The Queen's Necklace

by Teresa Edgerton

  The prostitute nodded dully. Under a thick coating of rouge and white lead powder, her skin sagged, and her eyes were heavy and unutterably weary. But when the old gentleman addressed Lili and her aunt from the bed, she gave a sudden start and a spark of recognition came into her clouded eyes.

  “Mrs. Blackheart—Miss Brakeburn,” gasped Sir Bastian. “There is a purse in an inner pocket of my coat. You are not to go to any expense on my behalf.”

  The purse was found and two silver florins passed on to the harlot, who left the room with a sweep of her ragged petticoats.

  “It’s beyond endurance,” Allora hissed in Lili’s ear. “You saw how that low creature recognized your name. Even in a place such as this, you’re continually reminded of his infidelities!”

  “She is probably just someone Will knew when he was a student at the university, and even wilder than he is now.” Lili spoke under her breath; she was painfully aware of Sir Bastian’s presence. “His more recent—friendships—seem always to be with ladies of the court. And really, Aunt, it’s hard on poor Will to hold him to account for his youthful follies, especially when he can hardly be blamed for this extraordinary meeting.”

  Aunt Allora sniffed loudly. “You always defend him.”

  Lili gathered up the rags the tavern-keeper had provided and began to soak them in the basin of water. Whatever pain Will had caused her over the years, she preferred to keep it to herself. “Will and I have a comfortable understanding. Though we can’t love each other, we try to treat each other with—with unfailing kindness and toleration.”

  “It seems to me,” snapped Allora, “the comfort is entirely on Wilrowan’s side, the toleration all on yours. How any decent woman can condone such vicious habits—!”

  Lili stopped with a wet cloth in her hand. “I don’t condone anything. But what I can’t forget, even if you do, is that Will was tricked into marrying me when he was barely seventeen—though to be sure, I was younger still, and as much a victim of Papa’s machinations as he was. We agreed, then, to always be friends and never impose on each other more than necessary. If six years later the consequences of that promise seem burdensome to me, they probably seem much the same to Will.

  “Besides,” she added, wringing water out of the rag with a deft twist of her wrists, “I doubt you’d be better pleased if Will were more attentive, if he insisted I dangle after him in town! It has always suited you to keep us apart as much as possible.”

  “Because I knew his wayward nature. Because I saw how dangerous it would be to share your secrets with him.”

  “I suppose the queen trusts him with her secrets, or she would never have appointed him captain of her guards.” Lili moved toward the bed with the wet cloths in her hand.

  Aunt Allora gave another loud sniff. “Queen Dionee is a spoiled, mischievous child. Which is hardly surprising, since she and Wilrowan were raised in the same household and are more like brother and sister than cousins.”

  “Cousins and half-cousins—which practically is brother and sister,” Lili remarked absently. Sir Bastian had lapsed into a restless doze and did not wake when she arranged the soaking strips of cloth over his forehead, hands, and feet. “And, if anything, Will seems to exert a steadying influence, as unlikely as that sounds.”

  “A spoiled, mischievous child,” the old woman repeated as she moved around the bed. “And that was another unfortunate marriage. What a sensible man like King Rodaric was thinking when he chose Dionee, I don’t know.”

  “He fell in love, I suppose,” Lili responded sharply. Her headache was worse, and she did wish her great-aunt would find something to talk about besides Will and Dionee’s all-too-numerous transgressions. It always put her on the defensive, somehow forced her to argue Will’s side—a cause for which, in truth, she had small sympathy and no enthusiasm. “And so we see that love matches can be disappointing, too, and that civility and friendship may be the best way after all.”

  Aunt Allora shook her head, pounded her stick against the floor. “Do you honestly believe that?”

  “What use is there believing anything else? What purpose could it possibly serve if I enacted great tragedies over his infidelities?

  “If you will lift Sir Bastian’s head,” Lili added briskly, “I will arrange the pillows to make his breathing easier.”

  Still shaking her head, Allora moved to the other side of the bed and did as her great-niece instructed. In his new position, their patient seemed more comfortable. But as Lili bent to study his face, his skin took on a grey tinge and his lips turned almost black.

