by Kate Forsyth
Zakary held an apple studded with cloves to his nose. ‘Best tell your guards to draw their swords,’ he advised Count Zygmunt. ‘And everyone, hold on to your purses.’
‘What is wrong with them?’ Priscilla asked. ‘Are they sick?’
‘No doubt,’ Zakary replied.
‘Sick and hungry, I’d say,’ Count Zygmunt replied, and began to wave his steward forward.
Zakary laid one white hand on his wrist. ‘Do not give them money,’ he warned. ‘Your purse is not deep enough, and there are ten thousand more than these you see here. We’ll be torn to pieces if we show even a glint of gold.’
‘But they’re starving,’ the count protested.
Zakary shrugged. ‘You cannot feed them all, and anyone you give money to will be killed for it. Each day, at sunset, the palace throws out its garbage for the crowds to pick over. If you’re feeling charitable, you can pay for a few extra buckets to be tossed out then.’
Count Zygmunt looked distressed, but he did not throw out gold coins as he had done in Hespera, and again at the harbour town in Rigella. The soldiers all beat the crowd back with the flats of their swords, and Merry and his friends hurried through, averting their eyes from stick-thin limbs, distended bellies, desperate eyes and outreaching hands.
Inside the customs house, bored-looking officials sat behind massive registers, writing down the names and business of all who disembarked in tiny, cramped writing, dipping the black-stained nibs of their quills in enormous ink pots. Count Zygmunt’s steward slipped one of the officials a gold coin to hasten matters along, while the count and his retinue waited nearby.
‘What has happened? Why are the bells ringing?’ Merry asked a porter trundling a barrow piled high with luggage.
‘His Royal Highness, Prince Zander, is dead,’ the porter answered, leaning wearily on the handles of his barrow. ‘He was killed three nights ago, burned up by his own fusillier fire. He’s being buried this evening, what little there is left of him.’
‘The prince? The prince is dead?’ Count Zygmunt sat down on one of his trunks. ‘But how could this be? What happened? Surely . . . surely it was not . . .’ He could not bring himself to voice the sudden suspicion that the prince had been killed by rebel forces within his own regiment. Everyone knew that the crown prince was hated and feared, but it seemed impossible that his own men would dare turn against him.
The porter pushed his cap to the back of his head. ‘It was the Hag.’
‘The Hag!’ several voices cried at once.
Merry sat down abruptly.
‘Apparently the prince had been hunting her for the last few weeks. She’d rescued a prisoner the Count of Hespera had nailed to the stocks, and for once left a trail the prince could follow. He chased her all the way into Mistrala and thought he had her trapped there with her back to the sea.’
The porter paused to push back his hat, scratching his head and continuing with a look of wonderment on his face, ‘She has some tricks up that sleeve of hers, you have to give her that.’
‘Why, what did she do?’ Zed demanded.
‘She sent a message to the prince, telling him that she would not kill him if he agreed to lay down his weapons and meet her to talk about the rebels’ demands. He agreed, and so the Hag and all her followers rode up from the beach.’
Merry felt as if his body was made of twigs, bent to breaking point. He felt both Liliana and Zed look at him with concern, but he could not meet their gaze. All he could think, irrationally, was, I hate it when they call her the Hag. She’s not ugly. She’s beautiful.
‘It’s so terrible,’ Priscilla sighed, sitting down next to her uncle, her face pale under her veil. Annie quickly caught up the fur muff her mistress had let fall to the ground.
‘So what happened?’ Count Zygmunt asked, a furrow between his brows. ‘Tell us everything.’
‘Well, the prince and his men fired on her, of course. They were on the top of the headland, in what they thought was a commanding position. Only thing is . . .’
‘But . . . they promised . . . no weapons . . .’ Merry was so sick with terror for his mother he could barely frame the words.
‘Well . . . you can’t expect the prince to parley with rebels and traitors,’ the porter said, looking about uneasily.
‘Did he not give his word of honour?’ Count Zygmunt asked.
‘Well, yes . . . but . . . it’s not for me to say . . .’ the porter stammered.
‘So what happened?’ Liliana demanded.
