by Jeff Wheeler
Most of the voyage had been spent doing needlework, pondering about the situation and her impending arrival at Callait. She would need her Fountain magic in ample supply. Little moths of worry fluttered in her stomach, and she paused her work, reining in her feelings. Sir Thomas had escorted her to the docks, giving her advice and encouragement along the way. She wanted to please him, to make him proud of her. The king’s approval mattered too, of course, but she was determined to prove herself on her first major mission.
After coating the dagger with the waxy poison—a fast-acting paralytic called quickworm—she slid the weapon carefully into its sheath and then strapped it to her hip beneath her dress. She wore one of the dresses she had been given in Warrewik’s household—a gown that indicated her rank as a lady-in-waiting. She carefully arranged her hair, braiding it in a coil behind her neck, and added jewels to glitter. Next was a necklace, then a poisoned pin for her hair. Most women primped and pouted in front of a mirror. Ankarette readied the tools of her secret trade, including a dose of nightshade should she need to use it against Vauclair. The drug was a powerful, though delicate, tool—too much would kill a man; the right amount would have him singing all his secrets.
After stowing away her things, she went to the round window and watched the sun failing. There were many ships out at sea, each bearing a flag and seeking a distant port. She marveled at the vastness of the world, of the multitudinous lives that came and went. Most would never meet a king or a queen in person. She had been lucky in that regard. Her world, once small, had grown so very large.
That fluttering nervous feeling came again, and she pressed her hand against her stomach. She was going to a foreign land now. And while Callait had been under Ceredigion’s control for over a century, she’d been told the culture there still hearkened to its former rulers, the Brugians. She could have arranged for a Brugian dress, for the style was different, but she had chosen to appear to Vauclair as one of Warrewik’s servants. She had the badge of the Bear and Ragged Staff sewn onto her cloak. If she ran into Warrewik, she’d report that Sir Thomas had been poisoned as ordered and would be dead within the week. It would take time to prove the falsehood, but she had no intention of lingering long enough to be proven wrong.
The trading vessel arrived at the dock and the captain sent for her again and met her on deck. He was a tall man with a handsome face and long dark hair. “We have arrived, my lady. Do you want me to send a man with you on your errand . . . where are you going again?”
She had the suspicion that his request was self-serving.
“It’s no trouble. Thank you, Captain.”
“As you insist. We could linger in the port for a while. The shallots will not spoil so soon, I think. Will you need to be taken elsewhere?”
“Where are you bound to next, Captain?” she asked him.
“Genevar, of course.”
If she followed the duke’s trail, it would lead in the opposite direction. But if Warrewik was going to Pree, then the Genevese vessel could get her there the fastest.
“If you could wait for a few hours,” she suggested.
The captain smiled with charm. “It would be my pleasure. We leave with the next tide anyway.”
How old did he think she was? He was probably in his thirties, much older than Sir Thomas or the king. In all likelihood, he assumed she was an innocent in the ways of the world. A miscalculation she could use to her advantage.
“Thank you, Captain.”
She climbed up on the gangplank and started down. As she began maneuvering through the crowded wharf, she heard the sound of boots coming down the plank behind her. The dockworkers of Callait were mostly from her country, and she recognized their slang as they unloaded the various vessels tied up at port.
Ankarette saw a customs officer wearing the badge of Warrewik stride past her toward the ship. He didn’t look at her twice. Sir Thomas had explained the best byway to get to the fortress, and she set off toward it, ignoring the rowdy sailors and dockmen who were already getting drunk in the taverns and inns lining the wharf. The cobbled street smelled pungent with sour wine and yeasty ale from the revelers. Street vendors were still selling their wares, even though the sun had set, and sailors haggled over buns and sausages.
The sound of boots following her reminded her that she was not alone.
