Sword of Waters

by Hilari Bell

  “We’ve no idea,” said Baylee. “The guard are guessing she went down a back alley and maybe surprised a gang of thieves, but no one knows why she’d go there in the first place.”

  “Could your father be right?” Arisa tried to keep her voice casual. “Could it have something to do with someone in the palace she worked for?”

  Baylee snorted. “She was ladies’ maid to a girl no older than me. A country bump—” She cast Arisa an apologetic look. “A country girl who’d no idea of proper dress or manners or anything, she said. How could that get her killed? But Pa wouldn’t have let me work in the palace, anyway. He says he’d rather serve the people of Deorthas than their prince.”

  Regret mingled with the pride in Baylee’s voice. She would have liked to be a palace servant—understandable, since even the lowest maid in the palace was several social ranks higher than a tavern maid. It was odd that a tavern keeper’s family served in the palace at all, but from what Baylee said the connection went back several generations.

  Serving “the people of Deorthas,” or at least the new regent’s failure to serve them, made up a fair portion of the tavern master’s conversation. It wasn’t obvious. Most would have taken it for the grumbling all people indulged in about their shareholder, or their employer, or their mother-in-law; anyone who had power was the subject of complaints.

  But to Arisa’s experienced ear, Master Mimms’ comments sounded less like ordinary griping and more like a man arguing for a cause.

  She knew all about causes, she thought, making her way home in the late-night chill. Causes were something that could get people killed. Had Master Mimms’ cause been the motive for Katrin’s death? How? And if that cause was Justice Holis’ downfall, then maybe Arisa could find out why.

  She cornered Edoran during their dance class the next morning, as they worked their way through an intricate set. They’d spent the first part of the lesson working on the different moves; only toward the end did they perform, or attempt to perform, the dance.

  Both her dance and etiquette lessons had become easier since Weasel and Edoran joined them. Arisa’s tutors had taken the firing of their fellows as a warning, and were now genuinely trying to teach—though they seemed a bit out of practice. Her music teacher was still simply despairing, but even he despaired more politely.

  She was finally learning to dance, and Edoran was good at it. In the midst of the music, with the dancing master’s orders and complaints, and the servants who’d been drafted to make up the numbers flowing around them, this was as close to privacy as she could manage.

  “I want you to do some extra research for me,” she told Edoran as the dance brought them together. “You, and Weasel.”

  Edoran bowed, right on the beat, curse him. Her own curtsy was half a beat behind.

  “You should ask Weasel,” Edoran murmured. Both of them were keeping their voices low. “He’s the one who’s good at it.”

  “Yes, but you’re…”

  The movement of the dance turned him away.

  “… you’re the one who can talk and dance at the same time,” Arisa finished, as the pattern brought them together. “Weasel can’t.” In truth, she wasn’t sure she could talk and dance at the same time, but this was her best chance to talk to him. “Listen, we may not have a lot of time. Katrin’s uncle, Master Mimms, owns…”

  This time she was whirled off, to dance with another partner for several turns.

  “Katrin’s uncle owns a tavern called the King’s Folly. I want to know if he, or someone he cares about, had any trouble with Justice Holis. A judgment that went against them, or a kinsman…”

  The sequence of the dance pulled them apart again, but the grand rond was coming up and Edoran would be walking her around the circle. When they met for the beginning of that final promenade, however, he spoke first.

  “You shouldn’t worry so much about your maid’s death. No one really thinks—”

  “This isn’t about Katrin’s death,” said Arisa. “Or not exactly. It’s about the reason she died. And that reason probably still exists.”

  They both turned around. When they were face-to-face once more, Edoran was frowning. “How can the reason she died still exist if she’s dead? Anyway, it’s not the archives you want for that kind of thing. City records stay in the court files for fifty years, before they’re passed into the archives.”

  He offered his elbow and Arisa laid her hand on it. “Yes, but you could get access to the city records, couldn’t you? Without anyone finding out about it?”

