The Vanished Queen

by Lisbeth Campbell

  “None, sir.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me this then?”

  “It didn’t seem relevant, sir. She wasn’t there. He’s dead.”

  True, but… Mirovian was saying sir too much. Havidian’s daughter mattered to him. Was he in love with the girl? Havidian had been a handsome man; his daughter was likely pretty. Or perhaps not. Mirovian’s air had a tinge of nervousness to it that Esvar associated with guilt rather than uncertain love affairs. Why the hell did the man feel guilty about knowing a soldier’s daughter?

  Havidian was safely, quietly dead. Investigating him served no purpose. Any information that did turn up was much more likely to strengthen Karolje than Tevin. Let the dead lie.

  He failed to convince himself. “It might not be relevant to us,” Esvar said, “but it is to her. The Crown took his money, thinking he had no heirs. She’s entitled to it.”

  The first surprise on Mirovian’s face. “But he was executed, sir! And she’s illegitimate.”

  “He was executed for error, not treachery. There’s no attainder. The legitimacy, yes, that’s an issue, but not a large one. She’s not dispossessing anyone but the Crown, and what the Crown takes, the Crown can return.”

  Mirovian said nothing.

  “I’ll give it to her myself,” Esvar said, to see what happened. “Find her.”

  “That will take a while, sir, unless I’m released from other duties.”

  “If she was at the College, the College will know where to start looking. Don’t let them make you into a spy, Lieutenant. Your face is much too expressive.”

  There was an awkward silence. Then Mirovian gave in, but only a little. “I don’t think she will come to the Citadel willingly. I can bring her the money.” That had taken courage—or desperation—to say. The fiction that the Citadel was safe for the innocent was one of the things that kept the kingdom running smoothly.

  Esvar had no desire to frighten the woman further, or to call attention to her. Let her home stay unrevealed. Doru’s spies didn’t need to know more than they would through following Esvar. Giving the money to Mirovian was the best thing to do.

  But by now his curiosity was aroused. “Her father’s house,” he said, drawing a sheet of paper toward himself. “In two days. If I give it to her, I can swear to its provenance if she’s questioned. I’ll send you off with her afterward, to ensure that the money gets safely where it should. What’s her name?”

  “Anza Istvili.”

  The name tickled him with familiarity he could not place. It was ordinary enough; perhaps he had met some other woman who shared it. He wrote quickly, just a few sentences, signed and sealed it, and handed the note over to Mirovian. The soldier held it carefully, as though it were breakable.

  Esvar said, “Take that to her tomorrow, first thing, and get her response.”

  “What if she refuses?”

  “You would be surprised at the amount of fear money can overcome.”

  “Sir, she’s one of the least bribable people I’ve ever met.”

  Esvar said, “This isn’t a bribe. There’s not a damn thing I want from her.” He picked up one of the chess pieces and turned it in his hand. “If you are anything less than honest with her, or misguidedly try to keep her from coming, I will be displeased.”

  Mirovian hesitated. “I understand, sir.”

  The hesitation might mean he was tempted to disobey. It would be easy enough to lie, to say he couldn’t find her or that she had left the city. Deliberately, Esvar dropped the pawn. Mirovian’s head snapped up at the noise. He looked alarmed.

  Esvar said, “I give you my word that I won’t hurt her. If she truly won’t come, don’t force her, but I’m not going to make the offer of her father’s money again. Send the guard in on your way out.”

  He gave orders, and soon a servant brought him a box containing Captain Havidian’s personal belongings. There was not much: a miniature painting of King Piyr, a handsome glass vase, a pocket watch, a bone-handled razor, finely carved. Three books. Curious, Esvar removed them from the box.

  The first was a well-known treatise on the art of war, the second a collection of holy writings. The third was small, fitting easily in one hand. Sickening recognition of it rose through Esvar like a bubble and broke the surface of his denial. It had been his mother’s. He remembered the golden symbols tooled in the cover. They had always been mysterious.

