by Jeff Wheeler
He gave her a sincere look. “Owen Satchel?”
She nodded vigorously. “What did you think I meant—Kisky?”
“Don’t ever call me that. I don’t mind if people call me Owen Satchel.”
“To me, you’ll always be Owen Kiskaddon. Elysabeth Victoria Mortimer Kiskaddon. It sounds very important.”
Owen smiled and sighed.
“What?”
“Have you gotten used to ‘Evie’ yet?” he asked.
“Only when you say it.”
“I am the only one who says it!”
She set her hands down on her lap. “I hate being called Lady Mortimer. That’s my mother’s name. I’m not the lady of anything right now. I’ve never had a nickname, though. Until now. I always make people say my whole name.”
“When I was a baby, my sister called me Ugwen. They still tease me with it.”
She giggled at the name. “I like it better than Kisky! But people have pet names for each other. When we’re older, you can change mine to something like darling or dearest. Do you know what Ankarette means?”
He looked at her in surprise. “No.”
She nodded with enthusiasm. “It’s a Northern name. It comes from a different language. Ankarette is how we say it in Ceredigion, but the name comes from the Atabyrion name Angarad. Let me say it again. An-GAR-ad. It means much loved one. It’s a girl’s name. It’s so pretty.” She reached out and touched his little white tuft of hair.
“Where are thuh troublemakers? Ovur there, makin’ another mess? Another spill?” It was Berwick’s voice, and it was full of wrath. “Get you two over here. By the Fountain, what a mess! Come on. You two are thick as thieves. I’m in a fine feather today at the mess you’ve made!”
Owen and Evie glanced at each other, feeling the laughter starting to bubble up inside them at his choice of words.
Berwick had a mean scowl on his face. He looked full of thunder. “Come hither, you two,” he grumbled as he towered by the bench. Only then did Owen notice that beyond the anger he seemed fearful. “Come with me now. We’ve not a moment to lose.”
Their smiles faded.
The news will catch everyone at the palace off guard. It will secure the boy’s status as Fountain-blessed for certain. Everyone in the kingdom knows about the Deconeus of Ely, John Tunmore. He was a member of the privy council under King Eredur. The man was born to run the Espion, but no one dedicated to the Fountain ever can. He is cunning, wise, and cold as winter’s ice. King Severn sent him in chains to Brakenbury Dungeon in Westmarch for his complicity in the plot to prevent Severn from becoming king. He was undoubtedly part of the plot that led to Ambion Hill. And now he’s been caught by the Espion. Will Severn execute a man of the Fountain by the waters? I wonder.
—Dominic Mancini, Espion of the Palace Kitchen
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
The Eel
Berwick walked with a slight limp, his face agitated and nervous, his gaze continually glancing back the way they had come.
“Move along, you two. Hurry now,” he growled. Owen’s heart was racing. Evie looked excited at the opportunity for intrigue.
They reached a locked servant’s door and Berwick removed a huge ring of keys that had been flapping on his belt and quickly unlocked it. He gestured for them to enter, but he did not go with them. Owen heard the lock click fast behind them.
Ankarette and Mancini awaited them in the room. The fat spy was pacing, his cheeks dripping with sweat. His tunic was stained with huge circles of perspiration at his neck and under his armpits. He wiped his mouth on a kerchief as he gazed in wonderment at the two children.
“You brought them here?” Mancini whined. “If we’re all caught together—”
Ankarette held up her hand. “Berwick is guarding the corridor. He’ll rap twice if anyone comes. There is no time for hesitation. What is your message?”
Mancini looked flustered, as if he expected intruders at any moment. “One of the Espion just passed Our Lady,” he said gruffly, chafing his meaty hands. “I recognized the fellow. Gates. Sharp young man. I saw his lathered stallion and realized he’d been riding hard and riding fast. He accepted a muffin, which he shouldn’t have because it’s made him ill. His innards are exploding down the privy well of the garderobe at the moment.”
“The message!” Ankarette insisted.