  “I can’t do anything without everyone knowing about it,” Edoran told her. “What do you expect me to do? Sneak out at midnight and break into the Justice Hall? Besides, I’m beginning to make progress with my own search.” His voice, already low, dropped even further. “Did you know that my father had several accidents—near misses, which might have injured or killed him—in the year and a half before he died?”

  “No,” said Arisa. “But people have accidents, and near misses, all the time. If he wasn’t injured—”

  She stumbled as Edoran maneuvered her into the slow rotation that she’d forgotten occurred at each quarter of the circle. The couples on either side of them were staring. Arisa smiled, trying to make the low-voiced conversation look less intense than it was.

  “The first time,” Edoran told her, “something happened to the brakes on a wagon. It came rolling down the hill right at him, and would have crushed him if he hadn’t gotten out of the way. Do you think that was coincidence?”

  “It might be,” said Arisa. “But even if it—”

  “And the next time,” Edoran went on, “he was hunting with a group of courtiers. He got separated from them, and—”

  “We don’t have time for hunting stories!” Arisa hissed. They were coming up on the second quarter pirouette, and the dance finished at the circle’s end. “Even if you’re right, even if they weren’t accidents and Pettibone did kill your father, Pettibone is dead! You can’t kill him again, can you?”

  “No, but—”

  This time he forgot the turn. She grabbed his arm and manhandled him through it.

  “You can’t punish him any further,” she went on more gently. “I understand why you’d want to, and I see that you need to know for certain, though I don’t quite understand why, but my research is urgent! Mine is important now!”

  Edoran’s face froze. “Your research is about a maidservant. Mine is about the death of a king.”

  The haughtiness of all his royal ancestors rang in his voice, and Arisa scowled.

  “Are you going to help me, or not?”

  “Not,” Edoran snapped.

  They finished the circle in angry silence, without missing a single step.

  She thought about enlisting Weasel alone, but what could he do without Edoran’s help? He might be able to break into the Hall of Justice, but he couldn’t do all the research she needed without someone seeing the light of his lamp.

  What she needed was for Edoran to invent some excuse to go there, like looking for more information about his father’s so-called accidents.

  Except, as they’d learned while looking at the investigation into the sword’s disappearance, records from the palace guard went straight into the archives when an investigation was closed. And Edoran was using their search for the sword as an excuse to investigate his father’s death.

  Why would he bother to hide that, anyway? The man who had (or hadn’t) killed the king could hardly become suspicious and flee. It made Edoran look paranoid and weird, but so what? Everyone who knew him thought he was paranoid and weird. The lucky ones who didn’t know him thought he was a spoiled brat. And all of them were right!

  But if he wouldn’t help her, she’d have to find someone who would.

  The next afternoon she postponed her nap and made her way to the stables. She told the head groom and half a dozen undergrooms that no, she didn’t want to ride in this downpour, she just wanted a change of scene after al
l this time cooped up in the palace. Eventually they gave up, and she located Sammel in a small tack room.

  “Do you want me to saddle Honey for you, Mistress Benison?” he asked in his “Henley” voice, laying down a broken bridle and rising to his feet.

  “It’s pouring rain,” Arisa pointed out. “And I’m wearing a dress.”

  She looked around to make sure no one was paying any attention to her, and closed the tack room door.

  Sammel grinned and sat down on the stool, taking up the bridle again. “I can’t blame you for not wanting to ride out in this. No one does. The horses are restless, but when we turn them out to pasture they don’t want to stay out in it, either. Downright unnatural, if you ask me.”

  “What, the rain? It always rains on the coast in winter.”

  “Not for eighteen days straight, it don’t,” Sammel told her. “They say this is the longest continual rain in anyone’s memory. It should be flooding fields and cellars all around the city, but it isn’t, and that’s unnatural too, they say.”

