The Secret Prince

by Violet Haberdasher

  “I’m not questioning whether or not it’s a good idea,” Derrick quickly amended. “I mean, we seem to have opened Pandora’s box here, and I’d be bloody glad of some weapons training should this problem with the Nordlands continue sliding toward war, but I have obligations to the Ministerium. My place isn’t leading the rebellion; it’s fixing the problem.”

  “So go fix it, then!” Henry nearly shouted.

  “You know I can’t!”

  They glared at each other, no longer in agreement, or able to see eye to eye. Henry couldn’t believe how wrong he’d been about Derrick. And then the guttering candle died, leaving Derrick holding a lump of faintly smoking wax.

  “We should go,” Henry said, wrapping his blazer around the stack of books. “The others will start to get suspicious.”

  It was surprisingly easy to make the trophy case look, once again, as though it were part of a long-neglected wall of a rarely explored corridor. In a rather sour silence the two boys headed back toward the dormitory.

  “You’re clever, Grim,” Derrick said, breaking the silence as they passed the hall of armor on the ground floor. “You could do it, you know.”

  Henry shook his head. “Not by myself. You saw how I was at drills. I can’t give orders.”

  Both boys paused, staring at the suits of armor, a row of unarmed ghostly sentinels. Now Henry knew exactly where their weapons had gone.

  “I want to tell Conrad what we saw,” Derrick admitted.

  “Fine,” Henry said coolly.

  “Unless you think—”

  “Do what you want, Marchbanks.” Henry quickened his pace and, ignoring the commotion in the common room, threw open the door to his room. He dumped the stack of books onto his bed, and then picked up the training manual and tried to think what to do. With a tinge of regret he tore the cover off one of the mystery novels Mrs. Alabaster had given him for Christmas and placed it over the training manual. He hid the rest of the books under his bed.

  As Henry carried the training manual into the common room, he realized that, despite the eight months that had passed since he’d last mopped a corridor, nothing had really changed. He was still that odd serving boy who stole books and dreamed of a different world, and, despite the events of the past two weeks, he was still very much an outsider.

  11

  THE TRUTH ABOUT VALMONT

  You should have told us earlier,” Rohan said the next morning as they got ready for chapel in the gray dawn. “Although I did wonder what you were doing with your nose buried in that detective story all night. You just finished it last weekend.”

  Henry shook his head at Rohan’s sharp observation. Somehow he wasn’t quite as upset with Rohan anymore. At least Rohan had refused to participate from the outset, rather than giving flimsy excuses at the last possible moment.

  And anyway, ever since the disastrous cricket match, Rohan hadn’t been quite so keen on his friendship with James. James had acted as though he’d lost a dear relative to an unexpected tragedy, rather than a friendly game to a group of older boys who were predictably better at it.

  “I know, and I’m sorry,” Henry said.

  “It’s all right.” Adam plucked the book from beneath Henry’s pillow. “Oi, you never said it was in Latin.”

  “The rest are in English.”

  “Just once I’d like to find a book in the library written in Hebrew.” Adam knotted his tie shorter than regulation and tucked the skinny end into his shirt, in the way they weren’t really supposed to.

  “I didn’t know you read Hebrew,” Rohan said, fastening his cuffs.

  Adam shrugged. “This is actually the first year my textbooks are in English,” he admitted, shouldering his satchel. “Everyone ready?”

  Henry stared at Adam in surprise. No wonder his friend always seemed to finish the reading ages after everyone else.

  “How come you never said anything?” Henry asked.

  “I went to the yeshiva,” Adam said. “I thought you knew.”

  “But that’s just the name of a school, isn’t it?” Henry frowned.

  “It’s a type of school,” Adam clarified. “And it isn’t important. Did you really mean it about learning combat?”

  “I did.”

  Rohan gave them both a severe look. “Breaking school rules isn’t enough? Now you want to break the law?”

  “It isn’t illegal to study combat, technically,” Henry whispered as they joined the other students on the way to chapel. “It’s illegal to be instructed. So if no one is teaching us …”

  “I don’t like this,” Rohan said, shaking his head.

