by Lian Tanner
‘Call it off? We would not get paid.’
‘Getting paid doesn’t matter, not this time—’
‘Getting paid always matters, my dear.’
‘Not if we’re dead, it doesn’t. Grandpa—’
He held up his hand. ‘Hush, I am thinking.’
Duckling watched him, and saw the moment when the shock wore off and his usual confidence came flooding back.
‘There must be a way for us to get out of this place,’ he said, ‘and I shall find it. In the meantime, I shall talk to a certain person and ask that the Scheme be postponed until we are gone. We do not—’
A knock on the door silenced him. Duckling answered it and found a short, broad-faced woman holding a tray. ‘Would the ambassador like to break his fast?’
‘Is that food?’ called Lord Rump, in a completely different voice. ‘Come in, come in! Do I smell roast lamb?’
‘You do, Ser.’ The woman smiled as she put the tray on the table. There was a scorched smell to her, as if she’d burned something. ‘Lamb and kidneys, dumplings, blood pudding, bread and jam.’
‘Excellent!’ cried Lord Rump. ‘And your name is …?’
‘Metti, Ser. Anything you need, Ser, just ask for Metti.’ The woman bobbed a curtsey and left, closing the door quietly behind her.
Duckling grabbed a slice of blood pudding, though she didn’t think she could eat anything. ‘Who’s the certain person? Who are you going to talk to?’
‘I am not entirely sure.’ Grandpa cut a kidney in half and popped it in his mouth. ‘Until now we have communicated by notes, and I did not think we would need anything else. But I will find him, never doubt it. Not that he will be anyone important; it is always go-betweens in a Scheme like this. For obvious reasons, the people behind it do not want their identities known. I can guess, of course …’
‘So what’s your guess?’
Grandpa waggled his knife at her. ‘How many times have I told you that information is as good as a handful of silver gloats, hmm? You will know when you need to know.’
‘But what if they won’t hold off until we’re gone? What if they decide to try again tonight? What if they won’t listen to you, Grandpa?’
‘Do I detect a note of panic, my dear?’
‘No, I’m just—’
‘I am a citizen of the world,’ declared Grandpa, ‘and have travelled to more countries than most of the population has ever heard of. Whereas these people have never been outside the Strong-hold. Of course they will listen to me.’
‘But what if—’
‘Besides, I know too much for them to treat us badly.’
Lord Rump’s confidence was his greatest strength – and his greatest weakness. When it came to a battle of wits, he just couldn’t believe that anyone might get the better of him.
Duckling hoped desperately that he was right.
She ate the blood pudding and stood up. ‘I’d better go before I’m missed. What do you want me to do?’
‘Nothing,’ said Grandpa. ‘Absolutely nothing. Leave it to me, and talk about this to no one. You understand? No one.’
Duckling was a couple of staircases away when she realised she hadn’t told him that there was a cat in the Strong-hold that could talk. Or that she had a witchy breeze, and it had saved her.
She started back down. She’d have to tell him now. And he’d be furious that she hadn’t told him earlier.
Except—
She stopped, with her foot halfway between one step and the next.
Except Grandpa never tells me everything. And if I hadn’t been there in the first bailey, he would’ve left without me. Or at least, he would have tried.
She turned around again and kept going up the stairs.
Information is as good as a handful of silver gloats. He’ll know when he needs to know.
Pummel was fading. He could feel the pre-dawn light passing through the edges of his body. His hand, seen through the hole in the tooth, was blood vessels and bone.
The Strong-hold was fading too. The walls of the cow byre were transparent. The ceiling was no thicker than smoke.
In front of him, the cat was a shadow, with eyes like twin moons. And on the ground, where the paving stones and straw should be, there were half a dozen winding paths that glowed with a soft light—
With a gasp, Pummel jerked his eye away from the hole in the tooth. His heart was pounding, and it didn’t begin to slow down until he had checked that the cat, the stall and his own hand were as solid and real as they should be.
He stared at the tooth, and whispered, ‘What is this thing?’
‘Raaashk,’ said the cat.
