A Broken Queen

by Sarah Kozloff

  But was the Bread and Balm still a safe haven? It was only a matter of time until the woman who was hunting her tracked her down.

  Even more worrisome was that Dame Tockymora went missing from the recovery house for most of the afternoon. Later, Cerúlia saw her whispering with Lymbock. She grumbled no more about the big dog, but she cast dark looks at her Free States guest.

  That night, Hope drew her roommate into their shared bedroom. “You can’t trust Tockymora. I’m sure she’s up to something. And Lymbock showed Jitneye a gold coin he’s going to send to his daughter.”

  Cerúlia closed her eyes and struck her forehead with her fingertips, considering alternatives. She could flee, but then she’d be more exposed. And her Zellish bodyguard, Ciellō, knew this as her address.

  She needed to silence Tockymora. Without taking the time to come up with a considered plan, she sprang into action. Squeezing Hope’s hand in gratitude for the warning, she grabbed her dagger and headed downstairs. She found Tockymora getting herself ready for bed in her ground-floor bedroom off the kitchen. Her shoes, hose, hairpins, and apron lay on a chair.

  “What ails you?” Tockymora cried in alarm when Cerúlia burst in the door.

  “You’re coming with me, dame,” she cried, holding her dagger at the ready.

  “No,” said Tockymora, planting her heavy rump firmly on her bed. “No. I’m not. I’m staying right here. And where do the likes of you get off telling me anything different? You, with your hideous scars and your foreign accent! You, covered with dog spit!

  “I don’t know what this is about,” Tockymora chattered on with nervous bravado. “Strange folk from strange countries. No wonder they’re after you! After all I’ve done for you, damselle, to threaten me with a knife! I’ll be glad when they come to arrest you. To think that you grew stronger on my victuals!”

  “Shut up, dame,” said Hope’s voice behind Cerúlia at the doorway. A clumping noise through the kitchen indicated that Damyroth was hurrying to join her. From behind them, Whaki growled, sensing the tension but uncertain whom to blame.

  Cerúlia sat down on the bed beside her landlady and held her knife steadily at her throat. “Yes, shut up,” she echoed Hope’s command. Tockymora arched her neck backward, but the anxious, defiant grin stayed plastered on her face and her hands grabbed Cerúlia’s forearm.

  “What now?” said Damyroth, who was dressed only in his trousers.

  “We tie her up and gag her,” said Cerúlia. Tockymora made an attempt to push past them and flee, but her friends entered the small chamber, each pinning an arm, and, standing guard at the doorway, Whaki gave a small lunge in the direction of her face, snarling.

  The apron that the older woman had just taken off lay ready at hand. Cerúlia cut off the sashes.

  “Use these to tie her arms and legs.” She wadded up the apron skirt and made it serve as a gag.

  “Where should we hide her?” said Hope. “The cellar?”

  “I don’t think we three could carry her down to the cellar without dropping her,” Damyroth noted. “She weighs as much as a stack of bricks.”

  “We’ll make her walk there, then,” suggested Hope. “I’ll make the leg tie more like a hobble.”

  Awkwardly, the three dragged and pushed her down to the cellar, sat her on a sack of lentils, and found a rope to tie her bodily to a wooden strut. Then they left the room and closed the door tightly, with Damyroth pocketing the key.

  “If she thumps against the floor, there’s a good chance no one will hear her,” he said.

  “What about Lymbock?” asked Hope. “In the morning, when she’s missing, won’t he cause trouble?”

  “He might,” said Damyroth. “But he’s too ill to leave the house and fetch the city watch. Leave him to me.”

  The three coconspirators crossed the indoor patio, the women preparing to climb the stairs to their bedroom and Damyroth heading in the direction of the room he shared with Jitneye.

  “I acted on impulse, and I would never have succeeded without you two. Why are you helping me?” Cerúlia asked. “Won’t you get in trouble?”

  “I don’t care if I get into trouble,” said Hope. “After what I’ve been through, what could anyone do to me?

  “You made me want to live again, Phénix. Do you think I care if some city watchman scolds me? Or if Tockymora throws me out?”