  “None of this would have happened if you hadn’t been dead set on no longer being friends with Frankie,” Adam pointed out.

  “Do shut up, Adam,” Rohan said primly.

  Henry snorted. He’d missed his friends terribly.

  At supper that evening the first years were unusually subdued. The second years bent their heads and whispered furiously. The third years alternated between silence and bursts of heated debate. And the fourth-year table sat empty, as it had all week; the boys were off serving apprenticeships. But Henry suspected they too were sitting around the dinner table trying to make sense of the news.

  That morning the gossip rags had run another staggering headline: POLICING AGENCY QUESTIONS NORDLANDIC HOUSEHOLDS. Dimit Yascherov, the head of both the Partisan School and the Nordlandic Policing Agency, had issued orders for household inspections. Every home in the Nordlands was to be visited and checked, its inhabitants catalogued and assessed. Those deemed to be fit for certain government projects would be transferred immediately to a new work detail.

  “Maybe they’re building roads,” Edmund said, passing the basket of rolls. “Or hospitals.”

  “Be serious, Merrill,” Derrick scoffed. “It’s most likely just an excuse to scare everyone into following the laws.”

  “How do you figure that?” Rohan asked.

  “It’s like that prison Sir Franklin mentioned in ethics today. I forget the name.”

  “The Panopticon,” Henry said.

  “Right, the Panopticon,” Derrick continued. “If you think that a police agent could arrive on your doorstep at any moment and assign you to an unnamed work detail, you’re going to be terrified to do anything wrong, because you feel like you’re being watched.”

  “That’s not really what Sir Franklin was talking about,” Henry argued. “He was saying how if watch-men can’t be seen, they don’t truly ever have to be on duty, and society governs itself.”

  “Not society,” Derrick returned. “Prisoners. They’ve already been caught by the law once. They already know what it’s like to be scrutinized by these watchmen or whomever. So the threat works because they know what to fear.”

  “Maybe,” Henry said.

  “Not maybe,” Derrick argued. “I’m right.”

  “Sorry, Henry, he is,” Rohan mumbled.

  Henry glanced curiously at Rohan—was that why he’d become so fanatical about following the rules? Because he knew all too well the consequences of breaking them?

  And then a fierce argument broke out at the third-year table between Theobold’s older brother and a tall, confident-looking boy with an earring. The boy with the earring hauled back and punched Arch square in the jaw.

  Sir Franklin and Lord Havelock hurried over and pulled the boys apart.

  “Nordlandic sympathizer,” Arch spat, rubbing his jaw.

  Back at Henry’s table Edmund had gone quite pale. Theobold, however, was seething. As the professors marched the two third years out of the dining hall, they passed by the first-year table.

  “Peter—,” Edmund began.

  The boy with the earring shook his head. “Don’t worry about it, kid,” he called over his shoulder.

  Henry and Adam exchanged an amused glance, even though it was anything but funny. Who would have thought that shy Edmund’s older brother was so, well, daring?

  “I can’t believe we’
re doing this,” Rohan muttered as he, Henry, and Adam crept through the corridor. They had just half an hour until lights-out, but Henry had insisted on waiting for Adam to finish the reading for Medicine.

  “There better be leftover trifle,” said Adam.

  “You ate enough of it at supper,” Rohan said.

  “There is no such thing as enough dessert,” Adam protested.

  They were on their way to visit Liza and Mary, two kitchen maids who in addition to knowing where the leftover deserts were kept, also happened to be a wealth of knowledge about anything and everything printed in the gossip rags. If anyone knew what was really behind that morning’s article about the Nordlandic police inspections, it was Liza and Mary.

  But as Henry and his friends reached the bottom of the servants’ stair that led to the kitchens, they stopped short. Ollie, the serving boy who had given Henry the ice, was gingerly dragging a mop across the floor, wincing as he clasped his left hand to his side. His right hand was badly bandaged with a scrap of washrag, and his cheeks were shadowed with bruises.

  Henry, Adam, and Rohan exchanged an uneasy glance.

  “You’ll need to bind those ribs tighter,” Henry said.

  Ollie stared at him in surprise.

