Finder: First Ordinance, Book One

by Connie Suttle

  Inside King Tamblin's castle, gossip among servants was as common as potatoes in the soup. I learned much from that gossip, half of which was rumor or outright lies, but I was always able to tell the difference. Gossip concerning Timblor's dalliances with chambermaids was almost always true.

  I held myself stiffly at the end of the Crown Prince's bed and watched while he wrote. His letters were not as carefully formed or thought out as his brother's were; Timblor carelessly dragged the quill through words as if they held no meaning.

  When I wrote (and I did at times), I wrote as carefully as I could. The stones beneath my old mattress held a sheaf of parchment, upon which I'd written many things, much of it notes or recreations of paragraphs from the books surrounding my straw pallet. I felt those notes were safe enough where they were—nobody ever visited the old storage room where I slept—too many ghosts dwelt inside it.

  My ability to read and write had come as a wondrous accident—at age seven I'd dragged crates of books around my bed, hoping to keep freezing drafts away while I slept on a winter's night.

  I'd seen an illustration on the leather cover of a book carelessly tossed on top of others inside a crate, and using what little light was afforded by a pilfered tallow candle, I touched the drawing reverently. Knowledge of the words printed on the cover traveled through my fingers and lodged inside my brain. I'd held in my hand The Complete Geographical Works of Siriaa.

  Sadly, it was no longer complete, with numerous pages ripped away from its binding. With enthusiastic amazement, I'd turned fragile parchment pages, absorbing eagerly every drop of information until a ripped out page would halt my progress abruptly. Siriaa, as it turns out, was the planet and Fyris only one (and the smallest) of several continents, surrounded by many seas.

  Parchment crackled, drawing me away from my memories. Timblor folded the note he'd written without placing a wax seal on it, then handed it to me, forcing me away from my thoughts and reminding me to tend to my duties. I bowed respectfully to the heir and took my leave.

  * * *

  Where did you find the girl, brother? Timblor's first sentence compelled Amlis to crush the note in his hand. He'd sent the note to his brother as a test. How had he ever imagined that his womanizing brother wouldn't notice, or at least dismiss Finder casually as more boy than girl?

  A clean face worked wonders for the hapless kitchen girl, who'd escaped notice until he'd conscripted her services and forced her before dozens of male eyes. Nevertheless, Timblor wouldn't do anything if he felt it would aggravate Amlis. At least not yet. Only time would tell if that would change.

  * * *

  "Boots fit well enough?" Amlis asked me as we strode toward the stables. I nodded. Nirok had dressed me in a young man's clothing, but it hung loosely at the waist and the shoulders were too wide. He promised the new clothing would fit properly before he'd left Amlis' suite the day before. The bootmaker had also brought several pairs of boots, the smallest of which he'd left with me. They were still a bit large and I had no socks so my feet slipped inside them.

  I wasn't complaining; the boots kept my feet warm as Amlis, Rodrik and I walked a snowy path toward the stable door, which was closed against the unusual cold. One of Amlis' old cloaks (from when he was a boy) draped my shoulders and I wrapped it closer about me as the wind whipped around castle walls, viciously blowing loose snow into unsuspecting eyes.

  "Ever been on a horse?" Amlis asked as Rodrik pushed back the heavy stable door far enough that we could enter. I shook my head at Amlis' query. The stablemaster, who'd seen me barely two days earlier, stared openmouthed now as Amlis wandered toward a large, reddish-brown horse with a white, uneven stripe down his face and white stockings above each hoof.

  The horse liked Amlis very much, nosing the Prince's chest in affection. Amlis offered something to the horse from a pocket, which the animal accepted gratefully and crunched with relish, shaking his head in approval as he chewed.

  "Runner loves carrots," Rodrik whispered at my ear and I realized I'd been gaping rudely. Runner, having finished his treat, was now staring at me as well. Pawing the straw-strewn floor inside his stall, he whickered softly at me, nodding his head a second time and offering an invitation.

  I dared not go. What would the Prince and the others do if they learned that any animal would come to my hand if I beckoned? Visions of wild deer or boar or any other thing they'd failed to capture came to mind, all coming to me so waiting men could deliver their deaths. No. I would not betray that trust.