  “Aye,” said Damyroth. “Healer’ll say that we recovery patients are not really in our right minds. Or I’ll argue that we had to assist you, because we are all ‘fingers on the same hand.’ I just couldn’t help myself.” Grinning at the thought of using the recovery house philosophy against authorities, Damyroth seemed to notice for the first time that he was half-dressed. He crossed his arms over his chest.

  “Besides, Phénix, you’ve meant just as much to me. Every day, when we were exercising, you kept going, so I had to keep going too. You brought me hope.”

  Cerúlia had been turning over a suspicion in her mind since Damyroth had inquired about bringing Puffy home.

  She looked from one of her friends to the other and squinted. “Do you mean ‘hope,’ or”—she pointed—“‘Hope’?”

  “Both—I pray,” said Damyroth, with a lopsided, chagrined smile. “Now, go to bed. I’ll keep watch on Tockymora through the night.”

  In the morning Damyroth offered up a preposterous story about their landlady being fetched in the wee hours to her daughter’s house. Lymbock scowled suspiciously, but Jitneye’s main concern was for their missing hotcakes. The patients fumbled about in the kitchen, fending for themselves for meals.

  Fortunately, in terms of keeping both the dog and the landlady confined, that very morning a boy knocked on the Bread and Balm’s front door, asking for Damselle Phénix.

  She stepped out into the street for privacy.

  “I’s to give you a message,” the boy said.

  “Yes?” she asked.

  “Your manservant will escort you tomorrow at daybreak. A ferry to the coast, then sea passage,” said the boy.

  “That’s it?”

  “Yeah. Now you’s to give me a copper.”

  After fishing a coin out of her waist purse, Cerúlia went back inside. If any of her housemates had noticed anything, they gave no sign. She tried to keep up normal routines; accordingly she took a fast walk, mixed Lymbock’s concoctions, and worked through her arm exercises with Damyroth one more time. Damyroth and Hope disappeared into the cellar on several occasions, and during these absences Cerúlia tried to distract Lymbock and Jitneye.

  The day crept by slowly. Cerúlia feared the archer might show up any moment, but Whaki reassured her that he didn’t detect her scent.

  When she went up to her room in the evening, she laid out one of her new outfits and packed the case she had bought when she purchased the clothing. She also put a cushion in the bottom of the large, covered wicker basket she had found in the cellar that she had decided to use to get Whaki to the ship. She tipped the basket on its side.

  I need you to try this little cave.

  One doesn’t want to be enclosed ever again.

  Ah, but this is different, Whaki. See, it is made of straw, not metal, and I will not lock you in. I will be next to you the whole time. I have made this so that you can accompany me. Come on; try it for size.

  Cerúlia was prepared to Command Whaki past his fear if she needed to, but the dog trusted her enough to scoot into the basket. She tipped it so that it stood straight up; curled in a ball at the bottom, Whaki fit well enough.

  Are you all right? You can see out of the holes in the sides.

  The straw has a strong smell, but the pillow is comfortable, Whaki grudgingly admitted.

  Hope watched her silently from her bed, with Puffy tucked up in her arms. Then she motioned for Cerúlia to sit next to her, and she massaged Cerúlia’s aching shoulder muscles thoroughly and rubbed salve into every one of her burn scars. Cerúlia kissed her forehead good night, putting into the kiss her wishes for Hope
’s future.

  In dawn’s first glow, Cerúlia, dressed in an outfit fancier and more impractical than any she had worn since her palace childhood, waited by the front door with her luggage, her parasol, and Whaki in his basket. She had left envelopes with parting words and gold coins for her housemates.

  Writing the letters had reminded her of the night she’d snuck away from Wilim and Stahlia, undoubtedly breaking their hearts. She wondered if they would ever forgive her, even when they knew the reasons.

  The unmistakable sound of Damyroth’s leg hitting the floorboards alerted her to his approach.

  “I wanted to say goodbye, Phénix,” he said in his odd baritone. “Farewell, and may your Spirit bless you.”

  “Goodbye, Damyroth. You’ve been wonderful to me. You’ve all been wonderful. That I am able to go is due to the strength you’ve given me. I hope you won’t get in any trouble on account of me.”

