Chased By War

by Michael Wolff

  “Milady.” Quigley seemed ready to burst like the grape his face resembled. “How is it that you learned of this...meeting?”

  You fucked one of my Hands. “That doesn’t matter.” Rather inadequately, according to the maid. She had to do all the heavy lifting. “Let us disperse with formality, shall we? We all have our agendas.” Without a hint of hesitation Christina rounded on Ptalis. “How are the Kerrs faring?”

  “The shock from Jethro’s knighting has abated. He finds the privileges of his rank quite satisfying.”

  “Jethro has long been a sentinel of the realm. It was just that he receives adequate rewards.”

  “That’s what you would want us to think.” Quigley’s teeth grinded loudly, so coiled tight with anger his face could have mistaken for a tomato. “Jethro is the youngest of the family. His cousins are now his vassals. They have to obey him whatever they like it or not.”

  “It is more than any of them could hope for,” Ei’jus chimed in. “Time will heal their wounds.”

  In the meantime, the Kerrs would be too distracted over their new status to attempt any power moves. And the latest raven from Jethro confirmed he was sending a full third of the Breadbasket, along with ten thousand reinforcements. Not led by him, of course. A lifetime of newfound riches released his inner glutton. No, Jethro would not be a threat for a good long time. “Which one of them leads these reinforcements?”

  “A lad by the name of Petyr Cozzilino. He’s baseborn from one of the Kerrs’ second cousins. A good man. He was my squire before –”

  Before you became a cripple. The thought brought forth an image of that librarian joined to the rangers. What was his name? Morgan? Mitchell? No, Mykel. And that silly last name of his. Lewis? No, LeKym. Mykel LeKym of the Bloodline LeKym. The whole “Bloodline” title was an ancient form of conduct; it was humorous to see one fool keeping it alive.

  “What of Egal?”

  “Egal?” Ei’jus’ face pinched tight at the name. No wonder; he was Lord of the fur hunting business. Egal was his unofficial competition. Egal built more than generous profits, and her connections with the gypsy tribes along the borders gave the trader the best-quality furs. Egal’s only fault was being bastard-born. Well, that and being a woman. One wasn’t exclusive to the other. “What does she have to do with anything?”

  Men and their pride. “I suggested the high council that we might employ her for trade.” The following silence was loud enough for all. Compared to their own regal standings, the Wardens thought the royal council was a bunch of children. “Why have we not heard back?”

  “Egal is a traitor. She steals the gold from our pockets.” Ei’jus didn’t even bother to hide his contempt. Obvious and completely predictable. Christina had a sudden feeling that the ravens sent to Egal were “taken care of” by Lucas arrows before the first wingbeat. A setback, then. Annoying but hardly debilitating.

  “She must bewitch the gypsies somehow.”

  Christina almost laughed. Just like a man to blame everyone but himself. “Perhaps she talks to these gypsies.” She suppressed a groan; the men were staring at her as though she suddenly lost her head. Perhaps I already have.

  “Your Grace, I do not think you understand.”

  “Oh, I think I do. You will not approach Egal because you would not sully your hands with gutter blood. Even though she runs a larger and more profitable venture due to her connections with the barbarian remnants.” Her eyes dared the Wardens to protest. They grinded their teeth, but none of them said a word. “By this time next week, I want Egal escorted here. She will be an asset in attaining concord with the remnants.”

  “You would give lordship to a baseborn fool.”

  Christina repressed a sigh. Quigley. Always Quigley. He was signing his own death warrant. “We all want peace, Lord Quigley. Never make an enemy when you can make a friend. When she is a Lady of the Realm she will be bound to the same laws as we are. Specifically, the taxes. Her gold will be filling your pockets again. And all you have to do is to fake sincerity. A small sacrifice, wouldn’t you say?” She rose to her feet before any of them could answer. “You will forgive me for my haste. Duty beckons.” She spun on her heel and glided from the room.

  The silence did not last. Christina could hear the Wardens’ whispers right through the walls. It was everything the Queen expected: the angry rumbling of a cheated god, the threats arrogant nobles fell back upon when backed to a corner. The tide soon changed, as Christina knew it would. Their greed would always supersede their honor. It would take time for them to realize it, even longer to be able to speak of it in public, but they would turn. Christina had no doubt about that.

  Now, for the meeting with the Hands. After a simple maze of corridors, the faux-Queen arrived in a chamber not even the architect knew of. It was the Queen’s Nest, a small cube with no windows, no fireplace, and no gilded nonsense. Just a long, rectangular table with enough chairs for a dozen people. The Hands were already at their appointed chairs when she entered, backs straight and hands steepled almost as if in prayer. A good sign.

  “Your Grace.” Emma was the very picture of dignity. It was hard to believe she grew up in the slums. “Ronald Jekai succumbed to my advances, but he vanished upon morning. No servants saw him in his chamber, no stableboy saw him mount his horse. He made his speech and left.”

  Odd, to exclaim your purpose and leave when the kettle just began to burn.

  “The only information I can confirm is that the nobles signed their allegiance to a Lord Samaritan.”

  “I recognize no one with that name.”