  “What is it?” Allora asked, seeing her frown.

  “I don’t know.” Lili took his pulse again, put an ear to his chest. “That is, I’m not certain but I fear the worst. You know, of course, there are vapors and essences within the body—what philosophers have named the vital and the animal spirits. In Sir Bastian, these appear to be failing so rapidly, he may die before the medicine even arrives.”

  Then, with a sudden grim determination: “There is only one way to keep him alive: to rapidly expel all the morbid humors out of his body.”

  Allora raised her eyebrows. “Without the aid of physick? But to do that—”

  “To do that,” said Lili, rummaging through her basket again, producing a small flask of purest olive oil scented with myrrh, cinnamon, and galingale, and proceeding to anoint the old gentleman at his temples and wrists, “I will have to risk a laying-on-of-hands.”

  The old woman frowned. “I don’t mean to tell you your own business, but considering how tired you are, do you dare to attempt so delicate a procedure? If your mind should wander, if your concentration fails for even an instant—”

  “Then he will die. But he is dying now, and there is no other way I know to save him.” Lili placed both palms flat on Sir Bastian’s narrow chest. “And as the result of any distractions may well prove fatal, the more reason for you to keep silent, Aunt Allora, and to make certain that nobody else disturbs me for the next half hour.”

  She fastened her eyes on the glass globe. In that dim room, it shone like a planet hanging in the void. She must focus her mind on that and on her task—on those things alone—for once she opened herself to the cosmic forces, there was always the danger that the fierce Centrifugal Winds of manifold time and space would sweep her away.

  Taking a deep, long breath, Lili entered the healing trance. Subtle vapors rose in her brain. Drawing magnetism up out of the earth, she sent it pulsing through her body. A pure ray of astral light hit the shining globe and was deflected, piercing Sir Bastian’s chest and penetrating to the very core of his being. He and Lili cried out in the same instant—then there was only darkness.

  3

  From without, it was as ugly, grim, and formidable as any great prison, in any great city, anywhere in the world; But within the mighty walls of Whitcomb Gaol there was a huddle of sordid little buildings, all connected by locks, gates, bars, grates, and dark passages, opening every now and again on some dismal yard where the prisoners took the air.

  On the day following Wilrowan’s duel and its unfortunate conclusion, an elegant gentleman appeared at the lodge by the outer gate and presented his credentials to the burly individual who answered his knock. The gaoler subjected him to a careful scrutiny, taking in the coat of flea’s-blood satin lined with sable, the white silk stockings and immaculate small-clothes, the silver-hilted sword and point-lace ruffles, the fair hair perfumed and pomaded, the red-heeled shoes and the little jeweled eyeglass worn on a black velvet ribbon. Deciding that this was no man to be trifled with, the turnkey unlocked the gate and ushered him inside.

  The visitor was relieved of his sword and escorted to a stifling small room, where he was presented, along with the documents he carried in one perfectly manicured hand, to the Governor of Whitcomb Gaol: a dried little husk of a man in a fox-colored wig, who sat hunched behind his desk like a Goblin.

  “Blaise Crowsmeare-Trefallon.” The visitor made a prodigiously eleg
ant bow. “I have a warrant and a letter from the king, authorizing the release of one Wilrowan Krogan-Blackheart.”

  The governor hitched his chair an inch or two closer to the desk. He held out a clawlike hand to receive the papers, which he read through silently before replying. “These seem to be in order. But you must understand, there are certain procedures that must be followed—which may take as much as a day or two.”

  Trefallon bowed again. “As you must understand that the king and queen are impatient to see Captain Blackheart return to his duties at the Volary.”

  The governor scrutinized the letter. “It does not say immediate release. Nor anything about duties at the palace. His Majesty knows how these things are done, so in the absence of any clear instructions to the contrary—” Yet there was something in the visitor’s cool, unwavering stare that made him add: “I see no reason to deny access to the prisoner in the meantime, if that is what you wish.”

  “I do,” said Blaise, and followed the turnkey out of the room and through a series of chilly stone corridors, rotting gates, tunnels, yards, and more gates, until they came to a double iron grating facing on one of the wards.

