Tomorrow's Kingdom

by Maureen Fergus

  “We cannot know for certain, of course, but her mother was of a similar build and she bore live children,” replied Lord Bartok.

  “And when would this marriage take place?” asked Mordecai.

  “Immediately, if you wish,” said Lord Bartok.

  “Immediately?” spluttered Mordecai, who’d just assumed that Bartok would try to get him to play some kind of waiting game.

  “That’s right,” said Lord Bartok smoothly. “If you’ve a chaplain nearby, you could be bedding her within the hour.”

  At these words, Lady Aurelia cried out as though she’d just been burnt with a hot poker. Skittering forward, she grabbed at the sleeve of her father’s doublet and sobbed, “Father, please! I am begging you—”

  Lord Bartok shook her off without looking at her. Taking a step toward Mordecai, he spread his hands wide and said, “Your Grace, I no longer have any desire to play games with you. The situation is too grave. My past enmity toward you is nothing compared to that which I feel for the new queen. She would make a mockery of … of everything. At least, in a strange way, you and I have always been more or less on the same page when it came to understanding that there are those who matter and those that don’t.”

  “You’re right. We have,” said Mordecai in surprise. Cocking his heavy head to one side, he said, “So. If I agree to your proposal, what happens next? We join forces and march on the imperial capital?”

  Before Lord Bartok could reply, Murdock quietly cleared his throat.

  “What?” said Mordecai, flicking his gaze toward him.

  “May I make a suggestion?” asked Murdock as he daintily picked at something caught between his long, yellow front teeth.

  Irritably, Mordecai gestured for him to get on with it.

  “Why don’t you take advantage of both the queen’s soft heart and her belief that Lord Bartok is loyal to her and your sworn enemy?” said Murdock placidly. “Let Lord Bartok return to Parthania with his fighting men—and also with a message from you stating that you will consider surrendering without a fight if she comes north to meet with you in person.”

  Mordecai laughed loudly to show Bartok what he thought of his general’s foolish idea. “Even if she were to agree to a parlay, Murdock, she would hardly come alone,” he said scornfully. “She would bring her entire army!”

  “Yes,” said Murdock, unperturbed, “which means that if Lord Bartok were able to secure a flank position or, better yet, a rear position, when the queen came to meet you she would find her army sandwiched between two enemy fighting forces.” He sighed softly before adding, “It would be a bloodbath.”

  Despising Murdock for making him look the fool in front of Bartok, Mordecai made no comment but that he wanted the queen and the cockroach captured alive that he might question and kill them at his leisure.

  “Just so long as they end up dead,” said Lord Bartok before turning to Murdock and asking, “What explanation shall I give for having received a message from the queen’s mortal enemy?”

  Murdock gestured toward Lord Atticus. “Tell her that your son was released with orders to deliver the message.”

  Lord Bartok stroked his silvery beard. “It is an excellent plan,” he said at last.

  “Yes,” agreed Mordecai grudgingly.

  “Does this mean I’m free? Does it? It does, doesn’t it? Oh, thank the GODS!” brayed Lord Atticus, hurrying over to stand at his father’s side.

  As he did so, his sister tried to grab at their father’s sleeve again.

  Again, Lord Bartok shook her off. “Goodbye, Aurelia,” he said in a voice that was not unkind. Placing his hand on her back, he gave her a gentle shove toward Mordecai and added, “Try to be grateful that I am giving you another opportunity to do your duty to the family.”

  With that, he nodded at Mordecai, gestured to his son that he should follow, turned and strode out of the tent.

  As he watched the two of them go, Mordecai wondered if it had occurred to Lord Bartok that if his became the new royal family, and if he and his son were both to die, his daughter—the girl Mordecai would shortly take as his bride—would be next in line for the throne.

  With a smile of satisfaction, Mordecai gave the girl in question a lingering, speculative look. “So,” he said with a deliberate lack of enthusiasm. “I suppose I ought to send for the chaplain.”

  At these words, Lady Aurelia collapsed to the ground at his feet and began to wail so hysterically that she drove herself to a coughing fit.

