by Hilari Bell
In the daylight he might have been visible through the bare branches. But now clouds drifted across the moon, and the light from the streetlamps, which burned all night in this wealthy neighborhood, didn’t reach into the shadows by the wall.
The wet stone against his back and feet made him shiver, but he didn’t have to wait long.
They marched down the street in two columns, the guards’ boot heels making an amazing racket in the quiet night. Justice Holis walked between them. His expression was placid, but Weasel knew the justice well enough to read fear in the stiffness of his posture. Master Darian followed, like a sinister shadow in his dark coat. And, the God be praised, not one of them even looked in Weasel’s direction.
At least they’d allowed Holis to put on a coat. He was an old man, and damp was bad for his lungs. If they put him in a cell …
Weasel gritted his teeth and forced himself to think. He didn’t know if they’d succeeded in salvaging any of the letters, but the fact that they’d come in such force, prepared for an arrest, meant they already had the evidence they needed.
Weasel had to … to what?
Now might be a very good time to begin a career as a forger.
A forger who could reproduce legal documents could make a lot of money. And not end up in the regent’s jail—well, not if he was careful. Weasel had been careless only once in his whole criminal career—the day he’d decided to pick the pocket of an absentminded-looking elderly man and found he’d caught a justice. Or rather, a justice had caught him.
He could have been imprisoned then. He could even have been hanged….
Weasel shivered. Pettibone would see them all hang.
Think your hand will be steady enough to forge documents with a ghost breathing in your ear?
No, he had to try. He owed Justice Holis too much. If the justice hanged, Weasel would never be free of him. Prison would be better!
Though if Weasel went up against the regent, he might have a chance to test that theory. Pettibone would be merciless to men who tried to overthrow him. Unless …
Unless someone with more power stopped him.
That might work! If Prince Edoran could be persuaded to oppose the regent, Weasel wouldn’t have to do anything. He had never been present when Justice Holis spoke to the prince, but he knew there had been many such occasions. Holis had written to his fellow conspirators that he’d begun to earn the prince’s trust. He wouldn’t have said that if he wasn’t certain. Had he earned enough trust, enough royal favor, that the prince would override the regent?
He’d better have, Weasel thought grimly, as the small troop of guards reached a corner and passed out of sight.
There were only two ways to get the justice out of this. One was a royal pardon, the other was a jailbreak. And a jailbreak meant overpowering the palace guards, which would require an army, which Weasel didn’t have.
He was going to pay a call on the prince.
CHAPTER 2
The Five of Waters: mistrust. Help may be found in unexpected places, or a source of aid relied upon may fail.
The palace was well guarded. The stables were guarded. Even the kitchens were guarded. But the laundry where the servants’ clothes were washed was not only unguarded, it was closed with a lock so cheap that Weasel picked it almost as fast as he could have opened it with a key.
He’d gone back to Justice Holis’ house to retrieve his shoes, his own warm coat, and the lock picks that the justice didn’t know he’d kept. He’d hesitated over the well-honed knives in the kitchen. But when you planned to trick your way into the presence of royalty to ask a favor, coming armed might not be the best idea. Besides, Weasel preferred to use his wits.
He hadn’t had to break into the justice’s house, for Holis had showed him the crack in the back wall where he kept a spare key. In case Weasel lost his, he’d said. As if giving any key to a boy who’d picked his pocket only a few days before hadn’t been an act of insanity in the first place. Or was it? That had been the moment when not disappointing the justice had begun to matter.
Inside the laundry Weasel closed the door behind him, holding still while his eyes adapted to the dim light that came from a well-banked fire under a great copper kettle. Weasel wasn’t certain what kind of clothing a palace servant wore, but surely there would be more footmen’s garb than anything else. In fact, a close inspection indicated that there were more stable hands and gardeners than footmen, and quite a few cooks. But of the fancy outfits, there were far more of the cream-colored britches, with the slightly darker coats and green waistcoats, so that was probably what footmen wore.
Weasel was thin, and small for his fourteen years, so it took a while to find clothes that fit him. With any luck, the buckled leather shoes Justice Holis had thought appropriate for a junior clerk would pass for a footman as well. He had no idea how they wore their hair. Justice Holis bound his graying locks in a queue at the back of his neck, as the noblemen did. But Weasel’s hair, from long habit more than faith, was cut short in the fashion favored by followers of the One God. Most townsmen worshipped the One God, and surely at least some of the palace footmen were hired from their ranks. He hoped.
This would be dangerous—no question about it. He could still walk away…. But could he run far enough to escape the memory of his debt? No, he had to try.
The sky was going gray with the coming dawn when Weasel let himself out of the laundry and set off toward the palace’s rear gate.
He’d been there several times, on errands for the justice, but he’d never gone past the gate or dealt with anyone more highly ranked than the guards who were posted there.
It seemed he’d timed his arrival well. As he turned down the street toward the gate, he saw a group of footmen and maids ahead of him, wearing clothes just like the ones he’d stolen.
Weasel picked up his pace and managed to catch up with the yawning young maid who brought up the rear.