  A dozen or so prisoners stood or lounged in different parts of an icy yard, some of them hobbled with iron fetters, all of them rough, sullen, and dangerous looking. In that company it was easy to spot Wilrowan: a boyish figure in a long red coat embellished with a quantity of tarnished gold galloon. The familiar hat with the battered turkey feathers was drawn low over his eyes, and he was crouched on one knee close to the ground, apparently absorbed in a pair of black ravens scratching through a pile of frozen garbage at the edge of the yard.

  When Blaise called his name, Will rose slowly to his feet, pushed back his hat, thrust his hands into the pockets of his gaudy coat, and sauntered over to the grating, the thin ice crunching beneath his feet as he walked. Amused by this consummate piece of play-acting, Blaise shook his head.

  “I’m sorry not to have come to your rescue sooner. I was out last night when your message arrived.” Lifting his eyeglass to examine Wilrowan at close quarters, he gave a delicate shudder. “If you don’t mind my asking, where did you come by that hideous coat? Really, my dear, you should never wear scarlet with that ginger hair of yours.”

  Will responded with an appreciative grin. Blaise Trefallon in full dress was a creature of infinite refinement and exquisite taste, far removed from his companion of the taverns and gaming hells. “You can buy anything here. Wine, firewood—even whores, though I’ve not tried it. The only thing you can’t buy is your way out, because the governor, they say, is incorruptible.”

  Blaise smiled faintly. “He is a petty tyrant who delights in his power. And in no hurry to release you, I regret to say. If there is anything you need in the meantime—” Blaise reached for the coin purse he carried in his pocket.

  “I thank you, no. Put that away, Blaise; your money would only burden me. As it is, I only barely escaped being throttled once and bludgeoned another time, all for the sake of this worthless brooch—and the ring I wear on my hand.” Will rested his right hand on the inner grating, so that Trefallon could see the silver intaglio ring.

  “If I hadn’t friends here to guard my back, you might have arrived here only in time to claim my body.”

  And it was typical of Will, thought Blaise, that he should find some of his former cronies residing in Whitcomb Gaol. But declining to discuss what had always been a sore point between them, he focused his attention on the ring instead. It was of antique design, heavy and intricate, the stone a great smoke-colored crystal deeply incised with ancient writing. It reminded Blaise of some of the minor Goblin artifacts—harmless curiosities all, though immensely valuable—he had seen in private collections.

  The gaoler was stationed with his back to a wall about fifteen feet away from the grate, where he could watch Wilrowan’s movements but not overhear the conversation. Nevertheless, Blaise lowered his voice.

  “You had that from your grandmother, didn’t you? I remember you once said it was the most precious thing you owned. Shall I take it away for safekeeping?”

  Will hesitated. “I think not. She wore it, you know, through so many dangerous times, and yet she survived. I have an idea it brings me luck.”

  All the time they were speaking, not once had Will bothered to glance behind him, though twice there had been a shuffling and a muttering among the other prisoners, and once Blaise caught a cold glimmer of sunlight on metal, the impression that something long and exceedingly sharp had passed swiftly from hand to hand. Thinking of those attempts on Will’s life, Trefallon shuddered inwardly, hoping the friends who had come to Wilrowan’s aid before could really be trusted.

  “Are you absolutely certain they only wanted to rob you? Don’t you think there might be something else—something more at stake?”

  “I have considered that, yes. And I’ve thought about the duel, as well. Macquay’s damnable spell of protection. The way those guardsmen arrived just when he was finally in trouble. All arranged in advance—but why? Macquay has no particular grudge against me, not any I know about, anyway.”

  Will shifted his position from one foot to the other. “And there is another thing: we both know that Rufus Macquay lives well beyond his means. He hasn’t paid his debts in six months. But it takes gold to buy spells, to bribe guardsmen. You can’t put them off with empty promises, as you can some honest tradesman.”