“Yes! Apologies! Ratcliffe caught another one on his hook. A big fish. A really big one. The Deconeus of Ely.”
“Tunmore,” Ankarette breathed in surprise. By the look of concern on her face, Owen could tell that she admired the man. “I wonder how he was trapped.”
Mancini shrugged, mopping the back of his neck with the rag. “I only know he was caught by the Espion abroad. Whatever news Gates has brought, he will share it with Ratcliffe immediately. You only have moments to get this lad in front of the king with another dream!”
Ankarette started pacing, her brow furrowed.
Evie frowned. “My grandpapa and my papa don’t like Tunmore. He committed treason.”
Ankarette’s gaze turned to her. “You are right,” she said softly, gently. “He was guilty of treason. Other men paid for theirs with blood, but the Deconeus of Ely did not. I’m surprised he allowed himself to be trapped. He was one of the wisest men I ever met . . . a mentor of mine.” She shook her head. “What is done is done. Without knowing the full news, we must not guess at it. Just the news of his capture will be enough.”
“What am I to say then?” Owen asked nervously. There were so many names. He did not understand them, and he wasn’t sure he could say them all.
Ankarette turned to Mancini. “Do you have any suggestions?”
Mancini looked at her, startled. “I did my part!” he complained angrily. “This is just the sort of gossip you wanted from me. I had to run . . . run! . . . from Our Lady. I won’t catch my breath for another week.” He groaned and jiggled his joints. “I even tossed a coin into the Fountain for good luck, which shows my utter desperation that Gates won’t think to connect his violent diarrhea with the muffin I gave him! If he does, I’m a dead man.”
“You’ve done well, Dominic,” Ankarette soothed. She stopped pacing and turned quickly. “Owen, do you know what an eel is?”
He blinked at her.
“They’re like snake fishes!” Evie chimed in.
Owen nodded but grimaced. “I don’t like them,” he said, shaking his head. “They taste funny.”
Ankarette beamed. “The blessing of talking to the children of nobles! Yes, an eel is like a water snake. This is what you must say, Owen. You were in the kitchen this morning. You heard Liona say she was planning to make eel for the king’s dinner. That made you think of eels, and then you felt like you were an eel. An eel that was caught by a fishhook. You struggled against the hook, but you were dragged out of the water. There was a rat with a fishing rod on the shore. You were the eel. Can you remember this, Owen?”
Evie frowned. “What does it mean? Oh! Ely! That’s the eel!”
Ankarette winked at her. “Clever girl.”
There was a firm double knock at the door.
“This way, Dominic,” Ankarette said, motioning for him to follow her. Ankarette waved at Owen to go to the door and then slipped through another doorway with Mancini and shut it behind her. Moments later, Berwick had unlocked the door and was standing in the frame, his face dripping sweat.
“Look at you two! Always gettin’ into mischief! The king’s at breakfast noow, don’t you know! Come along, come along. I’ll be bruised if I get in trouble for you being late.”
Owen and Evie marched out and followed him. She squeezed his hand as they walked, but Owen’s stomach was indeed wriggling like a hooked eel. Berwick’s limp became more pronounced. As they walked, a man turned the corner ahead of them, wearing the badge of the king—the white boar. When he saw them, his eyes narrowed and his expression changed.
“Found ’em!” Berwick said, giving Owen a little jab to his head wit
h his fist. “These two are naught but trouble. Someone younger and more limber needs to watch after them. Goch!”
The man did not respond, but after they passed him, he continued down the hall the way they had come. He went straight to the servant’s door and rattled the handle, but Berwick had locked it.
When they turned the corner out of the man’s sight, Berwick offered a puckered sigh of relief. They strode into the great hall where breakfast was already underway. King Severn was making his rounds of the tables, jabbing at his youthful guests, while Ratcliffe stood fidgeting in the corner. When the head of the Espion saw them enter, a look of relief quickly passed over his eyes, followed promptly by blazing anger.
“Ah, you’ve come at last!” the king said with a sardonic look. “Normally one waits on the king, but I see that I must wait on two wayward children. How pleasant of you both to join us.”