Pummel swallowed. He had heard her speak last night, and had tried to put it out of his mind. Cats can’t talk. That would be witchery, and there’s no such thing.
‘R-rarsh?’ he said. ‘What does that mean?’
The cat stretched out a long hind leg. ‘Raashk.’
‘Raashk,’ whispered Pummel.
Captain Rabid’s voice echoed in his ear. I’m still wondering, Cadet. Are you loyal? Or are you disloyal?
‘I’m loyal,’ whispered Pummel. ‘But—’
But he had seen the Harshman. And the cat could talk.
He leaned back, until he could feel the cow’s comforting warmth behind him. Then, with a trembling hand, he put the tooth to his eye again.
This time, he saw the ghosts. He knew they were ghosts straight away, though they didn’t flicker in the corner of his eye, or disappear when he looked straight at them. They were dressed in tunic and hose, or boiled leather armour, or dresses that swept the ground with a sound like the tide coming in. Some of them had wounds in their chests. Others had arrows sticking out of them, or their heads cradled under their arms.
And it wasn’t just humans. There were bear ghosts too, and quignogs slinking past, and dogs and cats and rats.
But they all had one thing in common. They were frightened. Pummel could see it in the way they turned towards him, pleading—
The tooth fell from his nerveless fingers, and the ghosts vanished.
I didn’t see them, he told himself. I didn’t see anything. There’s no such thing as ghosts and witchery. Captain Rabid said—
But at that point, his thoughts got stuck.
Because he had seen the Harshman.
Outside the window, the day was beginning. The cows shifted in their stalls. Someone’ll be coming to milk them soon, thought Pummel. I’d better go.
He fumbled in the straw for the raashk, then realised it was already in his hand. The cat stared at him, and there was so much expression in her eyes that he found himself reddening.
‘If I try to tell someone, they’ll think I’m disloyal,’ he said. ‘They’ll throw me in prison, and I’ll lose my job and won’t be able to send money home to Ma.’
The cat said nothing. Pummel heaved a sigh. Ma had raised him to believe that the people above him, like Captain Rabid, were good and wise and all-knowing. But she had also raised him to do what was right, even if it brought trouble.
Prison or not, he had to tell someone about last night.
STEPS FORTH THE HEIR
By the time Duckling reached the Young Margrave’s rooms, they were in an uproar. The doors were open and people were running back and forth with grim expressions on their faces. Inside, someone was wailing.
Duckling froze on the threshold. The invisible assassin must’ve come back! The Heir is dead!
She took a step sideways, so she was hidden by the door. I haven’t been here. They can’t blame me for something I haven’t done.
Except they could, and she knew it. She’d seen Grandpa bribe witnesses many a time, and had never thought twice about it; had never tried to imagine what it must be like for the innocent person caught up in someone else’s ill-doings.
But she imagined it now.
Suddenly her life felt so fragile that she could almost see it crumbling around her; could almost touch the gravestone
carved with her name.
Duckling, died of a Scheme gone wrong.
No! She wouldn’t let it happen. She’d hide somewhere until the fuss was over. They can’t chop my head off if they can’t find me. I’d better warn Grandpa too.
She crept out from behind the door – and ran smack-bang into Pummel.
‘I’ve been looking for you,’ he said. ‘Listen, Duckling, we’ve got to tell someone about last night.’
‘Sorry, I can’t talk now, Pummel. I – uh – left something downstairs.’
‘Fetch it later,’ said Pummel. ‘The Young Margrave’s getting up, and Arms-mistress Krieg is here. We can tell her.’
‘The Young M— He’s getting up? But I thought—’ Duckling stopped, then started again. ‘Who’s wailing? And why?’
‘One of the grafs is singing. It’s some sort of tradition. Come on.’
Arms-mistress Krieg and five of her soldiers stood outside the door of the Heir’s bedchamber, while a stream of servants, including Metti, carried breakfast plates, piles of clothes and a selection of boots past them in both directions.
Metti winked when she saw Duckling, and rolled her eyes towards the graf, who knelt in the middle of it all with his arms outstretched.
