Trickster's Queen

by Tamora Pierce

Through the city they rode, and down to the royal docks, where the Rittevon was moored. Taybur excused himself as he turned Dunevon's reins over to Rubinyan. The ten men of the King's Guard dismounted as one and followed their captain aboard the pretty boat, spreading out to inspect it for the third time in two days. Everyone waited, getting warmer and sweatier. Only when Taybur reappeared at the top of the gangplank and nodded did Rubinyan look down at his charge.

  “Your Majesty,” said Rubinyan, his voice carried on the breeze, “from Her Highness and me, to you, with love, we give your first sailing vessel. For the king of an island kingdom must have his flagship, do you not agree?”

  Dunevon bounced in the saddle, applauding. Everyone around him relaxed, taking honest pleasure in his happiness. He dismounted and strode up the gangplank, chest thrust out with pride. Taybur, his men, the captain, and the sailors lined along the rail bowed deeply to him.

  Imajane rode over to the four boys waiting with their families and smiled at them. “Lord Elsren, Master Huldean, Master Gazlon, Master Acharn,” she said teasingly, “I do believe that if you do not hurry to board, His Majesty will order the ship to sail without you.”

  The boys bowed to the regents in their best courtly fashion, then to their families. Well-coached, they did not run to board, though they did walk very quickly.

  Funny, Aly thought, Elsren's the only real lord of Dunevon's little court. The rest are younger sons.

  The gangplank was drawn up, the boarding gate secured. Aly grinned to see the captain at the wheel behind his king, clearly allowing Dunevon to steer as tender boats guided the craft out into the harbor. Sailors raced to unfurl canvas as the Rittevon was turned to catch the breeze. The sails filled. Off the boat sped, all other shipping kept back as the king took his maiden voyage.

  Imajane yawned politely behind one hand. “Anyone of a mind to go back to bed?” she asked the nobles around her. They even laughed.

  Imajane and Rubinyan left the dock for the ride up to the palace. The mothers of Dunevon's companions waved until the boys leaning over the stern rail, also waving frantically, could not see them. Then they said their farewells for the day, promising to meet that evening for what one of them described as “the mariners' triumphant return.” With her own bodyguards, Winnamine returned home.

  To no one's surprise, Dove set out along the dock, Ysul, Boulaj, and Junai around her, with an outer guard of household men-at-arms. Other guards and Aly's spies, dressed in everyday clothes, spread through the crowd as her invisible protectors. Aly followed as Dove greeted her friends and asked how they did. She did not linger in Dockmarket. Except for the food sellers, shops had closed in honor of the king's birthday. Instead the shop workers decorated their windows and doors, while day laborers prepared the flowers and garlands for that night's grand celebration.

  Dove eventually drew her mare to a halt and dismounted. She sat on a silversmith's doorstep and asked the shopgirls there if she could help. Nearby workers stopped to look at her.

  Aly crouched beside her as Dove tried to braid vines. “If you joke about your lack of skill, they'll like you better,” she whispered. “I know it's hard to admit you're not perfect—ouch!” she cried as a thin elbow caught her in the side. Aly rose, wincing. “I was only telling you what folk might say, my lady!”

  Dove took the braided garland she'd just finished and placed it on her head. It promptly fell to pieces, startling a laugh from those who watched. Just as instantly they stopped laughing and drew back.

  She pelted them with vines. “And that for making fun of a poor, fumble-fingered country girl!” she told them with a smile. Laughter went through the onlookers. A couple of them ventured to give Dove hints on how her work might be done better. Dove looked at Aly from the middle of a cluster of advisors.

  Aly gave her a pleased thumbs-up.

  It was nearly time for Dove to return home when a sudden cold burst of air slapped Aly's face. Startled, she looked at the sky. The clouds that boiled there were blacker and lower than those that usually wet down the city in the afternoon. They moved quickly, a yellowish green glow collecting in the air below them. Flickers of brilliance caught Aly's vision. She stood in the street, staring, trying to get a better look. Was it lightning?

  Dove stood. “I suppose the farmers are right. You only make a fool of yourself trying to predict weather,” she remarked as the shopgirls hurriedly gathered their materials. “It's a good thing the king has an experienced captain.”