She raised the hood of her cowl. She abruptly turned down a side alley, one that was especially dark. Some rangy feral cats slinked in the shadows, mewling and hissing. Rats scuttled amidst the debris. Her eyes flitted quickly to gauge her surroundings and then she pressed her back against the wall. She calmed her breathing and waited. Within a few moments, she saw the first mate duck into the alley after her.
He paused, squinting, trying to see in the gloom.
“If you value your life,” she said softly, warningly, “stop following me.”
He was startled. “Pardon, my lady, but Cap’n said to follow ye and be sure you arrived safely.”
“I’ll arrive safely,” she assured him. “Wait for me here and we can go back together. But if you follow me farther, the captain will need a new first mate.”
He swallowed, looking troubled. He rubbed his hands. “I think I’ll get a drink at the tavern yonder. And then wait here.”
“A wise choice.” She waited until he was gone before she started walking again.
The walls of the fortress were thirty feet thick and had low, squat tower ridges with toothlike crenellations and slate shingles. Arrow slits pocked the walls, and sentries and guards manned the tops night and day. Though she had known for some time that this was the largest armed force in Ceredigion, it was quite another thing to see it. Callait was a strategic stronghold, one to be held at all costs because it provided a foothold into Brugia and a place to launch attacks at Occitania’s southern borders.
After ensuring that she had not been followed, she climbed the sloping arch that led to the main doors of the interior of the fortress. The bulk of the defenses were pointed outward and ringed the city, but this was the keep, the main interior defense where she assumed she’d find Vauclair.
There were no visitors coming back and forth along the arch and she imagined the gate guards would see her well before she arrived. The noise of the city behind her faded as she made the lonely walk. The briny smell of the sea and the distant cry of gulls filled the breeze. She focused her breathing and tried to appear nervous and concerned.
When she reached the gate, the door was open, the portcullis closed. A few men holding torches waited for her warily, their dark faces twisted with concern.
“It’s a long walk to the castle, lass,” one of them said imperiously. “What do you want up here?”
“I’ve come with a message for Captain Vauclair,” she answered, deliberately making her voice a little tremulous. “I am Lady Isybelle’s lady’s maid, come from Kingfountain. Is my lady here?” It did not require much acting to sound concerned.
One of the guards lifted his torch higher so that it would reveal her face. She winced at the stab of light but did not shrink back.
“Open the gate,” the man said.
There was a groan as the winches began to pull on the portcullis. Rattling chains sounded and the teeth of the portcullis scraped against the stone insets. In a few moments, the gate was high enough for her to cross, and the officer beckoned her inside.
“Show me your badge?” the captain said, gesturing for the other men to surround her. Her heart began to race faster.
She opened her cloak and showed him the badge of the Bear and Ragged Staff.
“That’s it,” said one of the others.
The gate captain nodded. “She’s one of us,” he said, nodding to the others. “Run ahead and tell Vauclair. Wait here, damoselle. Until he sends word.”
She breathed in relief through her nose and began fidgeting.
“You served in the duke’s household?” the captain asked her. “Where?”
“Dundrennan,” she
answered eagerly.
“I don’t remember seeing you here for Lady Isybelle’s wedding,” he said. His look lost some of its friendliness.
“Of course not. I was trapped in Kingfountain. Many of us were left behind.”
“That is true,” the man said, his suspicion fading. “We weren’t able to make it to Kingfountain in time, or the false king Eredur would never have seized the throne. It will all be made right, though.”
That comment alone spoke volumes. “I thought I might find my lady here. I’m desperate to rejoin her.”
“She’s not here. Some say the duke sailed to Atabyrion. Some, to Legault. Truth be told, none of us know where the duke be. If Vauclair knows, he’s not talking.”
Ankarette shivered and bundled the cloak more tightly around her shoulders. A few moments later, the man who had left came back.
“Vauclair will see her straightaway.”
“Off with you, lass,” the captain said, giving her a respectful nod.
