The Vanished Queen

by Lisbeth Campbell

  With one quick grab, she snatches the sword from the nearest of them. He jerks and spins, but she already has the point of the blade against his knee. She thrusts, severing a tendon, and he crumples as she pulls the sword out. Blood darkens his trousers.

  His companion, the young one, swings around, sword raised. She brings her blade up in time to parry the blow.

  He is not well-trained. It takes only a few exchanges before she has seen his weaknesses. She learned how to use a sword before he was born, and though she has not practiced regularly in years, her body has not forgotten. It is not for nothing that she watched her sons learn. A slash at the knee, a feint to the groin, and he responds, leaving his upper body unguarded. Her sword slides through his neck. He staggers, almost pulling the sword from her hand before she manages to pull it free, and falls heavily.

  She takes a step back, her breath still even, and observes the other fight. Both men have been wounded slightly; blood slicks their arms and runs from a cut in one man’s cheek. The smell of blood is stronger than the fragrance of the blossoms. The blades clash and slide against each other, the silver light following the motion. Distant and unconcerned, an owl hoots, low and throaty.

  Then the man she knows stumbles on uneven ground, and his sword flails wildly. His opponent is much too good to miss the opportunity. He thrusts his sword through the other man’s heart. Blood gouts, a black fan of liquid that reminds her obscenely of the fountains in the Citadel garden, and before the dead man has struck the ground, she is under attack herself.

  She parries, and knows immediately that she has met her match. He is stronger, faster, more skilled. He is impelled by some deep hatred of her that she does not understand.

  So she does the only thing she can. Still facing him, using her sword only for defense, she retreats. He advances on her. Her sword pulls him along as if he were tethered to it. If he were to lunge at her, she might not be able to hold him off, but he seems intent on toying with her. She smiles grimly. He has no idea what else she has endured. This is nothing.

  He follows her under the trees.

  Then it is only a matter of putting a few trees between them and circling back. The tangled moonlight and shadow are confusing, like a spell. It is a twilight she belongs to. He is loud and large and breathing heavily. She slides among the shadows. The soldier knocks against a branch, and petals fall softly down, obscuring his vision. He halts, looks around. He has lost her.

  She has no compunction about stabbing him through the back. The harpy, rending. He staggers, and she drives the blade in farther. He cries out in pain, a liquid gurgling cry, and she knows she has punctured a lung. He sinks slowly to his knees as she withdraws the blade. The iron scent of blood is stronger than ever. The owl hoots again.

  She runs.

  ANZA RECOGNIZED JANCE’S tread on the balcony and realized she had been waiting for it. Two days had passed since the meeting with Esvar, and dusk was settling over the city. Jance himself looked haggard. He carried a package in one hand.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing. It’s hell in the Citadel, is all. My cousin and his wife are gone—Prince Esvar tells me it was his brother who arranged it and not to worry. As if I couldn’t. And I had to lead a raid at dawn this morning. I didn’t want to do it, and then when we got there, the place was abandoned, leaving me at fault. Despite the fact that it was abandoned before I got my orders.”

  She got the raki out and splashed some into a glass for him. After a moment’s consideration, she poured some for herself. “Did Esvar send you here? He told me he would.”

  “You’ve seen him since that day at your father’s house?”

  “Twice. Once immediately after the executions and again two days ago. Don’t say it, Jance, it’s business, not a love affair.”

  “What sort of business?”

  “If he hasn’t told you, I shouldn’t,” she said. “Did he send you tonight or not?”

  “He sent this.” Jance nudged the package across the table toward her. “I thought it was something of your father’s. I take it this is connected to whatever you’re up to with him.”

  “I’ll find out when I open it.” She put the package out of easy reach. “Can you stay a while?”