“Good morning. I’m We-William. William Stebbing. I was introduced to so many people yesterday that I’ve forgotten half of them, but I don’t think we met. In fact,” he finished, ogling her with exaggerated admiration, “I’m sure we didn’t meet. I’d have remembered you.”
She giggled, as he’d hoped she would. “Your first day?”
“Second,” Weasel told her. “And I hope I can keep a few more of the details in my head today. I served someone from the wrong side yesterday, and I swear”—Who supervised footmen? A steward? An over-footman?—“the old man practically had a stroke.”
Weasel didn’t know much about footmen, but he did know that they served at dinner, and that there was a right side to serve from. He hoped no one would ask him what it was.
The girl shrugged. “Well, it’s the palace, see? Master Gerand insists on everything just so. I’m Mabby, by the way. Mabby Hickman.”
A city name, a city accent, and most of the footmen around him wore their hair cut city short. The bad news was that their shoes were black with silver buckles, not brown with brass. The good news was that no one looked at his shoes as he passed through the gate, chatting easily with Mabby.
Once through the gate, they crossed a small yard. An ordinary-looking door led to a plain hallway, where the maids promptly began heading through a door on the right, and the footmen went on. Where were they going? Weasel’s steps slowed. He couldn’t ask without making Mabby suspicious, but she put her own interpretation on his reluctance.
“It’s just inspection and handing out tasks,” she said. “Master Gerand won’t bite. And you look …” Her gaze swept over him and stopped on his shoes.
“What are you wearing those for?”
Weasel sighed. “The black ones pinched. They rubbed blisters on my toes. These are my best. I thought maybe they’d do.”
“They won’t,” said Mabby. “But Master Gerand can find you tasks in the servants’ hall until the cobbler can fit you better.”
Judging by her sympathetic expression, working in the servants’ h
all was a step down, so Weasel sighed. “No use putting it off, I suppose. If I’m in the hall, perhaps I’ll see you later.”
“Perhaps you will,” she said, with a saucy smile.
She went through the door along with the rest of the maids, and Weasel followed the footmen … and then walked casually past the door where they all entered, continuing straight to the end of the hall, where another plain door opened into the largest, busiest kitchen Weasel had ever seen.
It was just after sunrise, but there had to be over forty people chopping things, mixing things, and dashing about. The thought of trying to carry up the prince’s breakfast tray crossed Weasel’s mind, odds were that Prince Edoran slept till near noon. Weasel needed to hide himself in the palace, or find some task to look busy and invisible at, until the prince dragged his lazy arse out of bed.
He spotted a door on the other side of the kitchen and set off briskly, like a man with an errand to perform. The cooks and their helpers were far too occupied to notice him, much less his shoes—though he was almost run down by a girl carrying a basket of apples that was nearly as big as she was. He passed through the kitchen door and strode down another utilitarian hall.
Weasel was beginning to think that the rumors about palace splendor were exaggerated, until he passed through yet another door and into the dining room.
It was empty, which was probably a good thing, for Weasel didn’t think he could have controlled his expression.
Gold glittered everywhere, from the tassels on the drapes, to the gilding on the ornamental plaster on the ceiling, to the dishes displayed in a cabinet, behind panes of clear glass.
It wasn’t quite as gloriously filchable as it looked, he told himself firmly. The gold leaf that seemed to decorate every surface would probably be so thin it would only make up a handful of gold blessings if it were melted and cast into coin. The tableware that went with the dishes, which might be solid gold, was doubtless locked in a strongbox somewhere.
It was the richest room Weasel had ever seen, and he had to shake off the spell of all that glitter before he could go on.
The hallway that opened off the dining room was less fancy, though the polished wood and thick rugs, the huge oil paintings of folk in silk and jewels, still made Weasel feel like he was walking in a dream.
A well-dressed older man turned the corner and came toward him. But when he saw Weasel, his face registered no more awareness than it did when he looked at the furniture. This was how Weasel had thought all the rich behaved, until he met Justice Holis. Stepping aside with lowered eyes as the man passed, Weasel was delighted to be invisible right now. It wasn’t the inhabitants of the palace he had to fear, but those who worked here. A nobleman would look at him and see nothing but a footman, about some errand, no doubt. A footman would see a stranger, idle, where he had no business being. Weasel needed a task.
But it wasn’t till he wandered into the front hall and saw several dozen letters lying on a stand that inspiration came to him.
He pulled one from the middle of the pile, so whoever had put them there wouldn’t notice anything amiss. There was a small silver tray under a flower vase—where had they gotten fresh flowers this time of year? But the vase looked just as good sitting on the table without it.
Weasel laid the letter in the exact center of the tray and carried it off. Now, if anyone stopped him he had the perfect excuse—an urgent message for the prince. Do you know if he’s awake yet? No? Then I’d better wait, don’t you think? When would be the best time to deliver it? Where will His Highness be then?
This was perfect! It would take him right into the prince’s presence.
The prince’s bedroom was probably somewhere above the ground floor, so Weasel climbed the sweeping staircase. As he walked down one of the long corridors, a footman emerged from one of the doors carrying a coal scuttle and a hearth brush.
Weasel hesitated. His original thought had been to avoid his fellow servants, but now …
“I’ve got a message here for the prince,” he said. “Do you know if he’s awake yet?”