  Not the most enthusiastic bride I’ve ever seen, thought Mordecai as he extended his foot and nudged one of Aurelia’s honey curls with the toe of his shoe. But at least she knows her place.

  FORTY-NINE

  THE THREE WEEKS following Lord Bartok and Lady Aurelia’s departure from the imperial capital had seen the size of Persephone’s army swell beyond her wildest expectations.

  As she sat in the royal garden with Moira and Rachel partaking of a hearty noontime meal at the behest of her royal husband—who felt that for a woman nearly seven months along, she’d lately been working too hard and eating too little—Persephone said, “Azriel says my army is now nearly of a size to rival Mordecai’s.”

  “I’m not the least surprised,” said Moira quietly, her remaining eye briefly closing as she reverently bit into a piece of thickly buttered bread.

  “I’m not the least surprised either,” said Rachel. She paused to thank Meeka for refilling her wine goblet before continuing in a worried voice. “Yet I must confess that the height of the piles on the city death carts is beginning to worry me, Your Majesty. Parthania has become crowded beyond belief and the grounds outside the walls are not much better. Attempts to contain the filth—or at least to keep it from contaminating everything—have met with futility and the rats are breeding like … well, like rats. Conditions are ripe for an outbreak of sickness, and I worry not only for the fighting men but also for the many women and children who accompanied them to the city.”

  Persephone—who did not need to be told that an outbreak of sickness would have catastrophic consequences for the war effort—was about to command Rachel to begin quarantining the sick when she glanced up to see Azriel striding across the manicured lawn toward her with Lord Bartok and—

  “Lord Atticus?” she exclaimed, jumping to her feet so fast that she bumped the table with her big belly and nearly knocked over Rachel’s wine goblet.

  The nobleman who’d once threatened to turn Persephone’s scalp into a dog collar gave her a glittering courtier’s smile before flinging his arms wide and bowing so ostentatiously that his noble father winced before bowing himself.

  As Lord Atticus straightened up again, Persephone saw his watery eyes slide toward Meeka’s ample bosom. Resisting the urge to snatch up the wine carafe and put another dent in his fat head, Persephone tried to sound civil as she said, “I am most surprised to see you, my lord, for it was my understanding that you were being held captive by Mordecai.”

  “He was,” said Azriel. “Until a week past when he was released that he might deliver a message to you.”

  “What message?” asked Persephone.

  Before Lord Atticus could reply, his noble father said, “The traitor Mordecai says that he is willing to discuss terms of surrender if you are willing to meet with him in a fortnight’s time.”

  “Terms of surrender?” said Persephone blankly. “Whose surrender—his or mine?”

  Lord Atticus snickered at the question.

  “His, Your Majesty,” replied Lord Bartok, giving his son a withering stare. “According to Atticus, the former regent has heard so many disturbing reports of the size and strength of your growing army that he has come to believe that he will never be able to defeat you. He names a bridge in the north as a neutral ground for the parlay. He says that if you do not come, he will fight to the last man— and that he will drag as many of your worthless subjects as he can with him to the afterlife.”

  Persephone considered these words for a long
, silent moment. Then she turned to Lord Atticus and said, “What did Mordecai look like when he gave you this message?”

  Appearing startled by the question, the soft-featured young lord snuck a darting glance at his father before hesitantly lifting one shoulder, curling his hands into claws and replying, “Kind of bony and hunched over, with very skinny legs and hands that—”

  “I meant, what was his expression,” interrupted Persephone with exaggerated patience.

  Lord Atticus’s rather blotchy red face got redder still. “He looked upset,” he muttered sulkily.

  “Upset?”

  “Really upset,” he clarified, gesturing with his hands. “More upset than I’d ever seen him.”

  “You saw him often?” asked Persephone in surprise.

  “I … I wouldn’t say that I saw him often,” replied Lord Atticus, with another darting glance at his father. “I would say … I would say that I saw him often enough.”

  As she stared at the young lord—who was looking inordinately pleased with himself—Persephone wondered what her next move ought to be. Lord Atticus was next to an idiot, and by his demeanour and responses, she was sure that he was hiding something, but she had no idea what it was.

