by Adam Dreece
Marcus picked up one piece and looked at it. “I’m sorry, old friend, but the time has come to take you out of play. I hope you won’t be too annoyed at me but, ultimately, this was your plan, at least originally.”
There was a sudden knock at the planning room’s door to the main corridor.
“Come in, Richelle,” said Marcus.
Richelle entered and looked at her grandfather, puzzled. “How did you know it was me, Opa? There’s no pattern—no rhyme or reason why you should expect me. I changed my boots to be extra quiet.”
“Sometimes, my dear, I guess,” said Marcus, smiling at his twenty-nine-year-old granddaughter.
Richelle was born, strong and vibrant, to Marcus’ younger son, the Duke Lennart, and his wife, Duchess Catherine, in the eastern kingdom of Brunne. The Duke’s family had an idyllic life: gentle winters, warm summers, a good people to govern, and a great relationship with the royal family.
At one year old, Richelle had fallen ill and started having frequent, horrible coughing fits. She would spring fevers all of a sudden, and then—mysteriously—within days the fevers would vanish, only to return within weeks. As each month wore on, her condition worsened, and she weakened.
When the letter arrived informing Marcus of Richelle’s situation, he couldn’t accept the prognosis of the king of Brunne’s best doctors; they had concluded his granddaughter wouldn’t last more than three months. He immediately ordered his servants to leave his estate for the day, and locked himself in his study. Marcus’ wife, Richelle, had died only a month earlier, and he could not bear the thought of losing her namesake, too. There must be something he could do.
Duke Lennart angrily dragged the servant who had awoken him in the middle of the night to the manor’s entranceway. He didn’t believe for a minute the servant’s claim that his father was standing in the entranceway. He looked forward to beating sense into the servant after proving the servant to be a liar. To Lennart’s astonishment, there was his father, Lord Marcus Pieman, looking like a man possessed, and soaked to the bone.
“Father?”
Marcus had traveled for three weeks, non-stop, across the eastern kingdoms. He’d hired fresh horses where available, and hired coaches and drivers to travel through the night when he needed to sleep.
Marcus’s eyes burned into his son’s soul. “Tell me she hasn’t passed yet.”
It took Lennart a second to figure out what his father was talking about. “Richelle’s alive, but she isn’t well, not well at all.”
For the next several days, Marcus was near Richelle when she had the energy to play, and held her when she couldn’t sleep. He grilled the doctors for every piece of information, every idea they had. He knew in his bones they were wrong, but couldn’t blame them for their conclusions. They were well trained, yet limited by what was currently possible. Marcus—a master inventor and a specialist at pulling other people’s inventions into something new and more marvelous—always thought beyond the realm of the currently possible.
Whenever Richelle had a coughing fit, Marcus would pat and rub her back, and make shushing noises until she would coo happily or fall asleep.
Marcus himself barely slept. Often, with Richelle asleep on his shoulder, he would work through ideas and potential inventions. His design sheets had areas circled with the names of other inventors he was certain could create the piece he needed. His alchemical ideas included formulas, plant names, notes about what was missing, and whom he needed to ask. Marcus wasn’t sure if the right path would be machine or medicine—yet he was determined to go down both paths, as far as he could, to help his granddaughter. All he needed was time, which, every couple of hours, he quietly asked Fate to give him.
One morning, Lennart found Marcus packed and ready to leave, with Richelle asleep over his shoulder.
“You’re leaving us, then?” said Lennart, reaching out hesitantly to take his daughter.
Marcus moved slightly away from his son. “I can’t leave her to die, son. I need to take her with me. I will make her well again.”
Lennart looked at his father and nodded agreement. Marcus found his son’s reaction odd—he seemed already prepared to part with his daughter.
“Good luck, father,” said Lennart.