  Thunder rolled; lightning flashed. The wind flattened everyone's clothes around their bodies, chilling them. Aly frowned. “We're going home,” she told Dove, “if you please, my lady.” Aly wouldn't put it past the regents to arrange for Dove to be struck by lightning. The darkings couldn't be everywhere and hear everything. Aly's job was not to work only with those things she was sure of. She also had to consider the things she did not know, as Sarai had taught her.

  Dove said quick farewells to the shopgirls. A gesture from Aly brought the men-at-arms in close, forming a ring around Dove. The wind whistled around shutters and signs, making them flap. One sign was yanked from its moorings. It missed Ysul by an inch as it cartwheeled down the street. Off the group of them went, dodging people who raced to the harbor to secure their ships. Tree branches flew through the air, ripped from their trunks. The wind yanked at shutters, dragging some from their mountings. Dove and her companions were only halfway home when the skies opened. Within a breath all of them were soaked.

  At last they entered the grounds of Balitang House by way of the servants' gate. Maids descended on them with umbrellas and blankets. Inside, Quedanga ushered Dove upstairs to a waiting hot bath. Aly changed into fresh clothes, patted her darking necklace dry with a cloth, and went in search the mages. Ysul sat in Chenaol's kitchen, wearing dry clothes, a bowl of water in front of him. It shone with silvery magic in Aly's Sight.

  He turned as she reached out to touch him. “This isn't your doing, is it?” she asked him in words and in sign language. “To sink the king's ship?”

  Ysul emphatically signed back, And kill other people at sea? No!

  “Very well,” Aly said, not even bothering to apologize. “Where is Ochobu?”

  Workroom, signed Ysul, as two kitchen maids and Chenaol said, “The mages' workroom.”

  “What are you so excited about?” Chenaol demanded. “It's just rain.”

  “With cold gusts that rip up trees and signs?” demanded Aly. “On a day when the court mages said the weather would be as usual?” She turned and ran to the mages' workroom—no Ochobu. She found the raka woman in the infirmary, grinding aromatic herbs in a mortar.

  Aly stopped just inside the door. “Tell me you had nothing to do with this storm,” she told the old mage.

  Ochobu turned, her brown eyes suspicious. “What?”

  Aly pointed to the window. Though the shutters were secured against the outside of the building with hooks, they clacked as the wind tugged them from their moorings. Overhead, thunder boomed.

  Ochobu dropped her pestle and went to the window, where she stared at the storm-swept kitchen garden. The plants had been flattened by the hard rain. “This is not right,” Ochobu muttered. “There is magic in it.”

  Aly rolled her eyes behind Ochobu's back. I don't need a mage to tell me that, when it's the wrong weather for Rajmuat! she thought, impatient. This is like a winter storm!

  “We are taught to leave weather alone.” Ochobu was talking more to herself than to Aly. “It is ungovernable. It is likely to turn on the spell caster or to exceed its limits.” She glared at Aly. “And I never would have done it this way, either. Five of our people that I know of are on that ship. And there are raka and part-raka out in their boats, fishing. Do you think they will go untouched? A storm this strong will scour the harbor and the coastline for miles. Once a weather spell is begun, there is no way to stop it.” From beneath her wraparound jacket she drew a leather cord. On it dangled a circle of obsidian, set in silver. She murmured some
thing, passed her palm over the circle, then gazed into it.

  Aly Saw the flare of magic as Ochobu tried to scry for what happened at sea. Waiting, Aly realized that Trick and Secret were shivering. Gently she ran her hands over their living beads. Sweat began to roll down the raka mage's face.

  Aly bit her lip. One of the first lessons she had learned was Never interrupt the mage. She was about to try it anyway when the old woman straightened and jammed the disk back under her jacket.

  “I see nothing,” Ochobu snapped. “Nothing. My vision of the sea is blocked, and by the magic of luarin mages.”

  “How can you know that?” demanded Aly. “Magic is magic. It's not luarin or Carthaki or anything.”

  “In the Isles it is,” Ochobu replied wearily as she sat. “Luarin magic hurt us the most during the Conquest. Raka mages began to devise ways to hide our work. You often say our magics look odd—so they should. We shape them to be done in plain sight, without detection from the luarin. What I scryed is pure luarin magic. That is to say, Crown magic, because any other mage with sense learns how we work. Why do you think Zaimid Hetnim came here? It wasn't to be called ‘brown dog' behind his back by the regents.”

