by Jeff Wheeler
“Owen!” Evie shrieked, realizing it at the same time he did.
The cistern was draining into the river.
The stairs were far away now, and the shaft of light from the opening was a pale spear in the darkness that was growing larger as the current pushed them farther and farther from safety.
“Grab a column!” she shouted. She reached for the nearest one, but her fingers slipped on the wet stone.
Owen tried to grab one too and his fingers managed to stick. He grabbed Evie’s wrist and clung to her, but the force of the waters pulled him away from the column and they were both swept into the current once more.
The maw of the opening loomed closer and they could hear the water spilling over its edge. Would they be able to stop themselves from going over? He didn’t think so, not with how fast the water was moving them.
“Owen!” she said desperately, grabbing his waist in terror.
There was nothing to hold on to. There was nothing to grab. The boat was gone. His mind whirled frantically, but then, with the shushing sounds of the water, he felt a stab of peacefulness. His mind opened to the possibilities, quick as lightning. He needed something heavy. Something so heavy the waters couldn’t move it.
The treasure.
“Hold on to me!” he shouted at her fear-stricken face. “Hold tight!” Instead of swimming against the current, he swam with it and went down. Flailing, his foot struck against something hard on the bottom. It was too dark to see, but he felt with his hands and discovered a handhold, the rung on a chest. He grabbed it tightly with one hand and felt himself slipping, so he grabbed it with both. Evie clung to his belt, holding on for dear life. He was running out of air, but at least they weren’t moving. The chest was saving them from being swept away. Why was there treasure on the floor? Who had left it there? How had someone dragged one of the chests away? Why?
His lungs burned painfully. He wanted so badly to breathe! He felt Evie’s hands slipping away. He needed to act quickly if he were to save them both. He pulled on the ring and dragged himself over the chest, so that he could plant his feet on either side of it. The chest was big, probably up to his waist. It slid a little on the ground when he jostled it, but it was too heavy to be dragged away.
Breathe.
The thought came to his mind and he started to panic. He felt he should just breathe in the water, but he knew he would die if he did. As Evie had told him, children drowned all the time. He needed air! He wedged the chest between his legs, freeing his hands, and then grabbed Evie’s arms and pulled her away from his belt. He pushed her up toward the surface, holding her by her boots. He felt the current tugging her away, but he held on fiercely, determined not to lose her.
She was screaming. Even under the water, he could hear her voice. Bits of blackness drifted in front of his eyes. He was fading. Falling asleep.
He was drowning.
He felt his muscles tingling and burning. They were near the opening where the water spilled out, he realized. A big square of light could be seen overhead. Owen felt peaceful as he stared at it. His lungs stopped burning. Everything slowed down and he felt one with the waters.
Breathe.
The thought didn’t sound so frightening now. Owen opened his mouth.
Evie was gone. He blinked in confusion. When had he let go of her? He heard the pattering of a fountain, could almost smell the scent of honeysuckle and other garden flowers. Strange that he could smell so deep underwater.
Then strong hands grabbed him beneath his arms and pulled him up. His face broke the surface and then air was suddenly filling his chest again. Delicious, yeasty air that made his bones sing.
“Up, lad! Up!” It was Mancini’s voice.
Owen spluttered dreamily and saw Evie clinging to the fat spy’s neck, her hair dripping into her face. Her dress drooped as well and she hung limply, looking too tired to move. She stared at Owen in relief and he could tell she was struggling not to cry.
Mancini hauled Owen up under his arm and started tromping back toward the stairs. The waters rushed around him, but enough had drained that it was down to his middle, and it appeared to have lost some of its power.
“Why the devil I should risk my life saving you two,” the Espion muttered darkly as he marched. “Reckless. Careless. Stupid little urchins. I thought you were a water sprite, girl, but you’re clearly not! A water sprite wouldn’t have almost got herself drowned. How did you even know about this place? It was walled off for a reason!”
Owen ignored the man’s rant and stared at the water. It was draining past Mancini’s knees now. Soon the treasure would be seen. He would prove to them it was real.