  “They always say it’s the longest rain, or the deepest snow, or the hottest whatever,” said Arisa. She seated herself on a worn tack chest. “Sammel, I need your advice. Maybe your help, though I don’t know what you could do.”

  His expression softened. “If this is about young Katrin’s death, that wasn’t your fault. It must have been a right shock finding her, and it was wrong t’ try to get her in trouble, but—”

  “I know it’s not my fault!” Arisa snapped. “This is… This is a practical matter. I went to the prince first but he turned me down. Flat. Arrogant, spineless twit that he is.”

  “What else were you expecting?” Sammel asked. “He’s the prince, after all. And it’s not like you’ll be putting up with him much longer, anyway.”

  “What do you mean? My mother wants me to befriend the royal runt. I’ll have to put up with him forever!”

  Sammel blinked rapidly. “Well, but he’ll be growing out of it, surely. He’ll have to. King’s not a job that a spoiled brat can handle.”

  Arisa thought of Regalis. “I’m not so sure about that. But at least that isn’t my problem.”

  “If your mother wants you to befriend him, it is your problem,” Sammel said firmly. “Don’t you go making trouble for your mother, young mistress. What with Holis against her and these pirates raiding ashore, she’s got more than enough on her plate.”

  “I don’t think Justice Holis is against her, exactly,” said Arisa. “And there hasn’t been a raid for weeks, so—”

  Her heart sank at the sudden regret on Sammel’s face.

  “There’s been another raid?”

  “News came this morning,” he said. “It’s not known t’ many, but the messenger babbled it out as he came off his horse. Rode the poor beast into a lather. Not that I blame the man. They hit Marsden.”

  Arisa frowned. “Marsden’s one of the larger fishing villages. It’s almost a town.”

  “The weather’s better away from the city,” Sammel told her. “So the men were out in their boats. Those left—the women, children, and old folks—they had no warning at all.”

  Arisa shook her head in shock and sorrow. Then she thought about what Master Mimms would say, and winced.

  “Why doesn’t mother hire more men into the navy? Send them after those… those killers.”

  Sammel sighed. “It’s not just a matter of manpower, lass. The whole navy’s searching the coast already, but the southern islands are a maze. You could send ten times the number of ships the navy’s got, and still not find ’em.”

  “Then we need twenty times more ships!”

  “Aye, but you can’t build a naval sloop overnight—takes over a year start to finish t’ make a ship like that. And even if we built ’em they’d need men to man ’em, and you can’t train sailors overnight either.”

  Arisa rose and paced back and forth. “What about the army then? Have them patrol the coast. Stop them on land, since they’re raiding the land.”

  And why were the pirates doing that now, for the first time in living memory?

  “Your mother commands the army in name only,” Sammel reminded her. “It’s General Diccon they really obey, and he takes his orders from Holis, not your mother, whatever the rules might be. Nothing but a swindle, that lord commander flimflam.”

  His lips were tight with anger. He could never accept that the Falcon had taken second rank to Justice Holis, when it was her men who had defeated the palace guard and overthrown the old regent. None of the Falcon’s men had accepted it—which was why Holis had dismissed the Falcon’s men.

  “But the navy’s loyal to her,” Arisa pointed out. “Some of the naval officers were hers even when Pettibone was in charge, and now those officers are in command. Besides, Holis wants those pirates stopped as badly as mother does—maybe more. There has to be something the army can do.”

  “They’re trying,” Sammel admitted. “They’ve put troops into every fishing village that might be a target. Small troops, for the most part, but they haven’t got that many men to spare, either.”

  Arisa frowned. “Then why weren’t there troops in Marsden?”

  “They did have a troop there,” Sammel told her. “But there were far more pirates than soldiers—and you’re enough your mother’s daughter to know how that ends.”

  Arisa thought of brave men bleeding out their lives on the wet sands, and wanted to weep. And she wanted to help, hang it! Somehow.

  “But there’s nothing either of us can do about that,” Sammel told her, unknowingly answering her thought. “So what’s this advice you want from me?”