  Another copy, he thought. That’s all. Rukovili had been a popular poet before he was convicted of treason and his works destroyed shortly after Karolje assumed the throne. He opened it.

  On the first page was the inked impression of the queen’s seal.

  Had Havidian been one of the men who killed her?

  The thought shook his faith in his own judgment. If he was wrong about Havidian, how many other things was he wrong about?

  No. If Havidian had killed her, he would not have been stupid enough to steal a book from her that was unlawful to possess. For the same reason, Mirantha would not have given it to him. It had come into his hands some other way.

  His daughter had been at the College. The queen might have sent her books there for safekeeping. A master at the College might have been the one person Karolje allowed to retain control of forbidden texts. Karolje knew how dangerous ideas were, but he was not foolish enough to destroy everything he prohibited. One needed to know what the dangers were.

  He traced the circle of the queen’s mark. Even if the book had been at the College, what had Havidian’s daughter done to acquire it?

  What would she do if he gave it back?

  Esvar closed the book. He had stepped into something older and perhaps deadly, a tangle of connections that made a shape he could not see. He could let it go—it had no bearing on his other concerns—or he could dig more deeply into the past. There was no question what his brother would say; Tevin’s attention was focused on the future.

  Damn it. He had to ask her. Likely the girl would know nothing, and that would be the end of the matter, but the puzzle would nag him to the end of his life if he ignored it.

  He slipped the book into his tunic pocket. He left the workroom for his private rooms, where he sat in bed and by the light of a single candle read the poems in their entirety. A dry sprig of lavender was placed between two leaves near the end. He left it there. Its faint scent clashed with the poem, which was about loss. An undefinable sadness settled in his body. He did not want to think about what the poem might have meant to his mother.

  Finished, he put down the book and blew out the candle. Anza Istvili, he thought. Who are you and what do you have to do with a queen?

  IT WILL BE fine,” said Jance. “If I thought he was going to trap you, I would have told you.”

  I know, Anza thought in nervous irritation. It was the third time he had said it. Jance was trying to reassure himself, not her, though, so she stayed quiet while he tied the horse. When he had come to Radd’s the day before to tell her, he had been furious at himself for having been so transparent to the prince. I’ll go, she had said, remembering Esvar’s face across the desk. She wanted to see him again, to find out if he was the man he had seemed to be when he freed her from the interrogator. She knew she was taking a risk in trusting Karolje’s son. But he was also Mirantha’s son.

  The door to the house fronted the street with only a small stoop. Jance pushed it open and led her in. A thin coat of dust dulled the surfaces. The furniture had all been taken—sold, she presumed—and the cupboards cleared of anything valuable. Her father had kept it tidy and uncluttered, and the only things left to possibly sit on were a wooden pail and a step stool. She doubted the pail would hold her light weight. Dried beans spilled out of a burlap sack that the rats had gnawed into.

  The place already had the smell of abandonment and was uncomfortably hot. Anza opened two of the dirt-dulled glass windows, which helped. Then she went back out to wait on the stoop. Beside her, Jance tapped his fingers on his thigh. The stoop was in the shadow of the h
ouse, cooler yet than the air. Across the street, the sun struck gold on the small, well-made houses. A few large and ancient oaks towered over the buildings on either side.

  “Here they come,” said Jance. Horses trotted loudly on the cobbles. Five of them, sleek, beautiful beasts. She knew next to nothing about horses, but even she could tell that these were well-bred and costly. One might be worth more than her aunt’s cottage. The riders, including the tall young man in the center, wore uniforms with the same badge she had seen on Esvar’s captain, a silver wolf on the sleeve. The dark-skinned captain himself was one of the riders. Somehow that was reassuring.

  They pulled up a short distance away, and the prince dismounted smoothly. “Sir,” Jance said in a deferential tone she had never heard from him.