A month later bore the first bit of promise for little Richelle. Marcus was able to acquire the ingredients for a medicinal concoction that reduced Richelle’s fever and coughing. He cried with joy the first time she slept peacefully for a few hours. The effectiveness of the medicine eventually wore off, and Marcus continued down a long road of making her well.
Seven months after they’d left, Marcus received a letter stating that Catherine had delivered a son. The letter also made one particular point crystal clear: he and Catherine didn’t want Richelle returning while there was any possibility she could infect another child. As the months and years went by, Marcus found it harder and harder to hide his contempt for his son and daughter-in-law from Richelle.
Marcus brought her to meet the best inventors, chemists, and doctors throughout the kingdoms, each providing him with advice or remedies or machines to try. Richelle learned not to fear them, but instead came to understand how the fringe of knowledge was a strange and philosophical place.
Sometimes Marcus would wake up, realizing that he’d fallen asleep at a workbench, only to find Richelle trying to put a concoction or machine together herself. Every time she sprang a fever and became frail again, nothing in the world could distract him from taking care of her. Often it fell to his elder son, Abeland, to make sure that Marcus ate and took basic care of himself, as well as to make sure that his father’s other plans unfolded as they needed to.
One morning, when Richelle was six, Marcus awoke to find her playing in the courtyard with her uncle Abeland. She stopped running around the hedges and smiled at her grandfather. There was loudness to her voice that he’d never heard. “Good morning, Opa!” she exclaimed. Richelle had finally beaten the condition that had once seemed certain to be her doom.
That evening, Marcus talked with Abeland about his duty to bring Richelle back to her family. She had no memory of them, other than the stories she’d been told, and only knew their faces from the few paintings Marcus had around. Lennart and Catherine’s letters were always addressed to Marcus, and never Richelle. The couple now had three sons, and evidently had moved on with their lives without Richelle.
A royal messenger interrupted the discussion.
“There has been an uprising, Lord Pieman,” said the messenger. “This letter has been sent, without rest, by way of the late king of Brunne.”
“Late king?” said Marcus, astonished. He snatched the letter and opened it quickly.
Meanwhile, Abeland paid the man and dismissed him. Turning back, Abeland could see his father’s face had paled.
“Father, what is it?” asked Abe, already guessing at the letter’s content.
Marcus’ voice cracked and his hand trembled. “They were… killed. This letter is from the royal messenger who witnessed the burning of their home, and the mob storming it. All of Brunne has fallen into chaos.”
“Lennart…? Catherine…? The boys…?” asked Abe in disbelief. “All of them?” His father nodded mournfully at the mention of each.
Abe leaned back in his chair, and stared at the marble floor in shock. “I was there only last month. I’d gotten into an argument with Lennart about permission to let Richelle visit, or at least tell her that she had three—”
Just then, Richelle emerged from the shadows, her face a complex mix of sorrow and anger. “They didn’t want me back, did they? I’m better but they have always been sick—sick in their heads. I’m so glad you saved me from them, Opa, and that you play with me, Uncle Abe. I’m happy they’re dead. They were mean and evil—” she said, climbing onto her grandfather’s lap, “—and I don’t ever want to talk about them again.”
Stepping into the room, Richelle noticed the new eyepiece Marcus was wearing.
“I like the black with gold trim of your new eye… thing. It’s different from Uncle Abe’s. What does he call it—a monocle?” said Richelle, trying to get a closer look.
“A monocle is a single-lensed spectacle. This is much more,” said Marcus, looking down from his six-foot-one-inch height to Richelle’s five-foot-seven.
Richelle touched the device a couple of times, carefully, remembering the first time, years ago, that she’d seen Abeland wearing one over his right eye. “Monogle, maybe?”
Marcus smiled. His granddaughter had a thing for names and style. “Whatever it is, I based this one off an old design of Abe’s.
“By the way, you always manage to make clothes that bring out those beautiful, hazel eyes. The red hood is new, isn’t it?”