  Damyroth smiled. “If we get kicked out of here, maybe that will convince Hope to entertain my courtship. We’re both maimed; if we lean on one another we could prop one another up.”

  The softest knock made the front door vibrate. She opened it: Ciellō stood there, neatly dressed in black livery with white fringe epaulets, his hair tucked inside a servant’s cap. Cerúlia had forgotten the glint in his eyes and the muscular menace in his bearing.

  He had hired a man with a gamel cart, and together the driver and Ciellō loaded her luggage and the basket.

  Yoo-hoo, Queenie! said the gamel, turning his long neck and batting his eyelashes at her. Come scratch behind one’s ears.

  Shh! sent Cerúlia. I’m not supposed to know how to talk to you.

  Then Ciellō handed her up to the padded seat. She still clutched her parasol absently. “Let me assist you, damselle,” Ciellō said, opening her parasol and handing it back to her.

  Damyroth stood still in the darkened hallway, a tall and silent sentry. She met his glance one last time, and when the cart drove off, he quietly closed the door.

  As the gamel cart trundled through the quiet streets, Cerúlia realized that Salubriton still slumbered. Without traffic, they reached the riverfront in no time. Ciellō assisted her down and was giving orders about her belongings when a familiar figure approached Cerúlia. This morning she wore an ordinary dress and carried a lilac-colored parasol, but Cerúlia instantly recognized Healer.

  “I trust you have had a curative stay with us?” said the older woman.

  “Indeed,” Cerúlia answered. “Everyone has been so kind—I have no way to thank you properly. I would have died without your care.”

  “No, no, that would not have suited,” said Healer. “You know, Restaurà is actually the Spirit of Restoration. Yet, ideally, I should be sending back a woman more fit for challenges than the one who arrived.”

  “Fitter? I’m not actually stronger than before my accident; I’m still rather weak.”

  “‘Fitter’ doesn’t only mean physically.”

  “Ah.” Cerúlia twirled the parasol handle in her hands. “I suppose I did grow stronger in other ways.” After a moment she met Healer’s clear gaze. “I learned that one must turn away from oneself to see the pain of others.”

  “You’re a quick study,” said Healer. “Did you know, my dear, that when someone breaks a bone and it heals straight and true, the bone is stronger than before?”

  Cerúlia laughed. “That sounds like something Gardener would say. I can just imagine him gabbing on about how resin heals a wound in a branch and makes it harder than before.”

  “Really? What a very strange comparison!” The older woman’s lips twitched. “At any rate,” Healer continued, “I came to see you get off safely. It is high time you were gone; I’m not certain you would be secure here one day more.”

  “Healer,” Cerúlia asked, an insight striking her, “did you do something to protect me these last days? I feared that archer was just about to ferret me out.”

  “Who? Me?” replied Healer with laughter in her eyes. “Are you accusing me of putting a sleeping potion in the mead of a certain guest in the Sanctuary lodging house?”

  Ciellō had been watching their interaction from a few paces away. Now, at the sound of a shrill whistle behind them, he offered his arm. “Excuse me, damselle, it is time to board the ferry.”

  “Be of good cheer, damselle,” said Healer. “You have naught to fear on the long voyage. Surely Lautan will hold your vessel in Its hands. Go in Health.”

  The older woman looked off into the distant horizon, where gray clouds gathered in a darkening band. “I do believe that presently Salubriton will be blessed with a shower. We need rain so badly—such a welcome gift, Nargis!”

  Cerúlia took Ciellō’s arm, but she also made a half turn and offered Healer the Queen’s Blessing.

  Then she boarded the riverboat that would take her to the carrack Misty Traveler, bound for points west.

  34

  Aboard Misty Traveler

  Cerúlia soon discovered that she needn’t have worried about how Whaki would adjust to shipboard life. He trotted around to all the sailors, making friends with those who showed receptivity and learning who preferred not to bother with a dog. She instructed him to use an out-of-the-way corner as his relieving area and paid a lad to keep the area swabbed clean. The seamaster grumbled only at how much Whaki ate, so Cerúlia offered her an extra allowance for his food.

