Raisa demurred when the High Wizard and her council suggested that she move into her mother’s elaborate quarters in the main palace. That could wait until after the coronation, she said. The queen’s chambers held too many painful memories to move in so soon. Also, she had a sentimental attachment to her old rooms. Anyway, she preferred to mourn her mother in seclusion, not burdening the court at large. Besides, she would likely redecorate the suite once her grief had abated somewhat, and that would be easier if it were not occupied.
She had a dozen arguments, and her story often changed depending on the audience.
Han admired her politician’s ability to say no and keep saying no while making it seem like no one wanted to say yes more than she did. Still, he was surprised by her decision to stay where she was. It seemed like claiming the queen’s rooms would reinforce the inevitability of the coronation to those who still might hope for a different outcome.
From all appearances, resistance to Raisa as queen had evaporated after her sudden reappearance at the memorial service. Han knew that it had only been driven underground. Even if Raisa survived her coronation, an assassin could make sure her reign was short-lived.
Amon Byrne was taking no chances. He kept handpicked bluejackets on duty outside Raisa’s room whenever she was in residence, and they accompanied her wherever she went, even inside the palace.
Han’s suite was small by palace standards—intended for a servant—but it was almost too big for him—consisting of a room to sleep in and a room to sit in and another room for spares.
He had lived most of his life with the rest of his family in a single room. If there had been more than three Alisters, they’d still have shared a single room. Except for when they visited the privy, most families in Ragmarket did everything in one room, whether it was eating, sleeping, piecework, laundry, dying, birthing babies, or making love.
The furniture in Han’s suite was heavy and ornate, like the kind in some of the fancier parts of Southbridge Temple. The bed in particular was huge and lonely, and Han rattled around in it, plagued by an excess of space and bad dreams.
It was so deadly quiet at night it was hard to fall asleep. Even with his shutters open, most nights all he could hear was the splashing of the fountain in the courtyard. It was almost a relief when lovers crept out there in the moonlight, breaking the silence with their whispers, laughter, and sighs.
Except it only made him ache for what he’d lost.
He tried to distance himself from Raisa. He told himself she was just another blueblood liar who’d use him and discard him; who would ride right over the underclass when they got in her way. Pining after a princess, as Cat called it, was the road to humiliation. He’d never be more to her than an interesting diversion.
But the reality of her kept getting in his way.
Twice now, he’d nearly lost her for keeps. Once in Marisa Pines Pass, and once in the attack just outside the palace gates. If not for Dancer’s armor, she’d be dead or badly injured.
He revisited the memory of their entrance into the city again and again—the crushing pain, the vacancy where his heart used to be, the realization that he had failed once again to protect someone he loved.
It was like poking at a deep bruise, verifying that it had not yet healed, reminding himself of his vulnerability.
Of hers.
And so he’d set himself this impossible task.
He could protect himself—and if he failed, well, he’d been ready to pay the personal price for failure all his life. But how could he keep Raisa alive when so many enemies seemed bent on killing her? How could he become powerful enough to make a claim on her—to make her take him seriously as a suitor? How could he convince her to see him as a peer—someone who could partner with her in every way?
And how could he do all that without putting her in even more danger? Willo’s warnings echoed in his ears.
He didn’t yet know the answers, but he knew this—he wouldn’t put her at risk by allowing a romance to blossom between them until he was in a position to defend it.
Raisa was brilliantly savvy about some things, but she’d never truly understood how it was between bluebloods and streetrunners. She’d never had to. She didn’t seem to realize that any hint of romance between them would bring both the clans and wizards down on them.
He’d have known the rules on his old turf. Here, following his instincts would get them both killed.
If you don’t know where you’re going, you’ll never get there, Jemson used to say. At least now, Han knew where he was going, and who with. He’d just have to find his own path.
Raisa’s first “tutoring session” had not gone well. The tension was so thick you could’ve spread it on bread and called it a meal, as Mam would say. Raisa was constantly on the move, pacing back and forth and talking and waving her hands like she could fill up the chasm between them all on her own.
Han sat in a straight chair, his hands gripping the armrests, hearing every third word. His mind’s eye strayed to that rose tattoo on her collarbone, to her tiny waist, to the green eyes shadowed by thick lashes and black brows set against her tawny skin.
It was a special kind of misery to recall her fresh-air scent and forthright kisses. It had been a pleasure to kiss someone who seemed to enjoy it as much as he did.
An inside door connected Han’s quarters to the queen’s, meant to allow the servant that was supposed to be living there to come and go in privacy. While attending Raisa in her rooms, Magret kept it locked, and rattled the lock several times a day—a warning to the wizard on the other side.
Han mastered the lock his first day. And then it took all the self-discipline he had to stay on his side of the wall.
He fetched his own water from the pump in the courtyard and either ate in the dining hall or carried food back from the kitchens himself. While he wanted to fit in with bluebloods, he wasn’t going to chance food or drink that had been sitting unattended in the hallway or carried by a servant. There were too many people who would like to see him dead, and too many slick clan-made poisons that could be added to food and water undetected.