  Not now, I whispered mentally into Runner's mind and he turned away, agreeing to keep my secret.

  "We'll need something slow and plodding for my new page," Amlis offered a grin to Garth, the stablemaster. They were allies; I could see it now, although I'd already guessed it.

  "I have just the thing," Garth nodded respectfully. He was treating Amlis as a Prince today, since three stable boys were busy mucking out stalls farther down. "Old Broom will not like leaving his warm stall this morning, but he'll only grumble instead of tossing his rider into the street and trotting right back." Rodrik held back a snicker at Garth's words.

  That's how it was decided; I would ride Old Broom. Old Broom turned out to be a fat, shaggy brown gelding that had never held hopes of reaching Runner's height. Rodrik saddled his horse—a black stallion that blinked a question at Rodrik when the saddle dropped onto his back.

  Yes, I thought the same as Rodrik's Midnight—why were we going out in such terrible weather? What could be so important that it couldn't wait? Neither Midnight nor I could voice that question, so it went unanswered.

  I was shown how to saddle Old Broom by a groom, whose eyes kept wandering across my face until the stablemaster whacked him with a riding crop. The boy turned back to his lesson quickly, showing me how to adjust the girth. Had he known it, Old Broom would have stood all day for me, until I'd gotten it right. He wouldn't have for anyone else, however. Maliciously, he swatted the boy with his tail when the boy thought to repeat his lesson.

  Rodrik hefted me into Old Broom's saddle shortly after, adjusting the stirrups to a comfortable length. The stablemaster bade the boy open the door for us and Old Broom clopped away from the stable and into cruel, biting winds, obediently following Midnight, Runner and their riders.

  My face was frozen by the time we reached our destination—an inn on the eastern edge of Lironis. Both times I'd been outside the palace walls, it hadn't been far beyond the thick stone barrier that stood three times the height of a tall man. I'd never traveled this far in my life. At least not in memory.

  It made me wonder (again) about dead parents. Had they loved me? Were they farmers, perhaps? Or poor residents of Lironis? Whoever they were, they had no relatives willing to take in a small child, so I'd been handed off to the first place where a child could be put to work. That, as it turned out, was the palace kitchen.

  The others who worked in the kitchen drew a wage, as poor as it was for some of them. Orphans were never offered money for their efforts; they were supposed to be grateful that someone took them in at all, and then expected to work for their upkeep and a small space to sleep. In all my life, I'd never had a coin to spend—nobody had ever given one to me.

  A groom took our horses once we arrived at the inn's stable, and he bowed properly to Amlis, taking Runner's reins first. Amlis straightened the gloves on his hands and I watched in envy. I had no gloves and on our journey, I'd let Old Broom have his head, dropping the reins in favor of using my frozen fingers to wrap the cloak tightly around my body while we rode.

  My horse knew to follow the others, and he wouldn't have hurt me anyway. None of them would. I slid from the saddle before Rodrik was forced to lift me off Old Broom's back, and we huddled farther into our cloaks as the wind bit into any flesh bared to it on our walk toward the inn's front door.

  "I almost expected you to cancel," the innkeeper accepted Amlis' cloak. Rodrik jerked his head and coming to myself, lifted his from his shoulders and took Amlis'
heavy blue wool from the innkeeper, moving toward pegs lining a board on the wall. Two cloaks already hung there, nearly as fine as the Prince's. Dutifully I hung both cloaks I held before shedding mine and hanging it away from the others—it had no business being anywhere near them.

  The innkeeper was elderly and balding; I focused on the back of his head as he led us toward a room in the back. White hair dipped in a horseshoe shape at the back of his head and wisped over his ears, stopping there to leave his forehead and the top of his skull completely bare. Washed-out blue eyes studied me as he stood aside to allow us inside the room, after which he promised to bring food and drink before shutting the door.

  "Amlis, it's good to see you again," one of two men rose and greeted the Prince. I'd never seen this one before, in or out of the Palace. The other I recognized easily enough. Hirill stood and dipped his head to Amlis. Was I surprised? No. Worried? Most certainly.

