Shards of a Broken Sword

by W. R. Gingell

  “In Montalier we have a saying,” said Markon, enjoying himself.

  Althea looked unimpressed. “Does it have anything to do with pies?”

  “The baker of the pies is the last to taste their sweetness,” Markon continued, ignoring her. He picked through the rest of the cold food and found an apple tart. Fortunately that was meant to be cold.

  “I thought it might have something to do with pies,” Althea said. “Your forebears seem to have had a hearty appetite for them. Not to mention a fascination with dark and dreary tapestries up and down the galleries.”

  “Speaking of dark and dreary, have you actually met Doctor Romalier?”

  “Not in so many words,” said Althea, her eyes deepening blue in amusement. “He seemed a bit upset when we er, bumped into each other. I gather he doesn’t like sharing his toys. Or maybe he minds who he shares them with. That’s not important. What is important is that I’ve found someone for us to talk to.”

  “Us?”

  “I thought you’d like the chance to observe things first hand.”

  “Yes,” said Markon, realising that that was exactly what he wanted. He wanted to be away from trade agreements and stuffy international intrigue, and he wanted to tag along with Althea and see exactly what she was up to. “Yes, that’s a good idea. How did you find this someone?”

  “I took a meal in the upper kitchen,” said Althea. “They would have called me out right away in the lower kitchen– that or gone very formal and m’lady this and m’lady that. But in the upper kitchen they were all very relaxed and easy to talk to. I may have given them the impression that I was a visiting lady’s maid.”

  “Given the impression?”

  Althea looked slightly conscious. “Well, I never actually said that, but I may have talked about my lady liking her breakfast late, and being impatient with her dressing taking too long. Of course, the talk all came around to the prince’s predicament, and one of the girls almost said something before she caught herself.”

  “That’s not a lot to go on,” said Markon. He’d been hoping for something more certain.

  “Nonsense,” Althea said. “There’s a world of meaning in the almost-saids of the worlds. It’s just a matter of making sure you don’t take away the wrong almost-said. Besides, she looked frightened of whatever it was she didn’t say.”

  “Who is she?”

  “One of your upper housemaids. I understand that she and another girl are in charge of the curtains.”

  “The curt– what curtains?”

  “All of them. Well, all of them except yours and the prince’s, of course.”

  “Do you mean to say that she goes around the castle all day opening and closing curtains?”

  Althea nodded. “Apparently there’s a rotation. It follows the sun around the castle and makes sure that all the rooms get enough to light them but not enough to ruin the furniture. If a room has guests, the curtains stay open all day. There’s a knack to it, Annerlee says.”

  “Who is Annerlee?”

  “She’s the girl we’re going to see,” said Althea, placing her peach pit on Markon’s tray. He watched in fascination as she licked her fingers with great solemnity. “You can bring your pie.”

  “I may have misunderstood the idea of your investigation,” said Markon, rising and following her instinctively. “But won’t my presence make her less likely to talk?”

  “It would if you looked like you,” Althea said.

  “Yes, but I do look like me,” Markon said, trailing after her as she stepped purposefully from the library and down the hall.

  Althea shot him a quick, cautious look that had him wondering what she’d done. “You don’t, actually.”

  She gestured at one of the windows as they passed it, and Markon caught their reflection. Rather to his shock the reflection showed Althea and a stranger dressed in a footman’s livery, his long face at the same time familiar and alien. Markon stopped short and took a step toward that traitorous reflection. He wasn’t sure he liked the idea of someone being able to do this to him without his knowing.

  “I can take it off if you like,” said Althea, a troubled line between her brows. “It’s just a glamour affecting perception of your face and figure. It’s not really changed you.”

  “No,” said Markon thoughtfully, turning his head this way and that to observe the effect. “I didn’t expect it, that’s all. Perhaps you could warn me first, next time.”

  “Of course,” said Althea. She made a short, sharp turn on the pad of her foot and started energetically down the stairs. Markon thought that she was annoyed with herself.

