“Not even if you take into account the men and horses of those great lords who’ve secretly promised you their support?” asked Atticus, who was still rubbing his head.
“‘Secret’ support isn’t worth the paper it’s written on, Atticus.”
The young lord’s petulant mouth fell open in amazement. “The great lords put their support in writing?” he asked incredulously.
Lord Bartok stared at his son. “No, Atticus,” he finally said. “That is my very point. They have not put their support in writing. They have openly declared their support for the queen, but they have not openly declared their support for me. They fear the cripple, and until they are certain I will triumph over him, they dare not openly move against him.”
“But how are you to triumph if they will not help you do so?” whined Atticus.
“I intend to make it impossible for them to continue to withhold military support without appearing cowards and traitors to their own kind,” replied Lord Bartok.
Predictably, Atticus did not press for details of the plan. Instead, in a tone that betrayed his smug pleasure at having detected the fatal flaw in his illustrious father’s reasoning, he said, “Even if your plan works and you manage to defeat the cripple’s army with the help of the great lords, Father, it will get us no closer to the throne. As you’ve already pointed out, they have openly declared for the queen. With the cripple out of the picture, I hardly think they’re going to be seized by a sudden desire to anoint and crown you in her stead.”
“I agree,” said Lord Bartok dryly. “That is why I’m going to do something far cleverer than continue to challenge her right to succession.”
“What are you going to do?” asked Atticus, his eyes drifting past his father to the wine jug.
“I am going to support her right to succession.”
“SUPPORT IT?” screeched Atticus, his watery gaze snapping back to his father’s expressionless face. “But … but you said that the cripple has the queen!” he spluttered. “You said that he means to marry her and get sons upon her! If you fail to defeat him and she is anointed, he will be prince consort—or even king, should the queen choose to give him a crown of his own!—and his lowborn brats will sit upon the throne after him! How will supporting that further our cause?”
Lord Bartok closed his eyes, pinched the bridge of his highborn nose and breathed deeply in an effort to keep from slapping his son again. “Atticus,” he said slowly, “do you remember what I said to Aurelia when she proposed that I make another marriage for her?”
“You said that she was used goods and probably barren in the bargain,” snickered Atticus.
“Yes,” agreed Lord Bartok. “But I also said that in the whole of the realm there was no noble family as great as ours and that unless we were marrying royalty, we were marrying beneath ourselves.”
He looked at his son expectantly. Atticus’s gaze had just begun to drift back to the wine jug when he realized what his father was saying.
“You mean to steal the queen away from the cripple, don’t you?” he blurted, sitting bolt upright in his chair. “You mean to … wait, do you mean to marry her to me?”
Lord Bartok chuckled softly. “No, Atticus, if need be, I mean to marry her to me,” he said. “I’d sooner rule through Aurelia’s bastard than have to contend with a royal wife who may wish to have a say in the running of the kingdom, but I intend to keep my options open. That is why, while I continue to push the nobility to rise against the cripple, you are going to liberate the queen from his clutches. After you have done so, you will deliver her to my country estate, there to reside as my honoured guest until we determine if Aurelia has succeeded or failed in the task she has been set.”
“And if she has succeeded?” asked Atticus, who’d resumed slouching.
“After the cripple’s army has been annihilated, I will command the most powerful fighting force in the realm in addition to possessing the dead king’s sister and his so-called son,” replied Lord Bartok. “When I present these facts to my fellow noblemen, I am confident they’ll agree that my grandson should be anointed king, I should be declared his Regent and the dethroned queen should remain my honoured guest until the end of her days.”
“And if Aurelia has failed?”
Lord Bartok shrugged. “I will marry the queen to whom the great lords and I have already declared our support. In doing so, I will become prince consort—but only until such time as I am able to demonstrate to my new bride that it is in her best interests to give me a crown of my own, that I might be called king.”
“You’re old enough to be the queen’s grandfather,” said Atticus with the slightest of sneers. “What will you do if she does not care to marry you?”
