The Winter Riddle

by Sam Hooker

  “And this is my sister,” said Lady Sneezeworthy. “Duchess Constance of Ibberlin-Going-Backward.” Constance gave a barely visible nod, likely because anything more than that would hinder her looking down her nose at everyone else.

  “Duchess,” said Volgha with a nod. She knew the type: up-jumped lackwits who married well, then pretended they’d never soiled the bottoms of their shoes by walking on the ground. No doubt she could be relied upon for conversation as scintillating as the buzz of flies on a bloated carcass.

  “Aren’t you going to introduce me?” snarled what must have been the angriest little pig of a man ever to have lived. Generations of inbreeding were likely the cause of his little snout, permanently turned up at everyone he met. The tufts of hair growing from his ears were longer and thicker than the few he had on his head.

  “If it will shut you up,” snapped Lady Sneezeworthy. She smiled and turned back to Volgha. “May I present Awful Pig Man, Duke of Ibberlin-Going-Backward.”

  “My name is Alfred, you cur!” he shouted.

  “What’s it matter? You’re going to insist on being called ‘Duke’ anyway.”

  “Mind your tongue,” he said. “You should show some respect when addressing your betters, girl.”

  “Better at losing at cards,” said the viceroy. Lady Sneezeworthy laughed. Duke Alfred grimaced.

  “Awfully cheery for a dungeon.” Volgha was only partially joking. She’d always heard that the queen’s dungeons were a dreadful place. Sure, it was musty and cold, but it was bright with torchlight, there were games of cards, feather beds, and the cheese plates hardly had any rats on them at all.

  “You’re in the upper dungeons, dear.” Lady Sneezeworthy placed an arm around Volgha’s shoulder and started walking her around the place. “Most of us were regular fixtures in Her Majesty’s court before we wound up down here for one reason or another. We’re not the common rabble, you see.”

  “Yes,” said Duke Alfred. “We’re rarefied rabble, aren’t we?”

  “Quite,” said the viceroy. The two of them were fixated on their cards.

  “Not just anyone manages to be imprisoned here,” Lady Sneezeworthy continued. “The truly vile criminal types are sent below, to the lower dungeons.”

  “Hey,” said Sir Henry, “that’s where they put me at first!”

  “Until your Viceroy rescued you from them, you mean.” Lord Alfred wrinkled his nose at Sir Henry.

  “Quite,” said Duchess Constance.

  “Which brings us to the subject of you and your friend,” said Lady Sneezeworthy. “You’re obviously not common rabble, no matter what the cut of your dress might suggest, no offense.”

  “None taken,” said Volgha, feeling mildly offended, but accustomed enough to japes about her simple dress from nobility to realize the futility of getting huffy about them.

  “So who are you?”

  “Volgha,” she answered, “the Winter Witch.”

  “A witch!” said Duchess Constance, with the sort of feigned shock that was only ever intended to embarrass or belittle. The sweat stains on the Duchess’ gown took some of the sting out of it, and Volgha’s distaste for courtly intrigue did the rest.

  “Not just a witch,” said the viceroy. “You’re Her Majesty’s sister, are you not?”

  “Sister?” said Duke Alfred, who obviously knew what the word meant, and likely only piped up for fear that he might be left out of the conversation.

  “I’m afraid so,” said Volgha.

  “In that case,” said Lady Sneezeworthy with nervous grace, “your dress is lovely!”

  “Oh, do sit down.” Duchess Constance offered Volgha the dingy overstuffed chair which, of all the chairs in the place, appeared to be the least infested with bugs who’d be keen to live in one’s hair.

  “So you’re a princess, then?” asked Sir Henry with a courteous bow.

  “Not exactly,” replied Volgha. “Not anymore.”

  “Oh.” Fluffing out her gown, Duchess Constance returned to her seat.

  “Not anymore?” asked Lady Sneezeworthy.

  “She renounced it, I believe,” said the viceroy.

  “That’s right,” said Volgha.

  “Renounced a royal title?” Duke Alfred’s brow was furrowed in confusion, and his mouth hung open. “Why would you go and do a stupid thing like that? You’d have outranked all of us combined!”