  “Neither does anyone else, Your Grace. I spoke to every servant, and no one can remember what he looks like. The nobles shook his hand and traded tobacco pipes, but the details are vague. The memory is simply not there.”

  Odd. “See if any of the girls can remember him.”

  “I...I cannot, Your Grace.” That brought every eye swinging. Maria was tall, dark, and lush in all the right places, and yet she was paler than a temple virgin. “I was unable to seduce him.”

  “We were unable to seduce him,” Abigail corrected. She was nothing to jest at. Abigail was a black-garbed seductress for which there were no sexual limits. There was not a man alive that spurned her.

  “Is he sly?” Christina asked.

  “No, My Grace. Nothing like...like that.”

  “Then what was the problem?”

  “We don’t know,” Abigail admitted. “We were prepared to engage, but there was something sweet about his voice. He sat us down and talked about our parents. He said we shouldn’t feel any shame about our passion.”

  “Passion.” The word was as dead and flat as the wrinkled old crone that said it.

  “Yes Elizabeth. Passion.” Maria suddenly found a fascination to her shoes. “We are part of the oldest occupation of the world. We were just supporting ourselves with what we have.”

  A man with a silver tongue. That made him dangerous. More dangerous than any woman here. “Are you sure he wasn’t sly?”

  “My Grace, Abby and I have been Hands since we came of age. We know when a man is interested.” A silver tongue, and in full control of his faculties. Definitely a dangerous man.

  “My Grace, forgive me.” Maria was flushed in a dark red. “I –”

  Christina nodded the matter away. It was not every day when a woman of Maria’s charms failed in such a casual manner. “We will return to Lord Sarmatian later. Chloe. What news do you have?”

  “All I said was that I heard Lord Vixou was bringing ten thousand knights to court.” Chloe was a sultry redhead with a smile all women would kill for. “And instantly Lord Luilver doubled the number.”

  “Are
you sure about that?”

  “I watched him pen the order myself, milady. And I know the messenger dispatched to the court. He and I have...a mutual relationship.”

  Men. Christina smiled. Rulers of might beyond comprehension, and yet their worlds were turned upside-down by the manipulation of one extremity. And they thought the pleasure was by their own hands. The Queen couldn’t decide what amused her more: watching the fools prance about like puffed-up roosters, or actually being the puppet master behind the curtains.

  The rest of the meeting was rather uneventful. All the Hands had been able to charm and giggle their way into the nobles’ bed, exposing trivial matters. Every noble had lofty ambitions, but only few had the breeding for it, and even fewer needed the cunning to achieve said agendas. That left only one thing to be done.

  The castle dungeon left little to the imagination. The air was musty, spider webs clung at every corner, and the head gaoler was fat and slovenly. She met him not in his office but at a rickety wooden chair tilted against the wall so he could prop his dirty, greasy legs right next to a sauced dinner plate. He was asleep; everyone could hear his snoring.

  “Your Grace? Shall I?”

  The Queen waved the guard back two steps from the sleeping jailor. She rarely had an opportunity for observation; she was not about to waste one now. Upon closer inspection, there was a softness to the jailor’s face, framed by knots and welts that could only come from the scourge. Whatever it was a father’s punishing hand or the headsman, she did not know. But she could hazard a guess from his current attire. His tunic was two sizes too small, which explained the hairy gut, and there was the dark shadow of a goatee, though made from the grease of the lamb bone between his teeth. “Now,” she addressed the guard.

  “Yes, Your Grace.” With a sharp kick, the chair’s weak leg collapsed, followed by a thump that shook the walls and a growl that scoured all the ears to hear it. The man’s piggish eyes burned beyond reason. His arm was halfway thundering down in a fist before the guards’ steel crossed the limb at the elbow. “What shall we do, Your Grace?”

  “Your Grace?” Christina tried hard not to wince. It was a whiny, nasal-pitched voice topping the gross, misshapen body. “You’re not the Queen. I know the Queen. She was a fiery little bit.”

  “That was thirty years ago, Joseph.”

  Either he was drunk or had addled wits. Or most probably a combination of the two. Perfect. Just perfect.

  “Thirty years? Are you sure?”

  “Yes, Joseph. We’re sure.”

  “Don’t be eye-balling me, George.”

  “Where is my brother?” The Queen cut in. She could practically see the cogs turning in his head, and slowly too. Perhaps the post would be better occupied by a younger man. All the nobles had one or two bastards lying about; it was only a matter of finding one so low the dungeons would be irresistible. Christina tabled the notion for later while the glorified turnkey struggled through his wine.

  “Oh, now I remember you. You look exactly like Coldeyes.”

  “Coldeyes?” The idiot didn’t hear the snap in her voice; he simply turned his back to her and made a beeline towards a hidden door. He acts as though this is his court. She gave a second look at the dungeons. A court of spiders and dust. Exhaustion more than anything stayed her desire to lock the idiot in one of his own cages. Just one more thing I must do and I can go to bed. Just one more thing.

  “Yeah. Coldeyes. One look at him and you’ll understand why.” He fished a long-necked key from somewhere beneath the folds of his stomach. It squeaked of rust when it turned in the lock, and the rattle of the iron door was almost a shudder. The air within had a cold bite to it, and once Christina looked upon the occupant she understood why.

