A Broken Queen

by Sarah Kozloff

  “Gunnit looked about like now; I couldn’t tell the season,” Peddler answered.

  More discussion ensued, now that the grown-ups were finally convinced that Gunnit had an important role to play. Finally, the three Agents decided he should stay in Slagos with Gardener for some moons; Gardener would know—“in the ripeness of time”—when was the right moment for Gunnit to travel to a city called Cascada. As an important official, Magistrar Destra could arrange for one of the Green Isles ships that traded with a country called Weirandale to take him on as a cabin boy and transport him there.

  “Are you brave enough to part from me, Gunnit, and throw yourself into the unknown?” asked Peddler. In a lower voice, he added, “You know, Dame Saggeta will skin me if she finds out about this. Skin me alive. I very much doubt that even the Spirits could save me from her wrath.”

  “I think so,” said the boy. “But when I get there, what am I to do? How will I find Finch? How will I, just a goatherd, help her?” A wave of uncertainty passed over him, and he thought with a pang of his mother waiting for him to come home.

  Peddler worried his own beard. “We have to trust that Saulė—consulting the other Spirits—will guide you.”

  “Vertia,” Gardener intoned, “let us grow in wisdom and bravery.”

  “Aye,” said Spinner, “as Fate disposes.”

  Gunnit, who missed his dog, Kiki, stroked the big terrier that had fallen asleep on the ground next to him, but said nothing. He felt quite worn out, slightly daunted, but very determined.

  The sun had sunk below the western horizon, though the sky remained bright.

  PART THREE

  Reign of Regent Matwyck, Year 14

  SPRING

  16

  Cascada

  Matwyck experienced a certain sentimental regret when Tirinella passed away: food lost some of its piquancy, and he found himself musing over the shortness of life and the preciousness of each moment. Occasionally he paused over memories of their years together. He attended all the tragedies at the Aqueduct or Peacock to sound the depths of his sorrow.

  His grief did not last long, however, which was fortunate, because in the past weeks the realm had been beset by troubles. Mysterious fires repeatedly broke out in scattered places around Weirandale. The Lord Regent received reports of an inferno in the heart of Barston that destroyed whole sections of the city, a large blaze in Prairyvale that scorched league upon league of grazing land, and even a fire inside the Abbey of the Waters on Nargis Mountain. Was it lightning? Carelessness? Arson? No sooner had the populace and his soldiers succeeded in extinguishing one blaze than another would begin to flare up far away.

  Curiously, rains materialized each time before the destruction grew to catastrophic proportions. But the unexplained fires and the out-of-season rains unsettled his already-restive citizens, forcing him to make trips out of the capital to survey the damage, comfort the afflicted, and spend his dwindling treasure on relief.

  On his return trip from such a tiring visit in Vittorine, listening to the depressing rain patter on his coach while it lurched its way down the muddy Royal Highway, sitting alone and bored, Matwyck came to a decision—he would marry again. His pride recoiled at the thought of mistresses, bed warmers, and the like; besides, he wanted a life partner.

  Tirinella’s status was as high as I could reach as a young man. Now, however, I am in a completely different position. I will have my pick of the most highborn women in Weirandale, and I will choose more wisely a second time.

  This woman must be ambitious, with none of that tedious scrupulousness that had forced him to hide his projects from Tirinella. A true helpmate who could accompany him and assist him in his work. Beautiful, of course. Every strand on her head must gleam amber; no half-brown wife could be suitable for the Lord Regent. Fertile too, because Matwyck realized that he would like to have more children. However, because he was loyal to a fault, he would insist that his second wife respect Marcot’s claims as firstborn.

  But who was worthy of being his bride? Not a foreign claimant. No, he found foreigners repellent. A duchess or duchette, then. Duchess Pattengale had been widowed these many years, but she was much too ancient either for his lust or for children. No one else immediately came to mind. He would have to review the contenders: the realm’s most eligible women must be put on display without realizing he was choosing amongst them.