She smiled at him and then followed the man into the most fortified part of the castle. It was immaculately decorated and reminded her of the great hall of Dundrennan. She wringed her hands, gazing at the torches as they passed, trying to come across as a frightened young woman. Meanwhile, she tested the air, trying to sense the presence of Fountain magic, but she felt nothing.
“This way,” the man directed, leading her into one of the tower wells that climbed into the heights of the enormous fortification. She brushed her hand on the cool stone, keeping pace with the guard. After turning round and round on the way up, they reached another floor, and she could hear the strums of a harp. The soldier escorted her to a big iron door with huge rivets at the end of the hall. There was a box square already open and a face watched her approach. The door shuddered open, but the hinges were greased.
“Captain, it’s the damoselle,” the soldier said, bowing formally.
Vauclair was a heavyset, short younger man with dark hair that was puffed forward in the Occitanian fashion and then combed back. He wore an expensive doublet and rings glittered on his fingers. He may have been a soldier once, but he had gone to seed in his time managing Callait. He had dark, eager eyes and an interested, speculative smile flashed across his mouth when he saw her.
“Damoselle, welcome, welcome!” he crooned, bowing graciously and offering her to enter. There was a harp in the room, but the stool was vacant. She glanced around quickly, trying to see if someone else was there. One wall contained a wooden rack that was completely filled with bottles of wine, there were probably fifty different varieties.
“You are most welcome, my lady,” he said again after she entered. He gestured quickly for the soldier to leave. The soldier gave a subtle look of disdain to Vauclair’s back and then turned away. Vauclair shut the door as well as the spy hole.
“Thank you, Captain,” she said, trying to sound sincere. “I came to Callait hoping to find my lady, but I understand that she is not here. I am desperate to find her.”
He mopped his brow quickly with a silk kerchief. “I can only imagine,” he said with an exaggerated look of sympathy. “Would you care for a drink of wine?” He flashed her an eager smile that said he really wanted one himself.
“Thank you, yes,” she replied, not intending to drink any.
“I’m sure, what a dismal journey you must have had. From Kingfountain, yes?”
“I left this morning,” she answered, watching as he fetched two goblets.
“I’m assuming,” he said, his back to her, “that you stayed behind because of your loyalty to the king?”
She saw him twist something on his hand and subtly shake it, sprinkling something into one of the cups. Her instincts screamed it was nightshade. Then, brushing his hands together, he went to the wall and gazed at the expansive collection. “Let me see. I think some white would go well with the pouillon and crème de mangothe my cook is preparing in the kitchen. Or would you prefer a red? I have some excellent wines from the Orle Valley?”
He smiled at her eagerly, his eyes brightening with a look of hunger that had nothing at all to do with his cook’s delicacies.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Discernment
“The Orle Valley?” Ankarette said, inflecting her voice to sound impressed. “That’s deep in Occitania. What vineyard?”
Vauclair scrunched up his brow. He turned back to the selection and studied one of the bottles.
As he was distracted, she twisted one of her poisoned rings, exposing the cavity beneath the jewel. Vauclair was a portly man. Too little, or too much? She couldn’t risk killing him. She shook her fist over the other cup, his cup, and then glided up behind him.
“I’m from Occitania, lass,” he said smugly, flashing her a charming smile. “The duchy of Vexin. If you prefer red, then I’d suggest this one. It’s from a vineyard in Izzt. Very sweet. Like you.” He winked at her and produced the bottle with a flamboyant air.
Although Ankarette was disgusted by his flirtations, she continued to gaze at the wall of bottles. “So many,” she sighed.
She heard him grunt as he twisted in a corkscrew and struggled to pop it out. She glanced back at him, saw him wrestling with the bottle unsuccessfully, but as soon as she looked at him, his annoyed look switched to one of grandiosity and ease. “Just a moment,” he said gently, then proceeded to wrestle with the bottle in a comical way.
“So you are loyal . . . to the king as well?” he asked again, his voice tightening as he continued to fight the bottle.