They reached the bottom of the stairs, and Mancini dropped Owen like a heavy sack before turning around and sitting on the steps, breathing roughly. “Too much work. This is too much. Goodness, children are always trying to kill themselves for naught. Why I should bother saving you is beyond me. We’re all wet and drippy now. Ugh!”
Evie rushed over to Owen and wrapped him in a tight hug. “How did you? How did you save us? What were you holding on to? It was like you had a boat anchor!”
“It was the treasure,” Owen gasped, wiping water from his face. He stared down at the draining cistern. The water had drained even lower than the steps.
“Treasure?” Mancini said eagerly, looking at the water.
There was nothing. Owen stepped off the stairs and searched the spot where they had originally landed. The cistern hole was above them. He kicked at the waters, splashing them, and saw nothing on the shimmering floor. Nothing.
“His wits are addled,” Mancini said, still chuffing for breath.
Owen turned and looked at Evie pleadingly. “I saw it!” he insisted. “I felt it.”
She stared at him, her face wilting. Then she rushed over and hugged him again and started to cry.
I think Ratcliffe intends to murder the boy just as the princes were murdered. When the two brats ran off, I felt uneasy about them, so I hastened to follow. They had apparently discovered the way to the palace cistern. Ratcliffe found me observing them, and when I told him what was going on, a strange gleam came to his eye and he hurried away. That made me even more uneasy, so I tried to call the children back, but they couldn’t hear me. Shortly after, I heard screaming and broke down the door. The cistern waters were being drained into the river. I saved the children, dragging both of their soggy carcasses out of that pit. It took an hour to catch my breath afterward. I don’t think it’s a coincidence that it happened not long after Ratcliffe left me. And he meant, I think, to put the blame of their deaths on me. Well, two can throw the dice in a game of chance.
—Dominic Mancini, Espion of the Palace Cistern
CHAPTER THIRTY
Cursing
The entire palace was in an uproar when it was discovered that John Tunmore had escaped his cell. A search of the castle had been conducted throughout the night, and it was impossible for Owen to sleep amidst the torchlight and the racket of marching boots. His room was searched for the fugitive not once, but twice. He dared not visit Ankarette that night, for even the spy tunnels were being thoroughly searched.
The king was in such a rage that everyone was on tenterhooks. Owen and Evie were both feeling the aftereffects of the deadly peril from the previous day, and it was the first time Owen had ever known Evie to be quiet and soft-spoken. The two children stayed near each other during breakfast as the king ranted and raved, filling the air with blistering curses about the incompetence of his trusted servants, who stared at the king with open shock.
“And what have you learned thus far?” the king demanded hotly, his cheeks flushed, his nostrils white with anger. He hadn’t been shaved that morning, as he usually was, and his dark hair was untidy beneath his black felt hat.
Ratcliffe looked almost desperate. “From what I understand, Your Grace, he walked out of his cell on your orders.”
The king’s visage grew even fiercer. “And why, by the bloo
dy Fountain, would I command his release, Dickon? Your people had him in the tower. Obviously one of them let him go!”
“That’s not true!” Ratcliffe said. “There was a paper given to the guard with your seal on it. A note written in your own hand, as they said, demanding the release of the prisoner, explaining that he was on a secret embassy from you and his capture was all part of the ploy. My lord,” he said, his voice lowering. “I have four men who swear they read this note!”
“Then where is it, Ratcliffe? Show it to me!”
A crumpled frown preceded the response. “It was thrown into the fire. But four men—!”
“I don’t care if a dozen men all swore they saw pigs fly!” the king thundered. “I did not order his release. My signet ring is on my hand, as you can see, and I assure you, Dickon, that I ordered no such thing! Why do I bother having an Espion if you bungle everything? This palace is riddled with rat holes. Tunnels and scratching claws. I detest it. And I’ve learned from Berwick that the cistern went dry and we’ll be hauling water from the river for days to refill it since the rains haven’t started.” He wiped sweat from his face, his mouth twisted into a brooding scowl. “Why am I surrounded by such ineptitude? Is there no man who can be true to his king?”