  Before she could think of a way to find out, Azriel picked up a brimming goblet of wine from the table. “I am sure that seeing Mordecai at all must have been terrible for you,” he murmured as he held the wine goblet out to Lord Atticus. “And it grieves me that it is so, for the queen and I are much indebted to you.”

  “You are?” gasped Lord Atticus, breathless after draining his goblet in a single draught.

  “Of course,” said Azriel. “Not only for attempting to rescue the queen from the black stone castle but also for risking your life to bring her this message now.”

  Lord Atticus said nothing to this, only nodded pompously and held out his goblet for a refill.

  Unsure of why Azriel was being so solicitous to a man who’d tried to ravish her (twice), Persephone decided to play along with it for the time being. Turning to Rachel, she said, “What do you think of Mordecai’s message?”

  “I cannot imagine he would ever surrender, Your Majesty,” she replied as she tucked a lock of dark hair behind her prominent ears. “Therefore I fear this is naught but a trap to lure you and the baby into danger.”

  “I agree—” began Azriel.

  “So do I,” said Lord Bartok swiftly. “That is why I strongly encourage—nay, I beg—Your Majesty not to do this thing.”

  Wondering at the baffled look Lord Atticus gave his father when he uttered these words, Persephone looked away from them all. Nearby, just beyond a topiary sea god rising up out of an ocean of blue chrysanthemums, Cur was excitedly bounding after an emerald-green frog. The frog darted this way and that before leaping high into the air and diving headfirst into a fish pond. Caught up in the chase, Cur plunged his whole furry face into the pond in pursuit of the frog only to jerk his face back out again half a heartbeat later. Persephone smiled at the sight of him sneezing and snorting water with a lily pad dangling from one tattered ear—and at the sight of his mate, Silver, trotting over to eagerly lick the water from his dripping face.

  Cairn had once said that war was always death and that as queen the question Persephone would ever face was not what she could do to save everyone but who and how many would die by her command that others of her choosing might be saved.

  But if Mordecai’s message was to be believed—and that was a mighty big if, to be sure—the Fates were offering Persephone a way to save everyone, after all.

  And that is why she said, “I agree with you all that it sounds like a trap, but if there is even a chance that I can end this war without shedding blood, I must take it. But I am not foolhardy enough to take it alone—not when Mordecai will be waiting for me with his entire New Man army at his back. Therefore, Azriel, I would ask you to proclaim the news that we march north as soon as may be. And then send word to Mordecai. Tell him I am coming.”

  FIFTY

  THREE DAYS LATER, Lord Bartok left the latest Council meeting and went directly to his son’s chambers to break the unfortunate news he’d just learned.

  When his knocks on the outer chamber door went unanswered by Atticus’s servants, Lord Bartok frowned and pushed open the door himself. He felt a flicker of concern when he saw that the servants were gone—but only until he heard muffled noises coming from the bedchamber. Narrowing his eyes slightly as he suddenly understood why the servants had all been dismissed, Lord Bartok strode across the room and flung open the door to the bedchamber so hard that the brass knob left a dent in the wall behind it.

  The younger of the two whores in bed with Atticus screamed and snatched up the sheets to cover herself; the older one tumbled off the bed and dove behind the armoire with the speed of one used to ducking for cover mid-ride.

  “Get out,” said Lord Bartok without looking at either of them.

  “What … what are you doing here?” spluttered Atticus as he scrambled for his blue velvet breeches.

  Lord Bartok did not reply. Indeed, he said not a word until Atticus had pulled on his breeches and the terrified whores had scampered out of the chamber and slammed the door behind them.

  Then he told Atticus the news.

  “I’M TO BE IN THE VANGUARD?” Atticus shrieked.

  “Keep—your—voice—down,” said Lord Bartok through his teeth. “Yes, you are to be in the vanguard. The royal Council just met and the others were all in agreement that if the parlay fails and it comes down to a fight, my cavalry should lead the charge.”