The footman snorted. “Of course he’s awake. A regular rooster, he is.”
Weasel felt his brows rise, at the man’s contemptuous tone as much as his own surprise that the prince was awake this early.
“Do you know where I can find him?”
“They took his breakfast tray in not fifteen minutes ago,” said the man, gesturing down the corridor with his brush. “So he’s probably still in his suite.”
“Thank you.” Weasel walked in the direction the man had indicated. He’d expected to have hours to prepare for this conversation. Hours to learn the layout of the corridors, plan an escape route.
It was good that he would reach the prince sooner, he told himself. Less chance of getting caught. And what he needed to say wasn’t going to change, no matter how many times he rehearsed it.
Once they came in sight, there was no doubt which doors led to the prince’s room. No, suite. The double doors at the end of the corridor were painted white and decorated with twining vines that were covered with yet more gold leaf.
Weasel took a steadying breath and tapped softly on one door. It was opened by a man in a tight black coat, who Weasel thought must be the prince’s valet. He looked like a valet, with his narrow, fussy face and thin lips.
The lips parted. “Your business?” The man frowned. “I don’t know you.”
“I’m new,” said Weasel. The nervous quaver in his voice would be natural in a new footman, right? “It’s just my second day, but there was no one else in the hall when it came. A message for the prince,” he added, lifting the tray.
Would the valet take the letter in? What could Weasel do if—
But the man stood aside and beckoned for him to enter the spacious sitting room. It was, of course, very rich, but Weasel was almost accustomed to gilt by now, and he had no time to gawk. The valet, hissing exasperation, corrected Weasel’s grip on the tray from two-handed, secure, and comfortable to one-handed, uncomfortable, and precarious. It was probably incredibly elegant, but …
It was too late to complain, even to himself, about the absurdity of formal manners. The valet opened another door.
Weasel had a vague impression that the royal bedroom, its velvet drapes open to admit the morning light, wasn’t as glittery as he’d expected, but most of his attention was fixed on its occupant.
Prince Edoran was sitting up, propped by a mountain of pillows, eating toast from a tray and reading a slim volume that might have been poetry. He looked small, but that could be because he was alone in a bed that would have held four without crowding. His hair, long enough to fall past his thin collarbones, was a nondescript brown.
The valet’s hand on his shoulder urged Weasel forward.
“You’ve an urgent message here, Your Highness,” the valet said. “Can it be you’ve acquired an admirer I don’t know about?”
The prince laid his book aside, his brows drawing down in a scowl. “If I have, it’s none of your business.”
The valet was too close for Weasel to risk a whisper. He held out the tray, trying to catch the prince’s eye, but it seemed Prince Edoran was one of those noblemen who thought that servants were furniture. He paid no attention to Weasel as he picked up the letter, broke the seal, and opened it.
His eyes widened. His gaze turned to Weasel, sweeping up and down, lingering a moment on his shoes. “Is there a verbal message that accompanies this?”
“Yes, Your Highness,” said Weasel gratefully.
“Very well.” He turned to the valet. “You may go.”
“But Your Highness, surely you’ll need—”
“I command it,” the prince said firmly.
“Ah, a female admirer,” said the valet, with a coy smirk. He bowed and backed out of the room, closing the door behind him.
The prince’s eyes settled on Weasel, brown and intent. “If the tailor sent you to whisper sweet nothings in my ear along with his bill, I
’m going to be very surprised.”
“Sorry,” said Weasel. “I got it out of a pile on the stand at the foot of the stairs.”
“Unsorted mail,” said the prince. “Who are you?”
“I’m Justice Holis’ clerk,” said Weasel, relief flooding his veins. He would be able to deliver his news, convince this foppish prince—
“Ah,” said the prince. “So he sent you to whisper in my ear. That makes more sense than the tailor.”
“He didn’t send me to … I mean, he didn’t send me at all,” Weasel told him. “I came to tell you that he needs your help. Desperately. He’s been arrested.”
Bewilderment crossed the prince’s face. Weasel had a feeling it was the first honest expression he’d seen there. “Holis is a justice. How could he be arrested?”
“He was arrested by the palace guard,” said Weasel grimly. “The palace guard and Regent Pettibone’s clerk.”
The prince’s expression came back under his control, as abruptly as a slamming door. “What was the charge?”
“They didn’t say,” said Weasel. “But I’m guessing it will be treason. You’ll have to pardon him. A royal pardon is the only thing that can get him out of that charge.”
“A pardon is only necessary for the guilty,” said the prince. “Should I assume from your request that there’s plenty of evidence to convict him?” His voice was casual, almost flippant, and Weasel gritted his teeth.
“No, what they were planning was legal. Well, sort of. And they were never plotting against you, anyway. They were plotting against Regent Pettibone!”
“Then they’re in trouble,” said Prince Edoran. “Because Pettibone has legal authority over Deorthas till I turn twenty-two, and I doubt even the best lawyers will be able to drag out a trial for that long.”
He lifted his teacup and started to sip, but it was empty. He frowned and reached for the pot, but Weasel picked up the tray, holding it out of his reach.