  Annerlee, it turned out, took supper by herself in one of the smaller, sectioned-off courtyards between the north and south wings, a dour figure with unusually long arms and legs and a lapful of small, round rolls that she was methodically spreading with butter from a small handkerchief. She didn’t notice them at first, intent upon her rolls, but when she did notice them she looked distinctly worried. Markon got the impression that if she hadn’t had a lapful of rolls, she would have tried to skulk away into the shadows that were drawing coolly across the courtyard.

  Althea, not one whit dismayed, greeted the other girl with a cheery: “Good evening!”

  “’Evening,” said Annerlee cautiously. “You’re out late, Thea.”

  “The Lady’s having an early night.”

  “Who’s that?”

  One of Althea’s small hands slipped around Markon’s, her fingers threading between his. “This is Mark. He’s a footman in the Lady’s service. We’re, well–”

  “Stepping out, eh?” said Annerlee. She looked slightly less nervous.

  Markon, jolted out of his surprise by a pinch from Althea’s fingers, said: “Since last month,” and hoped he looked sufficiently bashful.

  “I brought him out to meet you,” Althea said chummily.

  “Me?” Annerlee looked surprised and not particularly gratified.

  “He’s awfully interested in the prince’s curse, and I told him you were the one to ask about it.”

  There was no mistaking the rigidity of Annerlee’s shoulders. “What do you mean?”

  “We heard about the prince’s curse in Avernse,” said Althea, very carefully oblivious to the other girl’s discomfort. “But no one knows very much about it and you said this afternoon that–”

  “I’m sorry, you’ve misunderstood.”

  “Oh, but–”

  “I didn’t say anything,” said Annerlee, leaping to her feet. Tiny buttered rolls scattered over the flagstones. “I don’t know anything! It’s none of my business and– I’m late– I–”

  She fairly ran away, pushing between them to hurry back to the castle. Althea watched her go with thoughtful eyes, and said: “Now that was interesting.”

  “And not particularly useful,” added Markon.

  “Oh no, it’s useful,” said Althea. “Not as useful as I would have liked, but she obviously knows something about the situation and from what she said yesterday, she knows it’s not a curse. I think she knows who’s opening Doors into Faery.”

  “Then how do we get her to talk?”

  “That’s the easy part,” said Althea, turning decidedly back in the direction of the castle. “Let her stew tonight. She’s afraid. Tomorrow we’ll give her something else to be afraid of, something that scares her so much she has to talk.”

  “What’s going to scare her more than she is now?” said Markon sceptically. He’d seen that kind of wide-eyed fear before: it was an unreasoning, unthinking, and above all, self-serving fear.

  Althea said: “You are, of course.”

  Day Three

  “I’m not sure how I feel about this,” said Markon. Actually, he was feeling distinctly obstinate. A little of his obstinacy came from the fact that Althea had breezed into his library in a businesslike and wholly impersonal manner to demand his help. She hadn’t even said good morning. Adding to that feeling was his dislike of being used as a m
allet to force information out of one of his own servants.

  “I can try to do it myself,” said Althea doubtfully. “I’m sure I could come up with something, but I do think it would be better if you did it yourself.”

  “Better for whom?” demanded Markon.

  “Everyone, I suppose,” Althea said, taking the question seriously. Her spine was, as usual, entirely straight, and there was an unflinching judgement in her eyes. “Annerlee knows something about the person who killed and mutilated several of your subjects. They deserve your concern first.”

  “Yes, Nanny,” said Markon, which made Althea’s eyes widen slightly and then crinkle just as slightly at the corners.

  However, all she said was: “If you’re ready, your majesty, we can get started.”

  Unable to resist trying for another sight of those crinkles, Markon said: “All right, but I expect sweeties.”

  Fifteen minutes later, he was wishing he had never thought of sweeties. Annerlee was lying on the floor of her room with her eyes open and sightless to the ceiling, a whitening of frost coating them and crystal droplets of sweat frozen on her forehead. Blood must at some stage have poured from her ears, eyes, and mouth, but as it came out it had frozen as well, marbles of blood lining the cracks between floorboards and reminding Markon of nothing so much as boiled lollies.

  He wished he hadn’t thought of sweeties.

