Mam blinked at him, pale as parchment, her hand flying to her throat as if she’d seen a ghost. “W-where ...?”
“I slept over at Marisa Pines,” Han explained. “And then I ran into some trouble on the way home. But I brought supper.” He mutely held out the napkin with the remaining pork pies. An offering.
Crossing the space between them, she struck the napkin out of his hand. “You brought supper? That’s it? You disappear for three days and I’m out of my head with worry, and you brought supper?” Her voice was rising, and Han waved his hands, trying to shush her. They didn’t need to rouse the landlord, who lived next door, and remind him they hadn’t paid their rent.
She came forward, and he retreated until he was up against the hearth. She thrust an accusing finger into his face. “You’ve been fighting again. Haven’t you? What have I told you?”
“No,” he said unconvincingly, shaking his head. “I’m just ... I stumbled over a curb and fell flat on my face in the street.”
“You should put a cold rag on it,” Mari said from the refuge of her bed. Her voice quavered, like it did when she was upset. “Mam, you always say that takes the swelling down.”
Han glanced over at Mari, wishing he and Mam could take their fight somewhere else. But when you live in one room over a stable, there’s nowhere to go.
“Who was it this time?” Mam demanded. “The gangs or the Guard? Or did you pick one too many pockets?”
“I an’t lifting purses anymore,” Han protested, stung. “Nor diving pockets, neither. I wouldn’t—”
“You said you were going after plants for the Flatlander Market,” Mam said. “Did you even go up on Hanalea? Or were you out running the streets the whole time?”
“I went up on Hanalea,” Han said, struggling to control his temper. “Me and Dancer spent all day gathering herbs on the mountain.”
Mam eyed him narrowly, then extended her hand. “You should have some money for me, then.”
Han thought of his purse, now in Shiv’s possession. He still had Lucius’s money, but—like he kept saying—he wasn’t a thief. He swallowed hard, looking down at the floor. “I don’t have any money,” he said. “It got taken from me in Southbridge.”
Mam’s breath hissed out, like he’d confirmed all her worst fears. “You’re cursed, Hanson Alister, and you’ll come to a bad end,” she said. “It’s no wonder you’re in trouble when you’re out on the streets all day long. When you run with street gangs, thieving and robbing . . .”
“I’m not with the Raggers anymore,” Han interrupted. “I promised you back in the fall.”
Mam plowed on as if he hadn’t spoken. “When you take up with ill-favored sorts like Lucius Frowsley. We may be poor, but at least we’ve always been honest.”
Something broke loose inside Han, and when he opened his mouth the words came spilling out. “We’re honest? Well, honest won’t fill our bellies. Honest doesn’t pay the rent. It’s been me supporting us for the past year, and it’s a lot harder without slide-hand. Be my guest if you think you can keep us out of debtor’s prison taking in washing and picking rags. And if we do go to prison, what do you think will happen to Mari?”
Mam stood speechless, eyes very blue, her lips as white as the rest of her face. Then she snatched up a stick from the kindling pile and swung it at him. Reflexively, he gripped her wrist and held it. They glared at each other for a long moment, married by blood and anger. Slowly the anger drained away, leaving only the linkage of blood.
“I’m not going to let you hit me anymore,” Han said quietly. “I’ve already had one beating today. That’s enough.”
Later, Han lay on his straw mattress in the corner. He could hear the soft, regular breathing that said Mam and Mari were finally asleep. Every bone in his body ached, and his face felt like it might split open. Plus, he was hungry again. He and Mam had shared the last two meat buns, but these days everything he ate seemed to evaporate before it reached his stomach.
His mind bounced off corners like a mouse in a maze. He was no philosopher. He had few spaces of time in which to dream. He was not the sort to try and reconcile the warring souls that lived inside his body.
There was Han Alister, son and big brother, breadwinner, deal-maker, and small-time conniver. There was Hunts Alone, who’d been adopted by Marisa Pines and wished he could melt into the clans for good. And finally, Cuffs, petty criminal and street fighter, onetime streetlord of the Ragger gang and enemy of the Southies.
