by A. J. Ponder
“The best for whom, exactly?” Sylvalla stormed out of the room to disturb Cook. It was time to see what was really happening. Amarinda couldn’t be a turncoat, and she couldn’t be dead either, Sylvalla felt it in her bones. So where was she?
War was coming. It was inevitable. And losing spies was a part of war. But a quiet little mouse like Amarinda who needed to be dared to wear a fancy dress? A spy? Why had nobody told her she was missing? Or that so many of the kingdom’s spies were missing. Something was horribly wrong.
Weapons
Weapons come in all shapes and sizes. They all have their own uses and preferences. Some even prefer not to think of themselves as weapons—although they are.
Amarinda
NAME:Amarinda
CLASS:Servant
FAMILIAR:With all the horrible jobs nobody wants to do.
SPECIALTY:Healing.
RÉSUMÉ:Redacted
PASSED: Redacted
Amarinda had slipped into the Northdale Castle kitchens as a grease-ball, and immediately hated it. It was worse than she’d ever thought. The pay was non-existent, the hours were terrible, sleeping was dangerous, and her fellow workers were the most mean-spirited, sallow lot you could ever hope to meet. She didn’t even blame them—they were all effectively prisoners of the castle. It was probably the only reason there were any staff left at all.
After this, Amarinda thought, I’ll never complain about working for Sylvalla again.
Weeks passed, and she couldn’t escape. It was hard enough to get out of the kitchens. She’d already been birched twice for exploring. Nobody had come to pick up a message, and she had no information to give, anyway.
She was gathering the courage to try to escape again, when a nobleman and his military entourage entered the kitchen.
“The famous Arrant,” someone whispered. “He’s come to save us from the Witch Queen Sylvalla.”
Not likely, Amarinda thought. Heart thundering, she pretended to focus on scouring the pots. This was the man who was driving this war, and if the rumours were right, working to convince the kings in the Seven Kingdoms to do his bidding. Theoretically, this was all on the bidding of the true king of Avondale. Amarinda didn’t believe it for a moment—not that she’d believe Arrant if he said the sky was blue.
Arrant barged past her, muttering under his breath, “…stupid bloody Thurgle can’t tell the difference between a babe and a grown man. He’d better get it right soon, or I’ll feed him to the royal hellhounds. I need that boy!”
“What?” Evil Cook said. “Did you say something about a boy?”
“Oh?” Arrant didn’t miss a beat. “I was saying I hope young King Tomas will be better soon. That poor boy, not yet two, and he’s already had his throne stolen out from under him. We can’t take any chances with his health.”
“Terrible,” one of the maids said, shaking her head from side to side, and running to the other side of the kitchen as if she’d just remembered she had an urgent job to do.
“Dreadful,” the horrible cook agreed. “Them Avondales will stab you in the back. Leastwise, they will with that silly girl running things. It’s not a wimmin’s place to rule a country, and now her soldiers are out roamin’ the countryside pillaging and taking our grain. It’s going to be a hard winter, you mark me words. And Amda, you lazy slug,” she said, near-walloping Amarinda around the head with a wooden spoon, “it’ll be you as starves first.”
Amarinda realised she was staring at Arrant and pretended to put all her energy into scrubbing pots. Evil Cook’s talk of pillaging was true, only the cause was wrong. Worse, she’d gathered enough evidence to know Arrant was likely the cause—and here he was, smirking, as Evil Cook accused Sylvalla of his crimes.
“Dreadful,” Arrant said, echoing Evil Cook. “But that’s why I’m here. We’ll defeat her. You mark my words, our victory will be glorious and the men of Northdale will return home as heroes. Now if you don’t mind, I’m sending out a rai… er, scouting party, I don’t suppose there’s anything here for them to eat?”
Evil Cook beamed, and bustled about the place merrily talking, while Arrant nodded. A good many provisions disappeared into his satchel. Then, having raided the pantry of treats, Arrant picked his way past her and the other workers with a disdain bordering on hatred.
Fingers red-raw from the lye and sand, Amarinda continued to keep her head down in the hope he wouldn’t notice her.