  “Your ribs,” Henry said. “The way you’re holding the mop gives it away. Come on. Put that down and let me see what you’ve done to yourself.”

  Ollie cringed and eyed Henry and his friends doubtfully. “I tripped, I promise. I wasn’t doin’ nothing wrong.”

  At this, Adam snorted.

  “We’re not going to tell anyone,” Henry reassured the boy. “These are my friends. We can help patch you up.”

  “We can?” Rohan asked, raising an eyebrow.

  “Of course,” Henry said with far more confidence than he felt.

  Ollie shook his head. “I can’t. I ain’t finished mopping the corridor.”

  “You shouldn’t be doing that,” Henry said, holding out his hand for the mop. “You could puncture a lung or something. Give it here.”

  Ollie passed Henry the mop. The boy really was small for his age, Henry observed, rolling up his sleeves.“So how’d you get hurt?” Adam blurted.

  “Pub fighting.” Ollie lifted his chin, and then realized what he’d said and blanched. “I mean, I was watching pub fighting an’ I fell.”

  “Pub fighting!” Adam scoffed. “You’re about twelve!”

  “No, I’m thirteen!” Ollie said fiercely.

  “My mistake.” Adam smirked.

  Henry wrung out the mop and nearly jumped when Rohan appeared at his side. “Listen, Henry,” said Rohan with a disapproving frown. “I don’t think you ought to be doing that. It isn’t your place.”

  “A knight must help ‘those in need, whether of common or noble breed,’ ” Henry quoted, daring Rohan to object.

  “All right,” Rohan conceded. “What should we do?”

  “Take him to the infirmary. Say that he was attacked by bandits—I don’t know, make it believable. If sick matron won’t help, we’ll need a roll of bandages.”

  “And how am I supposed to get—” Rohan gave Henry a sharp look when he realized what Henry was asking.

  “Look at him,” Henry whispered. “If he were your younger brother, could you stand it?”

  Rohan pursed his lips in disapproval. He clearly didn’t see why Ollie had been fighting at the pub in the first place. But Henry could venture a guess. The boy was either desperate for the extra money or needed very badly to learn how to fight. And neither option was reassuring.

  “Come on,” Rohan said to Adam and Ollie. “We’re going to the infirmary.”

  “I’ll be along in a few minutes,” Henry called after them.

  When everyone had left, Henry stood there in the darkened corridor, rhythmically pushing the mop along the baseboards and trying to remember the last time he’d done such a thing. He was so lost in thought that he didn’t hear anyone approaching.

  “Ollie Twisp, you better not be daydreamin’ again!”

  Henry turned. At the other end of the corridor, Liza shrieked in surprise. She stared at Henry in a panic, her washrag fluttering to the floor.

  “Master Henry, what’re you doin’?”

  “Hallo, Liza,” Henry said, retrieving her washrag and offering it with a polite bow. “How are things?”

  Liza regarded him doubtfully. “You ain’t answered my question.”

  “I sent Ollie to have his injuries bandaged up,” Henry explained as the mop made a hideous squelching noise. “I do hope I haven’t missed a spot.”

  Liza frowned at the wet corridor, and then at Henry, uncertain whether or not he was joking. “You’re taller,” she said. “How old are you?”

  “Fifteen next month.” Henry’s birthday had always been a bit of a guess, but he’d gotten used to thinking of himself as a year older around March fifteenth. “Say, Liza, you haven’t heard anything about the Nordlands lately, have you?” Henry leaned forward on the mop handle, in the way he had never dared back when he was a servant.

  “O’ course I been hearin’ things. I got eyes, don’t I?” Liza retorted.

  Henry tried not to grin. “My mistake,” he mocked, favoring the kitchen maid with another bow. She blushed, pleased.

  “I heard they’re truly searchin’ fer plots against the government. Secret organizations an’ hidden schools an’ stashes of weapons.”

  “But why have news of it in the papers?” Henry asked. “They lose the element of surprise.”

  “Ain’t no sense in bangin’ on someone’s door and catchin’ them unawares. Chancellor Mors wants ’em scared. He wants ’em knowin’ that someone’s comin’ to get ’em.” Liza paused, giving Henry a dark look.

