Weight of the Crown

by A. C. Cobble

  “You think you’d command a higher price than the rest of us?” snorted Ben.

  “Certainly,” said Rhys. “Prem knows what she’s talking about, but we’re not here for profit, Ben. This is serious.”

  “I’m younger,” argued Ben. “I’m more attractive, too.”

  Rhys guffawed and looked to Prem and Amelie, dramatically rolling his eyes.

  Ben scratched at his scar, frowning at the rogue and wondering how they steered into this conversation.

  “Well, I suppose there’s only one way to settle this,” declared Rhys. He took a turn, walked up to a darkened shop, and forcefully banged on the door.

  “What are you doing?” hissed Ben.

  “Is that a costume shop,” asked Amelie, “like, for theatre players?”

  “Exactly,” answered Rhys. “Ben and I will dress as men-of-the-night, or whatever they are called. We shall enter the castle in that disguise, and once inside, we’ll see who can really earn some coin.”

  “I don’t think—”

  The door was flung open, and a short, stout woman was standing in it, her small stature doing nothing to diminish her looming presence.

  “What are you doing?” boomed a voice that was two sizes too large for the little woman. “It’s two bells past sunset. We’re closed!”

  “Closed even to old friends?” asked the rogue.

  “Who are—Rhys?”

  The woman didn’t wait for an answer. Instead, she leaned forward, grabbed a handful of the of the rogue’s tunic, and yanked him inside. The door hung open, and Ben and his friends shared a look before darting after them, shutting the door to the street once everyone was in.

  They were in a large room filled with reams of fabric, mannequins, masks, prop weapons, and other paraphernalia that stage players would need. The room was dark, but light spilled in from behind a curtain at the rear. The curtain parted, and they saw Rhys dragged through it, the small woman leading him with a strong grip on his ear.

  “You don’t think he really wants us to dress up like, well, like that, do you?” asked Serrot.

  “There is no telling,” responded Ben dryly. “Whatever he’s planning, we’d better hurry before she takes him out back and butchers him. It looks like that woman has a score to settle.”

  They hurried to the curtain and ducked through, finding a hallway lit with a single oil-lamp. A few doors broke the plain wooden surface of the walls, and at the end, they saw the hall opened into a seating area. Ben led them down the passage and poked his head out, seeing Rhys ensconced on a couch, a cloudy glass of dark brown ale in his hand and the short woman towering over him.

  “Stay right there, you sneaky bastard!” she exclaimed. “I’ll be back in a moment with Darla. We’re going to do it right, this time!”

  “I don’t think—”

  “I didn’t ask what you thought, did I?” cracked the woman. “As soon as I get Darla, we’re going to find a highborn who can marry you two.”

  Ben burst out laughing.

  Rhys shot him a glare, and the woman ignored them all, bustling about the sitting room, throwing a shawl around her shoulders, and keeping a sharp eye on Rhys.

  Finally, as the woman prepared to duck out the door, Rhys stood and said, “Damma!”

  The woman stopped, fixing him with her gaze.

  “Damma, I’m not here for Darla. I’m not the marrying kind of man, and Darla’s not the marrying kind of woman. You know that.”

  “Who’s Darla?” whispered Prem.

  Ben shrugged.

  The little woman drew a deep breath and then opened her mouth, with what Ben hoped was a stern admonishment and maybe a string of harsh curses directed at the rogue, but Rhys cut her off.

  “Damma, we need to get inside the castle.”

  “Why would I help you do that?” snapped the woman.

  Rhys glanced at Amelie meaningfully.

  Damma frowned at the rogue before seeming to notice for the first time that he had companions. Her eyes found Amelie.

  “Rhys…”

  “She is who you think she is,” said the rogue quietly.

  The woman remained still a moment. Then she dropped to one knee. “My apologies, m’lady. I-I didn’t see you at first. I… we all… we thought you were dead.”

  Amelie drew herself up and commanded, “Please, rise.”

  The costumer rose but kept her eyes down as if afraid to meet Amelie’s gaze.

  “You understand why I cannot see Darla,” said Rhys, his voice soft.

