by Lian Tanner
A ripple of fear ran from one side of the enormous room to the other. But the nobles of Neuhalt did not like fear. They preferred rage. And blame.
The first shout of ‘Treachery!’ was quickly followed by another. And another. All eyes turned towards the prisoners, and the grafs began to beat their fists against their chests in a hollow rhythm that sent a shiver from Duckling’s toes to her eyebrows. The grafines stamped their feet in the rushes, and shouted, ‘Kill them! Run them through! Cut off their heads!’
The only ones not shouting, apart from the prisoners, were Brun and Grafine von Eisen. They were as wooden-faced as ever, as if nothing could touch them.
But just when Duckling was sure that the thumping and the shouting would soon turn to violence, Brun raised his hand.
The crowd hushed.
‘Let the prisoners speak,’ cried Brun. ‘Let them defend themselves.’
He said it in such a way that it was clear he wasn’t going to believe a word they said. The nobles sniggered, and snapped their fingers to summon their dogs.
Grandpa and Krieg glanced at each other, as if they were trying to decide what would work best – Lord Rump’s charm or the arms-mistress’s straightforwardness.
But before they could decide, Otte spoke up. ‘Brun,’ he said. ‘We are not responsible for the stopping of the food carts.’
Duckling wasn’t so sure about that. Someone hadn’t wanted them to reach the castle. Maybe that same someone was trying to flush them out again …
‘Neither are we treacherous,’ continued Otte. ‘We are trying to save people, not harm them. Sooli is here to help. She is Saaf, yes, what everyone calls Saffy. But we had it all wrong about her people—’
He shouldn’t have mentioned the Saffies. The growl grew louder again. Grafine von Eisen’s scar reddened.
‘You must listen to us,’ cried Otte, over the rising noise. ‘If you love Neuhalt, you must listen. Our country is in the worst possible danger, but it has nothing to do with the Saaf. It is the Harshman!’
No one took the slightest bit of notice. And so, in desperation, Otte dragged himself upright and shouted, ‘You must listen to me! I am the true Heir! I am the real Margrave!’
His voice cut through the rumbling and growling so clearly and so shockingly that everyone fell silent. But then Duckling heard a snort of horrified laughter, and someone said, ‘Has the boy gone mad?’
Someone else said, ‘He speaks treason. He has just earned himself a trip to the chopping block, along with his mother, Krieg.’
Someone else again said, ‘But really, he thinks he could be Margrave? A one-legged boy? A boy who could never be a warrior? Ruling us?’
The rest of it was drowned out by laughter. The grafs roared. The grafines cackled and hugged their sides. The dogs howled.
Otte’s face was white. His mice poked their heads out of his sleeve, then dived back in. He shouted something, but it was lost in the great gales of hilarity that shook the chamber.
Once again, the only ones who did not join in were Brun and the Grafine. They sat as still as the throne itself, until silence fell.
Then Brun stood up. He was only ten years old, but he stood like a warrior, as different from Otte as a wolf from a pet dog. ‘Does anyone here doubt that I am the true Margrave?’ he demanded.
Otte was so pale that Duckling thought he might collapse on the spot. But he raised his hand. Brun stared at him, his face unreadable.
‘Anyone else?’ Brun’s eyes turned towards Krieg.
Otte looked hopeful, but the arms-mistress shook her head. ‘My son is deluded, Your Grace. That is one of the reasons I brought him back. He has strange fantasies and does not know who he is. I beg you not to punish him for it; it is a sickness, not treason.’
Otte stared at her in horror. ‘Arms-mistress, how could you—’
‘Lord Rump?’ interrupted Brun. ‘Do you have any doubts?’
‘Not a one, Your Grace.’ Grandpa made a bow that would have delighted an emperor. ‘As Krieg says, the lad is ill. But that illness does not make him wrong about the Harshman. We are all of us in more danger than you can imagine—’
Brun cut him off with a yawn. ‘Danger of being bored, perhaps.’
The grafs and grafines sniggered again. Brun nodded to the soldiers. ‘Take them to the dungeons under the Bear Tower.’