Lord Bartok tilted his head slightly in acknowledgment of this possibility. “She will be made to speak her vows—at knifepoint, if necessary. She will then be held down and bedded before witnesses that she may never claim that we are not truly man and wife.”
Appearing mollified by the knowledge that if he couldn’t have the bitch whose horse had dented his head that at least he’d have the comfort of knowing his father had ravished her, Atticus said, “So, my men and I are to follow the royal carriage when it sets out upon the morrow, then?”
“No,” said Lord Bartok with a chuckle. “The cripple thinks he can outsmart me, but he is an arrogant, lowborn fool. To be sure, I will send men to follow the carriage— but only so that his spies do not suspect that I know it’s nothing but a ruse.”
“A ruse?” said Atticus in bewilderment.
“I have it on excellent authority that instead of setting out by carriage tomorrow, late this night the cripple will board a ship bound for northern waters,” said Lord Bartok. “Though I have not been able to determine its final destination, it will undoubtedly follow in the path of the ship that carried away the queen three days past. Immediately following this afternoon’s funeral—after you’ve made arrangements to have Aurelia serviced—you and your chosen men will board a ship of your own, this one hidden in a cove just beyond the mouth of the royal harbour. When the cripple’s ship sets sail this night, yours will follow it at a distance that ensures you are undetectable to all but the keenest eye. Where his ship docks, so, too, shall yours. If he thereafter travels overland, buy horses and follow him to his final destination, wherever that may be. There, you will surely find the queen being held captive. Do what you must to rescue her. If you can kill the cripple while you’re at it, so much the better, but remember that securing possession of the queen is your main objective.”
“I will, Father,” said Atticus even as a vaguely calculating look flitted across his soft-featured face.
Lord Bartok considered his son for a long moment. Then he said, “Atticus, do not get into your head the idea that you ought to wed and bed the queen yourself.”
Looking as guilty as a child caught filching sweetmeats, the young nobleman wildly cast about for something clever to say, but all he could manage to come up with was a blustering “Father, I would never—!”
“I’m glad to hear it,” interrupted Lord Bartok calmly, “because if you did, I would do far, far worse than disinherit you.”
At these words, Atticus’s wine-reddened face got considerably redder. “For gods’ sakes, Father, I know—”
“Good,” said Lord Bartok. “Go, now. Prepare for your journey, then dress for the funeral. And when you take your place in the procession this afternoon, Atticus, remember to look sad. The dead king was your beloved brother-in-law, after all.”
EIGHT
AS ZDENO HAD PREDICTED, people thronged to Parthania from the surrounding countryside to pay their final respects to the king. From their hiding place, Rachel could hear the noise of the restless crowds that had packed the streets along the funeral procession route.
“Is it almost time to go?” she asked Zdeno nervously as she smeared her already grimy face with yet another handful of camouflaging dirt.
“Almost,” he replie
d, carefully smoothing a final layer of pale clay over his birthmark before leaning forward to give her a kiss on the mouth.
Rachel smiled as he pulled away beaming. Her “personal hero” had grown rather daring in the three long days they’d spent hiding inside the crumbling crypt. It would not have been Rachel’s first choice as a hideout, but Zdeno had assured her that no one would dare to look for them there—not only out of fear of waking the dead but also out of fear of the flesh-eating night walkers that were rumoured to inhabit the graveyard. Though he’d hurried on to say that he was almost positive the rumours were false and that in any event, no earth-bound demon in existence would be able to feast on her while he was around, Rachel had only felt marginally comforted. She’d felt better after the crypt’s dusty corpses had been transferred to another resting place, however, and better still once Zdeno had returned from fetching bandages, candles, food and drink enough to last them for several days. Wanting to feel useful, she’d offered to clean and dress Azriel’s wounds, but Zdeno had taken one look at Azriel with his shirt off and insisted upon tending the Gypsy himself. As he’d done so, Azriel had groaned and grimaced and gnashed his teeth so agonizingly that Rachel had feared his wounds must be far worse than they looked. But by the next morning, he’d seemed none the worse for wear, and now, as they prepared to make their escape from the city, he looked as fit as ever and a thousand times fiercer, the thought of his kidnapped wife and their unborn child ever upon his mind.