Richelle smiled in appreciation. Under the red cloak she had pushed over her shoulders, she wore a black jacket with white strips on the arms. Her black pants flared at the feet. Marcus had seen the prototypes, and the torture-tests she put her designs through. Richelle made sure her outfits wouldn’t restrict her fighting ability, and she tested the reaction that people had to her styles. She also insisted on hidden pockets for small items, just in case. Her designs were continuing to evolve, and he was proud to see it.
Raising an eyebrow, she said, “For the past year, I’ve been sending these red cloaks to my agents throughout the kingdoms. I’m building an Order of the Red Hoods. It’s developing nicely. Some of them aren’t even aware that they ultimately work for me. The goals should be obvious enough.”
Marcus frowned, feigning surprise. “And so they are. For the past… year, you say?”
“Yes,” said Richelle with a sneaky smile.
“And I had no idea?” he replied. He’d certainly known, but had figured she would tell him when she was ready.
“Do you object?” she asked, a bit sharply.
Marcus shook his head. “No. I think it’s a good idea. Even Herr Klaus has built a little team… the Yellow Hoods, I think? It’s important to be able to show the Tub that we have a united set of agents across the kingdoms.”
“My agents—” Richelle corrected, with a biting smile, “who are at your disposal, my liege. Just like Uncle Abe has his agents.” Every couple of months, Richelle’s ambition grew. Her ability to plan where and how armies should attack was remarkable, and her skill in royal courts was equally impressive.
Marcus grimaced uncomfortably. “I assume this ties into your psychological war, the design of these new clothes?” asked Marcus, gesturing to how he was dressed. “As well as the vocabulary changes you insisted on?”
Richelle beamed. “Absolutely. For people to accept a different philosophy, they must—”
“—see, feel, and touch the new way things will be,” interrupted Marcus, having repeated that mantra to her since she was little. “You’ve been listening.”
Richelle winked. “Oh, a messenger delivered this. It’s for you.” She handed him a letter. “I’ll see you at breakfast.”
“Thanks,” said Marcus, raising a finger and making Richelle pause. “One more thing. I think I’ll take lunch with Madame DeBoeuf. She’s been up in that tower for weeks, and I’ve been a horrible host. Would you mind having everything set up in the north garden, out of the view of those southern towers?”
Richelle nodded obediently. Thinking through the setup in her mind, she asked, “Do you want an overt guard contingent, so such a nice leader of the Tub can see a show of strength around the gardens, or would you like them hidden so she feels things are more… friendly?”
Marcus rubbed his forehead, trying to remember. “Have we been allowing her to walk the grounds? I’ve forgotten.”
She winced slightly at the question. Richelle knew he had a million things on his mind, but hated any sign that he was human, had limits, or might be old. “No, we haven’t. You wanted her kept up there. However, you’d ordered that we send up the guards she likes best, to have company worth talking to. We also provided her with books, and what she needed for cooking,” reminded Richelle.
“Ah yes, I remember,” said Marcus, stroking his chin. “Let’s have the guards visible. I’ll apologize, telling her that I’ll do my best as things progress to see if our pretend benefactor can be more lenient, and then, slowly, we’ll make it seem like she’s earning our trust. Also, starting tomorrow, she may walk the grounds with the captain of the guard and a couple of soldiers. The flowers are beautiful this time of year. She loves that sort of thing.”
“Of course,” said Richelle, grinning. They were approaching their goals. Soon, she hoped, she’d be able to follow through with her own plans. “Hmm. You know—it would be a lot easier if we just got rid of all these people. Instead, we treat them as honored houseguests. They are prisoners, you realize?”
Marcus frowned, disappointed. “You sound like Abe used to. It would be easier, yes, in the sense that we wouldn’t have to worry about things like dining arrangements, or letting them get some fresh air. In terms of everything else, it would be far more complicated. I’m surprised at you, Richelle. I would have thought you could see that by now.”
“Is that all?” asked Richelle, dismissively.
