I did not want to stab him. It was clear Burgoyne was a hireling merely, and I wanted to haul him before a magistrate for interrogation and have him reveal the source of the conspiracy.
As I pummeled my quarry I could hear shouts of joy from the Ramscallions in the lane. I’m sure they loved nothing so much as a fight.
Burgoyne managed to fend off most of my blows as I wrenched him around by his collar, shaking him as a terrier shakes a rat. He tried to strike with the hilt of the rapier, but I parried with my own weapon and cut a gash in his overcoat sleeve. I smashed at his head again and was warded off. I know not what happened next, but somehow he twisted under me, I felt a hand grasp my left wrist, and suddenly I was tumbling through the air.
I landed on my back with some force, but panic picked me from the ground and rolled me forward to my feet. Plain murder gleamed pale in his eyes. My heart sank as I realized that he could now use his rapier, and I leaped back and parried with the knife as the narrow blade sprang for my vitals. He charged on and I skipped away, out into Ramscallion Lane, with our audience scattering as the blades gleamed in the day’s dull light.
Burgoyne paused in his pursuit as he gasped for breath. I pointed at him.
“Reward!” I cried. “Reward for the murderer!”
Burgoyne snarled and lunged at me again, and I danced away. We were in a growing half-circle of observers, men and women and laughing children. Anticipation, cruelty, and greed shone in their eyes, as if we were dogs fighting in a pit for their entertainment. I pointed again.
“Knock him down!” said I. “Throw rocks! Throw bottles! Trip him up! There’s a reward!”
“How much?” asked some pragmatist, but a young man hurled a bottle, and it whistled past Burgoyne’s head. He glared at his neighbor and mouthed a curse.
More bottles followed, and pans, and stones. A slop pot, hurled from an upper storey, landed at his feet, and spattered him with its contents. I had turned the neighborhood into my accomplices. Burgoyne fended off most of the missiles but they slowed him down, and then one caught him on the forehead, and after that blood poured into his eyes, and he had to keep wiping them.
I could see the resolve building in him, and so I was ready when he made another attempt to kill me, running at me with the sword thrusting for my heart—and I would have got away if the growing crowd hadn’t hampered me. Suddenly I was within range of the blade, and I frantically twisted away from it as it plucked at the buttons of my leather riding jerkin. I stabbed at him with my knife, and felt the blade enter the right shoulder. And then one of the crowd failed to get out of the way in time, and I tripped over him and fell…and there I was, helpless as the killer stood over me with growing triumph in his eyes. His arm came back for the final thrust.
At which point the thief-taker Toland, who had come up through the crowd, swung his cudgel and caught Burgoyne behind the ear, and so laid the murderer out atop me.
—
Amalie and I lay like spoons in my lodgings off Chancellery Road, my hand warm on her pregnant belly. She wore only her jewelry, gems on her fingers and a carcanet of gold and rubies about her throat. The strands of pearls she’d woven into her hair had come loose and lay on the pillow. Her languorous tones were regretful, and I vibrated with resentment. Nothing had ended as I planned.
“I regret extremely to give you this advice,” she said. “But I think it best if you stayed away from court for the present.”
I felt defiance straighten my spine. “I have done nothing wrong,” said I. “I have in fact done the Queen a service. Why should I hide?”
“The whole world knows of the Queen’s distaste for your presence,” said she. “Should you appear at court, any who hope for royal favor will be obliged to shun you. It will be humiliating and will do your cause no good.”
I thought for a long moment. Anger boomed dully in my veins. “I understand,” said I.
“Other matters will soon occupy the court’s attention. After that, you may return.”
She turned and looked at me, compassion showing in her long eyes. “I warned you, did I not, that you should think before you acted?”
“You did,” said I.
“A court conspiracy,” said she, “is sometimes better left unmasked. If you meant to help Broughton, you failed. If you meant to uncover the guilty, you succeeded all too well. The Queen was forced to take action, and well does she resent you for making her take notice of the intrigue at her court.”