‘No!’ cried Otte.
‘Keep a close guard on them,’ continued Brun. ‘No one is to visit them but myself. You understand? No one at all.’
Grafine von Eisen rose to her feet. ‘If I may make a suggestion, Your Grace. I have heard that one of the children has a Saffy device, a weapon disguised as a tooth.’
Now it was Pummel’s turn to grow pale. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Not the raashk. It’s not – I don’t – you can’t—’
‘Search him,’ snapped Brun.
Two of the soldiers held Pummel’s arms while a third rummaged through his pockets. He found the leather pouch and held it up, saying, ‘Is this what you mean, Grafine Regent?’
‘No,’ cried Pummel again. ‘You don’t understand—’
‘I will take custody of it,’ said the Grafine. ‘Now do as the Margrave ordered. Take them to the dungeons.’
Normally, the Harshman’s hawk could fly for hours without resting. But that was when it carried nothing but its own weight. With its master clutching its legs, it was forced to land more often – and the Harshman was forced to be patient.
He was no good at patience, not unless it was part of some military strategy. If he knew there was a nice massacre ahead of him, with banners and trumpets and lots of blood, he could wait as well as the next warlord. But the death of a few children hardly counted as a massacre. Even if one of them was the Heir.
So, while the hawk recovered its strength, the Harshman strode back and forth across a field, muttering plans for future wars. First he would kill every Saffy in the country. That would get Neuhalt’s soldiers back into practice – they had known peace for too long, and grown too soft. But with him leading them, they would become heroic again.
In fact, everyone would become heroic. Were there schools in Neuhalt? He was not sure. But if there were, he would add slaughter and mayhem to the lessons, for all the children including the youngest. He would raise a new generation of soldiers, with bright red coats to hide the blood. (The babies would probably need red napkins.)
He turned in his pacing and looked back across the field. It had been green when he arrived; now it was blighted with frost.
The Harshman smiled. Then he strode back to where his hawk was resting, and kicked it until it rose in the air once more.
‘Carry … Me … To … The … Strong-hold,’ he growled. ‘Carry … Me … To … Bloodshed … And … Glory.’
The chicken was almost witless with terror. But she had not forgotten what sensible chickens did when danger threatened.
Run! Run from the badmen. Run from the knife and the axe and the cooking pot.
So when the lid of the basket opened, and the hand reached in one last time, she was ready.
Her fellow chickens had allowed themselves to be lifted out of the basket without too much fuss. It wasn’t until they were head-down on the chopping block that they realised what was happening and began to squawk. But by then, it was too late.
So the chicken made as much fuss as she could. She pecked at the hand that was trying to take hold of her. She squawked as loudly as a whole coop full of birds. Then she exploded out of the basket in a flurry of feathers and claws.
The owner of the hand, a short, square-faced cook in a blood-spattered apron, took a step backwards. The chicken landed in the space she had vacated, and made a dash for the door.
‘Catch it!’ shouted the cook, and with a screech of delight, all the kitchen boys and kitchen girls dropped their bowls and spit handles and ladles, and raced after the chicken.
Most of them were right on her tail. But one of them was between her and the door – the chicken c
ould see his outline as he bent down, ready to grab her.
Eek, badboy! she squawked. And she dodged to the left.
But a badgirl had skidded around the table with something sharp in her hand, and was there waiting for her.
The chicken dived under the table and out the other side. Countless hands reached for her. Someone threw a chopper, and she flapped up onto a shelf, setting off a cascade of pots and pans. Someone seized her, and she tore herself away in a flurry of lost tail feathers.
But it could not last. The square-faced cook was shouting directions, and the noise and the clamour and the smell of blood made the chicken lose track of where her enemies were. Between one moment and the next, she was surrounded.
The badboys and badgirls shuffled towards her, grinning. Some of them held their arms in the air so she couldn’t fly over them. Some of them held their hands low so she couldn’t dash past them.