  “I shouldn’t.” He drank his glass down and refilled it. “I will. Anza, I realize you aren’t going to tell me what’s going on between you and the prince, but you don’t owe him anything. If the king finds out, you’ll get used against Esvar and then killed. You need to cut him off.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  If it hadn’t been for the raki, she might not have spoken. But the secret she had been carrying was too heavy. “Do you remember the night we snuck into the library?”

  “Yes. What’s that got to do with Prince Esvar?”

  “That key you gave me—it let me into a room where there were some books. They were the queen’s books. She must have sent them there to keep Karolje from destroying them. One of them was her journal. And now no one remembers about her. I need to be her witness. Her voice.”

  “She’s dead. You don’t owe her anything either. It’s stupid to risk your life for the sake of a ghost. A ghost that isn’t one of your dead.”

  “Her life was controlled by men. Her death was used to start a war. She deserves better.”

  “And so does your father! Do you think he wanted you to get killed?”

  “He wanted me to fight. Not to run away. That’s what I’m doing.”

  “Anza…” Jance closed his eyes in seeming exasperation. “All right. I won’t argue. But at least think about it. Please.”

  “I will,” she said. He would know she was lying and hope she wasn’t, and that was enough to silence him for now. “Do you think there’s a chance of civil war?”

  “Not from the resistance. It’s not strong enough,” he said. “But you would know better than I if they intend to try.”

  He had probably not intended to hurt her, but it stung as much as if he had called her a weakling directly. She said, “I’m not talking about the resistance! I’m talking about the infighting in the Citadel. Don’t tell me it doesn’t exist.”

  “Then, yes, there is conflict between the princes and the other lords. I think that is behind what happened with my cousin. I don’t know if it would lead to actual war.” He pushed his chair back. “I’ve stayed long enough. I’ve got other duties.”

  Anza walked with him to the door. She said, “Don’t tell Esvar any of this about his mother. Please. It will only hurt him.”

  “Caring for his feelings, are we now?” he said. It was not malicious.

  “How am I supposed to contact you again?”

  “I’m sure that if the prince wants to speak to you, the prince will find a way.” He kissed her cheek. “Stay safe. I mean that.”

  “You too,” she said.

  She watched him ride away before she opened the package. It contained a wooden globe about the size of a peach, a child’s toy. The continents were carved on it in relief, and mountain ranges stood out as bumpy ridges. Karegg was marked with a single diamond chip, almost too small to be seen. The equator was a seam, and Anza tried to turn the top half. It unscrewed easily, opening to reveal two hollow sections, constellations painted on the inner surfaces. It was a place to put in beans for a rattle. Or to hide things. At the moment it was occupied by a tightly folded paper.

  It was meant for Sparrow. Anza unfolded it. Esvar’s handwriting was neat and small. This was given to me by the queen when I turned five. Keep it safe, and return it from your own hand.

  Soberly, she put the paper back and screwed the globe together. There was pain in this gift. She hoped Sparrow would appreciate it.

  * * *

  Two days later, walking through Temple Square on the way to meet with Sparrow, Anza looked grimly at the masons working on the wall around the Temple. The square itself was strewn with mourning flowers. The amulet sellers and scribes were back. Soldiers w
ith hellhounds guarded the entrances to the square and kept the beggars away. She passed a man talking loudly to a group of about a dozen people. She stopped to listen, then hurried on as she realized he was complaining about the Tazekhs.

  Her meeting was in a garden behind a shrine. Dangerous for the priest who kept the place, she thought. A walkway paved with white stone led to a statue of the god, a pitcher at his feet for libations from the nearby pool. A plum tree was to one side, a pair of benches and flower bushes on the other.

  Sparrow was waiting on a bench. She said, “What delayed you?”

  Anza sat down. Sun was warm on her back. “There’s a man in Temple Square stirring up trouble.”

  “What kind of trouble?”

  “Against Tazekhs.”

  “Damn.” Sparrow shook her head. “We should be quick then. I want to hear what he’s saying. How did things go at the tavern?”