After the capture of Burgoyne, Toland and I had taken the renegade knight to a magistrate, accompanied by a pack of the inhabitants of Ramscallion Lane. The sheriff’s men turned out, not because of the prisoner, but because they thought a riot was about to begin.
While Burgoyne was marched to jail, I led the mob to one of the counting-houses where I kept my funds. At the sight of this pack of unruly stew-dwellers, the good bankers began locking doors and slamming shutters, certain they were about to be stormed by an angry rabble. It took a bit of negotiation, but eventually I was allowed inside to collect some of my silver, after which I paid the mob to go away.
That same morning, before leaving Kingsmere for the capital, the Queen announced a reward of three hundred royal for the assassin, then appointed Lord Slaithstowe to be the new Attorney-General and put the investigation into his hands. Slaithstowe rode ahead of the Queen’s party and arrived late in the afternoon, to find Burgoyne already in custody.
The next day Slaithstowe spent in putting the assassin to the question before the Court of the Siege Royal and coercing him to name his accomplices. What Slaithstowe heard probably had him tearing his beard out by the roots, but he did his duty, copied the transcript of the interrogation in his own hand—not trusting anyone else—and reported to the Queen first thing the next morning.
For Burgoyne admitted that he was in the pay of the Queen’s own mother, the divorced Queen Leonora. Leonora rejoiced in her place near the Queen and feared losing the Queen’s love to the interloper Broughton—and in addition Leonora, for reasons of policy, favored Berlauda’s marriage to Loretto’s prince and heir, not to a minor viscount with a pretty face.
Leonora’s father had been Burgoyne’s liege lord, before Burgoyne had gone abroad to serve in foreign wars. He had come home to Bonille with a competence, but being a rake and gambler had lost it all. Leonora gave him a few crowns now and again and kept him in reserve, in case she needed someone to intercept a messenger or cut a throat. And then came the inspiration to kill Broughton’s wife and blame the husband for the deed. It was one of the Dowager Queen’s ladies who commissioned the dagger with the Broughton badge.
Queen Berlauda must have been appalled and devastated by the news, but she lacked neither courage nor resolution. Burgoyne was sent to the gallows that very day. Queen Leonora was ordered to the royal residence and fort at West Moss, beyond the Minnith Peaks, as far from the capital as it is possible to travel without actually wading out into the ocean. She would remain there indefinitely, at the Queen’s pleasure.
As for Broughton, the scandal was too great for a man without powerful friends to survive. Though he was innocent of anything but ambition, he was obliged to resign his post as Master of the Hunt, given the new office of Inspector-General of Fortifications, and sent off to view and report on the state of every fort, castle, and city wall in the kingdom. And, as he had borrowed heavily to outfit himself as a great man at court, and to provide the entertainments at Kingsmere, he would be pursued on this pilgrimage by his creditors, or their representatives.
Whether Lady Broughton rejoiced in the return of her husband, I do not know.
An official announcement was made that Burgoyne had been hanged after an attempt to assassinate the Queen. No mention was made of Dowager Queen Leonora though everyone at court knew the story within hours.
Those responsible for the violence were punished, but the punishment did not stop there, for Berlauda deeply resented losing everyone she loved and trusted, and viewed without char
ity those who had brought her to this pass. She could not abide the sight of Lord Slaithstowe, and found the pain of his presence too much to bear. He kept his office less than a week, which must have been a great blow, as he had performed his duty as well as it could be done—and he lost also the sweeteners he would have been paid by anyone whose business brought them before the Attorney-General, a sum that over time would have been a great fortune. Instead he was appointed commissioner of the royal dockyard in Amberstone, where the opportunities for enrichment were small by comparison.
And as for me—I, who had been the subject of praise and the object of envy on my return to court, the day after my capture of Burgoyne—I was told merely that the sight of me was disagreeable to her majesty and that I should keep clear of the royal presence. Unlike Slaithstowe I was not offered a job, lest the offer be construed as a reward rather than a punishment.
I still waited for the three hundred royals promised for Burgoyne. If I ever received it, I would divide it evenly between Toland, Merton’s family, and my own declining fortune.