  Oh, to be first among prisoners, said Osgrey. Volgha had to wonder if her liberal use of sarcasm was rubbing off on the old man.

  “To appease my sister,” said Volgha, “and to keep her from thinking of me as a threat.”

  “Smart.” The viceroy gave a brief nod.

  “As a boat made of snow,” said Duke Alfred. “You should have challenged her, made her renounce instead!”

  “I didn’t want it,” said Volgha. “I wanted to be left alone to follow the Witching Way.”

  “That’s what you think,” said Duke Alfred. “Girls always think they know what they want. If I’d got to you sooner, you’d have been better off.”

  “You mean it could have been me recoiling from your advances, instead of Duchess Constance?”

  The Duke and Duchess scowled at her in equal measure. Everyone else laughed.

  Well done, said Osgrey. Volgha grinned at his approval despite herself.

  “And how did you displease your sister to end up in these exalted surroundings?” asked Sir Henry.

  “Not my sister,” Volgha replied. “Lord Chamberlain. He’s staged a coup.”

  All eyes were upon her then, card games and other vermin-infested diversions forgotten.

  “A coup?” said Duke Alfred.

  “You don’t say!” exclaimed Lady Sneezeworthy.

  “When did this happen?” asked the viceroy.

  “Not long ago,” said Volgha. “Loki and I had just returned when—”

  “Loki!” shouted the viceroy, his generally pleasant demeanor shifting quickly to rage. “It’s his fault I’m down here! I should have recognized him, even unconscious and face-down. Sir Henry! Dispatch that knave with haste!”

  “It shall be done, Your Excellency!” Sir Henry jumped to his feet and reached for the sword which had undoubtedly spent a great deal of time at his side before he ended up in the dungeons. He felt about his waist for it, then looked down to see that his hands did not deceive him. It was not, in fact, there.

  “I seem to be without my sword,” he said. “Would His Excellency prefer that the knave dies by beating, choking, thrashing, defenestration—”

  “No one’s killing Loki,” said Volgha. “Not yet, anyway.”

  “Why not?” asked Duke Alfred.

  “Because I need him alive,” said Volgha. “Don’t vex me on this, little man, I’m in no mood!”

  Duke Alfred grimaced. His grimace had a certain practiced disdain to it. It was apparent that he’d worked at it very hard.

  “It would be hard to kill him anyway,” said Lady Sneezeworthy. “Isn’t he a god?”

  “A god?” said Duchess Constance. “Where does that title stand, somewhere around count?”

  “Yes,” said Volgha, “he’s a god.” She was omitting that he was, in fact, only half a god at present, or possibly just rounding up. “You can’t kill a god, so best not to waste the effort.”

  The viceroy said a swear word, or at least it sounded like one. It wasn’t one that Volgha had heard before, but it made Osgrey giggle. Just an old one, most likely.

  “Put him over there then,” instructed the viceroy, pointing and smiling wickedly. He’d indicated a green sofa, which Volgha didn’t think had been green originally. It was … drippy.

  “Just leave him be.” Volgha glared at Sir Henry. Relenting, he went back to his seat at the card game. He must have known about the consequences of vexing witches.

  “The queen’s sister,” said Lady Sneezeworthy. “No wonder you weren’t sent to the lower dungeons.”

  “What’s in the lower dungeons?”

&nbs
p; “The properly horrid squalor,” answered Sir Henry. “Torture implements, people hanging from walls until they die, that sort of thing.”

  “The upper dungeons are a privilege.” Duke Alfred thrust his chin upward as he examined his cards. “It’s not a palace, but it’s not all bad. We get to bribe the guards to bring us things, and there’s plenty of food.”

  “And hardly any rats,” added the viceroy.

  “Hardly any,” Duke Alfred repeated.

  “What was that about bribery?” asked Volgha.

  “Oh yes,” said Lady Sneezeworthy. “Provided you have something of value, you can get the guards to acquire a great number of things for you. They won’t let you out, of course, or we’d have gone a long time ago.”

  “The viceroy relinquished a silver snuffbox to bring me up from the lower dungeons,” Sir Henry told her.