“Pardon, my lord,” Berwick said sheepishly. He bowed several times. “My pardon, my pardon. These two made a royal mess last night and I was chiding them—”
“You were chiding them?” the king interrupted, a wry look in his eye. “I think a piece of white fluff made it all the way down to my bedchamber this morn. But then again, the bit of down may have come from my own pillow.” He chuckled to himself, his face brightening a bit at the mischief. He already knew.
“Again, I beg your pardon,” Berwick said, bowing meekly as he slowly retreated. Ratcliffe caught him before he could escape and began snarling in his ear.
“Ease off, Ratcliffe,” the king said with a twinge of annoyance. “But their escapades last night do not condone such behavior from the rest of you,” he added, wagging a finger at the other youngsters in the room. “Why so sullen this morning, Lord Dunsdworth? Is the fare not to your liking?”
Owen’s stomach roiled with nerves as the king’s attention focused on the older boy, who was sulking from the humiliations of the previous day. His cheeks were ruddy and he grunted something under his breath. Owen wondered how Lord Horwath had cowed him so much.
“Go,” Evie whispered in his ear, nudging him.
He would rather have jumped into the cistern again than face the king. Ankarette’s words were all jumbling inside his head. Before, she had taught him precisely what to say. They had practiced it several times. There had been time to think on it, to practice it in his head. This was very different, extremely urgent.
“Go!” she insisted, butting him harder.
He sighed and started toward the king. A man he didn’t recognize came into the hall, looked around a moment, and then started walking toward Ratcliffe and Berwick. There was a queasy look on his face and one of his gloved hands held his stomach. Owen had the distinct suspicion that this was the man who had just arrived, the one Mancini had poisoned. Time was running out.
Owen’s stomach began to thicken in his mouth. He glanced back at Evie and saw her eyes boring into his. You will do this! her look commanded. Her eyes were very green at that moment.
Owen took a few more steps, feeling as if all of his bones had become unhinged. He was trembling and fearful. Dunsdworth glanced up, saw him, and his face tightened with pent-up anger. It was nearly enough to make Owen lose his resolve.
“What is it, lad?” the king suddenly asked him, his voice dropping low. He was giving Owen a serious look, as if he were concerned about him. He walked up to him, and Owen hardly noticed his limp. He saw the hand gripping the dagger hilt, loosening it from the scabbard. In his mind, he saw a blizzard of white feathers, set free by Ankarette’s blade. He blinked rapidly, trying to calm himself.
“Are you unwell?” the king asked, pitching his voice softer. He set a hand on the boy’s shoulder, and the sudden weight nearly made his knees buckle. He wanted to flee, to dash away, to find a dark tunnel and curl up and start crying. How could someone so little be asked to do this?
His eyes were watering, which was embarrassing. He wasn’t crying. They were just watering. He looked up at the king’s face, saw the pointed jaw that was so freshly shaved it still gleamed with shiny oil. He had a smell about him too, a smell of leather and metal. Owen nearly fainted.
But he noticed that Evie had come around behind the king, so that she could meet Owen’s eyes. She willed him to speak, her eyes fierce and determined and utterly fearless. It was like she was pouring her courage into his cup through her look.
Just tell him! she seemed to say.
“Do you . . . do you care for . . . for eels?”
Owen didn’t know why those words popped out of his mouth.
The king looked at him in confusion. “Do I care for eels?”
Owen nodded.
“Not really,” the king said. “Do you fancy them?”
“Not really,” Owen said, trying to master himself. “I was in the kitchen this morning. Liona said she was making eels.”
The king snorted. “You don’t have to eat them if you don’t care for them, lad. I thought . . . well, never mind.” He lifted his hand away and frowned with disappointment.
Owen was losing his nerve and his chance. “When she said that about the eels,” he forced himself to continue, “I started to feel . . . strange.” He blinked rapidly.
He had the king’s attention again. “You did? Like another vision?” He seemed eager, almost hungry, when Owen nodded.