From day to day he slid out of one skin and pulled on another. No wonder it was hard to sort out who he was.
He shifted on the hard floor. He usually used his carry bag as a pillow, but he wasn’t sure if he ought to, with the amulet inside. The jinxpiece occupied his mind like a toothache. What if it exploded and killed them all? Or worse, left them alive with no roof over their heads.
Lucius’s words came back to him. Keep the amulet hid, and stay out of the way of the Bayars. If they find out you have it, they’ll kill you for it.
Finally he pulled the amulet in its wrapping out of his bag. Wearing only his breeches, he slipped down the stairs, past the horses in their stalls, and into the cold stable yard. Some distance from the building stood a stone forge built when there was a blacksmith in residence. It had been Han’s hiding place since he was old enough to have secrets. Han lifted a loose stone at its base and tucked the amulet underneath, replacing the stone. Feeling more at ease, he returned to the stable and climbed the stairs, his mind working furiously.
Tomorrow he’d go back to Lucius, deliver his purse, and hopefully get paid. That might be enough to hold off the landlord for a while, especially if he mucked out the barn again.
Sitting down on his mattress, he dug in his breeches pocket, pulling out the princess coin Matieu had given him a lifetime ago. He turned it toward the dying fire, and the reflected flames picked out the silhouette engraved on it.
It was Princess Raisa ana’Marianna, heir to the Gray Wolf throne of the Fells.
“Hey, girlie,” he whispered, running his dirty forefinger over the image. “I’d like to see more like you.”
She was in profile, captured in cold hard metal—her graceful neck extended, her hair swept back from her face and caught into a coronet. No doubt proud and haughty as her mother, Queen Marianna.
No, Han thought sarcastically. It’s far too much trouble to come into the highlands to hunt. We’ll just have the deer delivered, even if it means setting fire to the mountain.
A princess wouldn’t have to worry about keeping a roof over her head, about where her next meal was coming from, or if she was going to be cornered and beaten in the street.
A princess would have nothing at all to worry about.
CHAPTER SEVEN
In the Glass Garden
Raisa hurried down the corridor, her dancing slippers whispering over the marble floors. She’d intended to return to her chambers and change clothes, but was at a loss for what to put on. Her clan leggings and tunic were filthy dirty. She had no play clothes anymore, and anyway, this new solemn Amon in his dress uniform seemed to call for something more formal. But what if he’d changed into breeches and shirt? She’d feel foolish in her gown.
Hold on. She was the princess heir, come from a dance. Why should she feel foolish at all? What was the matter with her?
Magret was waiting up, nursing a cup of tea, her graying hair taken down and plaited. “You’re back earlier than I expected, Your Highness,” she said, rising and dipping a curtsy. “I thought it would go later.”
“It will. I’m going to see Amon now,” Raisa said, sitting in front of her mirror and removing the circlet. She’d leave the gown on, she decided, but take down her hair. Then she’d ...
“Now?” Magret stared at her. “At this hour?”
Raisa blinked up at her. “Well. Yes.” And when Magret continued to frown, added, “What?”
“You can’t go off meeting a young man on your own in the middle of the night!�
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What didn’t Magret understand? “It’s Amon. We used to stay out overnight all the time. Remember when Cook found us under the baker’s table at sunrise? We wanted to be ready when the cinnamon buns came out of the oven.” Raisa tugged a brush through her resistant hair, thinking Amon would never fit under the baker’s table now. Not with those long legs.
“You’ll not go out without a chaperone at this hour,” Magret said stubbornly.
“I already said I’d meet him,” Raisa said, plaiting her hair into a loose braid. “No one will know, anyway.”
“If you go, I’ll speak with Lady Francia, who will interrupt the queen,” Magret said, thrusting her chin forward trumphantly.
“You wouldn’t,” Raisa said, now thoroughly sorry she’d not gone directly to her rendezvous.
“I would, Your Highness. You’ll be sixteen in July, and eligible for marriage. It will be my head if anything happens to you. I mean, he’s a soldier, after all.”
