldiers. So even though the Marauders had a numerical advantage, the palace group had made headway.

  Thalen rushed up behind a man who was in the midst of exchanging blows with Dalogun; Thalen stabbed him deep in the buttocks with his rapier’s sharp point. His antagonist screamed, dropped his weapon, and bolted away from the pain. When Thalen whirled around he found himself momentarily engaged in fighting off two swordsmen simultaneously: the first one used his sword like a pickaxe, with wild overhead blows, and the second stumbled over his own big feet as he advanced. Thalen desperately parried several thrusts from opposite directions; then his rapier opened the clumsy one’s leg from groin to knee, while Jothile, coming out of nowhere, his sword flashing with his former speed and confidence, snuck in under Pickaxe’s flailing arms and sliced his throat.

  The dogs pitched in—Cici by biting through the back of men’s ankles, the hound by sinking his teeth into calves. Tristo and Cerf burst out from the back of the house, racing forward with swords drawn, with Mabbie, Destra’s maid, behind them, a cleaver in one hand and an iron skillet in the other. The Queen’s Shield, protected by their breastplates and helms, pressed the Marauders relentlessly.