A Broken Queen

by Sarah Kozloff

  He snapped his fingers, and his valet handed him his glass of cognac. This servant had learned that Matwyck despised chatter.

  Duchette Lolethia was a summer or two younger than Marcot, and Matwyck admitted to himself that she was neither well-educated nor mature. But her immaturity was part of her appeal. Matwyck could foresee molding her into the perfect wife to stand by his side. Besides, Matwyck appreciated her native cunning, so visible in the way she chose the tastiest morsel from each serving plate, the way she insulted old Latlie without the duchess even realizing she’d been snubbed, or the way she would cheat at games while distracting her opponents. The scrupulousness and disapproval that had tainted his marriage to Tirinella would not be a problem in this second union. He would have to keep an eye on this one, though; she was capable of trying to deceive him.

  But Matwyck had the Truth Stone in his possession, and if he had doubts about the girl’s loyalty, he could place her hand on the stone. She would quickly learn that she might trick others, but she couldn’t cozen or cuckold him!

  While the valet tied his burgundy cravat, Matwyck found himself dreaming up various trinkets that would make Lolethia’s eyes sparkle. And also various scenarios for their wedding night. She had once made a comment about a spirited horse needing a strong master. Matwyck relished repeating this remark over and over in his head; it led him to believe that they might be compatible.

  I’ll give that young filly the ride of her life!

  The cravat didn’t lie in a neat knot; the Lord Regent tugged it loose angrily and bent for his valet to tie it again.

  The one snag in his plans had arisen from her family. Naturally, her mother, Duchess Felethia of Prairyvale, was overjoyed to have her daughter the object of the Lord Regent’s attentions. But the duchess had made it plain she would entertain no talk of marriage until after a full year of mourning for Lolethia’s father, who had died of fever in the spring. Matwyck found this no grave impediment; he rather enjoyed the thought of moons of delay and suspense, observing how far Lolethia would go with her teasing and flirting.

  Would she bed him before marriage? He would not pressure her—it must be at her initiative and desire. He might then shame her as wanton, bringing her more under his control.

  But when he thought of family complications, his mind turned to Marcot’s stubbornness.

  The valet held out his weskit. Matwyck scowled both at his thoughts and because the armhole was not placed at the correct angle for his arm.

  Drought damn my son! Nothing moves him from his infatuation with that village girl in Androvale.

  Matwyck had made sure to introduce his son to nearly a dozen more suitable women, a few of whom had been given explicit instructions that seduction would be well rewarded. Marcot behaved like a polite gentleman with each, departing as soon as possible from the social event with a feeble excuse.

  Matwyck turned his head sideways to look closely at his cheeks in the looking glass.

  Should I ring for the barber? No, this bit of stubble looks rough and manly.

  His people had intercepted one of the letters Marcot sent and one of the letters she returned. Matwyck had a vague plan of interrupting the correspondence or forging a note from Percia saying she had found another beau. But before he could act decisively his son found a new avenue for posting and receiving his letters that kept them out of the palace and Matwyck’s grasp.

  The valet stepped away to fetch the jewelry case while Matwyck stared, unseeing, at the carpet of his bedroom.

  A play he’d seen a few moons ago, Devotion and Debts, had centered around filial piety. The young hero, who had dreams of becoming a famous artist, had not listened to his father, who knew that the boy’s real talent lay in increasing agriculture yields and motivating the servants to work harder. Only after their estate had fallen into arrears—and his sister had almost been forced to marry an elderly money changer—had the son realized, almost too late, that the key to his own happiness lay in his submission to his father’s wisdom and guidance. Matwyck had enjoyed the drama and had invited Marcot to attend a repeat performance, but the boy had begged off, claiming he was feeling unwell.

  The scamp’s constitution is about to be tested.

  Matwyck realized he didn’t particularly like to think of himself as the murderer of Weir girls. If Tirinella were still with him—regarding him with her disapproving eyes and daily winning out the contest for the boy’s love—he might not dare to go this far, because she would have known who was behind the attack. But he could no longer hold out hope that Marcot would waver, and the girl would hardly take a bribe when she could have the husband and the country’s riches too.