She felt an immediate pulse of warning in her heart. Her Fountain magic almost summoned itself to warn her not to answer the question. He was trying to judge her loyalties before revealing his own. He had refused to let Warrewik land in Callait. Or had he? Had his letter been a ruse? It was clear Warrewik still had plenty of men in Callait. Beads of sweat were building on the captain’s brow. She nearly offered to help him uncork the bottle. Or was that a ruse too? A distraction from the poison he’d put in her goblet?
Reaching out with her magic, she tested him, knowing full well that she was revealing herself to him if he was Fountain blessed too. He was not. She sensed no magic within him at all. Instead, she sensed someone who was incredibly duplicitous, loyal only to himself and his own best interests. He adored his comforts at Callait and had no desire to come to court or achieve distinction. He was a rake, a drunkard, and he preyed on those who were less powerful than he, using his position to his own benefit.
All this, she discerned in an instant. The man was utterly untrustworthy.
The cork popped out and some of the wine spilled as he scrambled to right the bottle. He laughed playfully at his bungle and continued to stare at her, expecting her to answer his question.
“The king has sent me on a secret mission,” she told him in a low, serious voice.
“Aahhh, I thought so,” he replied with a winning smile. “How can I be of service? I am completely and totally in support of King Eredur. I forbade Warrewik to land in Callait, after all. Perhaps he told you I did?”
“That’s why I’m here,” Ankarette replied. “He said I could trust you.”
“Of course you can,” Vauclair replied gravely. He was eating up her secretive flair with relish. He quickly poured wine into both goblets. “The meal should be here soon. Have a drink. And then tell me all about it. I will help you in any way that I can, damoselle.”
He bowed with a flourish and handed her the poisoned wine cup. The one he had prepared himself.
“I must tell you my mission first,” she said. “It’s too important to delay.”
“Yes?” he said. He set down her cup and picked up the other one, talking a quick sip from it. His nose wrinkled, as if the flavor bothered him.
“Captain Vauclair,” she said, stepping forward, speaking in a slightly breathless tone. She had to make the lie as believable as possible . . . and she had to distract him from thinking overly hard about the flavor of the wine. “The king has bid me to seek ou
t the Duke of Warrewik and make an overture of peace. There is too much at stake for there to be a rift within Ceredigion. The duke is well loved, especially in the North, and the people are on the verge of revolt. The king thought I would stand a better chance of sneaking through the enemy to deliver his message in person. He wants peace. At any cost. All their past troubles will be forgiven.”
“Forgiven, you say?” Vauclair said with a little hiccup. He took another big swallow, his eyes roving across her body. He was clearly thrilled by the news, by the prospect of having such valuable information to exploit. He gulped down another swallow. His eyes swam with tears as the potent powder began working within him.
“Yes.”
“But he named . . . he n-named Horwath as duke of the North?” Vauclair’s speech began to slur.
“Horwath is loyal to Warrewik. Don’t you see? He’s holding the duke’s old position for him until he returns. Eredur wants peace at any cost. But I must get word to him quickly. If King Lewis were to know this . . .”
Vauclair’s head bobbed up and down. “He is a wealthy king, of course. Very wealthy. I should think he would bid for Warrewik’s loyalty too.” His mind was tallying up the coins that were going to exchange hands. He saw that he, himself, could become very rich just from bearing the news.
“I need your help finding the duke,” Ankarette said, nodding encouragingly. “Where is he? You must help me find him or Eredur’s plan will fail.”
She watched as Vauclair’s eyes glazed over. He looked liable to drop his goblet of wine, but she snatched it from his hand.
“Sit down,” she ordered him. He promptly obeyed.
How long would the poison last? Minutes perhaps? She had given him a very small dose. “Are you in league with Warrewik?” she asked him. She examined the other cup and quickly poured it back into the bottle it had come from. The wine would help dilute the poison. She made sure there was enough residue on the bottom to imply it had been drunk. When he fully revived, his memories of the evening would be spotty.
