by Patty Jansen
By the time Johanna was ready to join them, she was so nervous that she was sure she would be sick.
The gold-coloured dress didn’t allow for easy sitting down, so she stood in the kitchen, wondering how long it would be before the hair pins gave her a headache.
Roald got changed rather more quickly, but he came to the kitchen with all his buttons undone. Nellie gasped, but Johanna asked, “Did anyone help you put your shirt on?”
“No.” His eyes were absolutely honest like a child’s.
“No one helped you with your pants?”
“No.”
“That’s very good.” It was astonishing. Roald had never managed to dress himself properly. Maybe there was hope. Maybe he could improve and manage his own life better. If they survived today.
She did up his buttons, her hands trembling. Then they waited. Time crept slowly towards midday. A couple of boys had gone to the markets and were going to come and get them, because if Johanna and Roald turned up too early, the effect would be spoiled. They could only come after the prisoners had been brought to the podium.
Johanna felt cold and sweaty at the same time. She lifted the hoops of the dress and sat down, but had to let out the sides even more because she felt constricted. And hungry and sick at the same time. Afraid that the boy wouldn’t come, and then afraid that he would come.
Finally, there were fast footsteps in the back yard and the door opened. A young voice called, “They’re just about to bring them out!”
The boy was Gijsbert.
Everyone rose at the same time. Johanna picked up the crown from the table and set it on Roald’s head. Nellie draped the Carmine cloak over his shoulders.
Gijsbert went out first, then Nellie and Sebastian the groundsman in his Sunday finest. Then Roald with Johanna, flanked by Martine and Johan Delacoeur. Johan wore his uniform jacket and carried a sword.
Koby and Greetje brought up the rear.
So they walked out the back yard. They weren’t even halfway down the street when the first people noticed Roald.
“It’s the king!” someone yelled, and people came to the doors and windows.
There was cheering and clapping and the shouts preceded the group down the street.
The king is back. The king is back and We have a Queen.
“Come with us to the markets,” Johanna said.
“There is a burning at the markets,” a woman said. “I will not be so cruel to let my children watch that.” And indeed most of the people who had come out of the houses were women or children and old people.
“We’re going to stop it,” Martine said. “Come and join us.”
A few came, and then a few more, and then a great flood of people came talking, chatting behind them. Women carried brooms, men carried shovels or picks, or the occasional pitchfork, whatever use one had in town for a pitchfork.
And so the stream of people flooded into the market square.
A great number of people already stood there, mostly the men of the families. The beggars had abandoned their line to the steps of the mayor’s house, the stall holders had left their stalls.
The prisoners were being led up onto the podium in front of the mayor’s house. First were the young men who had been at the palace with her. Greetje gasped next to Johanna. Master Willems was wearing a grey sack. His arms and legs were blue with the cold and bore welts from where he had been hit. One of his eyes was swollen. After him came an older woman. She walked in stiff steps, as if she’d been beaten, and blood had seeped into the back of her shift. Her body was broken but she had the most vicious look in her eyes. As she turned towards the audience, Johanna recognised her: Helena the whore who lived in the harbour and served the sailors at night and told girls about those things during the day.
Then came Father. Where the others had stumbled up the steps, he kept his back straight, even though Johanna could see that walking hurt him a lot. They had allowed him to keep his trousers and shoes. Maybe they hid welts on his skin. He almost tripped over the top step. A guard grabbed his arm to keep him upright and dragged him across to one of several posts that stood lined up on the platform.
People at the front cheered, but there was no joy in their cheering. A number of guards stood at the ready, facing the crowd and scanning all who were there. Checking if the people cheered as instructed.
A couple of bears lay on the edges of the platform.
By now, people at the back of the crowd were starting to notice Johanna and Roald and the rest of the newcomers.
Johanna held Roald’s arm in a tight grip. She could feel the muscles under his arm tense up and relax and tense up and relax . . . She was sure that he would love to run, or start swaying.
The people opened up a path through the crowd.
There was cheering and clapping.
A cold wind tore through the square, tearing at hats and scarves. A strand of hair escaped Johanna’s bun and blew across the face. She shivered. There was magic in the air.
Alexandre had come up on the stage. He now looked into the crowd. Johanna knew that he knew where she was.
“Hail the king, hail the queen!”
“We’re saved!”
More and more people came to look. They pushed others aside and formed a guard of honour across the square to the podium. One of the trumpeters, in Alexandre’s blue colours, rushed to the procession and played the King’s Hail.
And so the procession crossed the markets and there they stopped, because they met a wall of Estlander guards with bears.
Alexandre jumped down the platform and wrestled himself between his men.
The trumpeter again played the short burst of notes that was the King’s Hail.
Johan Delacoeur shouted, “Make way for his royal highness King Roald and his consort Johanna Brouwer!”
The whole of the audience broke out in a deafening cheer.