Each of his rooms had its own fireplace. Darby Blake, Han’s personal servant, had the idea he would slip in when Han was out and replenish the stack of wood and fill the water pitcher and empty the chamber pot. Han had to break him of that because he’d laid charms on all the doors and windows to keep out intruders. Servants could be threatened, charmed, or bribed. So Han carried his own wood from a bin along the corridor just outside his room and set his chamber pot outside when it needed attention.
Darby was always there, ready to receive his slop jar like it was a privilege or a gift.
For Han, living in the palace was a lot like living in Ragmarket—surrounded by enemies, with death always a footfall away. Only plusher. There were several dining halls. Like taverns, some catered to the quality and others to the working class. The food was always good and there was plenty of it, even though others in the queendom might be starving. Any time of the day or night, food could be had.
His sitting room led onto a terrace that overlooked the courtyard in the center of the palace. The stone walls of Fellsmarch Castle afforded plenty of handholds and footholds for an experienced second-story thief. The walls took him to the roof, to the glass gardens up there, and the roof took him wherever else he wanted to go.
Han was amazed at how many rooms there were in the palace, some of them used only rarely. Even after several weeks, there were parts of the palace he’d not yet explored, including the Bayar stronghold. No doubt they’d have laid traps for intruders, knowing Han was in the castle. He wanted more training on detecting and disabling magical locks and killing charms before he ventured there. And that meant he had to find a way to make up with Crow.
Han’s proximity to the queen, and his apparent role as her favorite, made him the subject of endless servant gossip. At first the maids froze like deer when he passed by, and the chamberlains elbowed each
other and clamped their mouths shut when they saw him coming.
Their attitude toward him was a mixture of fear, fascination, and pride of ownership. His reputation as a ruthless streetlord, thief, and knife fighter had preceded him into the palace. Added to that were the stories about Queen Marianna’s memorial service, churned and expanded by the palace rumor mill.
A wizard from Ragmarket? Who’d heard of such a thing? He was one of them, and yet he wasn’t. Wizards breathed the rarefied air on Gray Lady and moved in blueblood circles. Wizards hired folk to give orders to their servants so they wouldn’t have to talk to them directly.
The Gray Wolf queens were known to be lusty and venturesome in matters of love, and the servant underground assumed that Han was their queen’s dangersome plaything who would soon be discarded for someone more biddable.
Han figured bets had been laid on how long he would last, and whether he’d go quietly when the time came. He would have wagered himself, but he didn’t know what odds to demand.
Only bluebloods seemed unaware of the ongoing speculation. The notion that the queen of the realm would romance a thief seemed beyond comprehension to them. Which was a blessing, and he meant to make it last.
Han made a special effort to win over the servants. His mother had worked in the palace for a time, and he was well aware of how powerful a network the palace underground was, how much information it carried, and how gossip could remake a person.
He was free with Queen Raisa’s coin when he asked the palace staff for favors, and he made sure to learn their names and stories. He made it clear that he would make it worthwhile for those who brought him information. He would double the payment of any who sought information about him.
He also made it clear that anyone who entered his room intending mischief would die a horrible death.
Han had never realized that queens worked so hard—at least this one did. Maybe the old queen hadn’t done much of anything in the past year, or maybe it just seemed that way. Raisa toured the city’s fortifications, reviewed the Highlander Army, and attended services in temples all over the Fells. She sat through meeting after meeting—with her stewards, with the Queen’s Council, with the committees laying plans for the coronation. Some meetings were routine, while others had to do with projects Raisa herself was pushing. It wasn’t easy. Her advisers couldn’t agree that water was wet and the sky was blue. Also, there didn’t seem to be any money.
As Raisa’s bodyguard, Han attended nearly all of her meetings. He hoped to learn something useful—who was who and what was what. But it wore him out—it was all talk, talk, talk, and nothing much accomplished. He stood through most, vibrating like a plucked string, impatient at wasting so much time.
It struck him how alone Raisa was. There seemed to be few people at court the queen could trust. Even her father, Averill, had a clan agenda that might not fit with her own. She was always onstage, whether at meals or at a recital, or in conference with her economic advisers.
At one afternoon meeting with the Queen’s Council, she managed to get into a row with just about everyone.
They were seated around the table in her privy chamber (which Han thought was an amusing name, given what was often slung around). As was his custom, Han stood propped against the wall, looking as ruthless as possible.
“General Klemath,” Raisa said, lifting her chin in that way she had when she meant to do battle, “as the contracts with the mercenary forces come due for renewal, I want you to dismiss the foreign brigades and send them home.”
“Send them home, Your Highness?” Klemath stared at her in astonishment. “These are dangerous times, my dear. I know the brigades are expensive, but surely there are other places to cut costs.” He ticked off each point on his thick fingers. “There is conflict with the Waterwalkers on the western border. Arden is a threat to the south. The army might be needed to help the guard if we have a domestic rebellion.” He looked up at the ceiling, making a point of ignoring Lord Averill. “There is unrest among the upland clans. They are always unpredictable. Now is not the time to be frugal with the army.”