  "Good to see you as well, Uncle Rath," Amlis embraced the first man, thumping him on the back affectionately.

  "Father," Rodrik's embrace was more subdued than Amlis', but then he was older and had likely seen Rath of Vhoorth more regularly than the Prince.

  Rath was Queen Omina's elder brother; everyone in Fyris knew that. Rath's fault lay in his inability to get along with the King. Also a well-known fact. If King Tamblin knew Rath was in Lironis, he would likely show his brother-in-law to the gates himself, with an invitation never to return.

  In my dreams, I could never have envisioned this meeting—Hirill, a member of Tamblin's inner circle, sitting beside Rath as if they were the best of friends. Perhaps Amlis believed that they were. I had my doubts, and my talent supported them in every way. I had no way to pass this information to Amlis, however, or Rodrik, even, so I stood back and waited for the innkeeper to bring food and wine, prepared to serve it if it were required of me.

  Rath looked to be an older version of Rodrik, and much like Amlis, since he favored his mother, Rath's sister. Vhoorth was two days' ride south of Vhrist, where she lived.

  In my geography and history books, not much was given on the population of either city, or what their holdings were or how they were governed. All I knew was dry information, garnered from a book with many pages ripped away, which said Ridik, Rath and Omina's father, had once ruled both principalities before dividing them between his two children. Then Omina had married Tamblin, followed by many more missing pages.

  "Have you any idea how to draft the message?" Hirill hefted a satchel onto the polished, oak plank table. It had seen much use, that table, bearing dents and rings from countless tankards of ale slapped onto its surface. I watched as Hirill withdrew a sealed inkpot and parchment from the satchel, leaning over to search for quills at the bottom.

  Hirill would have been handsome to me—if I trusted him. I didn't. The chambermaids discussed him nearly as much as they did Timblor, and with good reason. Hirill had close-cropped blond hair, blue eyes and an easy smile, but to me that smile held a cruel twist at the corners.

  "No records exist on how to address the king, or even if there is a king, since we've had no communication with them since," Rath began. He didn't finish the sentence. I'd held my breath for a moment, hoping that he would. What king? Where? Again, I was left adrift, like a rudderless boat upon the sea.

  The sea had come to my mind, unbidden. I'd heard tales that one might view the shores of the Southern Sea if one climbed to the topmost turret in Tamblin's palace on a clear day, but I hadn't had any opportunity to go there and rumor had it that it was closed off and locked anyway.

  "So, girl, you're the mute one?" Rath pulled me away from my thoughts as a sheet of parchment was handed to him. He accepted the offered quill and inkpot from Hirill as he asked the question. His dark-blue eyes searched my face while I surveyed the many strands of gray in his dark-brown hair. I nodded my answer.

  "Are you stupid as well?" I offered a noncommittal shrug.

  "Good enough. Let's begin the message this way, then," he scraped quill across parchment with practiced ease. "My Lord," he wrote and spoke aloud, "we are in dire need of your assistance."

  Chapter 3

  By the end of the evening, I was left with a larger mystery than when it had begun. Somewhere past the northern shores of Fyris, a Lord dwelt that might offer assistance with a poison slowly consuming Fyris. Somehow, I had the feeling that the Lord might not cooperate, even with Lord Rath's abasement and carefully chosen words.

  No mention was made as to what the poison might be, and the letter made it sound as if this mysterious Lord would have complete knowledge of it, anyway. Why was there need to hide this from King Tamblin? After all, if there were a way to save Fyris and its people as the letter implied, why wouldn't he be writing the thing himself and swiftly?

  Dead and dying children came to mind and I wanted to shake my head over the entire thing, but I was kept busy filling wine cups and fashioning sandwiches from slices of thick, fresh bread supplied by the innkeeper—Amlis and the others were quite hungry. After a while, Amlis allowed me to take bread, cheese and a cup of wine to a corner and consume it there.

  Leaning back against shaved and sanded logs that made up the walls of the inn, I listened while the debate went on over what to include in the letter. That Lord Rath debased himself so much told me something—the one for whom the letter was intended must be powerful indeed.