As soon as he was gone, Evil Cook turned on her again. “It’s dreadful how the likes of Sylvalla can go traipsing around the country. Your accent is a bit queer you know, and the first thing that popped into my head is mebee the lass’ from Avdale. You’re right lucky you’re not, lass.”
“Yeh,” Amarinda drawled, trying to sound as rural Northdale as she possibly could. “An’ I daresay you’re not wrong. I heard tell she be running around in trousers. And cloaks. And waving swords. And visiting evil caves and the like.” Amarinda shivered. She didn’t even need to put on the shiver, the stories she’d heard about those A’lganathrieal caves were hair-raising.
Torri
NAME: Torri
CLASS:Servant, Spy and most recently lady-in-waiting to Queen Sylvalla.
FAMILIAR: None
SPECIALTY: Making traps.
RÉSUMÉ:Torri is not an ordinary servant. For a start, she has been trained as a spy. Given that servants are poorly paid and invisible, they have both the incentive and the means for this kind of work. Torri’s real expertise, though, is in making what Dirk calls people traps. She rigged a few temporary devices when Avondale was under attack, but her most spectacular successes were the trebuchet-style war engines called Chunkers used against Scotch Mist. Sometime after that, a certain book came to light.[94] It helped to explain her extraordinary expertise.
Her recent post as lady-in-waiting to the queen has been most annoying. Dreary one moment and over-exciting the next. Torri is hoping Amarinda will return soon.
PASSED:Redacted.
Torri sidled into the Avondale kitchen behind Sylvalla and Dirk. The last time she was in here, Dirk had requisitioned her for the army and Cook had been furious—but that was only to be expected when you walked out of a kitchen in the middle of wedding-feast preparations.
“Cook,” Sylvalla blurted. “What do you—”
Cook popped a kettle on the fire. Clever. Once it got boiling it’d make a right racket. “Ah, Queen Sylvalla an’ Dirk the Defender, please ’ave a pastry. And Torri, so nice of ya ter drop in—after all this time.”
“Yes, Cook.” Torri bobbed a curtsey, ducking her head to hide her burning cheeks.
“’S dangerous times,” Cook said, looking into all their eyes in turn. “I hope you’ll wait for the kettle to boil. We can have a cup of tea.”
“What?” Sylvalla said. “Tea? Pastry? I have things to do. I came for Amarinda. My mother, Queen Tishke, says—”
“In good time—try not to blow me cover,” she whispered under her breath before bellowing, “Me cookin’ not good enuff fer the likes of you?”
“Er,” Sylvalla said. She looked up at Dirk, who was pretending this conversation was not as interesting as the half-dozen pasties he was nicking. Torri followed his example.
Chewing thoughtfully, Cook murmured, “We’re goin’ ter be attacked. There’s a man called Sir Arrant—”
“Arrant!” Sylvalla exclaimed.
“Sir?” Dirk frowned. “Surely not.”
Cook shrugged expansively. “Doesn’t ’ave to be the same one, now, does it? So he’s bin going ’round the other kingdoms with these expensive little gifts, and sayin’ as how you being a queen, an’ all, is a threat to everyone. Problem is I can’t get a spy close enough without losin’ ’em. It’s wrong, that’s what it is…” She turned on Torri. “Now, listen to me, young lady, stop eatin’ me pasties or yer’ll have no room fer yer dinner.”
“What about Amarinda?” Sylvalla demanded. “What have you done with her? I swear—” She bit her tongue, looking
about nervously at the wizards. “All right, I won’t swear,” Sylvalla sad. “But what’s Amarinda got to do with any of this? What have you done with her?”
“I did what anyone else in my position would do.”
“Send a girl into a hostile kingdom with no training?”
“Who said she ’ad no training?” Cook bit back.
“You sent a spy…to watch over me?”
“An’ fat lot of use she was, too.”
“And Torri?” Sylvalla asked.
Torri bit her lip. “Amda and I, we never reported on you. Our job was to keep you safe. We pinky swore.” She did her best not to glance at Dirk. Would he realise she wasn’t above spying on him?
“So now my friend Amarinda is—”
“Probably dead,” Cook said. “We need to move on. Make other plans. I suggest we try a diplomatic envoy. If they end up dead, then it’s open war, and at least we’re no longer in the dark.”
