The Vanished Queen

by Lisbeth Campbell

  “Two or three hours,” he said. “It’s early now. You can have a nap if you want. They haven’t taken all the furnishings away yet. There’s still a bed.”

  “I don’t need a nap.”

  “Patience,” he said. She could hear that he was grinning. What he was doing tonight was as ordinary to him as sweeping the floor or saddling a horse. The hatred or anger that had led him to join the resistance didn’t color his actions.

  She thought of Esvar, murdering on command when he was a boy. Of Sparrow, who wore cold anger like a second skin. Of her father, who had delivered prisoners to Karolje’s interrogators and kept her illegal book for her. Of Radd, who had been kind and thoughtful and had nothing to do with killing and now lay dead as a result of Karolje’s trickery. How much better all of them could have been if not for Karolje. How much better she could be.

  “Are you all right?” River asked.

  “Yes. I was just thinking how much I hate the king.”

  “My mother was a lutist. She taught girls, rich girls and the daughters of lords, how to play. Ten years ago she criticized the king to someone she shouldn’t have, and Karolje sent a soldier to break her fingers. They healed, but the pain was unbearable in the winters, and she couldn’t play anymore. She killed herself five years ago.”

  The darkness hid his face, but she knew it had to still hurt, in the way old pain did. “Oh gods, River, I’m sorry.”

  “The problem is that all of us would like to kill him, and he can only die once. What you said about the prince that day—I believe you. Anyone so afraid of losing power as to do what Karolje did to my mother, who was no one, and evil enough to kill his own wife, I hate to think what he would do to his children.”

  “Miloscz doesn’t agree with you.”

  “Miloscz spends too much time reading. He’s very certain of what the world should look like. I suppose I shouldn’t have said that.”

  “Why not?” Anza said. “Aren’t we supposed to be equals in this? And I don’t think Sparrow likes him.”

  “No one likes him,” said River. “I have concluded that he doesn’t want to be liked. He wants to be attended to. Not the way I want to live, myself.”

  “And Sparrow? What does she want?”

  “I don’t know what drives her. But she’s the strongest person I’ve ever met. She likes you, by the way.”

  It startled her and pleased her. She had been afraid that she was seen as an annoyance. “Does she? How do you know?”

  When he spoke, she could hear the grin again. “If she didn’t, you’d be doing whatever it was you did before you first came to Miloscz’s. But don’t fail her. Which doesn’t mean you have to have the stomach for assassination. Not everyone does. If you have bad dreams and the shakes after tonight, she’ll find some other way to use you.”

  “There’s nothing else I could do. Where’s your bow?”

  “It will be close work tonight, no shooting. Get up to the top floor and open a window so you don’t die of the heat. I’ll be attacking from the street, so there’s no reason anyone will think to look here. If you have to run, go out the back and turn left. They don’t enforce the curfew in this part of the city, so you’ll be fine. If all goes well, I’ll collect you.”

  Anza went dutifully upstairs and opened the windows in all the rooms. Most of the houses on the street were dark—lamplight showed here and there—and the streetlamps were on the corners. River would have no trouble being obscured in the darkness. It would be hard for her to see much of anything, even if the assault was right under her nose. This was a test of her ability to stay calm and follow orders.

  One of the rooms on the third floor had a footstep-softening carpet in the center and a set of armless wooden chairs. She moved one close to the window and seated herself in it. For a while people passed on the street, most on foot but a few on horse. Music played distantly. Then the lights went out in the other houses and the traffic lessened to almost nothing.

  Her mind drifted. She got up and paced to keep herself alert, stretched, practiced her stance. The house was still besides herself; River must have gone out to wherever he intended to hide.

  Hoofbeats, the dull thud of shoe on dirt. The horse was walking. She saw the man on horseback, the flicker of the streetlamp bright enough in this darkness to cast his shadow ahead of him. His face and hands were pale against a dark shirt.