  None of the history accounts I'd read, nor the geographical treatises, indicated a country or island to the north inhabited by a powerful Lord. In the maps I'd seen, there was only one continent to the north, filled with barbarians. According to the book, anyway.

  Was this Lord a barbarian? If so, could he even read the letter and understand it? A third continent, far to the east of Fyris, was essentially unpopulated, according to the books, and a fourth to the west had never been explored. But the books I'd read were quite old. Who knows how things now stood, or if the missing pages might explain things more clearly?

  I had much to ponder as I listened on that snowy evening, devoting half my mind to the ongoing debate while the unanswered questions aggravated the other.

  "This is the best we can do," Rath sighed eventually, folding the final draft carefully and sealing it much the same way that Amlis had sealed the message to his brother, with wax and an imprint from a heavy ring he wore.

  The wax in this case was green—the color of the major nobles. Yellow was for minor nobles, but I'd only had the opportunity to see that once before, when a message had come to Wolter in the kitchens.

  "I will carry this with me and find someone to take it past our northern shore," Rath said. "Beginning tomorrow. Son, shall you and the Prince stay as my guests this evening? The inn has comfortable rooms."

  "We must return to the palace, Uncle," Amlis answered in Rodrik's stead. "My brother thinks we're at the brothel."

  "Celebrating your majority a few moon-turns early?" Rath grinned mischievously.

  "Of course, Uncle. How else would it be?" Amlis grinned back. The discarded drafts of the letter were taken up by Rodrik, who tossed them into the fire. I watched the edges curl and then burn. Rodrik watched, too, until all were consumed.

  I helped the innkeeper clear away plates and cups while Amlis and Rodrik made small conversation with Rath and Hirill. Afterward, I pulled cloaks from pegs and assisted Amlis and Rodrik as they dressed for the cold.

  Wrapping myself in Amlis' castoff, I followed my two into the bitter cold, with Hirill not far behind. The Prince's party was served first, our horses saddled and brought out as was proper, and we were away while Hirill searched for hat and gloves in his saddlebag.

  The night had not improved the weather's disposition, the bitter winds howling around shuttered homes and businesses as we made our way toward the castle. There was little light, but the road was easy enough to see in the snow. Our horses had their heads down; the return trip was forcing us into the wind instead of away from it, as it had on our journey to the inn.

  When
the vision hit, I knew Amlis and Rodrik would be cut to pieces if we kept our current pace. I shouted into Runner and Midnight's minds to run as fast as they could to save their lives and the lives of the men they carried.

  * * *

  "Something spooked their horses, my Lord." Yevil stood before the King's massive desk. Carved of walnut, it was stained as black as Yevil's soul.

  No books graced the shelves in King Tamblin's library—they'd been emptied when he took it for his own. Most of the tomes had been burned in the fireplace opposite his desk, as he'd had no use for them.

  "My men did not pursue; that many horses racing through the streets on such a wintry night would arouse suspicion."

  "You did right, of course," the King toyed with the ring he wore on his smallest finger. Tandelis had worn it on the proper finger, but then his hands had been smaller than Tamblin's. Weak, Tamblin thought as he twisted the ring. Tamblin snorted—Yevil had failed to kill Rodrik and the boy.

  How many times had he suspected that Amlis was not his son, though he'd tortured Omina's maid, attempting to force a confession from her of his wife's dalliance. The woman had breathed her last, professing Omina's continued fidelity. Either way, the boy had too much of his uncle in him for his own good and his death would ensure a smooth transition when Timblor took the throne.

  "What about the girl—the page?"

  "She was left behind on that plodding old pony. We let her pass—after all, what can she tell any of them?" Yevil replied. A slow smile spread across the King's face.

  * * *

  I will never forget the look of relief that crossed Rodrik's face as Old Broom and I clopped into the stable that night. It was three hours before dawn, an hour after I was normally up and cleaning hearths. Exhausted, I nearly stumbled as I slid from Old Broom's back, offering him a grateful pat that shot chill pains through my fingers and palm.

  "I'll make sure he's fed proper. Those other two didn't stop running until they reached the stable," Garth observed. He'd waited with Rodrik, likely hoping that the horse would come back even if I didn't.