  I have to act soon. The closer the incident to the wedding date, the more suspicious it will look.

  The burgundy color of his garb was brighter than what he usually wore, and these days he was adding more jewelry than he used to wear. He had always disapproved of gaudy show, but he wished to remind Lolethia of his access to riches.

  He held out his fingers splayed for his valet to place his rings and then resettled them more comfortably on his fingers. His valet sprayed him with cologne, a scent he’d been told contained “musk,” which purportedly made women grow lustful.

  How I’d like to make that minx as hot and hungry as she makes me! She thinks she is baiting me with a hook, but actually, I am the fisherman, reeling her in.

  “I will be late,” he told his valet in a brusque tone. “I’ll expect you waiting for me and my nightclothes properly warmed this time.”

  Matwyck left his quarters for the salon, pinning a warm smile on his public face.

  31

  Salubriton

  Buying upper-class accoutrements posed little difficulty. Cerúlia took Hope with her to the shops, guessing that the novelty might make a good outing for the melancholic and needing Hope to speak for her to female merchants to hide her Weir accent.

  Hope steered Cerúlia away from silk. “We wear silk for fancy occasions, not for traveling,” she murmured. Her friend helped her order split skirts, shirts with lace and billowing sleeves, and short open doublets made out of linen cambric, in light colors or with subtle contrasting stripes. For an extra payment, the seamstresses promised the outfits would be ready posthaste.

  At the parasol shop, Hope assisted as Cerúlia chose two parasols with white fringe. One had a black-and-white checked pattern, and the other one she liked was white, with blue raindrops embroidered on the fabric. Cerúlia insisted that Hope choose a parasol for herself as a present and was delighted when she settled on a cheerful yellow with green leaves embossed in the fabric.

  Finding a dog in Salubriton caused much more difficulty than new garb. Cerúlia admitted to herself that her need was irrational, but nonetheless, she wanted a dog. So many moons without one made her feel less like herself, as if she were missing an arm or a leg. And since Ciellō had confirmed that she was being hunted, having a dog by her side felt even more necessary.

  The tabby cat at the parasol shop vouchsafed that dogs did live within the city, but she did not know where. The gamels told her to search northeast of the city center, in the area past the Park of the Dreamers.

  The next day, comfortably dressed in her donkey boy outfit, she told her housemates she intended to take another ride.

  “Could I accompany you, Damselle Phénix? Would you mind?” asked Damyroth. “I’d like to see if I can ride with one leg, and it would be nice to have a change of scenery. I have coin; I can pay my own way.”

  Cerúlia did not really want to bring him, but she hadn’t the heart to say no to what would surely be a healthy outing for her housemate.

  If the stableman at Vigor Hostelry recognized her, he made no extra effort at politeness. Cerúlia put Damyroth on Pillow and hired a smaller horse, Cotton, for herself. She told the stableman to place his largest double panniers behind Pillow’s saddle.

  They rode to the Park of the Dreamers—a large, lush, and peaceful oasis in the middle of the
busy streets (irrigated, Damyroth told her, with water diverted from the River Cleansing). It had walking paths and bridle trails, a small lake, and manicured greenery. Tall Salubriton peacocks, with their lilac-colored feathers, showed off their plumage and chastised anyone who approached too closely. Damyroth relished being out, and Pillow behaved so docilely that he had no trouble controlling her, which raised his mood even further. Cerúlia’s back and shoulder started to ache, but she could manage the discomfort. After a pleasant tour of the trails, they bought a meat pie from a vendor.

  “What is that structure over there?” she asked Damyroth.

  “That’s a Restaurà Pavilion. Inside you’ll find pillows and rockers.”

  “People nap in public?”

  “That’s the sweetest sleep, amongst your fellows, watched by Restaurà.”

  Cerúlia regarded the pavilion, which had swaying white side curtains, with more interest. “It looks appealing, but in the rain?”

  “It rarely rains, but if it does, that’s even better. You hear the raindrops on the roof, and a light mist blows through.” Damyroth urged her to take more of the pie. Then, through his chewing, he asked, “Do you want to try it? Lie down for a bit? You look fatigued.”