  A party? I’ll host a celebration of Marcot’s homecoming. That’s the perfect occasion. Marcot’s ship is due back from the Eastern Duchies; two weeks should give my chamberlain time to prepare a banquet and all the women time to choose their gowns.

  A gust of wind drove rain against the side of the carriage. Matwyck leaned against the upholstery, pulling his fur blanket closer, pleased with his own clever decisiveness.

  Now he could look forward both to seeing his son and to this party. Marcot had dallied long in the Eastern Duchies, which perplexed his father, as those backwater provinces held so little of interest. Actually, Matwyck had expected the boy home moons ago, especially after he’d sent the tidings of Tirinella’s death.

  A truly dutiful son would have rushed home to his father’s side to assuage his grief and help carry his burdens.

  * * *

  When Matwyck met the Sea Wave, the young man who disembarked looked more mature than when he’d left Cascada nearly a year previously. He walked more firmly and held himself straight. His father felt a flush of pride at the man his son had become, but also a momentary nostalgia for the child left behind.

  Shaking hands, he noted his son’s eyes still resembled Tirinella’s, which gave Matwyck a minor pang.

  “Welcome home, my son,” he said with quiet dignity, determined not to show that his prolonged absence had rankled.

  In the carriage to the palace, they deliberately did not discuss their recent bereavement.

  “Well, Father, how are conditions in Cascada?” asked his son.

  “The city has so far been spared,” said Matwyck, “though there has been a rash of fires in the countryside.”

  “Fires? Really. Do you know the forest called Anders Wood, near Duke Naven’s manor?” Marcot asked. “There was a terrible forest fire a few weeks before I left. No one could guess how it could have started, and the place is too remote for fire brigades to combat it. I’ve ridden through that forest—such magnificent timber!—what a terrible loss.”

  “Did Naven lose it all?” Matwyck found these strange fires distressing, but he wouldn’t mind if one of his least-favorite dukes suffered.

  “No. It was the strangest thing. The fire had consumed about a third of the wood and looked hungry enough to finish the job—we sat our horses watching in despair—when a sudden storm appeared and poured rain down in buckets. Saved the rest of the forest and the surrounding villages.”

  That evening, over a private dinner served in their quarters, Matwyck reassured Marcot that the occasional flares of unrest among the people—the mobbing of a tax bureau, a painting on a city building shouting “Where is Cerúlia?”—were nothing to worry about. Matwyck had formed a special cadre of soldiers, loyal to him, to keep the palace safe. If Marcot left the palace, his father wished him to be accompanied by a squad of guards in red sashes.

  At the end of the meal, Marcot pushed away his plate and said, “Father, there is something important I’d like to discuss with you.”

  Matwyck hid an indulgent smile at his son’s serious tone by taking another sip of wine.

  “If the matter is important to you, it is important to me. Pray continue.”

  Marcot took a deep breath. “In Androvale I met a young woman. A wonderful woman. I should tell you straightaway that she is not of noble birth, and her family—while more than respectable—is neither wealthy nor influential.” The last words of his obviously rehearsed speech came out in a rush: “Nevertheless, I intend to marry her.”

  Matwyck felt his temper rising as these sentences continued, but he mastered himself. “Tell me mor
e about her,” he replied with studied neutrality.

  So Marcot told his father about this Percia—her grace and laughter, her dancing skills and her dancing school, her mother and brother, and their humble cottage in Wyndton. Matwyck kept a benign smile on his face, but inside he fumed.

  When Marcot ran out of words to describe his infatuation with this village wench, Matwyck chose his response with care. He had seen the depth of Marcot’s feelings play over his features, and he knew how stubborn the young man could be if he encountered opposition.

  “Marcot, you think of me as an old man. But I remember feeling just as you do now when I first met your mother. The first flush of infatuation! Oh, how warming, how intoxicating!” Matwyck jerked his left hand; he’d been about to clasp it on his heart but decided midgesture that this would look too theatrical.

  “You know I would be lying if I said I was overjoyed about this match. And it is not, my son (despite what you may believe) because I covet riches or position. No, all I want is for you to be happy—really, truly happy—in your marriage.”