  “Guard!” shouted Volgha. She had to shout a few times, but eventually one of them grew to dislike hearing her shouting more than he disliked moving from his chair.

  “What is it?” he said.

  “Do you know a girl named Matilda, works in the kitchens?”

  “Can’t say as I do.”

  “Well, I’d be grateful if you’d ask around in the kitchens, and have her come down to speak with me.”

  “I suppose I could,” said the guard. “What’ve you got?”

  “Well, nothing at the moment, but—”

  “Favors have prices,” said the guard. “This one wouldn’t cost you much, but you’ve got to pay. Keeping up appearances, you know.”

  “Lovely,” said Volgha. “Look, I can pay you once I’m out of here if you could just—”

  “No credit, them’s the rules.”

  “Whose rules?”

  “Rules of the people on this side of the bars, prisoner!”

  “Right,” said Volgha. “How silly of me. All right, do you know a guard named Reginald?”

  “Oh yeah,” he replied with a smile. “Everybody knows Reg, he’s a legend! What’s that got to do with you, prisoner?”

  “I’d like to speak with him.”

  “You and half the other ladies in there.” The guard pointed to Duchess Constance. “Not her, though, she’s too stuck up.”

  “I’m the queen’s sister,” said Volgha.

  “Former queen, as I understand it. We’s takin’ orders from King Chamberlain now.”

  “For now,” said Volgha. “In any case, I’m not ordering you to get him, I’m asking you to.”

  “You haven’t.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Asked. You just said ‘I’d like to speak to him,’ like your wish is my command.”

  Dungeon guard, as jobs go, is not as eagerly sought after as one might think. With the possible exception of those currently imprisoned in dungeons, no one thinks “Boy, I’d sure love to have a job sitting in a dank cellar, watching a bunch of unwashed people do not much of anything.” Be that as it may, it’s still a job that needs to be done, and it tends to be done by people who don’t have a lot of other options.

  The result generally empowered the people serving in this role to exercise authority over other people, which was usually their favorite part of the job. Unaccustomed as Volgha was to demurring, her ability to get people to do things for her without question was presently out of reach.

  “You’re right,” Volgha acquiesced. “Forgive me, I never should have spoken so brashly to you. This is your dungeon after all, and you deserve respect accordingly.”

  “That’s more like it.” The guard straightened up, raising his chin.

  “When you’re done kissing that peasant’s backside,” said Duke Alfred, “the rats would enjoy the same treatment.”

  Volgha strode across the room with alarming speed and struck Duke Alfred across the cheek with the back of her hand.

  “Apologize at once, worm!”

  “Have you gone mad?” Duke Alfred’s eyes went wide. Volgha struck him again.

  “How dare you demean your betters, you filthy little pig man? He’s no peasant! Apologize, or I will thrash you again!”

  She raised her hand to strike him once more.

  “I’m sorry!” he shouted.

  I must admit, said Osgrey, I may have enjoyed that as much as you did.

  Volgha nodded with satisfaction and strode quickly back over to the guard.

  “I apologize for the interruption, sir,” she said. “As I was saying, if it’s not too much trouble, would you please ask Reginald to come and speak with me for a moment?”

  Volgha woke to the sound of clanging against the bars. Reg was standing there, looking just as he had when he’d held her kneeling before Loki dressed as her sister. Matilda was with him.

  “This is the girl you wanted,” said Reg. “We’s square now, right?”

  “Yes, Reginald, your favor is paid. See that you don’t vex me again.”

  “Keep it down over there,” said Duke Alfred, not moving from his fetal position on a dusty feather bed.

  “Or else what?” Volgha questioned. There was no reply. She turned back to Reg. “Thank you, Reginald.”

  Reg nodded, then turned and walked away.

  “Lord Chamberlain is running the castle now,” whispered Matilda.

  “I know,” Volgha replied. “He’s chained a lodestone to me so that I can’t do any magic, or I’d have slipped out of here by now.”

  “There aren’t any passages down here, I can’t sneak you out!”

  Volgha said a swear word. “Sorry,” she added. “Never mind, we’ll work that out later. We’ve got bigger problems now, and I need your help.”