  “He agrees to some of the conditions. He can’t promise amnesty. He says he can provide a list of targets. He sent this.” She produced the globe.

  Sparrow took it almost gently. She ran one finger along the coast of a continent, across a sea, and brought it to rest on Karegg. “This is well made,” she said. “What does he want from us, and what does he intend to give in return?”

  “I think—he was not specific, this is my inference—that he wants the resistance to serve as his assassins, which benefits us too. He said he only wanted us to do what we would do anyway.”

  “But under his guidance.”

  “He said no one would rise against Karolje unless someone else went first. He wants us to be first.”

  “So we take the risk and he gets the reward? Or his brother does? He’s not the general of our army.”

  “You said yourself we aren’t an army.”

  “So I did.” She turned the globe, round and round. “You have a great deal of faith in a man raised by Karolje. He can’t escape that even if he tries. Children are bound by their childhood.”

  Anza thought of Esvar’s face when he said that neither he nor his brother would ever forgive the king. That was too private to share. She remembered a line in the journal: He made Esvar come too. I am afraid that alone will be enough to ruin him.

  She said, “He was raised by the queen also.”

  “Of course,” said Sparrow mockingly.

  “He told me my father showed him a man could be kind. That’s not the sort of thing one makes up. There are other reasons I believe him, but that’s the one that counts the most.”

  In a flowering shrub nearby, bees hummed loudly. She listened for the noises of the city—dogs, carts, voices—but the silence of the shrine extended over the garden. Her own words echoed back in her mind, a rough note of dissent.

  Sparrow said, “I knew your father.”

  “What!”

  “Not well. It would be more accurate to say I met him. I was there the night he led the raid on us. He could have killed me. Instead he let me go.”

  “That’s why he was executed,” Anza said, low and furious.

  “If that was why, Karolje would have had him hanged in public as a traitor. No. I think he let me go because he already knew he would be killed for failing. But I owe him something.”

  Sparrow’s attention to her took on a different aspect. The ease with which she had been recruited, the private meetings with Sparrow, they were not about her.

  “You lied to me,” Anza said. “You knew who I was.”

  “I did. But he didn’t ask me to take you in; that was my decision, based on your ability. He probably would have liked some better return for his gift than to have his daughter put in danger.” She looked at the globe as if surprised to see that she was still holding it and put it in her bag. “I am willing to extend credit to the prince’s honor, for your sake and your father’s. I understand why he thinks he can’t promise amnesty, but he’s going to have to give on that eventually if he wants negotiations to mean anything. He doesn’t get to pick and choose his powers. I will talk to him without a promise, but I won’t do anything for him. When you see him next, tell him that we will accept his list provided that we are promised a voice in the next government. We don’t demand the throne. But we are not going to risk ourselves killing men he targets without a promise of power. If he can’t make that promise, he doesn’t have anything we want.”

  “All right.”

  “And in the meantime, I’m sending you out with River tomorrow. Meet him by the Port Island bridge an hour before sunset. Wear dark clothing.” She drew a finger across her throat.

  At last. This was better than being a messenger, which had happened by sheer coincidence. An attack used her skills. “I will,” she said.

  Sparrow rose. “I’m going to go listen to this man you say is speaking out against the Tazekhs. If he and others like him attract a following, we might have to put an end to them before we move against the king. It’s a distraction that plays into his hands, not ours. Wait ten minutes or so before you leave, and don’t go through the square.”

  “You think there might be violence?”

  “I think it’s possible. Karolje might push things in that direction. This man might even have been planted by him. Then his soldiers ride in to restore peace on the one hand while on the other the fever for a Tazekh war grows.”

  That kind of cunning was beyond Anza’s imagination. She felt naive. She remembered something and rose. “I asked Esvar to find out what happened to Moth’s lover. Velyana. He told me she died before she could be tortured. Can you tell her that?” It felt strange not to say Irini’s name.

  “Of course. Did you ask him that as a favor or as a condition?”