  Aly grimaced. “Very well,” she replied. Distant thunder got her attention. “Will you be all right? Will you ask other members of the Chain if they can see anything?”

  Leaning on the window ledge, Ochobu nodded.

  On her way to see Dove, Aly heard a commotion at the front door. Ulasim stood there, arms spread wide to block the way out. Before him stood the duchess, tension in every line of her body. She was wrapped in an oiled cloth cape against the rain. Nuritin, Dove, Pembery, Dorilize, Boulaj, and Junai stood behind her, also in rain gear.

  “Ulasim Dodeka,” Winnamine was telling him in a voice that shook, “you have been a friend to me, and I know you think you are being my friend now, but as the gods are my witnesses, you will either stay behind or carry my umbrella, but you will let me through that door. I want to be on the royal dock when they come home. You know—” Her voice cracked. She swallowed, then went on, “You know that Elsren does not care for lightning. He will be frightened. He will want his mother.”

  Aly signed Ulasim that she would get men-at-arms. He nodded, then told the duchess, “At least wait until your guards are here, Your Grace. And then I will be happy to hold your umbrella.”

  Fesgao led the men-at-arms himself. Aly also called for Ysul and three of her spy pack still in the house as she found her own waterproof cape and broad-brimmed hat. She fell back with her spies as Ysul joined Dove and Winnamine.

  “Get to the marketplaces, wherever you find people,” Aly murmured to them. “Say this is an uncanny storm, and too convenient with His Majesty at sea. Go.” They went, as Aly followed the Balitang ladies, biting the inside of her cheek. She knew what had happened, but she could not say it, not to these people. They would want to put off hearing the truth as long as they could.

  Aly caught up with Dove. No one spoke as they walked. Winnamine didn't seem to care that her feet were soaked, any more than Nuritin or Dove cared. The duchess and Nuritin held hands, like children.

  When they reached Dockmarket Way, Winnamine looked at them. “It's the wrong time of year,” she said, indicating the street and the harbor. “The wrong time for such damage. And this is the snuggest harbor in all the Isles. What did it do outside in the open sea?”

  Aly saw what she meant. There were tiles, ribbons and flowers that had been torn from decorations, a few signs, and the collapsed remains of stalls all along the waterfront. The ships were tangles of torn sail and spars. Small boats had been driven against the pier and smashed.

  When they reached the royal docks, the guards at the wrought-iron gates let them in. Winnamine led them to the berth where the Rittevon was supposed to drop anchor. Sailors rigged a canvas awning to shelter them from the downpour and pulled up a bench. Nuritin sat, looking older than she had at dawn. Winnamine and Dove stood, looking toward the mouth of the harbor, veiled by rain. The duchess's lips moved in silent prayer. Dove began to pray and stopped. Aly wondered if her mistress had been about to call on Kyprioth and had stopped herself, either because she didn't want her stepmother to hear her address a raka god, or because she wouldn't like what he might say.

  Aly had no such compunction. She wanted information; she wanted it immediately. Kyprioth! she shrieked silently. Show yourself! Is this your doing?

  The god remained silent.

  Aly stepped back to question the palace darkings. They reported that Imajane was supervising the arrangements for Dunevon's party that night. Rubinyan met with officials and officers of the army and navy about the newest revolt on Malubesang. Aly's ears pricked when Trick whispered the holder of the lands in rebellion: Duke Nomru. Trick added that Rubinyan had snarled at his absent wife for arresting the duke in the first place. Aly nodded. All was not well with the regents. As she had observed in the case of her parents, it was hard for a man to silence a too-frank wife when she spoke in front of company. Da was usually amused, but then, the pricklier her mother, the happier her father. Aly had never understood it. She did understand that Rubinyan had to keep the peace with Imajane. She was the source of his power.

  Let's see what he does when the source of his power goes bad, Aly thought, returning to her ladies. Let's see how he feels when she turns that Rittevon gaze on him.

  The mothers of the other three boys in Dunevon's court came to the docks as the rain eased, to join Winnamine's vigil. The sailors found more benches. By late afternoon, the rain and the cold had moved on. A normal summer's heat dropped on the city like a wet coverlet. Their wet clothes began to steam. The king's ship was supposed to return by sunset. People were drifting out to line the harbor walkway and the docks around those reserved for the Crown, keeping a mostly silent watch.