“Blood. Of. Hanalea. I’m not marrying anyone, Magret.
Not for a long time.” I’ll take a hundred lovers before then, just for spite, she wanted to say. Besides, I’d be more likely to get into trouble in the card room with Micah or under Mother’s nose in the banqueting hall than with Amon, Raisa thought.
They glared at each other for a long moment, at an impasse.
“Fine,” Raisa said. “Come with me, then.”
Magret looked down at her chamber gown. Obviously, she’d thought she was in for the night. “Really, Your Highness, I don’t think . . .”
Raisa put on her imperious princess face. “If you insist on coming, you might as well make up a tray for Amon. He stood guard at the door all during dinner, so he’s not eaten.”
A quarter hour and much grumbling later, they left Raisa’s rooms, Raisa in the lead, Magret following, radiating disapproval, carrying a large silver tray.
They climbed several flights of stairs that grew narrower and steeper as they ascended.
“Are you meeting him on the roof, then?” Magret wheezed, two flights behind Raisa.
“We’re meeting in the glass garden,” Raisa said, pausing at the top of the last flight to let Magret catch up. It would’ve been much easier to go up via the secret staircase, but that was one secret she didn’t intend to share with Magret.
She’d not shared it with Micah, either. Once disclosed, it couldn’t be taken back if it became awkward or inconvenient.
The greenhouse must have been a showplace once, designed by someone with a love for gardens. They entered through tall bronze doors decorated with cunning vines, flowers, animals, and insects cast into the metal. The air inside was moist, fragrant with earth and flowers and the breath of growing things. The dark slate floor gathered up sunlight all day long and gave heat back during the night. Hot water from thermal springs circulated through pipes, controlled by a series of valves so the temperatures could be adjusted to meet the needs of tropical, desert, and temperate plants.
Queen Marianna had little use for gardens, preferring her flowers to be arranged in vases, but Raisa shared a passion for digging in the dirt with her father. On those rare occasions he stayed at Fellsmarch Castle, they spent hours in companionable silence, rooting cuttings and thinning seedlings.
With both of them gone these past three years, the garden was overgrown and neglected, the more aggressive plants crowding out the weaker, more delicate kinds. Panes were broken here and there, stuffed with wool or crudely mended with ill-fitting patches. Some areas of the garden were too cold now for any but native plants.
Raisa led Magret to the entrance of the maze. Amon would be waiting in one of the side passages, in a pavilion next to the fountain.
Guess we’ll have to find a new place to meet, Raisa thought, now that Magret knows about this one.
Although she might not be able to find her way back.
Raisa confidently threaded her way through the leafy tunnels, Magret tight on her heels, as if afraid Raisa might sprint away and leave her stranded. The boxwood walls had nearly grown together in some places, and more than once they had to push through tangles of branches.
“You’re going to ruin that dress on the first wearing,” Magret complained, licking her finger and rubbing it over a prick in Raisa’s satin skirt.
Raisa heard Amon before she saw him. He was pacing back and forth, muttering to himself. At first she thought he was grumbling because she was late, but it seemed he was practicing some sort of speech.
“Your Highness, may I say how honored I am that you . . . ah . . . how pleased I am to be remembered . . . gaaaah.” He shook his head in disgust and cleared his throat. “Your Highness, I was astounded—no—surprised when you spoke to me, and hope that you might consider our friendship . . . Hanalea’s bloody bones!” he exclaimed, smacking himself in the forehead. “What an idiot.”
Raising her hand to indicate that Magret should stay where she was, Raisa moved forward. “Amon?”
He jumped and swiveled around, his hand automatically going to the hilt of his sword. He tried to change it into a kind of elegant gesture, extending his hand toward her and bowing low. “Your Highness,” he croaked, straightening and staring at her. “You’re ...um ...you look well.”
“Your Highness?” She strode toward him, satin swishing, chin lifted imperiously. “Your Highness?”
“Well,” he said, flushing furiously, “I . . . ah . . .”
She gripped both his hands and looked up—way up—past the square Byrne chin and straight nose and into his gray eyes. “Bones, Amon, it’s me. Raisa. Have you ever in your life called me ‘Your Highness’?”