  “More Fae magic,” said Althea. There was a tightness to her mouth and Markon made an instinctive movement to usher her from the room again, but she said: “No. We should find out as much as we can before we go.”

  “What is there to find out?” Markon was pleased to find that his voice sounded merely curious. He’d seen dead people before, of course—killed his share in battle, if it came to that—but this was something different. “She’s dead. There’s nothing we can do for her.”

  “I won’t be long,” said Althea. The crease was back between her brows, deep and sad. Markon wondered if she was thinking of her little sister and the waterfae. He left her to her study of Annerlee and surveyed the room instead. There wasn’t much to see: it was about the size of the ablutions chamber in his suite and sparse to the point of being non-descript. It held a bed, a tattered old wardrobe, a curtained-off washing space, and one spindly chair that was coated in enough dust to indicate that it was purely decorative. The only personal thing in the room, in fact, was the lovingly quilted and tatted bedspread that had been half-pulled from the bed, the corner of it still clenched in Annerlee’s stiff fingers.

  Markon, sick at the futility of the gesture, turned away and took a few restive steps toward the door. Footsteps echoed his, confusing him, and by the time he opened his mouth to say: “I think someone’s coming,” Althea had already grabbed his hand and was shoving him into the wardrobe.

  Markon tried to say: “Why am I hiding from my own subjects?” but all that came out was

  “What?” and even that made Althea clap one hand over his mouth in the darkness.

  “Quiet,” she said in his ear. “I’ve made us harder to see but if he hears us my little look-away spell won’t be much good.”

  “Why not use a proper hiding spell?” whispered Markon around her hand.

  “Big magic is more noticeable than little magic,” hissed Althea. “Shush!” Which of course still left the question of why he was hiding in a very narrow wardrobe from one of his own people, who by rights should be feeling more awkward about the situation than he.

  But when Annerlee’s door creaked open and was carefully shut again, it wasn’t one of Markon’s subjects that he saw through the crack in the wardrobe doors. It was Pilburn, the Wyndsor emissary, his large nostrils quivering and his clever fingers tapping lightly on each surface that he passed.

  Markon must have made a soft sound of disbelief, because Althea pressed close to catch a sight of the man through the crack as well. He put his arms around her to prevent them accidentally alighting anywhere that would embarrass both of them, and found himself rethinking his recent dislike of narrow wardrobes. Althea was very still, which might have made him think she was made shy by their proximity if she hadn’t already curled her arm around his waist for support, her eye glued to the crack and one small finger, highlighted in the light from the crack, silently tap-tap-tapping in a steady, thoughtful rhythm. She was thinking.

  When Markon finally turned his thoughts back to Annerlee’s room, it was to notice that Pilburn was methodically making his way around the room. He could see the man over Althea’s head, gently wiggling stones in the walls to see if they would shift, rapping ceiling beams, and occasionally shifting his weight on the floorboards to tap one foot lightly against them. What was he looking for? Whatever it was, his search would bring him into proximity with the wardrobe before much longer, and Markon began to wonder if Althea’s misdirection spell would stand up against this kind of systematic search. Apparently she was wondering the same thing, because as Pilburn drew closer to the wardrobe, Althea’s fingers began to trace a complicated pattern on the wardrobe doors.

  Markon said, very softly: “Won’t he notice?”

  Althea finished her tracery before she tiptoed to whisper in his ear: “He’s searching physically. He hasn’t even got enough magic to light a candle. I thought it would be someone else.”

  The Doctor, thought Markon. She thought it would be Doctor Romalier. I wonder why?

  She probably thought, as did Markon himself, that it was exceedingly likely Wyndsor was involved in the whole situation. If it proved to be true, Wyndsor could look elsewhere for trade agreements– and think themselves lucky to escape war, if it came to that.

  By the time Pilburn, looking confused and a little bit angry, had finished his search of the room, Markon was feeling surprisingly relaxed. Althea, despite her straight spine and general air of businesslike efficiency, was very comfortable to cuddle with and smelled improbably of strawberry shortcake. He found himself irrationally disappointed when Pilburn, with one last, angry look around the room, showed himself out, prompting Althea to disengage herself and softly open the wardrobe door again.