  “B-b-but Murdock said you were supposed to get your fighting men assigned to the rear flank,” reminded Atticus shrilly as he clutched a half-full goblet of wine to his naked chest.

  “I am aware of that, Atticus,” said Lord Bartok in clipped tones. “But given that the others were all in agreement, I could not protest without raising suspicions.”

  “But if I am in the vanguard I could be killed!” cried Atticus, getting back to the important point. “I, your only son!”

  Lord Bartok stared at his wastrel son, wondering for the thousandth time why the Fates had cursed him with an heir who would surely drag the family into utter ruin one day. “Death is, of course, always a possibility in the vanguard,” he said coolly. “Even so, no able-bodied son of mine is going to hang back like some lily-livered coward while lesser men steal his battle glory.”

  Atticus’s bleary eyes bulged with sudden outrage. “I am not a coward,” he declared. Slamming the wine goblet down on the bedside table, he propped his hands on his womanish hips, thrust his face forward and said, “For your information, Father, there are some who think I’d make a far better Lord Bartok than you.”

  Without warning, the current Lord Bartok drove his fist into the side of his son’s outstretched head. Atticus— who was already unsteady with drink—reeled sideways with the force of the blow, tripped over his own feet and went sprawling.

  Walking over to where his son lay, writhing and moaning like a commoner utterly lacking in self-control, Lord Bartok looked down. “That your plan, then, was it?” he said softly. “Join forces with the cripple and see me dead that you might inherit all the sooner?”

  Atticus’s eyes bulged again, this time with terror—and guilt. “No, of course not!” he blubbered as he skittered away from the kick he obviously assumed was coming. “Indeed, it wounds me that you would even think such a—”

  “You may be my only son now, Atticus,” said Lord Bartok. “But when this war is won and I am king, I intend to take another wife. And you may rest assured that unless you give up your whoring, drinking and carousing, stop behaving like a buffoon and finally start doing your duty to this family by obeying me without question in all things, on the very day my new wife gives birth to a healthy boy, you shall be disinherited, disowned and cut off forever.”

  FIFTY-ONE

  ON THE DAY the royal army was at last ready to begin the march north, Persep
hone shared a final, tense meal with Martha and the sisters, donned her suit of armour and her crown of hammered silver and bade them goodbye.

  “GOODBYE, YOUR MAJESTY! GOOD LUCK!” cried Meeta, smiling hard even as tears streamed down her thin cheeks.

  “May the gods keep you safe from harm,” said Martha in a strained voice.

  “And the prince consort too,” added Meeka, with feeling.

  Meena—who’d been given leave by Lord Belmont to come say her goodbyes—gestured to Persephone’s belly to let her know that the baby was in their thoughts as well.

  Unable to speak for the lump in her throat, Persephone smiled determinedly and then headed down the corridor to see Moira, who’d recently begun teaching herself how to knit with nine fingers.

  “I shall have a stack of blankets, booties and bonnets ready for the infant prince upon your triumphant return, Your Majesty,” she promised as she eased down onto her cushioned seat by the fire—a heaping basket of wool on the floor at her feet and a goblet of hot mulled wine on the table beside her.

  “Don’t push yourself,” warned Persephone as she tenderly tucked a blanket around Moira’s legs. “Nothing matters more than your recovery.”

  “You, your husband and your son returning to us alive and well matters more,” said Moira as she adjusted the eye patch she was still getting used to wearing.

  Persephone said nothing to this, only kissed the older woman on the top of her grey head and murmured goodbye. Then, flanked by her Khan bodyguards, she hurried down to the palace courtyard to join Azriel, who’d gone down earlier to ensure that all was in readiness for their procession through the city streets. She found him at the entrance to the watchtower passageway, sternly reminding Fleet that as the queen’s own mount, he must comport himself at all times with dignity and self-control. Looking this way and that as if to emphasize to Azriel that he was paying him no attention whatsoever, Fleet happened to notice Persephone walking toward him. Neighing shrilly in Azriel’s face, “the queen’s own mount” broke away from his place of honour at the head of the waiting procession and joyfully clip-clopped toward her.