‘Well, it turns out this headland was the windiest place in Mistrala, which is of course the windiest land in all of Ziva. It was just on sunset, when the wind springs up even stronger, and so when the prince and all his men fired, well, their flame was just blown back into their own faces. They didn’t stand a chance.’
‘So he died by his own hand, just as Princess Rozalina predicted,’ Liliana said slowly.
‘Well, I wouldn’t like to say that,’ the porter said, looking furtively from side to side. ‘But there is one odd thing . . .’
‘What?’ Zed asked.
‘Well, I heard this from someone who has a neighbour who knows someone who’s a healer. They were called to the palace to look after those what survived, not that there were many of them. Anyway, apparently the Hag flew away afterwards on the back of a grogoyle. The thing is, if she’s got a grogoyle now, why didn’t she just flame the prince to death in the first place?’
‘The rebels do not murder people, they only do what they can for the poor and suffering,’ Count Zygmunt said, looking out through the windows to the crowd of beggars thronging around the customs house. ‘The only time any of the rebels have ever killed is in self-defence, or while rescuing one of their own.’
‘Is that so?’ the porter asked in interest.
‘My dear Count Zygmunt, have you been listening to rebel propaganda?’ Zakary asked. ‘Next you’ll be telling me the hearthkin serfs want to be free of our king’s benevolent rule.’
Merry was barely listening. All he could think of was how he had told his mother about the wind that Liliana had summoned at Stormfell Castle, killing a soldier with his own fusillier fire. Mags had then told him to encourage Liliana to call up a wind to speed their passage. For eleven days now, this strong, steady, powerful breeze had been blowing their ship up the coast of Ziva, straight past Mistrala and the headland where the prince had died.
Did she kill the prince on purpose? To make me the king’s heir?
The very thought made him feel sick and faint. He leant forward, letting his head hang down, trying to breathe. His chest hurt. He reminded himself that the prince and his men had fired their fusilliers after a parley had been declared, and that they should have felt the wind blowing in from the sea. It was stupid and arrogant of them, he decided, and felt a little better.
‘What about the rebels?’ Zed asked, with a quick concerned glance at Merry. ‘Were any of them killed or captured?’
‘Not one,’ the porter replied. ‘They all escaped.’
Merry let out his breath in a long sigh. Thank Liah.
‘At least until the king tracks the rebels down. He’ll never forgive them the death of his son and heir,’ Zakary said in a bored voice, examining his nails which he had painted blue and silver in stripes to match his silk coat. ‘I would not like to be that Hag when he catches up with her. He’ll have her head nailed above the city gate.’
Merry clenched his fists till the knuckles were white.
The porter began to load their trunks and bags and boxes onto his barrow. He made a move towards Merry’s satchel, with his grandfather’s bell box protruding from the top of it, and his lute bag. Merry shook his head and drew them towards him. ‘I’ll keep them with me,’ he said. He saw that Liliana also kept a tight hold on her longbow and quiver of arrows, and her satchel with its precious cargo of the ragged cloak of feathers and the three feathers they had already plucked.
The porter bent and picked up the handles of the
barrow again, pushing the great mound of luggage towards the gate.
‘Have it taken to my quarters at the palace!’ Zakary called. ‘You!’ He beckoned to Count Zygmunt’s guards, and two came forward at once. ‘Go with my luggage and make sure it is stowed safely. If a single jewel is missing, I’ll have it taken out of your hide.’
The soldiers glanced towards Count Zygmunt, and he nodded wearily and waved his hand in permission. ‘I do wish you would not order my soldiers around, Zakary,’ he said. ‘Should you not have a retinue of your own?’
‘But, my dear, dear sir, I flew to you in Estelliana! I could not bring my retinue with me by sisika! It was awkward enough bringing all my trunks. Poor Sugar looked like a pack mule by the end of it, and there was scarce room for me to sit. I know you will not begrudge me the slight service of a few of your men.’
‘Not at all,’ Count Zygmunt said politely.
‘Which reminds me,’ Zakary said. ‘I must make arrangements to have my darling Sugar taken to the sisika stables at the palace. He’ll be so cross at being kept in a cage for so long, on that dreadful rocking boat. I must warn the stable-boys that he will be in a truly dreadful temper. You, boy! Come! Protect me from the great unwashed. Imagine if one should jostle against me!’