Ratcliffe’s face blackened at the king’s harsh words. His voice was thick with anger when he spoke again. “I am doing the best I can!” he seethed.
The king glared at him. “It’s not enough, Dickon. We’ve known each other for a long while and I consider you a friend. Even our wives were friends. But friendship is not enough. This duty is beyond you, man. This is a load on the halter you aren’t strong enough to pull!”
“Am I . . . an ox then?” Ratcliffe stuttered, coming dangerously close to losing control of his tongue. “You are whipping me like one!”
King Severn muttered something under his breath. Owen and Evie were close enough to see his face, but not close enough to hear the words. He looked up at his Espion lord with daggers in his eyes. “I’m going to call on another man to take on the job, Ratcliffe. This blunder is too visible, too humiliating. I’ll be the laughingstock in every court from here to Pisan. I had success at Ambion Hill, proved my right to rule through blood and the blessing of the Fountain. But losing a notorious traitor from my own towers?” He extended a gloved hand. “Give me his book. I want Tunmore’s book. I want to read his lies about me with my own eyes.”
Ratcliffe’s face contorted with fury. “I beg you, Severn,” he said in a groveling, impetuous tone and tried to draw the king away from all the witnesses. His voice was angry but pitched low enough not to be heard by the entire room of onlookers. “Do not cast me aside like you have others. I’m not Hastings. I’m not Bletchley. I’m not Kiskaddon! You can trust me.”
Owen stared at the king, hoping he did not believe the spymaster. Owen had seen Ratcliffe when the king wasn’t around. He knew the disdainful way he treated others. When a man led others, he needed to earn their respect, not lord over them because of his rank. It was a lesson he’d learned from his father, who always treated his men with respect. In his head, it sounded like tiles were being set up to fall. He could almost hear the clicking sound of them.
“Give me the book,” Severn insisted.
Ratcliffe’s face twisted with fury. “I will fetch it.”
“It’s in your belt,” the king snapped, his hand outstretched.
Ratcliffe tugged it loose and thrust it into the king’s hand. He was sulking now, his looks so dark and stormy that Owen feared him even more. “What about your journey? Are we still going into Westmarch as I planned?”
“We leave tomorrow,” the king said, mollified somewhat. He turned the black-bound book over in his hand, examining the binding with curiosity.
“Tomorrow? It will take weeks before the household is ready to move!”
“I’m a soldier, Ratcliffe. You know that. I don’t care how long it takes the household to follow us. I’m bringing an army with me to the West. Soldiers from the North are riding down even now. We will surprise Kiskaddon with our numbers. The last time I ordered him into battle, he balked and refused to come to my aid until the bitter end. If he balks about joining us, it’ll cost him dearly. I think I’ve learned enough lessons from Ambion Hill. It’s time for me to do what I should have done months ago.”
Owen didn’t catch the king’s meaning, but he could tell by his tone of voice that his parents were in trouble. He glanced nervously at his friend and saw her eyes darken with worry. They were doing their best to conceal themselves behind one of the food tables.
“You won’t . . . like . . . what you read in it,” Ratcliffe said, nodding at the book as if it were a living snake. “You won’t care for it. Not at all.”
“I am used to slander, Dickon.” His mouth began to twist with suppressed anger. “I’ve been accused of seducing my niece. Murdering my brother’s sons. Poisoning my wife.” He grunted with disgust. “Remember the eclipse, Dickon? The eclipse that happened the day my wife died? I was blamed for that, too.” His voice had shrunk to almost a whisper. “That, however, may have been my doing. My soul was black that day. And I am Fountain-blessed.”
A silence hung between the two men as they shared memories like a cup of bitter wine.