  “As a condition for me to be his messenger. I know he might be lying. But Moth deserves my effort. And he knows what it feels like to have someone go missing.”

  Sparrow’s gaze shifted to the pool. She said, “Be careful, Anza. Don’t sympathize with him. You and he have very little in common.”

  There was no explaining her trust in Esvar without revealing the queen’s journal, which was a secret that did not belong to anyone in the resistance. She said, “I know. I loved my father.”

  Sparrow edged her chin up and down, the slightest affirmation. “Do what River tells you to tomorrow,” she said, dismissing the prince. “He’ll keep you safe.”

  Once alone, Anza went to the statue and poured a libation without a prayer. The stream of water was calming. She knelt and washed her hands, expiation of the deaths that had not occurred yet.

  * * *

  She was early to the bridge. The area was crowded even late in the day—laborers and workers crossing from one island to the other, fishmongers closing up their stalls, servants performing the day’s final errands. She found a bakery that had not shut its doors and bought a costly sweetbread, which she ate standing on the quayside. Greedy birds gathered, and she shooed them away.

  River joined her. He was not carrying any weapons. He said, “We have to walk about two miles. Some of the streets are rather nasty. Try to act normal.”

  “I’ve walked streets on Beggar Island.”

  “Good. This won’t be that bad. Come on.”

  He set a steady but not too rapid pace and led them inland to the southeast. At first the roads were lined with well-kept shops and houses, but as they progressed, more and more of the buildings stood abandoned. The streets became narrow, full of doglegs and closes, twisting, old. A thousand years ago they must have been sheep trails.

  They crossed a wider road, and the character of the place changed again. Now smoky rushlights burned outside large, once elegant stone houses that might have been built four hundred years ago. The windowsills were chipped and the porticoes were crumbling. The streets were laid out neatly. This was the part of the city that had been summer homes for the wealthy, fields and gardens around, before Karegg had spilled outside its walls and spread across the island.

  Some of the windows showed light, and people walked outside despite the cur
few. Drums and pipes, the sweet smell of kenna weed. Women leaned against walls and stood on corners. They had bright painted lips and bare shoulders, thin necks, cheap jewelry. Anza was glad that in her drab trousers and dark shirt she was clearly not one of them. River stayed close to her. She watched a man approach one of the women, heard the clink of coins.

  River turned on a cross street and then into an alley. It was dark. The buildings’ roofs almost touched overhead, and there were no windows. About halfway along to the next street he stopped. Anza bumped into him, and his hand came up to cover her mouth in warning.

  He opened a narrow door and stood aside for her to enter. The dark house smelled vacant, as her father’s house had: no cooking odors, a hint of dust, staleness in the hot air.

  “No one lives here,” he said. “The owner died a month ago. His children are fighting about possession of it. I’m not sure how Sparrow found out about it.”

  “It’s not a brothel like the others?”

  “They aren’t all brothels. Not on this block. This is much smaller. The house next door is rented by a draper. The other side is someone respectable too. It’s a safe street, which is why Lord Ruslan rides along it on his weekly visit. Lord Ruslan is a close friend of the spymaster.”

  She knew nothing about Lord Ruslan otherwise, but if he was Doru’s friend, he was corrupt. He could doubtless take ordinary pleasure in much finer places; whatever brought him here must be something nasty and illegal, which Karolje allowed for devious reasons of his own. When word of Ruslan’s death got out, he would have few mourners.

  “I see,” she said. “Are we going to kill him in a way that makes it clear he didn’t run afoul of a thief? There must be a fair number of murders down here that aren’t connected to the resistance.”

  “You are going to do nothing but watch. Sparrow’s not going to trust you with a killing until she knows you have the nerve. You’ll wait upstairs while I deal with the lord.”

  I’ve already killed three people, she thought. But they had been soldiers and she had been scared. This was assassination, not defense. “How long to wait?”