  “Of course, what can I do?”

  “It’s a long story,” said Volgha. “You see, I’ve got Loki down here with me.”

  “You mean you’ve got half of him,” said Matilda.

  “You know about that?”

  “You should hear your sister when she’s being tickled,” said Matilda. “You’d think I was torturing her for state secrets. Well, she seems to think so, in any case.”

  “Naturally.” Volgha rolled her eyes. “Anyway, whatever it was that Loki did to fool himself, his other half is unable to solve it, and it’s allowing the frost giants to free themselves from Niflheim. So we’ve got precious little time to fix things and avoid a war.”

  Matilda said a swear word. “Sorry,” she added. “What do we do?”

  “We need to get to the wine cellar, and give the last sip of the potion to Loki,” explained Volgha. “Lord Chamberlain is sure to keep the potion locked away somewhere. You have to find it.”

  “I wouldn’t know where to begin looking!”

  “Santa and Krespo are waiting at Saint Perplexia,” said Volgha. “And my familiar is in the castle somewhere, but the lodestone is preventing me from contacting him.”

  “How do I find him?”

  “I don’t know. His name is Redcrow, and he’s a … well, he’s a red crow.”

  “A bit on the nose, isn’t it?”

  “Not the time!”

  “All right,” said Matilda. “I’ll go and get Santa and Krespo to help me, but you’ll owe me one.”

  “What?”

  “What’s good for the goose ...”

  “Fine.”

  Matilda walked away. Volgha liked the girl, though she was starting to regret teaching her about the favors game. She was clever enough, maybe she had the makings of a witch?

  Everyone was milling about in the cell when Volgha awoke, including Loki. He was sitting against the bars, ably teaching a master class in moping and glumness. Volgha stood up, stretched, and walked over to him.

  “How’s your head?” she asked.

  “Tender.” Touching the lump, he winced.

  “I don’t suppose it jogged your memory?”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  Volgha sighed. “That would have been lucky.”

  “Yeah.” Loki pointed at the viceroy, who was glaring at him. “He kicked me awake this mornin
g.”

  “He did what?”

  “It didn’t hurt or anything,” said Loki. “He’s exceptionally frail. He said he just wanted the satisfaction of taking out his own revenge.”

  “That makes sense. He said it’s your fault he’s in here.”

  “Oh,” said Loki. “I’m not a nice person, am I?”

  “You’re a god,” replied Volgha with a shrug. “Gods don’t have to be nice.”

  I’m not sure they qualify as people either, said Osgrey.

  “We don’t have to be jerks either,” said Loki. “Do we?”

  “I imagine that gods get to do whatever they want.”

  Loki nodded. They sat together in silence for a while, until they heard a commotion coming down the hallway.

  “Get your hands off me!” boomed a familiar voice. “Do you have any idea who I am?”

  Is that Santa? asked Osgrey.

  The reinforced door to the hallway slammed open, and in walked Santa—or rather, Baron Klaus of North Uptonshire—and rather than walking, he was nearly successfully fighting off three brutish guards pushing him toward the cell’s gate. He was dressed in another ridiculous court ensemble. More of Krespo’s work, no doubt.

  In the end, they overpowered him and sent him careening headlong into the cell. He bounced up as soon as he landed and charged the gate at a full sprint. The guards had just succeeded in closing and locking it.

  “You fools have signed your own death warrants!” Spit flew from Santa’s mouth in great gobs. His face was red, and his eyes were a hair’s breadth from opening wide enough to leap from their sockets, for a murderous rampage of their own. “Your heads will adorn pikes along the walls of North Uptonshire before the sun has set, depend on it!”

  “Now there’s a proper nobleman,” said Duke Alfred, his smile a greasy sneer. “And such, er, unusual fashion! Is that what people are wearing at court now?”

  “Yes,” snipped Volgha, “you’re terribly far behind. Now do shut up!”

  “Volgha,” said Santa loudly, “what is the queen’s sister doing here?”

  “Come over here, and I’ll tell you,” said Volgha. They walked to a far corner of the cell, standing close enough to whisper.

  “What on earth are you doing?” asked Volgha.