He snapped his fingers at Wilhelm and the young soldier hurried to do his bidding, Zakary mincing behind, his pomander of spiced apple held to his nose to mask the smell of the busy wharf.
Count Zygmunt sighed and gestured to everyone to wait.
It took some minutes for Zakary to return, Wilhelm clearing a path for him through the crowds with his sword.
Tom-Tit-Tot, who had been nosing through the rubbish strewn on the ground, came back to Merry’s side, and he bent and picked the ferret up.
‘Must you carry that animal about with you all the time?’ Zakary said in a long-suffering tone. ‘Merrik, my dear, I hate to be the one to tell you this, but it really is not at all the thing.’
Merry ignored him and Zakary sighed and lifted his clove-studded apple to his nose again. ‘So,’ he said as they made their slow way out to the street. ‘Prince Zander is dead. Poor Adora is princess no longer, only a mere lady. She will be peeved. So how does it feel to be the new crown prince, Your Highness?’
Count Zygmunt stopped and stared at him, his face suddenly pale. ‘I suppose I am,’ he answered slowly. ‘I had not thought . . .’
‘Why is Uncle Ziggy the new crown prince?’ Priscilla demanded. ‘Shouldn’t Princess Rozalina be the king’s new heir?’
‘Good heavens, no!’ Zakary cried. ‘The very thought is repugnant. A woman is simply not fit to rule. No, no, the new law simply means that the sons of women can inherit. Which means you, sir, are the new crown prince. Followed, of course, by our dear, dear Zed and then,’ he simpered and fluttered his fan, ‘by yours truly.’
‘I think we had best get to the palace,’ Count Zygmunt said, his face whiter than ever.
‘Not before we all get some new clothes!’ Zakary protested. ‘Think of the insult to the king if you were to turn up dressed like that!’
CHAPTER 18
Twiddling Their Thumbs
THE NEXT FEW HOURS SEEMED LIKE A NIGHTMARE TO MERRY.
Darkness fell, the bells tolled out relentlessly, and still they were delayed by Zakary’s constant worrying over their clothes, their shoes, their hats, and the colour of his fingernails. Merry and Liliana were easily fitted out, needing only red sashes and cockades for their hats, but Zed and Priscilla and Count Zygmunt were forced to stand, fuming with impatience, as red velvet and satin and brocade were pinned about them, and ruby-heeled shoes fitted to their feet, and the merits of fans made of red-dyed sisika feathers compared to fans of scarlet embroidered silk debated over at length by Zakary and the fan-maker.
The tailor had been most surprised to see them, since the lords and ladies of his acquaintance never visited his warehouse in the cloth merchants’ quarter. Once Zakary explained the situation, though, he was all affability. He took Count Zygmunt and the younger members of the party up to his own family quarters above the warehouse, pressing wine and sweetmeats upon them, and sent his apprentices scurrying to bring bolts of crimson silk, satin and velvet, or to bang on the doors of the cobbler, the furrier, the seamstresses, and the fan-makers all along Threadneedle Street, so that a parade of yawning, fawning tradesmen were soon hurrying through the door, bowing over their bundles and parcels, obsequious smiles on their faces.
The evening dragged past. Merry and Liliana wandered about the warehouse, the ferret slinking along at their heels. Out in the storehouse, barrels of some strange-smelling pellets stood in rows. When Merry, bored, picked one up and rolled it between his fingers, it cracked, and ruby-red liquid came spurting out. The dyer came hurrying up, looking angry, and securely hammered the lid back on the barrel.
‘It looked like some kind of bug,’ Merry said to Liliana. ‘Gruesome.’
They went outside and sat on the step. It was very dark and a thick fog was stealing along the cobbled street, rising from the harbour which lay only a few streets away. Everything was quiet and deserted, the only sound the ominous tolling of the death bells. Ravens were pecking over rubbish in the street. Merry started towards them, thinking to try to pluck a feather, but they flew away before he got within a dozen paces of them, cawing loudly.
‘Stiga says that if you can learn to speak the language of the ravens, you’ll know what is to happen in the future,’ Liliana said dreamily, resting her chin on her hands. ‘She does not like to hear them call from a high stone or a tall tree, or from the left, she thinks it is the sign of a death to come.’