  Matwyck took another sip of wine to give him a chance to negotiate this thicket. Marcot’s face had frozen into immobility.

  “I will speak to you man to man,” Matwyck continued. “Choosing a wife is one of the most important decisions you will make. You can’t make it hastily, or while you grieve from the loss of your mother.”

  “I know my own feelings,” said Marcot, staring at the table linens. “And I met Percia before Mother died.”

  Matwyck pressed a bit harder. “Marcot, it is because I want you to be content that I am going to speak frankly to you. I fell in love with your mother; I knew just the passion and urgency that you describe. But you know that as it turned out, she and I were poorly suited to one another. I will not speak ill of your mother; no doubt the problems in our union were all my fault. But I would not have you make the same mistake I made.”

  Marcot’s jaw tightened during Matwyck’s last speech.

  “Father, since you yourself made a match of commoner with nobility, you have no standing to criticize my choice!” His voice grew louder. “I will marry her with or without your permission. I will marry her even if you disown me, even if you disinherit me. We will go live with Duke Favian and Duchess Gahoa of Maritima. I’m certain they will welcome us.”

  “Son, have I said anything that preposterous? Have I made any threats?” Matwyck rubbed his eyebrow and was distressed to discover that the boy’s outburst had made him perspire. “During your voyage you worked yourself up to imagine such threats, did you not? And practiced the role of stalwart suitor, resisting the pressure of a dictatorial father, just as in a play.”

  Matwyck steepled his hands and lightly tapped them together. “No. All I ask—and it is a little thing—is that you wait. That you wait until more time has passed since your beloved mother’s death. You wait until you can be sure how well suited you two may be to one another. You test yourself, and you test your intended. If, while you are waiting, she runs off with the village dandy, you will have saved yourself and the realm a deal of grief.”

  As the last sentence escaped his lips, Matwyck knew these words were a mistake.

  “Percia is not running off with anyone!” Marcot banged the table with his fist, making the cutlery bounce.

  Improvising quickly, Matwyck said, “There! You passed the first test! Such fervent faith in your beloved. Speaks so well of you.”

  But he already had in his possession the key lever to influence the headstrong idiot; he just had to use it adroitly. Matwyck let a pause grow. Then he said, softly, “But Marcot, if your mother were here, what would she say? Might she not also counsel you to wait?”

  Marcot appeared to consult his heart and then reluctantly nodded. “How long would you put Percia and me to this ‘test’?”

  Matwyck smiled inwardly; he recognized he had the boy on the hook. He poured them both more wine.

  “What do you think would be reasonable?”

  “Until midsummer?” Marcot proposed.

  “How about a year? If in a year you are still set on this match, I will welcome Percia of Wyndton with open arms. Wouldn’t you like to see her in a gown of silk made by the palace dressmakers? Wouldn’t your girl and her family be happier knowing that you had your only parent’s openhearted blessing? A glorious early spring wedding.”

  “If I agree to this year, you promise to bless the wedding?”

  Matwyck held out his hand for a handshake. “My oath on the Waters.”

  17

  Moot Table

  Flaring with indignation, Smithy stood in the center of the flat stone surface on the barren dream island they called Moot Table. He knew that in this matter he had justice and custom on his side.

  “I called you all to a Judgment because they are meeting in the flesh to plot against Pozhar!”

  Smithy turned in a circle, challenging the eight other Agents. Peddler and Gardener did not deny this charge; they continued standing beside one another calmly, content to observe how the rest of the Agents would react to this unprecedented news.

  Two of the people this morning were new to Moot Table; Smithy stared at them, wondering whose side they would take, though he recalled from his own experience that one’s first trip to the dream island might be so disorienting that these newcomers probably would understand very little of the proceedings. Pozhar was mightily displeased that Mìngyùn had chosen this as the moment to take renewed interest in the world of humankind.

  “And you know about these meetings—how?” Healer looked troubled.

