Tales of the Crown

by Melissa McShane

  “All right, sister dear.” Zara heard him say, “Lieutenant, the Queen asks that you—“to one of the pair of guards standing sentinel outside the door before it closed on his words. She began to count. They’d timed this part, Alison pacing from the box to the facilities while Zara waited and counted as well. Now, when Zara reached a count of fifty, she stood and opened the door. “Please fetch my fan from the carriage. It’s rather warm in here,” she said.

  “Your Majesty, I can’t leave you unattended,” the woman said.

  Zara’s throat tightened. Who knew what might happen to this guard for leaving her post tonight if Anthony couldn’t engineer a pardon for her? “It will only take a few minutes, and I will be perfectly safe,” she said. “Go now.”

  The guard hesitated, but in the face of the blue-eyed North stare she had to back down. Zara shut the door, then knelt by the trap door and opened it. Seconds later Alison emerged, climbing easily through. “I couldn’t have done that in a corset,” she said quietly. She was wrapped in a dark cloak she’d left wadded up in a corner of the props room. It completely covered her blue silk gown.

  “I’m ready,” Zara said. She took her seat and crossed her hands in her lap. How strange that they were still now that she was facing death.

  She heard Alison take a deep breath, then felt the muzzle of a black powder pistol pressed against the back of her head. “I love you, Zara,” Alison said. “Goodbye.”

  Then there was noise, and pain, and then nothing.

  She woke, confused at her surroundings; her bed was too hard, it was darker than it should be for 6:30 in the morning, and instead of the refreshing smell of hot coffee, there was only the dry, musty smell of a room long disused. She sat up and discovered that she was in some kind of shed, lying on a thin mattress in a wagon that creaked as she moved. Piles of hay lay haphazardly against the rear walls, and cracks between the gray, unfinished boards let in faint slivers of light. Why was she—?

  Memory returned like a whirlwind, threatening to carry her away. She put her hands to her head to stop the world spinning and discovered that her black hair had been cut short, its ends now brushing her cheeks. She felt around the back of her head and found nothing amiss except a round, ridged circle of scar tissue, almost imperceptible through her hair. She breathed out slowly. Dr. Trevellian had been correct; even being shot through the head was not enough to kill her. She felt along her face and her forehead, pinched the bridge of her nose, and finally found more scarring along the outside of her right eye socket where the ball had exited. That must have been very convincing, she thought, then imagined Anthony’s face when he saw the wreck her face would have been, and had to squeeze her eyes shut to keep from crying. There was no way he could have been prepared for that, no matter how well he knew what would happen. How could she have done that to him? To them? It’s not over yet. Time for tears later. Or never.

  She climbed down from the wagon and looked it over. It was old, but still in good shape, and would be sufficient for her journey. There were sacks and barrels and crates, not many, stowed near the seat of the wagon, which was unpadded and probably would not be comfortable over the days to come, but it was more important that she not draw attention to herself by looking unusually prosperous.

  She went around the front of the wagon to unlatch the shed doors and push them open. The yard was mostly shadow in the pre-dawn light, and nothing moved except the horses drowsing in their stalls opposite the shed. Zara walked over to them and went down the line until she found the one she’d chosen the week before, a chestnut gelding with a white blaze on its nose that looked a little like her own profile stretched out, which had amused her. She stroked the blaze and the horse whickered at her companionably. “You and I’ll get along right fine,” she said, trying out the accent she’d been practicing in private since she and Alison and Anthony had made their plan. It still sounded wrong in her ears, like a bad actress in a play, reciting lines she’d learned by rote, but it was the best she could do. It would have to be enough.

  She went back to the wagon and dug around until she found something to eat. The bread was a day old—well, Dr. Trevellian had had no idea how long it would take her to heal. She would have to find out what day it was. At least he’d managed to smuggle her out of the palace, hopefully without involving anyone else. Had Anthony been able to draw attention away from Alison so she could escape? Whom would they blame for the assassination? What had happened to the guard? She tore off more bread and wished she had coffee. Past time she weaned herself of the habit.