  Don’t you go making trouble for your mother. If she told him about Master Mimms, in his present mood Sammel would probably stalk into the tavern one night and beat the man to a pulp. He would certainly stop Arisa from returning there.

  “Nothing,” she told him. “It doesn’t seem important now.”

  It wasn’t important, Arisa thought, wiping furiously at the mud the last dozen customers had tracked in on their shoes. She wasn’t even sure what she was doing at the tavern that night.

  Yes, Master Mimms was a blowhard with a grudge against the new regent. Who cared? The guard thought Katrin had surprised a bunch of thieves; they might be right. All she’d seen Katrin do was visit her own uncle’s tavern. So what if she’d seen a man who looked like another man? Master Darian was probably three realms away by now, and still running.

  Edoran’s paranoia had rubbed off, that’s what it was. Her maid hadn’t liked her—that didn’t mean there were enemies lurking everywhere. The court was so full of small minds, living small lives, that little things started looking bigger than they were.

  Arisa rinsed her rag in the bucket, then moved to one side as a knock sounded and Stu went to open the door. It would be only another customer, bringing in more of this eternal mud. She was scrubbing floors, while pirates slaughtered villagers and undermined the government.

  She glared at the muddy boots that had just crossed the threshold as if it were their fault, and then froze, the rag dripping in her hand.

  Tall polished boots, that didn’t belong under the hem of the ragged coat. The boots of a naval officer.

  CHAPTER 11

  The Four of Fires: the liar.

  Deliberate deception.

  Arisa watched, surreptitiously, as Stu ushered the officer behind the bar and then through the door that led down to the cellar. Why down there?

  Arisa frowned, despite the excitement racing through her veins. She understood wanting to meet somewhere besides the taproom, but she’d seen the cellar when the aunt who did the cooking had run out of onions. It was crammed with barrels and kegs and bins. There wasn’t room for a meeting.

  But whatever was happening, she wasn’t just being paranoid. Something was going on! Soon Master Darian would arrive and… and he would see her, as clearly as she’d once seen him in the light that spilled through the tavern door.

  The flo
or was still muddy, but Arisa gathered up her bucket and retreated to the kitchen.

  Would he remember her? He’d seen her only once… but he’d been crouched in the corner, watching the entire drama of Pettibone’s death. Arisa’s part in it had been small, but he had seen her clearly, and under pretty memorable circumstances.

  The part he’d played had been smaller than hers, and she’d recognized his ordinary face. And he didn’t have—

  “Finished the floor then?” Mistress Mimms inquired. “Good. We need someone to pick up mugs. We’re almost out of clean ones.”

  —he didn’t have red hair. Hair that would glow in the lamp- and firelight when Master Darian walked though the door. Unless…

  “I’m not quite finished with the floor,” said Arisa. “Though I don’t mind going for mugs before I get back to it. But my hair keeps falling down into the muck.”

  She wrapped her long braid around her head as she spoke, then pulled a clean dishcloth from the cupboard and tied it tightly over her hair, tucking it in at the back so not a strand of red could be seen.

  “Shame to cover it,” said Baylee, who was washing mugs. “You’ve got beautiful hair.”

  “More shame to mop muddy floors with it,” said Mistress Mimms, handing Arisa a tray. “Leave the other dishes till you’ve brought at least one tray of cups, and then you can help Baylee dry them. We’re busy tonight, and…” Her lips pressed down over secrets. “Well, we’re busy.”

  Arisa was on the other side of the room, clearing a table where a lively arcanara game had just broken up, when Master Darian arrived.

  “Hello, Stu. You’ve got quite a crowd tonight.” He glanced around the room as he spoke.

  Arisa turned away, putting her back to the room. The nape of her neck crawled with tension, but she had little fear that he’d recognize her in a ragged dress, with her bright hair covered.

  Weasel once told her that a servant doing servant things, in a place where they were expected to be, was as invisible as the furniture.