“So it is agreed?” said Azriel as he hid his auburn curls beneath the filthy piece of linen he’d found under the sugarberry bushes that grew behind the crypt. “If one or two of us fall or are captured this day, whoever escapes will find my tribe and tell them what has happened to Persephone?”
“It is agreed,” said Rachel, even though she quailed at the prospect of carrying on alone.
“It is agreed,” said Zdeno shortly.
“Good,” said Azriel, his blue eyes glowing from beneath his makeshift scarf. “Let’s go.”
Zdeno’s prediction that the streets would be so crowded that Mordecai’s soldiers would find it impossible to properly look for anyone turned out to be exactly right. Unfortunately, his prediction that they’d be able to slip through the gates unnoticed fell alarmingly short of the mark.
“We’re going to need to create a diversion,” said Azriel as he stared at the half-dozen New Men who stood, sword in hand, scrutinizing anyone who ventured anywhere near the gates.
“What kind of diversion?” asked Rachel unhappily.
Before Azriel could answer, the funeral procession came into view at the far end of the street. Leading the way was Mordecai himself. Rachel shivered when she caught sight of him. Dressed as he was in a hooded robe of black velvet and clutching in his bony hands the reins of the enormous black stallion he was riding, he did not look like a mourner at all.
He looked like Death.
Directly behind him was a wheeled platform drawn by six white horses. The platform was covered with a flowing purple cloth so long that it swept the cobblestones. Centred upon the cloth was a silver-handled coffin crafted from polished ebony and heaped with white lilies. Surrounding the platform were black-clad, poleaxe-wielding New Men whose job it clearly was to keep people away. Even so, every few seconds someone—usually dressed in lowborn rags or worse—darted out of the crowd to call a blessing on the dead king, to touch his coffin or to toss a garland of wildflowers atop the lilies.
Rachel had not really known King Finnius, but seeing how well the common people had loved him—and knowing how well Persephone had loved him—she felt her eyes begin to sting.
Before she could shed even a single tear, however, there came such a piercing screech from three feet above her head that she instinctively ducked. Squinting skyward, she was amazed to see Ivan, the hawk that had followed Persephone so far and so well. He had a plump hare clutched in his talons, and even though she knew it was impossible, it seemed to Rachel that as he swooped around, he was staring right at her.
“What is he doing?” she whispered in alarm as Zdeno sidled closer and the people around them looked up and pointed.
“I think he thinks you’re her, Rachel,” murmured Azriel as he scowled at his feathered nemesis. “And I think he means to give you a little gift.”
Rachel’s knees turned to water at the thought of the dangerous attention Ivan’s generosity would surely attract. But if the hawk meant to give her the hare, he sadly misjudged the trajectory it would take when he released it. Because instead of landing anywhere near Rachel, it landed directly on top of the coffin, scattering the white lilies and homemade garlands and setting the nearby New Men shouting in alarm. Yanking hard on the reins, the furious former regent wheeled his horse about to see what was going on. As he did so, Ivan flew straight at him. Ducking, Mordecai glared up at the creature that had dared to attack him only to find himself treated to a close-up view of that same creature releasing a large splatter of shit as it cruised by. Fortunately for Mordecai, only a few in the crowd actually saw him suffer this indignity, the rest being riveted by the pandemonium that had been caused by the scattered lilies. For even before the lilies had hit the cobblestones, a dozen quick-thinking lowborns had run forward, eager to get their hands on a memento of the day. Alarmed when they realized that they’d be left empty-handed if they didn’t act fast, hundreds of other lowborns had immediately stampeded toward the fallen flowers. Unfortunately, there were only an armful of lilies, and many of those had been trampled underfoot in the initial rush. People got angry. The New Men bellowed and lashed out, but they were hopelessly outnumbered. Shoving matches were breaking out now and fistfights too. Those who cared nothing for the lilies but were glad of an excuse to vent their discontent with life were jumping into the fray; those too fearful of reprisals to do so were pressing forward in their eagerness to see what was happening. Several people near the front fell, screaming as they went down. The crowd surged ahead, forcing the New Men guarding the king’s coffin to scramble on top of the platform to avoid being crushed. Outraged that Mordecai’s hated soldiers would dare to desecrate their beloved king’s funeral bier by treading upon the purple cloth of royalty with their filthy boots, the people nearest the platform grabbed for the soldiers’ legs. The platform began to rock dangerously as the mob tried to topple the soldiers while at the same time avoiding their wildly swinging poleaxes.