  When the sun rose, she found someone to help her hitch the horse to the wagon, then drove out of the yard and down the road away from the city. Ravensholm. Dr. Trevellian had been able to transport her farther than she’d thought. She prayed that his part in the ruse had not been discovered either. She snapped the reins over the horse’s head and he picked up the pace. Driving a wagon wasn’t much different from driving her own carriage through the Park, fortunately. There were so many things she would have to learn, so many things she would get wrong, but at least she was certain that no one would recognize her outside Aurilien. That was the thing no one ever realized; the Queen was well-known, but few people saw her closely enough, and regularly enough, to be able to identify her in a crowd. Most Tremontanans saw her face only on coins, and that portrait was so idealized Zara hardly recognized herself in it. The farther east she went, the less likely it was that anyone would know the short-haired, travel-worn woman was Zara North.

  She reached Savantry by nightfall, which meant she hadn’t made very good time. At this rate it would be another two or three days before she arrived in Kingsport. She found an inn where she could stable her horse and wagon and went into the taproom and sat at the bar, too weary to think.

  “What’ll it be?” a voice said. She looked up at the barman, who was tall and wide and had a cheerful face with an enormous mustache.

  “Beer,” she said. She’d never had beer before, but it seemed the sort of thing a countrywoman might drink. A large ceramic mug appeared in front of her, foaming over, and she picked it up and took a healthy swig, afraid to look foolish by sipping at it. It went down smoothly and had a strange taste, but her stomach approved.

  “You from the capital?” the barman said. She shook her head. “Too bad. Was hopin’ for more news about the Queen. Seems everyone’s got a story to tell and they ain’t all true.”

  “What…are they saying?” Zara said.

  The barman shrugged. “Says they caught the bastard what did it,” he said, “some kid at the theater with a grudge against royalty. That’s true for sure. He’ll hang in a few days.”

  Zara buried her face in her mug again. That was wrong. They should have found the “assassin’s” body after a short chase; no one should have been blamed for her death. Had Anthony been unable to take command of that search? “Makes sense,” she said, “her being killed in the theater, that it was someone who knew the place well.”

  “The royal family’s in mourning, o’ course. Heard they shot a bunch of guards what let the killer get past. Damn if they don’t deserve it, too.”

  That was definitely wrong. It had all gone wrong. She had to get out of there. “Sounds right,” she said, and laid down a coin on the counter. “I don’t suppose—I mean, maybe you’ve got a room I can rent?”

  He showed her to the room, which was little more than a bed and a cupboard, and she sat on the bed and shook. That rumor had to be false. Anthony would definitely have spared the guards. If he could. It has to look real, she thought, and what are a few lives against the welfare of the kingdom? She stared blindly at the unpainted wooden wall. That she’d sacrificed her own life for that cause was not comforting.

  In the morning she went out and bought a newspaper. Seven days since her death. Could she die, ever? Dr. Trevellian’s assurances aside, it was a question she couldn’t bear to entertain. She settled for reading the headlines. The supposed assassin’s name was Fenton; she’d ne
ver met him, but there was no doubt Alison and Anthony, owners of the Waxwold Theater, knew him well. She had no idea why he’d been accused of the crime and the newspaper was not forthcoming with the details. The guards who had been on duty that night hadn’t been shot; they were in prison, and their sentence had not yet been handed down. Anthony will save them. I know he’ll find a way. New measures were being taken to protect the royal family, who had not emerged from the palace since the assassination. Zara folded the paper and threw it away, then went to hitch up her wagon. There was no more she could do, except let Zara North go.