Amalie was still willing to see me, but then a Marchioness of Steyne was almost as grand as the Queen, and she could set her own fashions. Still, she could not be seen with me in public, and only visited my lodgings for a few hours now and again. Our dalliance, like the season, would soon enough reach its wintertide, for in a few months she would give birth to Steyne’s heir, and Steyne himself would return from captivity. Sometimes I missed her even when she was in my arms.
I wondered if Virtue had triumphed over Iniquity, as in Blackwell’s masque. Berlauda’s court had been cleansed of one conspirator and one adulterous nobleman, but no doubt there were many of that sort who remained. The court was also rid of one half lawyer who trusted too much to his own luck and had suffered the consequence of that trust. I could almost hear the laughter ringing down from the roof-beams.
Was it Virtue who laughed in her chaste home, or was the laughter that of her demicolleague, Iniquity?
Whoever it was who laughed, it was clear that I was not in Virtue’s camp as long as Amalie visited my bed. And so I kissed the fine tawny hair that grew at the base of her neck, thanked her for her advice, and set myself to amuse her, that she might soon choose again to visit me in my exile.
⬩ ⬩ ⬩
Daniel Abraham lives with his family in Albuquerque, New Mexico, where he is Director of Technical Support at a local Internet service provider. Starting off his career in short fiction, he made sales to Asimov’s Science Fiction, SCI FICTION, The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction, Realms of Fantasy, The Infinite Matrix, Vanishing Acts, The Silver Web, Bones of the World, The Dark, Wild Cards, and elsewhere, some of which appeared in his first collection, Leviathan Wept and Other Stories. Turning to novels, he made several sales in rapid succession, including the books of The Long Price Quartet, which consist of A Shadow in Summer, A Betrayal in Winter, An Autumn War, and The Price of Spring. He’s also written the The Dagger and the Coin series, which consists of The Dragon’s Path, The King’s Blood, The Tyrant’s Law, The Widow’s House, and, most recently, The Spider’s War. He also wrote Hunter’s Run, a collaborative novel with George R. R. Martin and Gardner Dozois; as M.L.N. Hanover, wrote the four-volume paranormal romance series Black Sun’s Daughter; and with Ty Franck, writing as James S. A. Corey, the Space Opera Expanse novels (which have been made into a popular TV series), consisting of Leviathan Wakes, Caliban’s War, Abaddon’s Gate, Gods of Risk, Cibola Burn, Nemesis Games, and Babylon’s Ashes.
Here he takes us along with companions trying to penetrate to the heart of a daunting and deadly mystery, and discovering that what they find is not at all what they expected to find.
⬩ ⬩ ⬩
Old Au saw the thief first.
Squatting in the garden, she commanded a long view of the east road; gray flagstone straighter than nature amid the green scrub and bramble. Rich soil breathed its scent around her as she took an offending root in one hand and her garden knife in the other. Between the moment she began sawing and when she pulled the first tangle of dirt and pale vegetable flesh out of the ground, the thief appeared, a dot on the horizon. She worked as he approached. His cloak hung limp in the humid summer air. His hat, wide as his shoulders, shadowed his eyes. He wore an empty scabbard across his back. Old Au paused when he grew close. When he reached the wall of ancient stone that marked the border between the greater world and the protected lands within, he paused and looked toward the Mocking Tower.
The tower shimmered as the tales all said it would, appearing to change shape between one breath and the next. A great thrusting pillar of alabaster studded with living torches became an ancient palace of gray stone and moss became a rose-colored complication of terraces stacked one atop another toward the sky. The thief took in the illusionist’s art with an air of haughtiness and satisfaction. Old Au watched the man watch the tower, cleared her throat, and nodded to the stranger.
“What news?” she asked.
His gaze shifted to the old woman. His eyes looked as if they’d been dyed the same blue as a storm cloud. The lines around his mouth and eyes spoke of age and weather, but Old Au thought she saw a boyishness in them as well, like the image of an acorn worked in oak. Something in him reminded Old Au of a lover she’d taken years before. A man of high station who dreamed of living as a gardener. Dead now and his dreams with him except for what she carried with her. When the thief spoke, his voice carried the richness and depth of a reed instrument, softly played.