“Ratcliffe!” the king barked, gesturing for him to hurry over. Ratcliffe frowned with annoyance and made his way to them. Evie beamed with pride at Owen.
“Go on!” the king implored, his voice low and coaxing, his eyes shining with interest.
“It was like a dream, except I was awake,” Owen said. “I was an eel. And there was a hook in my mouth, like a fisherman’s hook, tugging me out of the water. I was wiggling and trying to get free, but the hook kept pulling. It hurt. And when I came out of the water, it wasn’t a fisherman at all. A rat was holding the pole. A grinning rat.” Owen swallowed, feeling relief that he had gotten it out.
The king stared at him in confusion. “That is a strange thing, Owen. Peculiar.” He glanced at Ratcliffe for clarification.
Ratcliffe shrugged, totally perplexed. “I make no sense of it. The boy doesn’t like eels. Not many do. Did you know the second king of Ceredigion died from eating too many eels?”
The king’s expression hardened. “That was lampreys, you fool.” He turned back to Owen and patted his shoulder. “You don’t have to eat them. Have Liona make you a roast capon or another fish that you prefer.”
Owen nodded, very hungry now, and grabbed a muffin from the table. It had little seeds in it and reminded him of the one he had eaten while riding into the city for the first time.
Evie butted into his shoulder, just slightly, as she stood next to him by the table. She gazed across the assortment of food, carefully decided, and then chose a pear.
“You did it,” she whispered, not looking at him.
He wanted to collapse under the table in relief.
The king’s sharp voice echoed in the hall. “What?”
All eyes turned to him. The queasy-looking man Owen had noticed earlier was standing by the king and Ratcliffe. He looked like he had just said something.
Then, in unison, the king and Ratcliffe turned and looked at Owen.
I’ve learned this above all else. You must bind men to you by benefits, or else make sure of them in some other way. Never reduce them to the alternative of having either to destroy you or perish themselves. I fear that Ratcliffe, in his efforts to secure his master’s throne, may be risking it all the more. There is never anything more tenuous than peace.
—Dominic Mancini, Espion of the Palace Kitchen
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Loyalty
Ankarette had predicted, correctly as it turned out, that the king would immediately assemble his councillors after such a miraculous demonstration of Owen’s gift. So when the men started to gather in the king’s council chambers, Owen and Ankarette were already poised by the spyhole in the secret door
, ready to watch and to listen. She held a finger to her lips, warning him to be absolutely still, but her eyes gleamed with the thrill of bearing silent witness to such a meeting. Owen shifted so his legs wouldn’t get too tired as he watched and listened.
He recognized some but not all of those in attendance, and Ankarette quietly whispered in his ear whenever someone he did not know entered the room. The king had called in Ratcliffe, Horwath, and his chancellor Catsby, along with two religious officials representing the sanctuaries. In the months following his victory at Ambion Hill, he had not yet replenished all of the council seats, Ankarette explained quietly. Owen’s father, for example, had not been restored to his previous role and was awaiting his fate in his own lands. The council was small and getting smaller.
Some of the council members had seated themselves, but the king was pacing, keen displeasure and more unnameable emotions playing in his eyes.
“Everyone is here, Your Grace,” Ratcliffe announced, after shutting the door. There was a wary look on his face.
“You are wondering why I’ve summoned you,” Severn said in a low voice. He cast his gaze over the men. “You all look like men who are about to be shoved into the waters. Are you feeling guilty? Did any of you know of this news before it arrived?”
There was a moment of awkward silence. “Know of what news, my lord?” said the man Ankarette had identified as Catsby.
“Tell them,” the king said gruffly, waving a hand at Ratcliffe. That directive delivered, he turned away from the council and started to slip his dagger in and out of its sheath.
Ratcliffe assumed an authoritative posture and advanced to the head of the table. He planted his palms on the gleaming, waxed surface. “News from Southport. We have John Tunmore in custody.”
There were startled gasps around the room. Only Horwath, who was always unflappable, did not react with open shock.