  Whaki mostly stayed at his master’s side, but she noticed that of his own accord he often stationed himself at the prow of the ship, the wind blowing back his ears as he gazed across the waves, looking for all the world like a second figurehead. For long hours she joined him in this perch, pondering her past and her future, and scanning the seas for dolphins or whales.

  As for Ciellō, he accepted Whaki with enough grace, although she suspected a dog may have offended his sense of order. Ciellō turned out to be a methodical man. Invariably, he started his day by stripping to his skin and swiftly running through a series of brutal exercises; then he scrubbed himself roughly with a pumice stone and a mug of water. Each day he sharpened his dagger until its edge gleamed, whether it had been used enough to dull it or not.

  He transferred his habit of thoroughness to the care of his charge. Invariably, before he would let Cerúlia enter her mouse-sized cabin—holding merely a built-in bed, a desk, a chair, hooks, and her chest—he checked the room for intruders or danger. At meals in the seamaster’s dining mess, he stood against the wall behind her alert; when an unexpected wave hit Misty Traveler, Ciellō was the one whose hand flashed forward, catching the sliding decanter before it crashed.

  Noticing that she still favored her left arm and shoulder, he further expanded his duties by assuming the role of assistant healer, insisting she fill her hours with Betlyna’s arm-strengthening exercises. When Cerúlia protested that these tired her out, rather than relent he added fast-paced strolls of the length of the ship to build up her endurance. And if the seas were rough or the weather inclement and Cerúlia asked to forgo the walking, Ciellō would refuse, pricking her sense of responsibility: “Damselle brought a dog with her. A dog to be healthy needs exertion.” To the bemusement of the sailors, Cerúlia, with Whaki trotting joyfully beside her, would repeatedly traverse from stem to stern and back again unless the seas were actually unsafe, while Ciellō beat out on a pan a tempo that increased each day.

  Her bodyguard even supervised what she ate. As shipboard fare could not compare with Dame Tockymora’s cookery, whenever Misty Traveler stopped to reprovision, he would escort her to the best tavern in town to dine, while he took the opportunity of shore leave to shop for treats such as nuts, dates, figs, cheese, and sausages to bring aboard for her to eat between ports. Cerúlia began to worry whether she would have any coin left upon arrival, but she listened to his counsel that she should use this hiatus to rebuild her strength.

  Most days she could turn her mind away from her grief and losses.

  It helped to forget herself in a book
. Cerúlia countermanded her manservant’s advice that a merchant’s daughter would express little interest in the ship’s small library. She read all the books she could lay her hands on, and the seamaster, noticing her avidity, offered her the volumes she kept in her cabin. When the ship stopped in Midmere, Cerúlia spent a long afternoon in a book merchant’s shop.

  None of the crew or fellow passengers harassed the young woman, and none acted suspicious about her true identity. (She explained her “Free States” accent as stemming from being sent there for schooling by her ambitious parents.)

  One morning, after six weeks at sea, Ciellō set down the water pitcher he had brought to her cabin and motioned to the sheathed dagger she had just affixed to her belt.

  “Damselle, you carry that knife golden. You know how to use it?”

  “Of course I do,” she answered with some pique, recalling her training with Rooks in Anders Wood.

  “Show me,” he commanded. “Pretend I be a robber. And your invaluable Ciellō is not nearby to protect you.”

  Cerúlia frowned. “Playing with daggers can’t be a wise idea. I don’t want to hurt you.”

  “Humor me, damselle,” he urged, leaning lackadaisically against the wall.

  So she pulled the dagger with her stronger hand and rushed in on him from a low crouch, as she’d been taught—though evidently not quickly enough, because in a second one of his hands pinioned her right wrist, and the other twisted her bad arm behind her back.

  “That’s not fair!” she protested. “You know that my left arm is injured.”

  “A person who wants to rob or hurt you will not care about being fair,” he replied, with equanimity that made her angry.

  Cerúlia massaged her shoulder and conquered her pride.

  “Will you teach me, Ciellō?” she asked.