‘Steps forth the Heir,’ he sang in a nasal voice,
‘In his brightne-e-e-e-e-ess!
Steps forth the He-e-e-e-eir!
Hard is his fist
and his heart is mi-i-i-i-ghty!
Steps forth the He-e-e-e-eir!’
Duckling would’ve put her fingers in her ears, but she didn’t want to stand out from the crowd. Especially not now.
‘Leave it to me,’ Grandpa had said. But Duckling couldn’t. She had to make sure the assassination didn’t succeed until she and Grandpa had found a way out of the Strong-hold.
And for that, she needed Pummel’s help.
She’d never gone against Grandpa in such an important matter before. She’d argued with him and tried to change his mind, but in the end she’d always done as she was told.
Until now.
She dragged Pummel out of the crush and put her mouth to his ear. ‘I don’t think we should tell Arms-mistress Krieg.’
‘Why not?’
‘That intruder last night? He was an assassin.’ She hastily added, ‘I mean, I don’t know it, not for sure. But I’ve got a feeling. And back in the Spavey Isles I was famous for my feelings.’
‘All the more reason to tell the arms-mistress,’ said Pummel.
‘What if she already knows? What if she’s part of the Scheme?’
‘What scheme?’
Duckling didn’t usually make such bad mistakes, and she did her best to put this one right. ‘I mean the plot. This place is full of plots, didn’t you notice? All those grafs and grafines whispering to each other? They’re all plotting something. We don’t know who we can trust.’
Pummel chewed his lip, then whispered, ‘I trust you.’
‘Good,’ said Duckling. ‘I trust you too.’
Pummel looked pleased. But the truth was, Duckling didn’t trust anyone, not even Grandpa.
Especially not Grandpa.
‘How about Otte?’ said Pummel. ‘He wouldn’t be part of a plot against the Young Margrave. We could tell him.’
‘No,’ said Duckling. ‘We keep it to ourselves. We—’
She was interrupted by the Heir, who came strutting out of his bedchamber with an enormous black bearskin slung over his shoulders.
The graf sang,
‘See him stride forth
in his glo-o-o-o-o-ory!
Steps forth the—’
‘Shut up, Voss,’ said the Heir.
Otte swung along behind him, carrying an enormous sword. Its sheath dragged against the floor; the leather straps were tangled in his crutches.
One of Krieg’s soldiers leaped forward to help him, but Otte jerked the sword away, and nearly fell over in the process.
The Heir waited with his arms crossed, saying nothing.
‘A couple of years ago,’ whispered Pummel, ‘there was a dog pack going after our calves.’
Duckling stared at him. ‘What on earth has that got to do with—’
‘So the cows put the calves right in the middle of the herd and made a barrier around them. All horns and hoofs. The dogs couldn’t get past them. Which is why I think we should tell Otte. Three isn’t much of a barrier, but it’s better than two.’
Otte reached the Heir at last, and thrust the sword into his hands. The Heir passed it to one of the soldiers, who took up her position behind him. Everyone else began to fall in behind her.
Everyone except Otte.
A couple of Krieg’s soldiers smiled at the boy as they passed him. Others looked away with carefully blank faces. Krieg rested her hand briefly on Otte’s shoulder, but said nothing.
Duckling turned back to Pummel. ‘Even if we could trust Otte, he’d never believe us. The assassin was invisible, Pummel. I couldn’t see him, not properly.’
Pummel flinched. ‘I know.’
‘But you could see him?’
‘I—’ He looked as if he was arguing with himself. ‘Maybe. I mean, yes. But I’m not disloyal!’
‘I never said you were. You saw him, and you threw something.’
‘You hummed.’
They looked warily at each other. The last of the soldiers fell in behind the Heir.
‘Where are they going?’ whispered Duckling.
‘To the Great Chamber.’
‘Then we’d better go too.’ And Duckling stepped into the line behind the singing graf and another man.
Arms-mistress Krieg strode towards her. ‘Have you seen a strange cat around here?’
‘No, Arms-mistress,’ said Duckling. ‘Why?’
‘Someone reported it. How is your galloping thrombo-phleb-itis?’