  “Pozhar has friends in Slagos who saw them,” answered Smithy. “Peddler doesn’t wear that gold cloak in his natural life, but his yellow hair and bells”—he gestured toward his own hair—“are unmistakable.”

  “I met them in Vertia’s Garden too,” broke in Spinner, the Agent newly anointed by Mìngyùn. Since her arrival a few moments ago she had been distracted by the costume her Spirit granted her, which was a gown of gossamer threads so fragile they looked as if they would tear if you touched them. She had paced this way and that, watching the gown shiver, and her hands still grabbed the golden pendant around her neck. Apparently, she had just broken through her fascination with these fripperies to concentrate on business.

  “Well, to be strictly accurate,” continued Spinner, “I went to the meeting merely as myself, and it was while I was there that I became Mìngyùn’s Agent.”

  Smithy eyed her balefully, though if his gaze intimidated her she did not show it. He could tell this one came from the upper class, which he resented.

  “Plots and more plots!” growled Smithy. “We are supposed to meet here, all open and aboveboard, to discuss our differences together, not sneak around behind shrubs in the Green Isles. Secret meetings lead to secret maneuvers and factions.

  “Of course, you don’t care.” Smithy pointed at Water Bearer, whom he considered the prime conspirator. “You’re willing to break all the time-honored customs of the Spirits to help your precious, murderous princella. But I hope that the rest of you now realize how underhanded Peddler and Gardener are.”

  Smithy turned to the two Agents just mentioned. “Will you tell us why you met? Or what you discussed?”

  Peddler and Gardener remained quiet, though Peddler shook his head and the damn bells braided into his hair tinkled. In another circumstance Smithy might have allowed himself to enjoy hearing these delicate chimes. Gardener, as always, peered around like a mad owl, mesmerized by having his vision restored during their meetings on this enchanted isle. (Smithy would never admit it, but he also found hearing sounds again disorienting and disquieting.)

  “No? See, they connive against us still,” Smithy grumbled.

  Water Bearer, an elderly woman with frizzy hair, tried to fend off Smithy’s insinuation. “I had nothing to do with this,” she said with her hands in the air. “This is the first me and Nargis heard tell of it.”

  “Actually,” said Spinner calm
ly, “now that I learn that conversing in the flesh is a violation of protocol, I feel duty bound to tell all of you about another meeting of Agents in the Green Isles, though this earlier occasion was purely accidental and stayed on human concerns.”

  “Aye,” said Sailor, who was the other novice to Moot Table, with a graceful bow. This man was much younger and more fit than the last Sailor, though he too wore a gray Lorther braid.

  Sailor continued, “I am very pleased to make your acquaintance, Spinner, in your new role.”

  “And you, Sailor,” she answered, with a smile that Smithy suspected contained secrets.

  Spinner addressed Hunter. “And unless I am sorely mistaken, you too sat at my table a few weeks ago, did you not? At that time, I was insensible of your true vocation, but perchance you knew Sailor and me?”

  “I did,” admitted Hunter. “I can smell Agency. I don’t expect the rest of you to have noticed, but you all emit a distinct aroma, not unpleasant, rather similar to pineapple sage.” The dark-haired young woman in hunting garb sniffed several times.

  “I can vouch,” continued Hunter, “that this second meeting did not involve matters related to our Spirits. It was … a dinner party. The wine was excellent, but I don’t particularly care for fish. No amount of preparation can cover up the fishy scent.”

  “A dinner party?” Smithy said, confused. “Then leave it aside; it has no bearing on the matter at hand.” He wanted to return to the issue of secret plots.

  “What say you, Mason?” Smithy asked.

  “About what?” asked ‘Chamen’s Agent in his cloak of stone dust.

  “About Peddler and Gardener and Spinner meeting outside of Moot Table!”

  “I’m curious,” Mason responded. “What’s it like to talk to an Agent in the daytime? How did you recognize one another? Were your Spirits listening then as they are now? ‘Chamen is not always with me; sometimes my Spirit attends to business far away from Rortherrod.”