“My lord,” Ratcliffe said, his voice so humble it was almost convincing, “if you will but give me one more chance. Let me prove my loyalty to you. I have no doubt that Tryneowy was behind Tunmore’s disappearance. I wouldn’t put it past her to have stolen your ring off your finger in the night.”
The king looked at him coldly. “That would be impossible,” he said. “For I did not sleep. I will not announce the change yet, Ratcliffe. But I will soon.” He tugged off one of his black gloves and stuffed it in his belt, then reached out a hand and clapped Ratcliffe’s shoulder. His voice changed in pitch and tone. “You’ve been loyal, Dickon. I value you, truly I do.”
Owen felt a ripple in the air, heard the murmuring churn of waters. He watched with fascination as the king opened himself up to the Fountain, willing it into their presence, summoning it as he might summon a horse to be ridden.
“You will step down as head of the Espion when I command it. You will curb your resentment and think on what you have learned from the experience. My brother always taught me that men should be lifted up to the point where they fail, but no further. You have ambition. You have many good capacities. You are a loyal advisor and friend. But this task is beyond you, and I must find another more capable to stand in your place. You will assist me in finding your replacement. This I charge you. This I command you.”
Owen remembered how the king had used his power to command him to walk out of the sanctuary of Our Lady. He had felt the flow of the Fountain all around him then, and he felt it now, too, even though the words were not directed at him. This time he was removed enough from the situation to observe the king’s use of his power without being pulled into the current. He was impressed with how the king had dealt with the situation. He hadn’t said anything untruthful or insincere. And he had not done it scoldingly or harshly.
“Look,” Evie whispered in Owen’s ear. “Mancini!”
Owen turned and saw the fat Espion approaching the king and Ratcliffe. He was gazing hungrily at the piles of food on the trestle tables, but he approached deliberately, one hand resting on his enormous belly.
Ratcliffe’s eyes were still clouded, but he was staring fixedly at the king, and he looked to be near tears. The king folded his arms and gave Mancini a shrewd look as the big man made his approach.
“Ah, the man who has increased the expenses of my kitchen,” he said.
Mancini bowed with a flourish. “Your Grace honors me by noticing such trifling details,” he said graciously. “I do have an appetite, it is true. But what I hunger for more than honeyed bread and sack wine is gossip and secrets. And what I have just learned I thought Your Majesty would wish to know straightaway.”
Ratcliffe whirled at the sound of
Mancini’s voice, his face flushed with anger. It was known throughout the palace that he preferred for his underlings to report their news to him—and only him. Mancini was breaking protocol, and everyone in the room knew it. The king looked intrigued.
“What news, Master . . . ?”
“Mancini, Dominic Mancini. I’m Genevese, if you didn’t know it. We love our food!”
“I didn’t,” he said, giving Ratcliffe an unidentifiable look.
“Well, Your Grace, I thought you would wish to hear this straightaway.” The big man took another step forward, pitching his voice softly so that it would not carry through the hall. Ratcliffe leaned forward, straining. Owen and Evie sidled a little closer.
“I thought it would be worth mentioning,” Mancini continued, “that John Tunmore was spotted in the sanctuary of Our Lady conferring with the old queen. Well, she isn’t that old, but she is the previous queen. I used to be stationed at Our Lady, Your Majesty, and have some acquaintances there who are not part of the Espion. They thought I would be willing to . . . ahem . . . pay for such news. Of course, I keep a purse of florins on my person for just such a moment.” He jiggled his coin purse and wagged his eyebrows at the king.
The king’s expression changed to wonderment and respect. He completely ignored Ratcliffe. “How did he manage to get through the gate?” the king demanded. “Did he sneak away in disguise? The gatekeepers did not see anyone matching his description.”
Mancini grinned, cocking his head conspiratorially. “I understand he was seen disembarking from a little boat, Your Majesty. It is dangerous, as you know, maneuvering boats so near the falls, but that is what my contacts told me. There are many secret places here in the palace, as you know.”
“I do,” the king agreed briskly with a hint of anger. “Well, that explains the disappearance. What remains is to decide what we should do about it.”