  She shook her head. “No. I have an errand I must do.”

  Looking up at Damyroth, she warned, “It might possibly be a rough neighborhood. Perchance, I could even lead us into some kind of difficulty. Will you back me up?”

  While his eyes regarded her thoughtfully, as if considering whether he really knew her, Damyroth’s large swallow apple bobbed up and down, finishing the pie. “You know I will.”

  After leaving the park behind and riding a few minutes northeast, Cerúlia sensed the presence of dogs, though they were too panicked to communicate anything besides gibberish. She steered the horses first past a row of deserted buildings and then through heaps of rubbish that desperate people picked through. As they rode on, they passed men wearing kerchiefs over their noses and mouths, shoveling waste into smoldering pits. The smell was overwhelmingly foul. The horses shied in discomfort.

  Damyroth opened his mouth to question her, but closed it without speaking.

  The horses did not find approaching the wooden building at the end of a narrow dirt road any easier. With every pace, dogs’ muffled howling grew more audible, and the horses skittered their hind hooves.

  The building with a soot-stained chimney sat slightly apart from any neighbors, surrounded by packed, dry earth. Two shuttered windows and a metal door were closed up tight. The barking noise escalated to deafening levels. Cerúlia climbed off Cotton and banged on the door, but no one came to her knock.

  Help! Help! Help! Out! Let us out! Out!

  Cerúlia tried the door, finding it locked. Taking a step back, she searched for something to use as a tool to force the lock; but Damyroth, who had also dismounted, had already secured a rock with a sharp edge. Bashing the latch several times with his strong arms, he succeeded in busting it open.

  Cerúlia’s eyes didn’t have much of a chance to adjust to the dark interior as she rushed inside. The building was small—even tinier than the cottage in Wyndton. In the middle of the room stood a waist-high table stained with what looked like blood, viscera, and fur, with leather gloves and several axes strewn on top. To her right was a stack of faggots and a large stone hearth capable of roasting a pig.

  With the light that streamed in the doorway she made out two cages filled with half-starved, terrified dogs, penned up in their own excrement.

  The noise the dogs made was unbearably distressing. Cerúlia sprinted to each cage, using her dagger to cut the twine that bound them shut and opening their sides. Jumping on top of one another in their haste, about a dozen dogs streamed out of their pens, bolting for freedom out the door. Cerúlia exited the noisome building in their wake.

  Outside, Damyroth held the horses’ reins; he commented, “I take it that in the Free States dogs are valued.”

  “Aye,” she answered.

  “Strange,” he remarked. “Different countries, different ways.”

  “Hmm-mm,” she agreed, turning to look in all directions.

  “Now what? Is freeing the dogs what we came for?”

  “Only incidentally,” Cerúlia responded, glancing down at her side. “This is what we came for.”

  As she had hoped, not all the captive dogs had run away—one had stopped as if called to her side. He was a large, red-colored animal, with a white blaze on his chest, a ridge of raised, exceptionally dense fur down his back, and a cocked ear.

  Cerúlia squatted down on her heels so her face was level with his warm, brown eyes.

  Hullo, she sent. How did you come to be here?

  He met her gaze for a moment, then politely looked to the side.

  One came with a caravan. One had a master; after he fed the gamels he would feed one. The new smells in this big town enticed one far from familiar wagons. One could nay find the right caravan again and slept on the streets for many suns. One found naught to eat. People threw rocks, so one hid. But anon the axe man caught one and brought one here. Such a terrible place that stinks of fear.

  This is a terrible place, Cerúlia agreed. But I’ve come to free you. She stroked both sides of his head. Would you like to be my dog? My heart hurts from lonesomeness.

  The dog had had a chance to process her scent. He began to whimper and crept forward to lean his full body weight against her chest. His weight unbalanced her crouch, so she sat on the ground and wrapped both arms tightly around his back as he grew more emotional rather than less. He began to stick his black nose and muzzle into the hollow of her neck and to rub his silky cheek against hers. His tail beat wildly.