“Yes, thank you,” said Marcus, wandering over to the window and looking down the four stories at the majestic grounds below. “I do so love the early spring flowers—so filled with hope, opportunity, and color.”
Marcus opened the sealed letter and started to read the update from the Hound.
A minute later, Marcus called out, “Richelle!” He was rubbing his stubbly chin again in thought.
Richelle ran back up and looked at her grandfather quizzically. “Yes?”
The gentler grandfather figure she’d been talking to minutes ago had been replaced with the brilliant strategist. His brown eye sparkled and his presence now filled the room.
Marcus smiled devilishly, holding the letter tightly. “It seems we have an unexpected opportunity. The Hound has been offered a deal—by another leader of the Tub.” He flicked the letter on the back of his right hand, making a snapping sound. “Apparently, the Hound is one to take initiative. He followed up on some rumors and met up with the Tub leader at an inn called The Pointy Stick.”
Richelle shook her head. “Who names an inn that?” She wasn’t interested in the possibility of any deal, but was very keen to know they were on the heels of a second leader of the Tub.
Marcus laughed. “Well, The Pointy Stick may be our new favorite spot in Freland. The Hound needs to know what I think about the opportunity. I’ll come up with something on the way. I think that, merely by having discussed such a prospect, the Tub must be a lot weaker than we’d thought. This accelerates things.”
“With whom is the proposed deal?” asked Richelle, intensely curious.
Marcus grinned, folding the letter and putting it in his breast pocket. “Prepare a coach. It seems I’m heading all the way to Minette immediately after my exercises and a quick breakfast.”
Richelle didn’t like that he wouldn’t share the information, but she knew why. She would do the same, in his shoes. “Fine, but I’m coming with you,” she said firmly. “It could be a trap.”
Marcus thought for a moment. He’d wanted to have her here, to lead, but she had a point. She was one of his best warriors, and she had agents in the area—which could prove useful. Even though he didn’t completely trust her motivations, it was a sound idea.
“Fine. On our way, we can discuss how we want to handle this,” said Marcus, tapping his breast pocket.
Turning to go but then turning back, Richelle asked, “Should I inform Simon?”
Marcus winced and held on to the battlefield table, in thought. He looked about the room, in silence. “Blast, you have a good point. We have too many games in play. We must simplify.”
Richelle giggled. “Why do things related to Simon always get complicated? Mister Stimple makes things so difficult.”
Marcus rolled his eyes and sighed. Simon had always been one to
make things needlessly difficult. “You know, he’s gone by the last name of St. Malo for more than a decade now,” he reminded Richelle for the millionth time.
She scoffed. “You can call a rose a rock, but it doesn’t make it so.”
“No, but it would reduce its value,” quipped Marcus.
Laughing, Richelle proposed an idea. “I’ll prepare a letter on your behalf that will, accidentally, go by slow messenger to Simon. He should get it when you are already in Minette.”
Marcus smiled. “Excellent. Now, I must pack.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Initiation
It was late March by the time the Yellow Hoods decided to bring Mounira up to see the treehouse. Tee, Elly, and Richy hadn’t been up themselves since early December, having focused instead on helping Mounira deal with her recovery, and helping locals in need. This was the first time they’d taken Mounira out on their sail-carts on anything seeming like official Yellow Hoods business.
“So, how does this work, exactly?” asked Mounira, pointing at the wooden handlebar, pulley, and rope system that would lead up the mountain to the treehouse.
Richy stepped forward, his bright blue eyes shining in the late morning sun. “Well, this is the mechanism for going up the mountain. You hold on to the wooden bar with both hands, and then kick this lever here at the bottom of the tree. The weights start to come down, and you’re pulled up. In summer, you can kind of run and jump up the mountain—it’s a lot of fun. It’s almost like flying. Coming down the mountain, you glide about ten feet above the ground.”
“Oh, neat,” said Mounira. She eyed the bar. “Both hands?” she said, looking back to Richy.