  He was almost directly across the street from her when River emerged from a niche and walked briskly toward the horse. “Lord Ruslan!” he called. Anza’s hands tightened on air. The dull pain of tensed muscles settled below her rib cage. Her eyes were well adjusted to the dark, and although she could not see details, the men and the horse were more than shapes. The horse had white socks. Ruslan’s posture was relaxed.

  “Not so loud,” said Ruslan. His own voice carried. “What’s all this?”

  “An urgent message, sir.” River stopped beside the stirrups.

  Ruslan bent over and extended a hand expectantly. River took it, jerked him from the horse, and flung him to the street in one smooth motion. He knelt over him.

  She was about to watch a murder. It shouldn’t disturb her—she had seen hangings enough to know what violent death looked like—but this was different. It flowed from her, not to her. She was full of the sick feeling of failure. She shuddered and put her hand over her mouth. She could not look away. He killed my father, she thought. He killed my father. He killed my father.

  Ruslan struggled. He squirmed, struck out at River. River evaded him easily and moved his hands. Ruslan’s cry was cut off, and his feet beat against the dirt. His arms flailed. Then he stilled. River fussed briefly with the body, then stood. He whacked the horse on the rump and walked away.

  Still feeling sick, Anza barely heard the back door open, River’s feet light on the steps. “Come on,” he whispered. She stood, catching the chair before it crashed to the uncarpeted part of the floor, and followed him out.

  In the alley she stumbled on rutted ground. Regaining her balance, she was overwhelmed with the heat, the alley stench of garbage and waste, the darkness. She could feel the rapid beats of her heart. Her hands were large and heavy. A cat dashed away from them, and she swallowed a scream. She was certain they would be caught. Ruslan’s horse must have attracted attention by now. The lord’s body would be found, a bell would ring, soldiers would storm through the streets, whips ready.

  Gods. She couldn’t go on like this. River walked with the steadiness and assurance of a man coming home from market. She told herself that returning from the raid had been more dangerous. Tonight no one knew to look for her. Soldiers were nowhere near. They might not even care that the lord was dead. He’ll keep you safe. Sparrow’s risks were calculated.

  Slowly fear faded into caution. Whenever her mind gave her the memory of River pulling the lord from his horse, she wrenched her thoughts in another direction.

  After walking a mile or so, they stopped at an ordinary house. River knocked lightly twice. A woman opened the door and stood aside for them to slip in.

  The woman said, “There’s a room in the back where you can wait. You’ll have to leave at first light. And this is twice in six weeks—the next time had better not be so soon. The neighbors got suspicious after the last one.”

  “I hear you,” said River.

  The woman showed them to a pantry, narrow and crowded, rich with the scents of onions and garlic. Dried peppers hung in strands from the rafters. It had no windows, and as soon as the woman shut the door, it became completely dark.

  “I have a light,” River said. “Wait a moment.”

  Seconds later he had a stub of a candle lit. It cast shadows upward, enlarging the bags and jars, deforming the ropes of peppers. Anza said, “What did you do?”

  “Garroted him. Was it too much for you?”

  “No.” She reached for a burlap sack and folded it to make a rough pillow.

  “Good girl. I didn’t think it would be.”

  “D
id he—was he like Karolje, that evil?”

  “He owned most of the berths on Port Island. Merchants and traders paid a ransom to him in docking fees. If they didn’t pay, unfortunate things happened to their cargo, their boats, or their families. He worked hand in hand with Doru—there are nasty stories about the things that went on in Ruslan’s house in private. The world is well rid of him. Lie down, now.” He blew out the candle.

  She could not sleep. Over and over she saw Ruslan’s feet drumming on the ground, and all the wretchedness she had managed to hold off while they walked descended on her. Had she made a mistake?

  KAROLJE RETALIATED FOR Lord Ruslan’s death by ordering twelve people hanged, one an hour in different sections of the city. Three of them were Tazekhs highly respected by their own people. This despite the notes the resistance had left pinned to Ruslan’s body and nailed to shop doors claiming responsibility.