  Damma nodded without looking at him.

  “We need to get into the castle,” repeated the rogue. “Is it safe?”

  The woman shook her head, her eyes still on the floor. “The tunnel is still open. I keep waiting for the sound of it flooding, but… it is open.”

  “Thank you,” responded Rhys. “Before we go, is there any news you can share, anything we should know? We’ve been hesitant to stop in the city and ask questions.”

  Damma shot a quick glance at Amelie before fixing her gaze back on the floor. “You know the Alliance and the Coalition are bearing down on us? The talk is that war is certain and that we’re stuck in the middle. Of course you know that, how could you not? Ah, Lord Dronson convened a council of highborn, and they stripped Lady Selene of her title. No one has been named ruler. We were told that… it was… they said you were dead, m’lady.”

  “Damma,” asked Amelie gently, “my mother’s title or our house’s status?”

  “Just your mother, m’lady. You… I am no expert on these things, m’lady. They’re… The talk in town is that Lord Dronson has a plan, but no one’s sure what it is. The man doesn’t seem to be taking power for himself, though. He might be trying to gain leverage for negotiations with the Alliance, or he may be working with another noble house. There are plenty of rumors, m’lady, but I don’t know which hold the truth.”

  “Thank you, Damma,” murmured Amelie. She turned to the group. “We need to find Dronson.”

  “The tunnel is through the door below the staircase,” offered Rhys. “We can follow it to the gardens in the palace.”

  “Your discretion is appreciated,” Amelie said to Damma, “at least until we can address Lord Dronson and settle matters. After that, your service will not be forgotten.”

  Damma dropped to a knee again, her eyes still on the floor. “M’lady, your father was a good lord, a good man. The people had love for him, m’lady. It’s been tough since… since what your mother did. The people will be glad you have returned.”

  “I’m glad to be back,” acknowledged Amelie. She looked at the companions and shrugged, as if she thought she should say more, but didn’t know what.

  “Let’s go,” suggested Rhys. “We still have a bit of walking we need to finish before daylight.”

  They followed the rogue back into the hall and through the door under the steps. They brought a lamp from Damma’s sitting room and it illuminated a narrow staircase that led down below the building. The costumer, Damma, stayed behind on one knee, her body shaking. Ben swore he could hear low sobs.

  When they reached the bottom of the stairs and were well out of earshot, Ben barked at Rhys, “What’s this? I thought you said we weren’t going through a tunnel. What was all of that about disguises and man-whores?”

  “I lied about the tunnel,” admitted Rhys. “It seems a little easy, doesn’t it? After the tunnel in Fabrizo, I thought the disguises would be more dramatic. Also, you should have seen your face.”

  Ben ran a hand through his hair and looked to Amelie in the steady glow of the lamp light. She smirked as if to ask what he expected from the rogue. Rhys was incorrigible, and a little thing like a looming war wasn’t going to stop his antics.

  “Who is Darla?” inquired Prem.

  Rhys coughed and then turned and led them down the tunnel without answering. His body cast wild shadows on the ancient brick walls of the tunnel.

  “He doesn’t answer a lot of questions, does h
e?” complained Prem. “I don’t know how these things are supposed to work. We had some fun, and then ever since we left Kirksbane, he’s been avoiding me.”

  “His last relationship ended in tragedy,” whispered Amelie. “On the South Continent, there were demons and mages… She didn’t survive.”

  “I-I didn’t know,” murmured Prem.

  “And there’s your father,” reminded Ben helpfully.

  “My father?” wondered Prem.

  “If he’s in your head… when, ah…” Ben looked to Amelie for help, but she only closed her eyes and shook her head. Ben’s mouth opened and closed a few times before he managed to eek out, “You said that when you have strong emotions, your thoughts… Adrick Morgan is an intimidating man.”

  “Oh, I—Oh,” stammered Prem. “When we, ah, my father was on patrol when, ah…”

  “Ben’s right,” said Amelie. “Adrick Morgan is an intimidating man, and he seems very protective of you.”

  “I need to talk to Rhys,” mumbled Prem.

  “Let’s go,” said Ben, starting down the tunnel. “I’m not sure he will wait for us.”