‘Much better, thank you, Arms-mistress.’
The man in front of Duckling turned around. He wore a brown floppy hat and a long robe with a fur collar. His mouth was pursed. ‘You are ill?’ he snapped.
‘I believe she is on the road to recovery, Physician Berl,’ said Krieg. ‘Am I right, Duckling?’
‘Yes, Arms-mistress.’
The physician scowled. ‘Your boy has not been doling out potions again, has he, Krieg? I will not have it. The medical arts require long study. I myself was an apprentice for nine years—’
‘I believe Duckling recovered by herself,’ said Arms-mistress Krieg.
The physician peered at Duckling, then lost interest and turned back to the singing graf. ‘Have you touched my stink roses, Voss?’
‘I have not,’ said the graf. ‘Why?’
‘Someone has been picking them.’ The physician shook his head disapprovingly. ‘Stink roses are not something to play with. In the wrong hands …’
Ahead of them, the line jolted into motion. Pummel slipped in next to Duckling, whispering, ‘If it’s just you and me, we’ll have to be extra watchful. In case the assass—’
‘Shhhhh!’ Duckling glanced around to make sure no one had heard. Then she nodded. ‘We’ll be as watchful as anything. Turns out the Young Margrave was right. He doesn’t need us as companions.’
‘But you just said—’
‘He needs us as guards.’
UNNOTICEABLE
Word must have gone ahead, because the Heir’s entrance into the Great Chamber was announced by loud cheering and stamping of feet.
The Heir raised his hand and saluted the crowd, then marched forward. In the candlelight, the stuffed bears seemed to dip their heads and edge closer.
The Margravine was seated on the Faithful Throne, with the Grafine von Eisen on the stool beside her. The Grafine rose to her feet when she saw her nephew, and stood behind the throne. The Margravine glared at a couple of squabbling grafs until they and their dogs slunk away. The Young Margrave sat on the stool, staring straight ahead.
‘You’d think they’d at least say good morning,’ w
hispered Duckling. ‘Or, How did you sleep? Or, Glad to see you didn’t get assassinated in the night.’
Pummel frowned. ‘You shouldn’t make jokes about them.’
‘Why not? They’re just people like you and me.’
‘No, they’re not! They’re royalty!’
‘Huh,’ whispered Duckling. ‘I bet the Margravine snores.’
All around them, the rumble of conversation was starting up again. Krieg and her soldiers took their positions on each side of the throne, and Duckling and Pummel found a spot a little way behind them.
‘There’s Lord Rump!’ said Pummel, pointing to a cluster of men near the fireplace. ‘I thought he’d gone home. What’s he doing here?’
‘He’s advising the Margravine on matters of international importance,’ said Duckling.
Pummel turned to her with relief in his eyes. ‘We could tell him about last night! He wouldn’t be part of any plot.’
‘Course he wouldn’t,’ said Duckling, thinking quickly. The last thing she wanted was Grandpa knowing she was disobeying his orders. ‘But— he’s got a bad heart, and the shock of hearing about such nastiness might kill him.’ She paused, then added, ‘Though if you think we should take the risk …’
Pummel looked horrified. ‘No!’
Duckling peered around the noisy chamber at the warriors with their scars and swords and dogs. Which of them had sent the invisible assassin? Who would gain if the Heir died?
And who was Grandpa’s go-between? Had Grandpa found him yet? And if he had, would he tell her about it, or would he decide she didn’t need to know?
She whispered to Pummel, ‘I’m going to wander around for a bit, see what I can learn. You watch the Young Margrave.’
‘The assassin wouldn’t come here, would he?’
Duckling didn’t think he would, not if he wanted Pummel to take the blame. She suspected the next attempt would be at night, like the last one. But it didn’t hurt to be careful.
‘Keep your eyes open, just in case,’ she said. And she slipped away.
Duckling could be very unnoticeable when she chose; it was just a matter of fitting in. I will be Adelheide, she thought, and a second later she was wearing a superior expression and strutting like a warrior maid. I am bold and bloodthirsty. The Heir is my cousin.