Just when it seemed that the poor king’s coffin would be dumped onto the street, Mordecai unsteadily stood up in his stirrups. Splatter still dripping from his face, he jabbed his finger in the direction of the half-dozen New Men guarding the city gates and screamed, “DON’T JUST STAND THERE, YOU USELESS IMBECILES—GO HELP THEM!”
His face half-shadowed by the makeshift scarf, Azriel turned toward Rachel and smiled for the first time in three days.
NINE
BLISSFULLY UNAWARE that he’d made possible the escape of the man he hated more than almost any other in the realm, Mordecai saw the funeral procession concluded, the king entombed and the lowborn rabblerousers rounded up and punished.
Hours later, he descended into the vast labyrinth of fetid tunnels that lay beneath the palace. Setting a flickering torch in the rusted wall bracket of one particularly stifling dungeon cell, he called out, “Have you missed me?”
The woman whose chains were shackled to the weeping wall at the back of the cell said nothing, only stared unblinking into the shadows.
Undeterred by her lack of response, Mordecai shuffled over to examine her more closely. The one the king had called Moira was now so thin that she could only truly be thought of as a cow if she were a cow in a land of terrible famine. Her ragged shift hung in rotting tatters that left precious little to the imagination. Her hair was falling out in clumps, her nails were torn, she was caked in her own filth, and her skin was covered with oozing sores and festering rat bites.
“You look a little peaked,” frowned Mordecai. “Have you been eating your greens?”
When the dead king’s formerly fat nursemaid failed to respond to his question about eating her greens, Mordecai sat down in the armchair he’d had placed just beyond her reach. Leaning back and sighing loudly to show how comfortable the chair was, Mordecai said, “I lied when I said you looked a little peaked. In truth, you look disgusting, and you smell worse. But I didn’t come here to give you a lecture about your personal hygiene. I’m afraid I have some tragic news. The king—”
“Is dead,” rasped the nursemaid, her colourless eyes flicking toward him. “I know. I heard.”
Mordecai felt a hot stab of disappointment at her reaction—or, rather, at her lack thereof. “What do you mean ‘you heard’?” he snapped. “Who could you possibly have heard it from?”
The cow shrugged her bony shoulders.
Mordecai eyed her malevolently, wondering if he ought to beat the answer out of her. Deciding he did not wish to give her the satisfaction of thinking he truly cared what she heard from whom, he hastened on to impart the second bit of information he’d been looking forward to sharing with her.
“I wish I could tell you that he died an easy death, but he did not.”
The nursemaid said nothing for a long moment. Then she cleared her throat and said, “You smothered him, then?”
“The gods smothered him—drowned him in his own stinking juices,” replied Mordecai, wrinkling his nose to emphasize how nauseating the king’s bloody phlegm had smelled by the end. “And do you know what else? Aside from informing me that he was content to let you die in agony if it meant furthering his own pathetic little plans to defeat me, the king never once mentioned you. Not in casual conversation, not during his fever dreams, not even as he gasped out his final, tortured breaths.”
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