Sylvalla was clutching her sword so hard her knuckles were white. Was that a tear? No, probably not. Sylvalla wasn’t the crying kind. And Cook, her face was pinched and drawn, was so unlike the Cook Torri knew. She seemed—crushed.
Behind them, the kettle thundered. Strange, she hadn’t noticed, but things were so tense, nobody turned to deal with it.
“If you want ’er out alive,” Cook was saying, “then going in to get ’er is not the right option. But mebe an official diplomat could do it. Get ’em to go to each king in turn and see if the stories about these jewelled butterflies capturing their minds is true. Maybe try to talk some sense into ’em. Worst case, we need to know how serious these rumours of attack are.”
“An attack on Avondale? By all five of them? Northdale, Riverdale, West Mist—”
“Yes, of course, an attack on Avondale. I wish that turnip would come through our gate with one of his bloody jewels—I wouldn’t be caught napping. My brave boys ’n’ girls, so well trained, an’ now? Just go. Find someone else ter sort this mess.”
Sylvalla stood. “I will avenge them.”
Cook put her face in her hands, floury though they were. “All gone—’cept my Amda. And I ain’t ‘eard nothin’ from er.”
“My gods,” Sylvalla said. “You really do mean every kingdom, all of them? And Amda? Is that Amarinda? What have you done to her?”
“Young lady, yer know what yer problem is?” Cook said, looking up to reveal her tragically flour-streaked face.
“What?” Sylvalla asked.
“You don’t eat enough, girl. Yer all skin and bone. If only yer’d stop waggling your tongue long enough ter get some food down, yer might not be such a lightweight.” Cook looked around. “Get ter work, Nathan!” she thundered. The noise level in the kitchen increased, so the sound of chopping and rattling pots could be heard over the boiling kettle.
“Ah, yes, an’ there’s a rumour goin’ around tha’ this Arrant struts about followed by a small boy brandishing a tiny sword.”
“My brother?” Sylvalla breathed deep.
“Don’ get overwrought,” Cook said. “That particular story has all the hallmarks of a lie. Yer really think yer brother is old enough to brandish a sword? ’Sides, we both know the heir of Avondale is right here.”
“Indeed,” Sylvalla said. “But I never gave anyone permission to send Amarinda anywhere. She’s my lady’s maid, and I didn’t give anyone permission to send her out spying.”
“What about Torri? Can I ’ave ’er back?” Cook asked.
“Torri has other things to do,” Dirk said. “But she’d better stop spying on me, because that would be dangerous.”
So he had noticed. Torri gave a frightened nod. “Of course not. With my lady’s permission.” She looked pointedly over at Sylvalla.
Cook sighed over-dramatically. “Take ’er, but don’t bother bringing ’er back. She’s useless to me now.” Cook came up really close to Sylvalla. “What kind of spy gallivants all over a battlefield an’ becomes such a fixture that there ain’t a soldier in the army that don’t know as what she looks like?”
Torri grinned back. But it was only a moment of happiness. Events were closing in on them. “Thank you, Cook. How long do you think we have?”
“Wish I knew. But Ah’ve a bad feeling in these old bones of mine.”
Torri looked from Dirk to Cook to Sylvalla and back to Dirk again. “I’m going to need supplies.”
Dirk shrugged. “You’ll get them.”
Torri nodded, trying not to let the idea bother her. She had family here. Family that needed to be protected. The thought that more kingdoms might come and attack was overwhelming. However fun making her machines was, she still had nightmares of the battlefield. “What if I can’t? What if it’s just too big? A lot of people will die, and I’m not a cold-blooded killer like you two.”
“I’m no cold-blooded killer,” Sylvalla protested. “I’m a hero.”
Dirk looked at them both. “You are what you are.”
Torri and Sylvalla both scowled at Dirk, and for once, he took the hint and backed off.
“Ah don’ think this Mist King fella or Arrant will be content with anything more than complete devastation. ’E has me worried.”
“Whatever your worries were, I’m not about to forgive yer for putting Amarinda in danger.” And with that, Sylvalla turned on her heel and walked out. Dirk tarried to talk with Cook—or perhaps not to let Torri out of his sight.