  “So how will they find these secret plots and the like?” Henry asked, playing along. He didn’t really believe Liza’s theory, or Derrick’s, for that matter.

  “Don’t matter if they find ’em. It’s easier to do a scare. Poisons ’em from the inside. No one wants to be punished for doin’ nothin’ wrong, see? The innocent turn in the guilty so’s they don’t get shipped off to some government project.”

  Henry stared at Liza in surprise. That was actually quite a valid point.

  “Did you come up with that?” he asked.

  “Not me, Master Henry,” Liza admitted. “Over-heard that Sir Robert talkin’ about it with Lord Havelock when I brung tea to his office.”

  “Really? Do you remember which one of them said it?”

  “Lemme see now,” Liza said, pursing her lips as she remembered. “Must’ve been that Sir Robert. Lord Havelock don’ want nothin’ to do with ‘servant gossip’ such as he calls it, the high an’ mighty louse.”

  Henry snorted at Liza’s colorful description of Lord Havelock, but he was deeply troubled by what he’d just learned. The schoolmasters were talking about this latest news from the Nordlands. And not just the schoolmasters but Lord Havelock and Sir Robert—both of whom were members of the board of trustees!

  Henry resumed mopping, and Liza stood there, watching and shaking her head.

  “Ollie didn’t look well,” Henry insisted after a stretch of uncomfortable silence.

  “His da beats him sometimes,” Liza said. “Not enough to eat, so’s he has to find a reason to send someone to bed hungry.”

  “That’s horrible.”

  “That’s the way o’ things, Master Henry. Some are too scared o’ bein’ caught breakin’ the law to do anything, and others are too sure no one’s lookin’ that they do as they like. An’ that’s somethin’ I came up with meself.”

  After he finished mopping the corridor, Henry returned the bucket and mop to a broom cupboard he found just outside the kitchen. He caught sight of a clock and made a face; the hour was far later than he’d thought, and students were supposed to be in bed long before now.

  But still, he’d promised. And so he took the stairs that led to the infirmary rather than to the first-year corridor. But the infirmary, wh
en he reached it, was locked, the lights off.

  He supposed he should go to bed. Adam and Rohan were probably back in their room, waiting impatiently. He could tell them what Liza had overheard Lord Havelock and Sir Robert discussing. He yawned and headed back toward the dormitory, reviewing Liza’s borrowed theory about the Nordlands. He was so lost in thought that he almost failed to notice a dark shape creeping down the corridor in his direction. But at the last moment Henry did notice. His heart pounding, he pressed himself flat against the wall between two suits of armor.

  Fergus Valmont paused as he left the first-year corridor, looking extraordinarily guilty. He glanced over his shoulder, as though afraid of having been followed, and then made his way to an ancient window seat that no one used, due to its being a favorite haunt of the castle’s largest spiders.

  Henry watched as Valmont lifted the lid off the window seat, removed a large and rather lumpy canvas rucksack, and slung it over his shoulder. With a final backward glance, Valmont crept down the hallway, passing right by Henry, who pressed himself even harder against the wall, holding his breath. After Valmont had passed, Henry silently counted to ten, relaxed, and then considered what he should do.

  It was very late, and the door to his room was right there. No doubt his roommates were waiting for him, worried because he hadn’t joined them at the infirmary. But he wouldn’t be able to sleep unless he knew what Valmont was up to. The sneaking, the stashed rucksack, the nervous glances over his shoulder—Valmont clearly didn’t want to be followed.

  And so Henry decided to follow him.

  Valmont snuck through the corridor that lead to the Great Hall, and then made a sharp left up one of the staircases. Henry hung back, following only when he was certain Valmont wouldn’t see. At the top of the stairs, he panicked, thinking he’d lost Valmont. But then he heard a creak down the corridor that led to the armory and rounded the corner just in time to see the door to the armory creak shut.

  What was Valmont doing in the armory, in the middle of the night, with a bag he’d hidden outside their dormitory?

  Henry took a step toward the armory, and then stopped. He’d just meant to follow Valmont, not to confront him. What if Valmont went to Lord Havelock and claimed that he’d caught Henry sneaking around out of bed?