The rest carried knives and choppers, and made friendly-sounding noises that weren’t friendly at all. ‘Here, chickie chickie chickie! Come and be killed, chickie!’ Behind them, the square-faced cook was spearing headless corpses onto the spit.
The chicken readied herself for one last try at life and freedom. She could see the open doorway behind one of the badgirls. All she had to do was get to it.
She lowered her head. She gave a warrior squawk. She ran straight at the badgirl.
It was useless, of course. The badgirl laughed as she bent over. Her hands reached out. Her mouth opened in a cry of victory—
And something hit her from behind, knocking her down. Something with ragged ears and spotted fur. Something that swiped at the badgirl with needle-sharp claws, and at the same time wailed at the chicken, ‘Ruuuun!’
The chicken didn’t need telling twice. She squawked, Goodcat! Then she dashed through the gap.
She barely made it. One of the choppers sliced off the tips of her wing feathers. One of the knives nicked her comb.
But there was the door, directly ahead of her. She ran through it and out into the sunlight, with the badgirls and badboys chasing after her. She ran in frantic terror, not knowing where she might find safety.
Then she saw them. The children she knew! They were with a crowd of other people, but the chicken didn’t care, because Healerboy was there, and so were Wilygirl and Farmboy. And Veryshinygirl, who was Saaf, and who was extra special in a way that the chicken could not quite remember.
Veryshinygirl would protect her.
With a frantic flapping, the chicken launched herself into the air. But the loss of her wing feathers and half her tail feathers made it awfully hard to fly straight. As she approached Veryshinygirl, she began to veer off course …
The prisoners were marched out of the Keep under heavy guard. Duckling was still trying to slip away, but the soldier who held her arm didn’t loosen his grip for a moment.
She tried all the tricks she knew. She made herself small and pitiful, as if she was no danger to anyone. She whimpered, as if the soldier was hurting her. She put on her most honest face, the one that made it clear that she would never try to escape, no matter what happened, even though this whole thing was a mistake and she was the most innocent of victims.
The soldier didn’t even look at her. He marched her across the first bailey – tramp tramp tramp – in time with the other prisoners, hauling her forward when she tried to lag behind, and pulling her back when she tried to hurry.
She caught Lord Rump’s worried eye. ‘Don’t fret, Grandpa,’ she cried. ‘We’ll get this sorted out just as soon as we can, without a fuss.’
Which meant, in their private language, I can’t get away. Can you make a fuss?
But before her grandpa could pretend to faint or have a heart attack, or any of the other ailments that he specialised in, a different sort of fuss happened.
It seemed to be coming from the kitchen huts. Someone was shouting. Or maybe they were laughing. Or shrieking. Or all three.
Duckling wiggled her arm a little, just in case the soldier was distracted. But he held her as tightly as ever, and kept his eyes straight ahead.
The ruckus in the kitchen grew louder and louder – until suddenly it spilled out into the bailey, in a horde of boys and girls. They seemed to be chasing something, and delighting in the chase. They raced across the bailey, waving arms, knives and hatchets, and encouraging each other with loud cries.
Perhaps something like this happened often, because the soldiers didn’t take any notice. Their duty was to deliver the prisoners to the dungeons beneath the Bear Tower, and nothing would sway them from that duty.
But as the girls and boys came closer, Duckling saw what they were chasing. Or rather, who they were chasing.
The black chicken flapping frantically through the air towards the prisoners might have been any one of the dozens of chickens that scratched their way across the baileys and into the various towers. But the cat that raced beneath it was immediately recognisable. And that cat would not keep company with just any chicken.
It took all Duckling’s willpower not to tense up. There was a lump of excitement and dread in her throat, and she dared not think about it in case the soldier noticed.
She kept walking, like an obedient little prisoner. Like an innocent little prisoner. But her eyes slid sideways, and she saw when the chicken’s flight skewed a little in midair until it was heading straight for her, with the cat keeping pace and the pursuing children only a little way behind.
Duckling readied herself. This was her chance, and she was determined to take it.
The soldier, bent on keeping a good hold of his prisoner, didn’t realise what was happening until the last possible minute. Which suited Duckling perfectly.