  She let her mind wander as the horse plodded eastward. She would need an occupation. That would be difficult; the only thing she was good at was running a kingdom, and it was unlikely anyone would ask her to do that. She thought briefly of joining an Eskandelic harem, running a principality behind the scenes, but the idea of having to share power with four or five other women wearied her, and besides, she didn’t want to marry for duty. She never had, which was why she had no Consort to leave behind. She could learn a trade. She was good at needlework, thanks to her mother’s training, but she’d never really liked it…though she no longer had the freedom to do only what she liked, did she? Tailoring. Embroidery. Tatting lace. If she had the ability to sense source, she could be a Deviser, but that was unfortunately out of the question. Weaving? That had potential. It looked so soothing, working the loom and watching the fabric grow by inches along the threads. She was old to be an apprentice, was too old even by her apparent age, but if she could manage a recalcitrant Council into voting her way she could certainly manage someone into taking her on.

  Suddenly the wagon lurched and sagged, jolting her nearly off the seat and into the road. She scrambled to rein the horse in and hopped down to examine the problem. A wheel had slipped off the rear axle and now lay in the dirt a few feet away, thankfully undamaged; the axle too was intact, though the way the wagon’s weight pressed down on it couldn’t be doing it any good. She went to lift the wheel, got it upright with only a little effort, but the wagon was canted so sharply that she would need another four hands to raise it to where she could slide the wheel back on. She dropped the wheel and stepped away, wiping her hands on her trousers. Damn. She’d wanted a convincingly aged wagon, but not one that was actually falling apart. Now what was she going to do?

  She looked along the road in both directions, not expecting to find help—the road had been mostly empty all day—so she was surprised to see someone on horseback approaching from the west. She stepped to one side and waited for the rider to draw closer. It was a man, she eventually saw, wearing a hat pulled far down over his eyes and a coat grimed with road dust. He came to a stop several feet from her and said, “You know, that wagon won’t go ‘less it’s got all four wheels on.”

  Zara’s eyes narrowed, and she was about to unleash a torrent of sharp-edged sarcasm at him when she realized he was grinning in a friendly way. She laughed a little self-consciously and said, “That’s what I hear.”

  He dismounted and walked toward her. “Happen I can give you a hand,” he said. He was a big man, broad in the chest and shoulders, and looked as if he might be able to lift the wagon with one hand and the wheel with the other. He took off his coat and folded it, laid it by the side of the road, and added, “Might want to shift that load though. Makes it easier to move the wagon.”

  Zara nodded and began handing out bundles and boxes that he set on the ground in a neat pile next to his coat. When the wagon was empty, he said, “You lift the wheel, and we’ll see if we can’t get it back on.”

  She felt flattered that he assumed she could manage the wheel by herself. She got it upright again and rolled it toward the wagon. The man crouched, got his hands under the frame, and with a grunt heaved it up until Zara could manhandle the wheel back onto the axle. He let the weight of the wagon settle back onto the wheel with another grunt. “Will it stay on?” she said.

  “Hmm.” The man looked around. “You need that crate?”

  “I…no.” She had no idea what was in it, other than something intended to help her set herself up in her new home, wherever that would be. She opened it and found dishes packed in straw. “I think I can wrap these in the quilt, if you need the box.”

  The man took hold of the empty crate and broke it apart as if it were made of matchsticks. “This should work,” he said, showing her a length of wood that had been one edge of the crate. He wedged it into the hole where the pin holding the wheel in place had been. “Should hold long enough for you to get to Maraston, about two miles down the road,” he said. “Someone ought be able to fix it right, there. But I’ll travel with you that far, make sure you don’t break down again.”

  “Thank you, Mister…”

  He grinned again and held out his hand for her to shake. “Hank Hobson.”

  Zara realized she had never given any thought to a new name. She groped about and fell on the first thing that came to mind. “Agatha,” she said. “Agatha…Weaver.”

  “Good to know you, Mistress Weaver,” Hobson said.

  “Miss,” Zara said.

  He smiled again, and this time there was an unfamiliar light in his eye. “Then it’s very good to meet you, Miss Weaver,” he said, removing his hat and bowing to her, just a little. His face was rugged, not exactly handsome, but there was something about him that made Zara blush for the first time in her entire life. “Where are you headed? After Maraston, I mean.”