“I think you will find that tensions between clans and Valefolk will diminish once the blooded queen is on the throne and we are convinced that she is no longer in danger,” Averill said. “In the meantime, we will do whatever it takes to maintain the tenets of the Nǽming and protect the Gray Wolf line. As long as attacks on our villages continue, we will stand ready to defend ourselves. May I remind you that in many areas of the countryside, the Demonai are all that stand between the people and the flatland brigands.”
“I don’t mean to cut funding to the army,” Raisa said, holding up her hand to quiet the debate, “at least not to the degree that it puts us in danger. I intend to field as many soldiers as now, but I want to move to native-born soldiers. Men and women who have a loyalty to the Fells, who know the land, and will fight hard to defend it.”
Klemath raised an eyebrow. “If there is a rebellion, Your Highness, it would be best to field professional soldiers who have no possible allegiance to slumdwellers and street thieves.”
“Except that your foreign soldiers have no particular allegiance to me,” Raisa said.
“But they do as they’re told,” Klemath said, like he was trying his best to be patient. “Your homegrown army might betray you.”
Klemath is native born, Han thought. Strange that he’s so married to the notion of southern mercenaries. Maybe he’s lining his own pockets. Maybe he’s on the dawb from the mercenary brokers and doesn’t want to give that up.
“It is not the primary job of the army to fight our own citizens,” Raisa said. “People in the Fells are close to rebellion because there are no jobs and no way to make a living. The wars in the south have idled hardworking people. Wouldn’t it be better to use our funds to put our own people to work?”
“Has there been a problem, Your Highness, with the mercenaries?” Klemath asked.
“There has been a problem, General, with people starving in the Fells while we send money to sell-swords and brokers in the flatlands.” The spots of color on Raisa’s cheeks signaled that she was losing patience. “I’ve been out to the camps. Most of our soldiers seem to be from Arden and Tamron. You’d think they’d have plenty of fighting to do at home.”
Klemath raised his hands helplessly and turned to the others on the council. “Gentlemen?”
“Gentlemen!” Raisa repeated. “That’s another problem. Why aren’t there more women on my council?”
They all looked at one another, each waiting for someone else to speak. They were all men, save one spare, red-haired woman Han didn’t know.
“Well, ah…” Lord Hakkam flailed about for an answer. “The members—it’s the office, not the gender, you know.”
“I’m going to fix that,” Raisa said to herself.
“Your Highness,” Lord Bayar said, with an indulgent smile, “with reference to the mercenary issue, perhaps it is wise to listen to your counselors. We are here to help, after all.”
“I know you are kindhearted, Your Highness,” Lord Hakkam said, patting Raisa’s hand. “But you are as yet unschooled in military matters. Although the mercenaries are expensive, it is dangerous to make so radical a change during this transition period. Above all, we want to keep you safe.” Hakkam served as her financial minister as well as chair of the Queen’s Council.
“The Guard keeps me safe, uncle,” Raisa said, firmly withdrawing her hand. “And the good will of my people, which I mean to earn.”
Amon Byrne cleared his throat. As Captain of the Queen’s Guard, he was an ex-officio member of the council, but he didn’t speak out often. “We use only native borns in the Queen’s Guard, and it has worked well for us. Until recently, our army was native born as well.”
“And we lost Queen Marianna despite her native-born Guard,” Lord Bayar said.
“Are you suggesting it was murder?” Byrne asked, looking the High Wizard in the eyes.
Bay
ar backed off. “I am only raising the possibility, nothing more,” he said. “I am saying I still have questions about how she died.”
“Really? I thought perhaps you had the answers,” Averill said.
I did too, Han thought. Why is Lord Bayar raising questions about Queen Marianna’s death when he’s likely the one who did her?
“That’s enough!” Raisa said. Into the silence that followed, she said, “Anyone who has solid information about my mother’s death should speak to Captain Byrne. We will not sling accusations here in this council.”
This is like a rival gang standoff, Han thought. With Raisa trying to be streetlord over all of them.
Raisa waited, and when nobody said anything, went on. “Regarding the reshaping of the army, I thank you for your advice, but I have made my decision. This is not an impulsive move. I have been looking at this issue for some time. I will rely on you, General Klemath, to provide proper training to our new recruits.”
“Yes, Your Highness,” General Klemath said, bowing his head. “As you wish. But with so many other pressing obligations, I hope you realize that it can’t be done overnight.”
This change will be so gradual as to be unnoticeable, Han thought. In a year, we’ll have no more than a handful of native borns in the army, and Klemath will still have his mercenaries.
“I don’t expect you to do it without help, General,” Raisa said sweetly. “As Captain Byrne is experienced in working with native-born soldiers, he will assist you in implementing this.” She laced her fingers and rested her chin on her hands. “Also, Speaker Jemson has contacts in Ragmarket and Southbridge, where I expect many of our recruits will come from. Lord Averill is similarly connected in the camps. The clans have been under-represented in the army, and I mean to field a force that reflects all the peoples of the Fells.”
She paused, looking at each man in turn. “The four of you are accountable for this. You will meet at least weekly, and I will expect monthly progress reports.”
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