He studied on it. “As I remember, there were several times you made me call you that,” he said dryly.
Her face grew hot. “I never did!”
He raised an eyebrow, an expression she remembered well. Very annoying.
“Well,” she conceded, “all right. Maybe a few times.”
He shrugged. “It’s probably best if I get used to calling you that,” he said. “If I’m going to be at court.”
“I suppose,” she said. They stood like that, hands linked awkwardly for a moment. She was suddenly very aware of the contact. Her heart stuttered.
“So,” he said. “You look ...well,” he repeated. He couldn’t seem to decide where he should be looking, which gave him a rather shifty-eyed appearance.
“And you look . . . tall,” she replied, briskly withdrawing her hands. “Are you hungry? Magret brought supper for you.”
He flinched and glanced around, his gaze lighting on Magret, sulking next to an ancient jade tree. The eyebrow again. “You brought Magret along? Here?”
Raisa shrugged. “She wouldn’t let me come otherwise. It’s hard these days.”
“Oh.” He hesitated. “Well, I am hungry,” he admitted.
Raisa motioned to Magret, who set the tray on a small wrought-iron table at the waterside, lit the torches, and then withdrew to a bench close enough so she might still overhear what they were saying.
“Please,” Raisa said to Amon. “Sit.” She settled into a chair and chose a small bunch of grapes to nibble on, though she was still stuffed from dinner. She was glad of the distraction of the food, glad it gave them something to focus on besides each other.
Amon carefully removed his uniform jacket and hung it on the back of his chair. Underneath he wore a snowy white linen shirt. He rolled the sleeves past the elbows, exposing tanned and muscled arms.
“Sorry,” he said, finally sitting. “I’m used to doing my own laundry at Wien House, so I try to keep my cuffs out of my soup.”
He enthusiastically tucked into the bread, cheese, and fruit Magret had assembled, washing it down with cider. He looked up once and caught Raisa staring at him. “Excuse me,” he said, hastily swiping at his mouth with a napkin. “I rode a long way today, I’m starving, and I’m used to eating in a barracks. It’s kind of a free-for-all.”
To Raisa, it was a relief to talk to s
omeone who didn’t try to flatter her. Who said what he thought. Who wasn’t so smooth that she felt clumsy and ill-spoken herself.
“So,” she said, “you’re assigned to the Guard this summer?”
He nodded, chewed, and swallowed. “And every summer from now on.”
“Will you be working a lot?”
“Aye, my da’ll make sure the queen gets her money’s worth from my sorry hide.” He rolled his eyes. “I might get to see you if I’m assigned to your personal guard. But that’s unlikely as a first year in the Guard.”
“Oh,” Raisa said, disappointed. She’d been lonely since returning to Fellsmarch from Demonai. There was Micah, of course, but being with him wasn’t exactly relaxing, not even with a chaperone.
She’d looked forward to a summer knocking about with the Amon she remembered. It hadn’t occurred to her that he’d be so different. Or that he wouldn’t have any free time.
“I hoped we could ride up to Firehole Falls again. I heard there was a new geyser that shoots fifty feet in the air.”
“Really?” Amon cocked his head. “You haven’t gone to see it?”
“I was waiting for you. Remember that time we went swimming at Demon Springs?” They’d fished for trout in the Firehole and cooked their catch in one of the steam fissures that crazed the landscape.
“Ah.” He looked uncomfortable. “The queen may not like the notion of us riding off on our own anymore.”
“Why not?”
“Several reasons.” He paused, and when she didn’t respond, added, “For one thing, it’s more dangerous than it used to be.”
Raisa twitched impatiently. “Everybody keeps saying that.”
“Because it’s true.”
“And why else?” Raisa persisted.
“I’m a soldier, and I’m of age. You’ll be of age by midsummer. It’s different. People will talk.”
Raisa made a disgusted noise. “People will talk regardless.” But she knew he was right. After an uncomfortable silence, she changed the subject. “Tell me about Oden’s Ford.”
The Demon King Page 10