  “What makes you think I’m not staying there?” Zara asked.

  “Maraston’s not a big place,” Hobson said. “You look like someone who’s got her sights on bigger things.”

  Zara blushed again, this time with frustration. Was it still so obvious, what she’d been? “I’m looking for a change, not rightly sure what,” she said. “Where are you headed?”

  “Sterris. It’s a handful of miles south of Kingsport. Also not a big place, but I like it.” He put his hat back on and tugged on the brim to settle it. “Not a bad place for a fresh start. If someone were looking for something like that.”

  “I reckon that’s true,” Zara said. “Of course, it would help to know someone there.” She turned away, just a little, feeling awkward about meeting his eyes.

  “You know me,” Hobson pointed out.

  “I’ve only just met you, Mister Hobson.” She flicked a sidelong glance at him. “Of course, you always get to know people better when you share a road with them.”

  “That’s true,” Hobson said, keeping a straight face. “And as long as two people are going the same way, well, they ought at least talk to each other.”

  “It’s the friendly thing to do,” Zara said. Sweet heaven, I’m flirting with a total stranger. She felt like a stranger to herself, free of responsibilities to anyone, without the need to watch her words and her demeanor constantly. It was exhilarating.

  “Miss Weaver,” Hobson said, “that was my thought exactly.”

  Zara began gathering her things and stowing them in the wagon. “Then I think we should be moving on, Mister Hobson,” she said. “We’ve got a long road ahead of us.” And I have a new life to begin.

  Exile of the Crown: Introduction

  Zara’s book, Voyager of the Crown, gave me no end of trouble. It actually progressed well until I got to the point where Zara and her friends embark on their plan to fight the pirate captain Ghazarian, and then I got stuck. To try to jog things loose, I went back to Zara’s roots, thinking if I understood her better, I might find a solution for Voyager. I ended up with four episodes in her life, enough to publish as a novella. (I also ended up with two-thirds of what would become Ally of the Crown.) It took another year and a half to find an ending for her novel.

  The episodes fit between books: parts one and two are between Servant of the Crown and Rider of the Crown, and parts three and four are between Rider and Agent of the Crown, with part four taking place just days before the beginning of the latter book. All are labeled here for the convenienc
e of readers who want to read in strict chronological order.

  I loved the theme of the loom that connects these stories.

  Exile of the Crown Part One: Winter, 908 Y.B.

  She hadn’t expected the noise. The thumping of the treadles, the clacking of the shuttle, the creaking groan of the batten, echoing off the walls and her skull until it was nearly tangible. She jerked on the picking stick, shifted her feet, repeated the motions. Maybe if she weren’t so damned slow at the thing, it wouldn’t bother her so much. Then again, Mistress Watkins wasn’t deaf, and she’d been a weaver for more than thirty years, so probably Zara was being oversensitive. She gritted her teeth. She refused to let some contraption of metal and wood defeat her. She’d chosen this path, and she wasn’t giving up.

  She felt a tap on her shoulder. “That’s enough for now,” Mistress Watkins said, speaking in that carrying voice that wasn’t shouting and yet was easily heard over the noise of the loom. Zara let go the picking stick and sat back, flexing her calves. “Good work.”

  “I’m not fast enough,” Zara said.

  “Patience, Agatha. You’ve already made more progress than I imagined. Guess it wasn’t so stupid taking on an older apprentice. At least I don’t have to worry about you running off to the big city, wasting my time and effort.”

  “I’ve had my fill of the big city. Sterris is about right for me.”

  Mistress Watkins’ eyes twinkled. “Especially when you’ve got so much to keep you here?”

  So it was back to that again. Zara slid off the seat and crossed the room to pick up her cloak. “I’ve nowhere else to be, that’s certain. And I’ve got years of my apprenticeship to go. That’s more than enough.”

  “You’re breaking poor Mister Hobson’s heart, you are. Might as well put him out of his misery.”