“The throne stands empty,” the thief said. “King Raan rots in his grave, and the princes vie to claim his place.”
“All seven of them?”
“Tauen, Maush, and Kinnin all fell to their brothers’ blades. Another—Aus by name—rose from the south with a foreign army at his back to lay a new claim. Five armies still cross the land and blight wherever they pass.”
“Shame, that,” Old Au said.
“Wars end. Even wars of succession. They also create certain unexpected opportunities for the bold,” he said, then shifted as by moving his shoulders, he moved the conversation. “These lands belong to the Imagi Vert?”
Old Au shrugged, pointing to the stone wall with her chin. “Everything within the border, and all the way round. Not subject to the throne, nor the one before it. Nor to whatever comes next either. The Mocking Tower stands apart from the world and the Imagi Vert sees to that, once and eternal. You’ve come on behalf of one of the princes? Plead the Imagi to take a side, maybe?”
“The tale I hear told says the Imagi Vert took King Raan’s soul when he died and fashioned it into a blade. And the blade lies somewhere in that tower. I have come to steal it.”
Old Au wiped a soil-darkened hand across her cheek, squinting first at the thief then at the Mocking Tower and back to the thief. His chin lifted as if in challenge. The empty scabbard tapped against his back as if asking for attention. Green lacquer and brass fittings, and long enough to hold even a fairly large sword. As though a king’s soul surely required a palatial blade to hold it.
“You make it a habit to announce that sort of thing, do you?” Old Au said as she brushed the soil off the length of pale, stubborn root still in the earth. “Seems an odd way to get what you want.”
The thief’s attention returned to her. A smile both bright and brief flickered on his lips. “I’m sure you know a great deal about gardening. I know a great deal about theft. This road leads to the township at the tower’s base?”
Old Au nodded. “Another hour down the road. Keep left at the crossing or you’ll find yourself heading south without much besides grain silos and the mill for company. But take the warning. Everyone you find there is loyal to the Imagi Vert. Anyone not tends to leave fair quick.”
“I don’t plan to stay.”
“You have a name, friend?” Old Au asked.
“Many of them.”
The thief slid a hand into his sleeve and drew it back out. Something small a
nd bright between his fingers caught the sunlight. He tossed the coin to Old Au, and she caught it without thinking. A square of silver with a young man’s likeness pressed into the metal. Some prince or another. One of the dead king’s warring brood.
“This for my silence?” Old Au asked.
“For your help in directing me,” the thief said. “Anything more lies between you and your conscience.”
Old Au chuckled, nodded, and tucked the coin in her belt. The thief and his empty scabbard stepped off down the road. His stride shifted his cloak from side to side like the flourish of a street magician’s right hand distracting from the actions of the left. His hat carried shadow under its brim like a veil. The Mocking Tower changed to a soaring complex of chains hanging from a stonework tree taller than clouds to a spiral of basalt with stairways cut into the sides. Old Au shook her head and bent back down to her work. The stubborn root defied her, but she was stern and hard and well practiced with a garden knife. When it came out, long as her arm and pale as bone, she squatted in the churned black soil, wiped the sweat from her face, and looked west after the thief. The curve of the road and the trees hid him already.
The township that served the Imagi Vert pretended normalcy even in the shadow of magic. Only the central square boasted flagstone. Dust, dirt, and weeds made up all the streets. The small stables reeked like stables anywhere, and pisspots stood in the alleys waiting to be taken and their contents sold to the launderer to whiten cloth or the tanner to soften hide. The flowers of early summer drew bees and flies. The sun warmed thatched roofs until they stank a little. Birds chattered and warned each other from their nests. Dogs ran here as they did anywhere, chasing squirrels and each other. A few hundred feet to the north, the Mocking Tower loomed, a spire of bone and glass, then a pillar of plate-thin stones stacked one atop the other toward the sky, then a spiral of what looked like skinned flesh, then an ivy-clad maiden of granite with a crown of living flame.
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