  “This must be hundreds of years old,” remarked Amelie when they caught up to the rogue, tracing a finger along the dusty brick. “It was likely built before my family even took power.”

  “How old is Issen?” wondered Ben. “The castle, I mean.”

  “No one knows for sure,” replied Amelie. “It was raised in stages, but my tutors believe the original footprint is over one thousand years old. The walls have been expanded since then. Four or five hundred years have passed since the last major build, according to the scholars. After the Blood Bay War, building stronger castles was unnecessary for a time.”

  “I don’t know if there’s a building in Farview over five decades old,” declared Serrot.

  “The Pinewood’s house is pretty old,” said Ben. “It’s probably over five decades. That and the tavern.”

  “The Buckhorn Tavern did always seemed ancient, but I think Blevin’s grandpa built it. I suppose Old Gamson would know,” speculated Serrot. “He was probably on the stool the first day it opened for business, but no one would be alive from when they built this castle.”

  Ben stared at the rogue’s back but didn’t respond to Serrot’s comment. His friend was having enough trouble adjusting to Amelie being a lady. They could find another time to tell him about the long-lived.

  They marched on, following the rogue’s shadow down the narrow brick tunnel. It was barely wide enough for two men to squeeze past each other, and Ben tried to ignore the fact that they hadn’t seen another opening anywhere along the way. It was a bolt-hole, he realized, designed for people in the castle to enter and exit unnoticed. Perfect for their purposes, but with friends in front of him and friends behind him, Ben felt a suffocating confinement.

  After several long moments, Amelie asked, “I wonder if my father knew about this tunnel?”

  No one answered.

  “Rhys,” said Amelie. “How did you know about this tunnel?”

  “Damma and her family have been maintaining their side of it for years,” answered the rogue. “On the other side, I suspect your father did know about it but never had reason to use it. In times of peace, it’s more of a… a way to secretly visit friends in the city.”

  “Like Darla?” inquired Prem.

  Rhys coughed and hurried his pace.

  “How do we find Lord Dronson when we get inside?” asked Ben, changing the subject. “Do you know where his rooms are, Amelie?”

  “He’s likely staying in the South Wing,” she responded, “at least, that’s where he used to live. I can’t say if he’s still there. I never visited his personal chambers.”

  “I can do a little reconnaissance,” offered Rhys.

  “I think I have an easier way,” said Amelie. “Garliage is a former tutor of mine and a well-known scholar. He taught me the foundations of science until Lady Greenfoot took over. He’s been a part of Issen since long before I was born, and I’d wager he’s still in the same location. He’s loyal only to knowledge. Regardless of what leadership changes have happened, he will still be following the same pursuits, and he’s too useful for anyone to run him off. Rhys, where did you say this tunnel will lead us?”

  “The east gardens,” answered the rogue.

  “My mother’s gardens,” said Amelie, her voice clipped with restraint.

  “I said your father didn’t have reason to use this tunnel.” After another fifty paces, Rhys added, “That reminds me. You should probably make sure the engineers are still capable of flooding the tunnel before Lord Jason and Lady Selene arrive with their army.”

  “This reminds me of when I was thirteen or fourteen summers,” remarked Amelie, peering down a dark, quiet hallway. “Meredith and I used to sneak out at night, thinking we’d find out secrets. We never did, but it was always fun to pretend we were on an adventure.” She laughed quietly. “An adventure. To think that walking down these halls once seemed an adventure to me.”

  “It seems pretty adventurous to me,” whispered Serrot, his voice bubbling with excitement. “We’re sneaking into a castle!”

  “You get used to it,” replied Ben.

  “You’ve snuck into other castles?” wondered Serrot. “You didn’t say anything about that.”

  “There’s a lot we need to catch up on,” admitted Ben.

  “Speaking of sneaking through castles,” hissed Rhys, glaring back at them. “It’s best practice to remain quiet while you’re doing it.”

  The steady clomp of boots echoed down the marble hall, and Rhys motioned the party to move out of view. They ducked into a shadowed alcove and waited until the sound of men on patrol faded away.