  The Balitangs should have gone home to change—the other mothers wore their court costumes under their oiled capes in case all was well—but the duchess refused to move. Both Dove and Nuritin had to persuade Winnamine to drink a cup of tea. More tea was fetched for the other ladies. When they had finished it, Nuritin and Dove sat on either side of Winnamine, Nuritin holding Winnamine's hand, Dove keeping an arm around her stepmother's shoulders. The other mothers did not talk with each other or the Balitangs. All of them were fixed on the harbor's mouth.

  “They really should dress and meet the regents for the procession down Rittevon's Lance,” Ulasim murmured to Aly. “Her Highness may not be pleased to find our ladies here, not attired for the festivities. At least the others are properly clothed.”

  Aly looked up at him. She stifled an urge to swear at the regents and instead replied, “Do you mean to drag her?”

  Ulasim shrugged. His face was impassive as he stared out at the harbor. Aly was not fooled. She knew that he had been in the Balitang household since before Elsren was born.

  “He is half Rittevon,” she said. She knew him well enough to be sure that he, too, believed the boys were dead.

  “I know that. Don't you think I know that?” Ulasim's voice was a harsh whisper. “But we could have worked something out, for him at least. . . .”

  Aly didn't have to say that he fooled no one. She felt only a small, hard knot beneath her breastbone tighten as she looked at Winnamine, Dove, and the other boys' mothers, or when she looked at the harbor mouth. Someone was going to pay for this, she promised herself. She meant to present the bill herself.

  The city's shadows spread across the harbor, which grew dark while the heights still lay in the sun. Along Dockmarket Way people cleaned up debris and brought lanterns to light the watchers and the dock workers. When sailors tried to light the royal docks, the duchess asked them to wait. Light would make it hard to see the harbor mouth.

  The regents arrived in gala dress, surrounded by their households. Rather than dismount, they rode halfway onto the dock. Their noble companions dismounted from their horses and walked out in their wake, dressed in their finest a
nd followed by the rest of the court. Two of the other mothers who waited instantly rose to greet the regents. The third was urged by her servants to go to them. No one dared say a word to the duchess.

  Rubinyan was the first to notice the small group of Balitangs waiting by the Rittevon's mooring-place. After a whispered conference with Imajane, he sent one of her ladies-in-waiting to approach the duchess.

  “Your Grace, my ladies, what is this?” the lady asked, smiling. “You are not prepared for the evening, you did not meet Their Highnesses with the rest of us. . . . Her Highness is concerned.”

  “As are we,” Nuritin said, her voice a croak after long, tense silence. “You do remember that storm today, do you not? It was quite severe.” The lady nodded, still apparently puzzled. “We fear—Her Grace, Lady Dovasary, and I—we fear that something has happened to that ship. Our family has had more than its share of trouble of late. Should the Rittevon dock at the appointed hour, we will submit ourselves for the regents' forgiveness and make haste to dress and come to the palace. But we shall remain here until we are certain His Majesty and Lord Elsren are safe.”

  The lady favored them with a stately nod and returned to the princess. When she whispered her report, both regents nodded in understanding. Prince Rubinyan dismounted and came to see the ladies. “Winna, surely you are overreacting,” he said when he was close enough, his elegant voice warm. “It was a storm. Our best seamen crewed the Rittevon. And our weather mages predicted fine weather for this first sailing. Violent storms in the spring rarely have much reach.” He took Winnamine's free hand in his and chafed it. “So cold! My dear, you shouldn't do this to yourself.”

  Aly glanced at the princess. Had Imajane's face gone pale? She spoke to one of her guards, who helped her to dismount. As graceful as a swan she came to join them.

  “My dear,” Rubinyan said, turning to show Imajane Winnamine's white hand. “She feels like ice!”

  Dove got to her feet so that the princess regent might sit. Imajane inspected the bench, then settled into place next to Winnamine, taking the hand Rubinyan had held. “While I am not a birth mother, I think I know your feelings,” she said graciously. “The chance that anything may have happened to our dear little boys . . . My own blood runs cold at the thought.”