  Esvar waited until the day after the executions to order Jance Mirovian to take him to meet Anza in her own house. The lieutenant did not make a show of protest. Dressed plainly, they rode out in the midafternoon of a humid day, the sky hazed with heat. Flies buzzed insistently around the horses’ eyes and the men’s faces. The shade of the arched entrance to the courtyard was a relief. Esvar was struck with a sudden sharp memory of playing in the royal forest preserve when he was a child, the coolness of trees overhanging the lake. He must have been very young.

  Mirovian pointed out the door to him. He left the soldier with the horses and took the steps three at a time, knocked forcefully on the door. A bit of flaking paint fell off.

  Some of his anger abated when he saw Anza. There were dark circles under her eyes, and her face had none of its usual energy. He shut the door quietly.

  “This has to stop,” he said.

  “You wanted us to keep fighting! You have targets.”

  “I was wrong. Everything that happens now is giving Karolje another wedge to start a war with Tazekhor. Do you know how many people will die if we have another war? It’s madness for him to do it, but that’s what he wants, and you’re making it easy for him.”

  “Do you think I don’t know?” she shouted, and broke into tears.

  Two sobs and she had recovered, but it was enough. Esvar put his arms around her and held her lightly to him. Her shoulder blades made him think of a bird. What was it that she had been called by the resistance? Finch, that was it. His own heart was beating rapidly.

  “I’m sorry,” he said.

  She pushed against him and he released her. “What do you want?” she asked.

  He wanted to kiss her. It was an impossibility. He said, “I want to talk to Sparrow directly.” Ever since he had heard of Ruslan’s death, he had been playing this conversation in his mind. “The stakes are too high now to take the time for you to go between us.”

  “She won’t do it.”

  “She must.”

  “Must? You’re the one who wanted this negotiation. The resistance doesn’t owe you anything. You aren’t going to be the king—that’s your brother.” She stumbled over some of the words, anger propelling them faster than her tongue.

  “Anza,” he said, slowly, trying to calm both of them. The windows were open. They had to keep this quiet.

  “Stop it.” She turned away. The flat was one long room, and she had nowhere to retreat to. He took a careful step backward. Sweat ran down his face and he blinked it out of his eyes, keeping his hands at his sides.

  This isn’t how a prince acts, he thought. He imagined Karolje mocking him, his brother rebuking him. Would his mother have been disappointed in him too?

  She said, “You didn’t speak against the hangings. As long as you stay silent, you are giving everything he does your countenance.”

  “Why in the gods’ names—” He was too loud. He tried again. “That’s why I want to talk to Sparrow myself. We could be allies. I’m sick of guesses and intrigues.”

  Finally she looked at him again. “Sit down,” she said. “Let’s discuss this like civilized people. Do you want something to drink? I have good wine.”

  “You choose,” he said. The table had only two chairs. He pulled one out and sat. She poured wine into ceramic cups for each of them. The wine was much better than he had expected.

  She sat and said, “I watched Ruslan get killed. I’ve hardly slept since.”

  Her words shocked him. They should not have, not after she had killed his men during the raid. “Did you help?”

  “No. I didn’t know what was going to happen until too late. No, that’s not true. I knew someone was going to be killed. But it wasn’t how I expected. They want me to be an assassin, and I don’t think I can do it.”

  He was unsure whether she was troubled more by the guilt or by the fact that she felt guilt. “Ruslan had deaths on his own soul. He wasn’t innocent.”

  “It doesn’t matter. I thought I could kill in cold blood, and I can’t, so I’m of no use.”

  “If you could, you’d be like me. You don’t want that. The world doesn’t need it.”

  Her hand trembled as she lifted her cup. When she brought it down, a smear of red stained the upper edge of her lips where wine had spilled over the cup’s brim. “How can I fight if I can’t fight?”

  “Perhaps you can’t. Not everyone’s a warrior. Those of us who can kill like breathing need to be countered by the people who hate it. When this is all over, it’s going to be the ones who know something of mercy and gentleness who set us on the right path.”