  Where hast thou been! Why did it take thee so long to find one? Oh where hast thou been!

  There, there. Your lonely days are over. I’ve got you now, and you’ve got me. Shh. Shh. We’ve got one another. Her eyes brimmed over, and the dog licked up her tears.

  Looking up at Damyroth, she said, “Isn’t he wonderful? Free Staters in general do like dogs, but I—” She broke off to giggle as the dog enthusiastically licked her mouth and chin.

  “Look at that funny ear. I’ll call him ‘Whaki.’”

  “You let him lick you with his dirty mouth?” Damyroth tried to keep the shock out of his voice.

  “As you see,” she answered as she gave the dog a final tight hug and a kiss on his nose before she got to her feet. “I love dogs.”

  “What about that one?” her companion said, pointing to a small dog hiding behind Cotton’s legs.

  Cerúlia hadn’t considered that more than one dog might be called to her side. Though dirty and matted, the white lapdog—the fluffy kind that noble ladies like to caress and teach tricks—stood up on her hind feet and walked toward them, wagging her tail.

  Damyroth laughed. “Like a toy, isn’t it? Kind of cute.”

  “She’d be adorable if we washed her. She’s too small to survive running free, because the first predator that comes along will snap her up.”

  “Don’t you think that Damselle Hope would like her?” asked Damyroth.

  Cerúlia leapt at the idea. “I think that having a dog to care for might do wonders for Hope.”

  “Let’s take her home with us then!” Damyroth enthused.

  Your Majesty! sent the white dog, pawing at her knees. Thou rescued us!

  They loaded each of the panniers with a dog—Whaki barely fit and the basket cover wouldn’t latch—and retraced their route down the dirt street. By the time they reached the midden piles, a crowd had started to gather.

  Shrink down, Whaki, as tight as you can.

  Most of its members had the mien of rough-looking laborers, but among them stood a young, black-haired woman wearing thigh-high hunting boots and a feathered hat. This strange woman also shouldered a longbow. This was the first time Cerúlia had seen a weapon carried openly on the streets of Salubriton.

  “Who might you be?” one of
the men asked. “Did you see a bunch of dirty dogs running loose?”

  Knowing that speaking would betray her accent, Cerúlia looked at Damyroth meaningfully.

  “Dogs? Gosh no. Dogs? We’re just out for a ride, friends.”

  Another man in the crowd pointed to Damyroth’s wooden leg. “A peg leg. A recovery patient. Such don’t go about causing trouble.”

  The suspicious woman pointed to the livery name on the saddle blankets and panniers. “Vigor Hostelry. You’re a long way from that part of town,” she said. “What are you folk doing hereabouts?”

  “We’d heard of the beauty of the Park of the Dreamers,” said Damyroth. “We brought midmeal to eat by the pond and feed the peacocks. Have you seen them?”

  The woman’s nose twitched. “Then why are you over here?”

  “Just curious to see more of the city. Though I guess we’ve wandered about a bit and lost our way.”

  “Don’t you talk?” said a second man to Cerúlia. She kept her mouth closed.

  Again, Damyroth answered for her, “She’s mute. Trauma patient. Melancholic. We don’t even know her name; we call her ‘Restaurà’s Ward.’”

  “Hey! There’s one of them!” The crowd took off after a stray dog they glimpsed down an alley. The riders moved on at a leisurely pace that Cerúlia hoped would not raise suspicion.

  She stretched her back casually and stole a glance over her shoulder. To her amazement, the smoke from the closest of the midden piles condensed as it rose in the sky instead of dispersing. As she watched, the gray wisps slowly pulled together, making a darker cloud; then the cloud took on an unnatural form. It transmuted into a giant, dark hand, standing out from the rest of the sky, with a forefinger … pointing straight at the princella.

  They needed to hide—quickly.

  Pillow, where would you go to shelter from danger?

  One’s stable.

  No, that’s too far. I mean, is there anyplace in Salubriton that is sacred to Restaurà?

  Restaurà favors the parks, Cotton piped in. A smaller park lies nearby.