  Timothy Lansplex was a statute. His fists were level to his hips, his back was ramrod straight, and his eyes were as empty and cold as the winter outside. His very presence chilled the room. “Leave us.”

  “Your Grace?”

  “You heard me. Leave us. Him, too. I will deal with him myself.” She used the same glare to propel them up the stairs and out the door, the latter clicking shut with an oddly familiar finality. “Do you know why I put you here?”

  Silence.

  “Did it ever occur to you that I know what I’m talking about? We were supposed to be a united front. I know you heard me. You were in the same room!” Was he, really? His thoughts were only of death. “There’re already talking about you! The long-lost twin brother, the diviner of secrets!”

  Silence.

  “They should be talking about the war, not about you! You can’t just go around spreading secrets like that! We need their support, not their pride tarnished!” Silence. Stone-cold silence; the same silence he retreated to in study or analysis. He’s not Tim though. He’s just a soulless copy. And now I’m freeing him. She could not afford the discord of his continued imprisonment. “If you deviate from my plans, even in the slightest, I will ship you back to your master in tiny pieces. Now go.”

  Christina released a breath she didn’t know to be holding as he ascended the stairs. There was something flickering in his ice-blue eyes. If she didn’t know any better she would have sworn it was a revelation, an epiphany of sorts. Blunt instruments do not have ideas. Angry at herself Christina ascended the staircase. The gossip wouldn’t unweave itself, after all.

  XLVIII

  Tolrep pinched his nostrils. It was no use. He couldn’t sleep knowing that Cullen was right beneath the cabin. The hostage was practically anchored to the ship’s hull, but every time the privateer closed his eyes, all he could see was that bastard smiling with that damn smugness of his. Carefully he extracted himself from the bed, and, taking one last look at Jelina snug in her bunk, snuck onto the deck.

  Tolrep looked up and found the constellations guarding all sailors. There was Sylph, mistress of the moon, Stormbeard with his ferry; the fish-people of Atlantis huddled around the White Pearl that shone even in the deepest depths of the ocean.

  A little nudge took his eyes down to the most beautiful smile he had ever seen. “You’re supposed to be asleep.”

  “So are you.” Strange how Jelina’s tiny fingers had an anchor’s strength. “What are you doing?”

  “Looking at the stars.”

  “My mommy told me that when people die they become one with the stars. Is that true?”

  “I don’t know, honey.”

  “I think they are. I think they have the night sky for their playground. I think they play all the time. My favorite one is the jungle gym. I think she’s sitting on the gym to keep the stupid boys away.”

  Tolrep couldn’t help himself. “Stupid boys?”

  Jelina’s face wrinkled into a sneer. “They were waiting at the gym for me and they put dough in my hair. Everybody laughed. Stupid. Stupid boys.”

  “So, your mommy is keeping the stupid boys away from your gym.”

  “Yes.” She waved her free hand at the sky. “So my mommy can see me.” Her face dared the contrary. Tolrep smiled. The girl found awe and wonders in the most unlikely of places. She was a rare one, all right.

  “Matty? What’s gonna happen after we kick Cullen’s ass off the ship?”

  “Where did you learn –” She’s surrounded by sailors, you idiot. Where did you think she learned it? “I don’t know. I just don’t know.”

  “Oh.” Silence spent observing the twinkling stars. “We should get involved in this war.”

  I must be hearing things. “What?”

  “People are getting hurt. We have to help them.”

  We must help them. Straight and simple. Ignorant to the complexities of life. Maybe that’s what it should be. H
e smiled at the sudden shuffle of padded feet. “Are you ready?”

  “Yes, Cap.” Tsukasa. Blueface. Byron. Ashnoi. Holding the chains that bound Cullen seven times over: Bear and Elric. Tolrep looked upon their prisoner with weary reservation. The chains that bound Cullen’s manacled hands were thick enough to bind tigers, as were the ones binding his ankles. Even with the rag gagging him, and the blend of numbing herbs fed into his blood, Cullen did not seem very dangerous. That’s how he deceived us the first time. Jelina nearly died because of it. No more.

  “Why are you taking him out now? I thought the trade would happen in daylight.”

  “Jelina.” Tolrep fell to one knee and gently grasped the child’s shoulders. “I don’t know what we will do after all of this is over. But whatever I do, I want you at my side. Will you promise to be here when I get back?”

  “Yes Matty.” She embraced him in a hug beyond the strength of mortal children. “You’d better come back alive, or I’ll haunt you forever and ever.” Tolrep’s chuckle turned to a squawk halfway. By the gods, the girl was strong.

  “I’ll be back. I promise.” Tolrep hopped into the lifeboat before the child’s pleading eyes turned him back. The hours ticked away in the rhythmic sound of lapping water. The oldest sound of the world, old when man was young and foolish, old when man would be gnarled and ancient. An entire world lay in that sound, and Tolrep lost himself in it.

  The campsite they chose was tucked amidst a particularly heavy stretch of snow, the peaks and cliffs obviously molded by child’s hands in play. Jelina would build a castle in this.