  “Who told you that?”

  “My mother,” he said. “My grandfather, perhaps. Men like your father. I have to believe that Karolje is the exception, not the exemplar. If the world were only men like him, it would have been destroyed a long time ago. We keep living. We make beautiful things.”

  She put her face in her hands. He waited. He could not mark the moment his anger had evaporated, but it had. Was that what happened when you paid attention to someone else’s pain instead of your own? Did evil have its root in the fear of being hurt? Karolje was afraid—afraid of loss, of defeat, of dying. Of powerlessness. He was terrified of his own vulnerability, and so he tried to control everything.

  And what do I fear? Esvar asked himself. The answer was cruel: being left behind, overlooked, forgotten. Obscurity. He drew his breath in.

  Anza dropped her hands at the sound. “What’s the matter?”

  “Nothing. I’ve just had a reckoning with my own pride.”

  “It’s the afternoon for it. Esvar, what do you think you and Sparrow can do? It seems like it’s your brother who’s the weak point. Why doesn’t he have the power to hold back the others?”

  He wasn’t sure why she used his name. It could have been reckless presumption or casual absentmindedness or a challenge to his claims of cooperation. It didn’t matter which. When he put his arms around her he had given her the right to treat him as a person.

  He said, “Because Karolje would throw both of us out of the succession if he could, and everyone knows it. He hates Tevin. But he had Tevin sworn as the heir when he was crowned, and he can’t set that aside without angering the priests. He won’t go that far.”

  “Surely he could arrange an accident.”

  “I think—” Esvar began. He stopped and tried to find the words to frame a situation he did not understand. “I think in some dark corner of his heart he needs us. It’s not enough for him to have power, to see all the lords stabbing each other while trying to keep his favor. He requires Tevin to be his audience.”

  “And a player?”

  “He’s a cat, and my brother is his favorite toy.” The thought was a revelation.

  “There are some people in the resistance who would like Tevin to fail. Getting rid of Karolje is not enough. Sparrow said I was to tell you that we would not strike against your targets unless we had a voice in rule. She wants a promise of power.”

  “Ruslan would have been one of my targets. But I don’t know what to do about my brother.
He’s trying so hard to be upright and incorruptible, everything Karolje isn’t, that he’s boxed himself in.”

  Anza smiled. It was the first real smile of the afternoon. “Is he trying to look out for you at the same time?”

  “Yes. He thinks I’m still about eight.”

  “Perhaps you should disappear for a while.”

  “It’s tempting,” said Esvar. “That would force a confrontation between him and the king. It would not solve the problem of the other lords. The better possibility is to sell the kingdom to Milaya.” Bitterness leaked out despite his control.

  “How?”

  “I go to Milaya and marry one of Nasad’s daughters. That ensures my brother’s safety. If Tevin is killed or dethroned, I come back with fifty thousand Milayan soldiers. Our child marries one of Nasad’s other grandchildren, and within a generation or two Vetia has a Milayan overlord. It would keep the Tazekhs from attacking again, too.”

  “Don’t do that,” she said.

  “It’s the only reasonably believable threat I can make.”

  She pushed her cup aside. “If it’s Tevin or the Milayans, the resistance will accept Tevin.”

  “But it won’t be that choice. It will be Tevin or the Milayans or someone in the resistance.” He laced his fingers together and tugged. “It’s a knot, and pulling any of the strings we can see makes it tighter.”

  She frowned again, got up, and paced to the window. The brightness outside silhouetted her slim figure. Esvar shook his head at himself. Even a hint of affection would ruin their capacity to plan. If he wanted to satisfy his body’s lust, there was no shortage of other women he could go to.

  “Poor Jance,” she said, returning to the table. “He’s standing out there trying not to look like a soldier on duty and failing miserably. The neighbors are all going to be convinced someone has been arrested. Or worse, informed on them. I think you’re right, you do need to talk to Sparrow. But she probably won’t agree.”

  “Twelve bodies on a gallows should be somewhat persuasive,” he said.