  She had time to observe the startled recognition on Esvar’s face before he schooled his features. “You,” he said evenly to her. She heard Jance’s intake of breath, quickly cut off. Doubtless he would lay into her afterward for not telling him she had met the prince before.

  “My lord,” she said, wary. She was unsurprised to be known, though she had hoped the prince would not remember her well enough.

  In daylight he was extraordinarily handsome. Dark-haired, dark-eyed, skin fair under its sun-browning. Taller than she had thought from seeing him behind his desk; the top of her head did not come to his shoulders. He wore a knife but otherwise was not openly armed.

  “Mirovian.”

  “Sir?”

  “Stand guard out here. We’ll go in. We might be a while.”

  Jance’s eyes flicked to Anza, and she nodded very slightly. She hoped the prince did not notice his soldier asking her for permission. She would not have said that she felt safe with Esvar, because he was not a safe man, but she did not fear physical violence.

  Jance held the door open and closed it behind them. The room became much dimmer. Esvar said, “Why didn’t you tell me you were Havidian’s daughter?”

  “I beg your pardon, my lord, but it didn’t seem wise to admit to being related to a man who had been executed.”

  His hand curled into a fist, then opened, fingers spread. His only jewelry was a seal ring on his ring finger. “Of course. I withdraw the question.”

  She wanted to say, Give me the damn money and go away! She wasn’t that reckless yet.

  “Did you lie to me about Nikovili?”

  “If I had, I wouldn’t be here.”

  He took two measured steps toward her and stopped. They were not close enough to touch. He could have sent Jance with the money. Esvar wanted to see her himself, and it had nothing to do with their prior meeting. What was it?

  He said, “I know you would rather have your father than his money. If I had been able to prevent his death, I would have. He was a good man and a good soldier.”

  To her shame, tears filled her eyes. Her heart hurt. She blinked the tears back and said, in a voice she was pleased was steady, “Thank you, my lord.”

  He had a leather pouch slung across his chest. He removed it and laid it on the floor. “He never owned this house,” he said, “and the money from selling his furniture was not accounted for. But in here is all the money he had saved and the pay he was owed when he died. I have also included the cost of his commission.”

  Cost of his commission made it all final. Looking at the floor, she bent over to pick up the pouch. It was heavy. In one graceful motion she stepped backward and straightened. She sniffed mightily.

  He produced a handkerchief from a pocket. “It didn’t occur to me that it would be so dusty,” he said, offering it to her.

  It was silk. The tips of their fingers brushed as she took it. She blew her nose and dabbed at her eyes. Then she did not know what to do with it. Returning a used handkerchief to a prince was vulgar. Dropping it would be an insult. His hands were long-fingered, graceful, the nails neatly trimmed. She was sure they had been bloodied in many a killing.

  “Keep it. Open the pouch, please.”

  The coins at the bottom were obscured by a book. She removed it, knowing what it was. The book of poems she had stolen from the College library. The book that had belonged to the queen. She could not help also looking at the money, much more than she had expected. Enough to leave Karegg and live comfortably for a year before she had to find occupation.

  “Rukovili,” she said. “It’s banned, my lord. I can’t own it.” She held it out to him. It had been his mother’s. His mother’s. He had to know that. What did he mean by giving it back to her? It was a message she did not have enough clues to interpret.

  “Your father had it. You’ve seen this before. You didn’t even have to look inside to know what it was. Where did it come from?”

  “It doesn’t matter. It’s not mine.”

  “I want you to have it.”

  “If I am arrested again for possessing it, will you release me?” Her voice was raw with sudden resentment, and she half expected him to strike her.

  He stepped forward and took the book out of her hand, slipped it back into the pouch. His eyes slid briefly over the healing cut on her palm. “Destroy it if you feel unsafe. I think it has value worth the risk.”

  It’s not your risk, she thought. He didn’t know what risk was. She bowed. She wasn’t brave enough to oppose him. Submit and wait to be dismissed.