‘Children at home are taught to drive ravens away with rocks,’ Merry said, tickling the ferret’s tummy. ‘They’re bad omens.’
‘They are bringers of the knowledge of death,’ Liliana said. ‘That is the bringing of wisdom, and should be respected.’
‘It’ll be hard to catch one,’ Merry said. ‘Maybe we’ll need to make a trap.’
‘We’ll have to be careful not to hurt it. It’s bad luck to kill a raven.’
‘I wouldn’t hurt it,’ Merry said indignantly. ‘I’d just catch it, pluck the feather, and set it free again.’
‘Here we are at the palace, and still four feathers to find,’ Liliana said with a sigh. ‘Can we do it in only five days?’
‘The swan feather won’t be too hard, I hope, nor the pelican feather, if we can find that friend of the Erlrune’s,’ Merry said. ‘But a nightingale? We’ll have to trap that one too, I think.’
They watched the coachmen walk their horses up and down, the collars of their greatcoats turned up against the chill, pipes stuck in the corner of their mouths. The soldiers looked as if they would like to smoke too, or stretch their legs, or stamp their feet and rub their hands. Instead they stood in a row, being harangued by Aubin the Fair, his snowy-white moustache bristling. ‘Smarten up, boys!’ he shouted in his foghorn voice. ‘Don’t forget you represent the Count of Estelliana, who is now next in line to the throne! We’ll have to put on a good show of it at the palace. I want all those boots polished, those buttons rubbed, and not a hair out of place. Is that understood?’
Liliana and Merry exchanged a quick glance of amusement.
‘I wish they’d hurry up,’ Liliana said. ‘How long does it take to buy a few clothes?’
‘I can’t stand sitting round and just twiddling my thumbs,’ Merry said.
‘Me either,’ she agreed fervently.
‘Let me sing you a serenade, my lady,’ Merry said gallantly and put down Tom-Tit-Tot so he could unbutton his lute from its leather bag. He tuned it, and then began to sing a delicate love sing, telling of a man who begged his lady love not to be so cruel, but to smile on him and listen to his song. When he finished he looked hopefully towards Liliana. She was looking away from him, but he could see the soft curve of her cheek and knew that she was smiling. Pleasure filled him.
‘I’ve been writing a new s
ong,’ he said diffidently. ‘About your cousin, the princess in the tower. Would you like to hear it?’
She glanced at him and gave a little shrug. ‘All right.’
Merry began to sing the song he had been trying to compose ever since he had first heard the story of Princess Rozalina and her Gift. He kept his voice low, not wanting the soldiers to overhear, and so Liliana had to bend her head close to his to listen.
‘Rozalina, fair as a flower, locked in her tower, longing to be free.
Rozalina, fair as a flower, waiting for the hour, love shall be the key.
Sweet is her face, sweet her tongue, sweet the words she speaks to me,
for she is the tale-teller, the true-teller, of prayer and prophecy,
Rozalina, bright with power, fair as a flower is she.’
Merry played the last few notes, and then dropped his hand. ‘It’s not perfect yet. I haven’t been able to work in anything about her curses, it’s such a difficult word to rhyme with.’
Liliana stood up. ‘It’s very nice. I’m sure my cousin will love it when you sing it to her. If we ever get to the palace.’
She walked away up the street, sending the ravens cawing up into the sky again. She jumped after them, as if trying to seize a feather, then kicked at a rotten apple, sending it rolling into the gutter. Merry stared after her, puzzled and rather hurt. He did not understand her at all. One moment she was stormy and angry, the next moment she was glowing with joy, and then a moment later, prickly as a hedgehog.
Girls! he thought, and folded the thick parchment with difficulty and thrust it inside his breast pocket.
‘Come, Zakary, surely that is enough?’ Count Zygmunt said fretfully, coming down the steps wearing a new wide-skirted coat in red brocade and a new hat with a long red feather. ‘I must get to the palace and declare myself to the king!’
‘We’ll have missed dinner,’ Zed grumbled, looking very uncomfortable in a tight red velvet coat over a red brocade waistcoat and the most extraordinary breeches Merry had ever seen, made of billowing silk and so full they looked like a skirt. ‘I’m starving! And I’m sick of all these sweet little cakes they keep offering us. I need something of substance.’