  Blaise shook his head thoughtfully. “You can’t put off tradesmen forever. Suppose that someone bribed Macquay himself—to provoke the quarrel? Gold in his pocket, his debts paid, men have been murdered for less.” Trefallon frowned. “The worst of it is, he has disappeared. And we can’t even question the striplings who arrested you, not until Marzden returns. In the meantime, is there anyone else who might be involved? Somebody with ‘a particular grudge’?”

  Will shrugged, putting his hands back into his pockets. “Beyond all the fathers, husbands, and brothers?”

  Blaise raised his eyeglass again, favored his friend with a sardonic glance. “For simplicity’s sake we’ll confine ourselves to the male relations of your most recent conquests. No need to bring the half of—but stay a moment. What of your own father-in-law?”

  A noisy argument had started up in the yard, between a pimple-faced boy and an immense brute in iron leg-shackles. Will did not seem to notice; he rocked slowly back on his heels, giving his full attention to Blaise’s question.

  “Lord Brakeburn? I don’t doubt he wishes me dead and buried; I’ve hardly lived up to his expectations as a son-in-law. And he surely believes that Lili deserves a hundred times better. I think so myself. But to actually arrange my death?” Will gave a short, negative jerk of his head. “Besides, he would hardly ask Macquay to insult his own daughter.”

  “A master stroke to divert suspicion?”

  Will smiled contemptuously. “I doubt he is capable of any such ‘master stroke.’ He tricked Lili and me into marrying with the stupidest, most transparent lie—if we hadn’t been such children at the time, we’d have seen right through it. Nor would he expect me to take up the sword as Lili’s champion. He can’t begin to comprehend the nature of my feelings where she is concerned.”

  Blaise felt a brief twinge of sympathy for the unfortunate Lord Brakeburn; the nature of Wilrowan’s feelings for his wife was a continuing mystery even to Will’s best friend.

  Meanwhile, the quarrel in the middle of the yard had grown ugly. The pimpled youth had taken an ill-advised swing at the gigantic felon; now the big man reached out with one huge hand, took him by the throat, and dashed the boy violently to the ground. The turnkey in the passage did nothing.

  “Curse that pig of a governor!” Blaise whispered through the grating. “What does he mean by delaying your release? You’re in danger every minute you remain here.”

  “My dear Trefallon, the only place more dangerous than Whitcomb Gaol is on the streets of Hawkesbridge.” Will laughed softly. “You may
not be so intimately acquainted with the denizens of the streets as I am, but you should know that. The governor may be doing me a favor by keeping me locked up.”

  Blaise ground his teeth audibly. The gaol ambiance—the great weight of stone and iron on every side, the brutality of the inmates—was beginning to wear on his composure. He simply did not know how Wilrowan could take it all so lightly.

  But his present unease put Blaise in mind of something that had troubled him the day before. “There was one odd thing: I saw Goblins among the spectators during your duel. An Ouph or two, at least three Padfoots, and a tall young fellow with a crooked neck.”

  Will was immediately interested. “A Wryneck, do you think? I’ve never met a Wryneck or a Grant—they’re said to be highly reclusive.”

  “I don’t know. Except for the angle of his head he looked Human enough, but I’ve never met one either. What started me thinking was the fact that Goblins invariably stay clear of trouble. Of anything, in fact, that’s likely to attract the attention of the authorities. Yet there they were, watching what may have been for all they knew an illegal duel. Do you have any enemies in the Goblin Quarter?”

  “I know a handful by name and they know me, but that’s the extent of it. But supposing there was a Goblin with a grudge—where would the creature come by enough gold to bribe a man like Macquay? If there really is a scheme to kill me or put me out of the way, I doubt that it’s motivated by personal malice. I suspect it’s only a matter of policy.”

  “Policy?” said Trefallon, only half attending. Behind Will’s back, the big man had stooped to raise his smaller opponent, probably with an eye to inflicting further punishment. Again there was a flash of metal, and this time both men fell heavily to the ground. The gaoler remained stolid and apparently uninterested.

  With an effort, Blaise refocused his attention on Will’s last statement. “Do you mean that someone might envy your influence over the queen and seek to supplant you?”

  “That, or someone might think there are still too many Rowans left in the world, especially in a position to influence Dionee.”