  “Why are we sneaking?” asked Serrot quietly, one eye on the rogue as Rhys stalked ahead to check that the way was clear. He hooked a thumb toward Amelie. “Doesn’t she rule this place?”

  “Not yet,” she replied. “I’m the rightful heir, but I was never crowned. Until that happens, it’s a bit of a delicate situation. Technically, I do not yet rule, but from what Damma told us and what we’ve heard, no one else does either. Lord Dronson, as chair of the council of lords, is serving as a steward until a legal ruler can be named.”

  “So, he just needs to name you, uh, Queen?” asked Serrot.

  “Lady of Issen,” corrected Amelie. “And yes, that’s what needs to happen. It is a bit more complicated, though. Remember, they all think I’m dead.”

  “Ah,” murmured Serrot.

  Rhys poked his head around a corner and waved them on. Just a little bit further, and they’d be to Garliage’s chambers. Amelie didn’t think her former tutor’s door would be guarded, but the halls were full of regular patrols of soldiers. With the approaching armies, assassination was a serious threat.

  “Very serious,” Rhys had said condescendingly, “considering how pathetic the security is around here. After you’re installed, give me some time with your guard captain. Otherwise, you won’t last the week.”

  Ben grinned, thinking about his friend instructing the guards on how to protect against assassins. If anyone knew, it was Rhys.

  Finally, after avoiding several more patrols, they made it to a plain, iron-bound oak door. Rhys drew a set of lockpicks from his belt pouch, but Amelie slipped by him and placed her hand on the door. Ben heard a soft scrape as a bolt slid out of place, and then Amelie pushed open the door.

  They entered a dark room, the only light coming from the hallway behind them, and the pre-dawn glow from a trio of tall windows set in one wall. In the dim light, Ben saw what looked like a museum, though not as extensive as the one in the City he’d visited. There were tables covered in artifacts, shelves stocked with an assortment of bare bones, stuffed animals, and mock-ups for a variety of creatures he wasn’t sure were even real. In the dark, it was quite spooky. He questioned anyone who chose to sleep next to such things.

  They heard a soft clink, and everyone froze. Ben look
ed around and saw a light flickering from underneath of a closed door. Moving glacially slow to stay quiet, they made their way to the door. Through it, they heard a soft humming, and Ben’s nose perked up. The rich smell of kaf was wafting into the room.

  Ben touched Amelie on the shoulder and gestured for her to open the door. Whether it was Garliage on the other side or household staff bringing his morning kaf, they would find out. Either way, they were in the rooms they meant to be in, and there was no sense hiding any longer.

  Amelie drew a deep breath then opened the door.

  “Who are—”

  Around Amelie’s shoulder, Ben saw a disheveled man, his white hair standing on end and tilted to the side like he’d gone to bed with it wet and hadn’t bothered to brush it out in the morning. Several days’ stubble poked from his chin, and a worn linen shirt was untucked from a pair of loose britches.

  “Amelie?” The man scrambled off his stool and dropped to a knee, his fist pressed against his forehead.

  “Garliage, that is unnecessary,” said Amelie. “Surely, after all of the times you smacked my knuckles for not paying attention, we can be less formal than this?”

  “M’lady,” murmured the man, “we thought you were dead.”

  “I’ve been hearing that a lot recently,” she responded. “Please, Garliage, rise. I need your help.”

  It was midday by the time Amelie declared she was ready to leave her former tutor’s rooms. She was bathed, dressed, and primped like Ben hadn’t seen since King Argren’s gala in the City over a year before. She looked stunning, every bit the Lady of Issen, which, of course, was the point.

  She’d also demanded that the rest of the party bathe and had Garliage secure clean clothing for them. None of it was as fancy as hers, but they no longer looked as if they’d spent the last year on the road.

  Ben ran a hand across his smoothly shaved chin and smiled. It felt good to be clean, even if the britches he’d changed into were a little snug for his taste. They felt less uncomfortable than Serrot and Prem looked, though.

  “I’ve never worn a dress,” complained the former guardian. “How is one supposed to move through underbrush or climb a mountain in garb like this?”