  He went to the nearest window and closed it. “Sit down,” he said. “I’m sorry all we have is the floor.”

  She obeyed, irked. He wasn’t the host. This was her father’s house. He closed the second window and sat opposite her, legs crossed. Seated, he did not seem so tall. The disturbed dust made her sneeze.

  Esvar said, “Do you want to know about your father?”

  That was what Sparrow had asked. “Yes.”

  “He was assigned to capture one of the leaders of the resistance, a man named Ivanje Stepanian. In the process, Stepanian was killed. That was an error Karolje could not tolerate.”

  “Did my father kill him?”

  “No. It was one of his men. But a captain is responsible for the mistakes of those under him.”

  A mistake. Another man’s carelessness had killed her father. She felt as sick as she had when she had come to this house and seen the king’s Mark on the door. It was more painful than if her father had deliberately defied the king. At least then his death might have bought something.

  “Was there anyone who might have wanted my father dead?”

  “If you’re asking whether he was set up, the answer is no. The soldier paid with his life too. Nor was anything found giving either your father or the soldier a reason to want Stepanian dead. They haven’t been tied to the resistance. It was an accident.”

  “It’s not just,” she said, like a child.

  “Justice is not much valued in the Citadel,” he said, which sent a shiver down her back. Those were treasonous words.

  She looked at the closed door. They were sealed in against the rest of the world. Against the Citadel. Against the king. Her anger slid aside. They weren’t allies, they could never be allies, but he was resisting Karolje in his own way.

  She had not intended to tell him, but the words fell out. “My lord,” she said, “you asked what the interrogator did to me. He tried to strangle me with his belt.” Her hand tugged at the neckline of her shirt as she remembered the leather pulling against her neck.

  “He’s in prison,” Esvar said, grim-faced.

  “For that?”

  “I reprimanded Lukovian for his treatment of you. He turned the reprimand around by starting a rumor that I collaborated in and profited from Nikovili’s smuggling. That was treason.”

  “Was he really that stupid?” she asked.

  His eyebrows went up. She supposed it had been an unusually bold question. He said, “He misjudged a political situation. In other circumstances, he might have come out on top.”

  “Accusing you?”

  “When there’s room for only one, the competition can get fierce. What is said in the cit
y about the king’s health?”

  “Nothing, my lord,” she said, startled by the turn in the conversation.

  “He’s dying.”

  Her first thought was that the resistance needed to know. Her second was that Esvar had a reason for telling her. It couldn’t be to win her to his side; she had nothing to give him. Had she somehow become the empty vessel into which he poured his secrets? Or was he playing some more layered game she couldn’t comprehend?

  She said, “So your brother will be king?”

  “Not easily. The men who have power under Karolje are not going to yield it. Lukovian was trying to leap ahead, that’s all. When the king dies, all hell is going to break loose in the Citadel. From there, it will spread. There’s a good chance of war.”

  “War? Not a quick bloody battle in the Citadel?”

  Another surprised glance. “They didn’t teach you to ask that kind of question in the College. But yes. Whoever wins, someone else will try again. It could go on for years.”

  The thick, breezeless air was stifling. She would take this back to Sparrow, and Sparrow would do what? Call for an uprising? Go to ground and wait to see who won?

  He said, “When this happens, I will be in no position to offer you or anyone else protection. I’d advise you to leave the city, but I think I would be wasting my breath.”

  “I don’t need protection.”

  “Oh?” His tone mocked her.

  She held back her own bitter response. He was right, of course; she would be dead without him.

  He said, “If Karolje finds out about you, you’ll be in danger.”

  “I’m not a threat, my lord,” she said. Not yet. “My father told me very little about what he did. There is nothing I could use against the Crown.”

  “You were your father’s secret. That is inherently a threat. It’s disloyalty. Even if no one knows it but you, me, and the king. He won’t arrest you or harass you, but you’ll open your door one evening and a man with a garrote will be waiting inside.”