The three looked at each other. “What if I’m working for the wrong person? Fighting for the wrong side?” Torri whispered to Cook. “Now that Phetero is gone, maybe Sylvalla’s just making trouble. Maybe she’s fey like they all whisper behind her back. You know.”
“No, I don’t know,” Dirk interjected, although he hadn’t been asked. People had a hard time criticising Sylvalla around Dirk and keeping their heads. “Sylvalla is a good queen.”
Torri raised an eyebrow. “Sylvalla? A good queen? I’ve never heard no one say that, and ever so many rumours to the contrary. She’s thought to be quite unstable. Dangerous.”
“And you’re not?” Dirk asked.
Torri gulped.
Cook wiped her hands. “Ah’d feel safer with yer protecting us, Torri. Remember last time they got in?”
Torri nodded. Her eyes had a faraway sheen. “I did my duty.”
“Do more. Ah’m not sure what we’re fighting, but it’s bigger and more dangerous than anything Ah’ve ever managed to protect Avondale from before.”
§
Except for the enormously wearying demands on his time, and having to convince vain kings that he could offer them something of value, Arrant was beginning to enjoy this new lifestyle. He’d thought lording it over the thieves’ guild had been fine, but now his influence included kingdoms, he was discovering a whole new level of opulence.
A guard coughed. “Sire, Fergus has arrived.”
“Well, then, let him in. Do I have to tell you to do everything?”
“No, sire.” The man edged backwards.
“I trust that this one is actually the heir.”
“Yes, my Lord,” the functionary said blandly. He all but had disbelief written over his face in easy-to-read letters. “I will show him in.”
Arrant sighed. He’d have gone out on an expedition to find a suitable lad himself, but he’d already messed up once. If he were to ask more questions, it would make people realise the boy was still missing, and that’s the last thing he wanted.
“How old is this one?” Arrant said noncommittally, sizing up the wretched creature from under hooded lids. The damned thing was so dirty it was hard to think of it as anything other than a gutter rat.
“Somewhere between one and two,” Fergus said hopefully.
“Maybe, and maybe slightly older, but that could be a good thing. Even better, I believe under all that grime it has Prince Tomas’ blond hair. Hopefully, our search is over, and you sorted out the little matter of its parents—properly this time.”
“Strangled. Like you as
ked. Although, the boy wasn’t happy about it. He hasn’t stopped snivelling since.”
“Idiot,” Arrant snarled. “You weren’t supposed to do it in front of him.”
The boy shrieked louder.
“There, there,” Arrant purred. “Come here, lad. We’re going to make a man out of you. No, a king. How would you like to be King of Avondale?”
The boy kept wailing.
Forcing his lips into a smile, Arrant said, “There, there, boy, you mustn’t cry. Kings get everything they want, whenever they want it.”
“Mummy back again?”
Arrant’s hand raked out to whack the boy, but he snatched it back, bottling his rage for another occasion. Strange, he’d never realised until recently how angry he was, but anger was of no use to him now, so he put on a charming smile. “Maybe we can get your mummy back.” Fat chance. “But that will take a while. In the meantime, you could have a frozen treat. It’s a delicacy made with ice from high in the mountains.”
The boy only snivelled louder.
“The other good thing about being a king is that when you’re a little older you’ll get to ride around all day on a horse and wear a sword like this one.” Arrant half-pulled his sword from its scabbard, careful to display the rubies buried in the golden hilt. An expensive masterpiece some idiotic drooling king had given him.
The boy’s eyes, shining with tears, widened.
There is something irresistible about swords, and this one was very, very pretty. It was too big for him, but the boy didn’t care. He wanted that sword. He reached out expectantly.
Arrant pulled back. “Careful now,” he said, as he handed the blade over.
The boy took it, cradled it in his lap and crooned, “Dra-don, dra-don, dradon sayer,” as the tears dried in his eyes.
Too stunned to demand his sword back, Arrant called for the ice treat to be fetched.
Can this really be Sylvalla’s brother—or is every sword now called Dragon Slayer? “Prince Tomas?” Arrant said. Not believing his luck.