  Markon, somewhat slower to remove himself from the wardrobe, murmured: “What do you think he was looking for?”

  “That’s what I’d like very much to know,” said Althea. She was frowning down at the floorboards, deep in thought. “I’d also like to know how he knew Annerlee was dead. He didn’t murder her– or at least, not personally. This is High Fae magic; Unseelie, I think. He did come looking for something in particular, though, and that’s rather curious.”

  “Perhaps I should call Pilburn and Doctor Romalier in for an interview,” said Markon.

  “Oh no!” said Althea, looking up at once. “Please don’t! Doctor Romalier is making things difficult at the moment, and I’m interested in what he makes difficult. At the moment I’m not sure if he’s deliberately trying to keep something from me, or if he simply doesn’t want me getting into his investigation. I’ll be certain in a day or two.”

  “What, then?”

  “May I?”

  Markon looked at her uncomprehendingly: blinked. “Oh! Of course! Where are we going this time?”

  “The kitchen, first. I’ll use the same glamour for you as yesterday. Then it might be a good idea to announce my er, candidacy to the court.”

  “Are we still walking out together?”

  Althea appeared to give this some serious thought. “No; on the whole, I think it’d be better for you to go in first. You can still be my lady’s footman, though. Find somewhere nice and shadowy to sit: somewhere you can see everyone but not everyone can see you.”

  “You want me to watch for reactions,” said Markon approvingly.

  Althea gave him a conspiratorial nod. “Someone knew that Annerlee knew too much. I’d guess they saw us talking to her as well, and that’s why they took fright. It’s more likely to be someone from the kitchens, but I think it’s time we stirred things up around court, too.”

  Marko
n, refusing to commit himself to stirring things up in a manner that was likely to see Althea murdered, said: “What about the poor girl’s body?”

  “I think it might be best if someone else discovers it,” said Althea.

  It was ridiculous to feel so nervous about an excursion into the upper kitchens. All of these people were his subjects, after all. But between entering the room as His Royal Majesty King Markon of Montalier and Attached Islands, and entering the room as a visiting lady’s footman, was a vast and uncomfortable difference. Much to his relief, he was barely given a glance when he entered. The cook gave him a fat, absent smile and a full bowl of hearty stew, and one of the castle footmen said a pleasant: “Afternoon! New, eh?” as he slipped into a greasy seat by the coal scuttle; but otherwise he was paid very little attention. With his back to the chimney, its front facade shielding him from both its direct heat and light, he was really very easy to overlook. Markon was grateful for that: he hadn’t felt this out of place since his coronation, the only other time he’d expected people to stand up and point accusing fingers at him while howling: “Imposter!”

  The chatter that went on around the kitchen tables was vaguely cyclic and while it was interesting it wasn’t exactly helpful. Every so often one group would finish up and leave, only for another to take its place with conversational variations upon the same themes of the prince, the curse, which footman was stepping out with which maid, and speculations upon the visiting enchantress– of whom, Markon was amused to notice, they had not seen a hair, but were buzzing with information regardless.

  Althea herself didn’t make an appearance for some time. In fact, Markon was beginning to wonder if she’d found something else to occupy her by the time she arrived. Her arrival caused significantly more notice than his own had done: several of the kitchen staff hailed her with cheerfully impolite remarks, and the cook paused from her pots and spits for long enough to beam at her. Even some of the upper maids were pleased to smile at her from their lofty height of superiority. Althea took a place not too high and not too low along the table and accepted the bowl that she was given, surprising Markon by the ease with which she fit into the group. His experience of enchantresses had made him very aware of the importance they attached to themselves, and their certainty of being equal with the highest in the land, royalty notwithstanding. Althea evidently applied the same approach to other levels of society: she certainly didn’t seem to find herself anything but equal with the upper kitchen staff. They, on their part, were soon chattering away again as if they’d never stopped, and Markon sat back against the chimney with his empty bowl clasped comfortably in his hands, watching and listening.