The chicken hit them in a scramble of wings and claws – or rather, she hit the soldier, full in the chest. He must have thought he was under attack, because he leaped back, grabbing for his sword. A second later, the cat was upon him, too. And then the children from the kitchen, too excited by the chase to stop in time, collided with the entire group.
The soldiers shouted and swore, and threatened the kitchen children with dire punishments. The children, realising they were in trouble, tried to get away, but there were too many of them, and they fell over each other, and fell over the prisoners, too. The cat swiped her claws this way and that, picking her targets carefully.
In the chaos, Duckling wrenched her arm away from the soldier, seized the chicken and ran.
She knew that it wouldn’t take long for the soldiers to sort themselves out, and then they’d be looking for her. They’d expect her to hide in the sort of places where most people would hide – behind the blacksmith’s forge, or in the cow byre. Small, secret places where she would feel safe, right up until they found her.
But Duckling had been raised by Lord Rump, who wasn’t at all like most people. So instead of tucking herself away in a hidden corner, she ran back the way they had come. And as soon as she was out of sight of the soldiers, she slowed to a walk, and sauntered up the main steps of the Keep, with the chicken under her arm.
She was relying on there still being uproar in the Great Chamber. And to her relief, there was. With the removal of the prisoners, everyone had gone back to shouting about the food carts, as if they might set everything right if only they could make enough noise.
The door guards were as distracted as everyone else; Duckling slipped past them without being noticed.
And there she was, in the last place that anyone would think to look for her. She wasn’t dressed right, and she was carrying a chicken, which would have made her stand out at any other time.
But today no one cared about dress or chickens. And besides, some of the grafines were hugging their hounds, and some of the grafs were shouting at the stuffed bears, and even the Margrave and the Grafine von Eisen had forgotten to look stony and unapproachable, and were standing at the foot of the Faithful Throne in worried conversation.
If they noticed Duckling at all, they probabl
y took her for one of the kitchen girls.
She caught her breath, and wondered how long the soldiers would keep searching for her. And how long she could safely stay in the Great Chamber.
And what on earth she was going to do to save Grandpa and her friends.
The dungeons beneath the Bear Tower were not as dark as the salt mines, but they were a lot damper. Pummel could hear water trickling down the walls, and there was black mould in every corner.
Arms-mistress Krieg tried her strength against the bars of their cell, but they didn’t budge.
‘Hoy, none of that,’ said the turnkey, who had been ordered to keep a close eye on them. ‘No escaping, no complaining, no destroying the premises. You can eat the cockroaches if you like, but leave the spiders alone.’ He tapped the edge of his little table with Lord Rump’s cane. ‘Spiders and me, we’ve got an arrangement.’
Beside Pummel, Otte whispered, ‘Arms-mistress Krieg, why did you say I was not Margrave? I was depending on you to tell the truth.’
‘It was not the right time,’ replied Krieg.
‘And no whispering,’ said the turnkey. ‘Spiders don’t like it, and neither do I.’
Lord Rump turned to him with a bow. ‘We would not wish to cause you any trouble, Ser Turnkey. But you see, I am a priest of the Seven Gods, and these children here,’ he indicated Pummel, Sooli and Otte, ‘have the most dreadful sins on their conscience. You would not think it to look at their innocent faces, but their short lives have been filled with cruelty and corruption.’
Pummel did his best to appear cruel and corrupt, but suspected he just looked silly. He’d never been good at acting, and it was even harder with the threat of the chopping block hanging in front of him, and the threat of the Harshman not far behind.
‘Now you,’ continued Lord Rump, ‘may wish them to go to their execution unblessed, but I cannot allow it. I do not think the Seven Gods will allow it either. They may decide to pay you a visit, and I am sure you know how much havoc they can wreak in a man’s life.’
The turnkey looked alarmed. ‘Don’t want the Seven Gods coming after me. I suppose a bit of whispering won’t do any harm.’ And he leaned the cane against his table, sat down and took out a battered pack of playing cards.