By now, Alexandre had come to the front of the line of guards. “What’s this?” He snorted. From close up he was taller than Johanna had expected, or maybe that was because of his high-heeled boots. His eyes were green, his face quite coarse-skinned and narrow, his hair curly and brown. He wore his customary blue trousers and a cape of the same colour, held at the top with a gold clip.
He eyed Johanna up and down and then turned to Roald. His gaze rested on the crown and staff. His expression closed. He knew these were the real items and Roald was the real heir to the throne. And maybe one of his men had lied to him about Roald having drowned in the harbour and maybe he was beating himself in the head about believing it.
Baron Uti had known about Roald. Apparently his friendship with Alexandre was not as good as Alexandre suggested in the letter to the Baron that Johanna had seen while they were in Florisheim.
Johanna stepped forward. “Thank you for taking care of our town while we were away.”
Several people in the crowd laughed. Alexandre glared at them.
“We will now take over as lawful descendants of Saarland’s royal family.” She had expected to be sick with nerves when facing him, but she felt strangely calm.
Alexandre simply stared at her. Then he said something in a low voice in Burovian to a man at his side. This man, not a guard but a fellow noble, judging from his clothing, pushed between the guards and a moment later, he came back with a dark-haired man in a dark coat with a hideously frilled white shit underneath. Octavio Nieland.
He seemed to be taken aback at the sight of the crown. Maybe he had looked for it but had been chased out of the palace by Celine’s ghost.
“This is certainly a . . . surprise.” His voice was as haughty as ever.
“I’m undecided if it’s a surprise.”
He raised one eyebrow.
“Am I surprised that you joined the invader’s men?”
“You don’t understand at all.”
“Oh?”
“This is much bigger than the petty grievances of this ridiculous church of yours.”
“It’s no
t my church and I’m beginning to think that forbidding magic is not a bad thing at all. How many people have been killed through it? Oh, you don’t care because they were all common people.”
He went red in the face. His hand wandered to his belt where he carried a sword.
Then he looked aside, his eyes widening. Julianna had come to the front. Like Johanna and Roald and others, she had dressed in the best clothes she had. Her hair was done up in a big bun, and her eyes blazed with anger.
Octavio laughed, in an uncomfortable way. He let his hand fall away from his belt. It was a subtle gesture, but it told Johanna one thing: he might not care much about Roald, but he definitely cared for his sister.
“There is no need for conflict,” she said. “We are Saarlanders. We’ve solved our problems without fighting for a long time.” One of the reasons that Johan Delacoeur was an ex-army general. King Nicholaos didn’t put much effort into his armed forces. “But the invaders must go. We don’t need any foreigners to run our country.”
“What do you know of the menace that faces us?”
“The Church of the Triune has been elevated to menace? It justifies killing and burning down half the town?”
He threw his head back and laughed. “You know nothing at all.”
“Then tell us. But while you do that call off this silly spectacle.”
“These people are criminals.”
“My father? The only crime he has committed is to be your competitor.”
Alexandre said something in Burovian that sounded sharp and impatient.
“What is he saying? Why can’t he speak to us directly?”
Roald said, “He says that he has no time for talking.”
Alexandre came forward and shouted Burovian words in Roald’s face. Roald, true to his nature, did not flinch. He replied in Burovian and Alexandre shouted more loudly at him.
People all around cried out in protest.
Roald turned to Johanna. “He says that—”
“What does it matter what he says. What matters is this!” Octavio gestured wildly in the direction of the harbour.
People gasped and exclaimed profanities and covered their mouth with their hands. What Johanna had taken as a reaction to the argument was . . . something else.
A few people moved aside so that she could see over the water out the heads to the east, where the Saar River flowed towards the ocean.
On the water which looked like silver with the reflecting sunlight came a ship like none she had ever seen.
It was tall like an ocean faring vessel, but in place of sails, it had a tall protuberance which spewed smoke like a chimney.
Everyone around her was shouting. Some invoked prayer, others reached their hands to the heavens and chanted. Most people just stared with wide eyes. How did the ship move? How, if it was made from wood, did it not catch fire? How, if it was made from metal, as some suggested, did it float?
Magic, people suggested, and the sea breeze carried a familiar prick.
Octavio said, “Those are the eastern traders. They’ve been around this area for a while and they’re not coming for a cup of tea. I’m hoping, since you seem determined to retake the city before they can set foot on this land, that you have brought strong magicians.”
Chapter 21
* * *
EVERYTHING THAT had happened over the last months suddenly made sense.
This machine was what the Guentherite order had been trying to recreate. This was what the iron was for.
And this was why they wanted control of Saardam, why they were building the strange thing in the harbour, and similar things all along the river, and why they needed to get rid of a church that didn’t allow its followers to practice magic.
While she had been talking to Octavio, several things had happened. The young men whose task it was to make use of the distraction to go to the platform had arrived there. On the platform, the prisoners were too far away from Johanna and the group to hear what had been said, and they couldn’t see the water because the mayor’s house was in the way. They were confused about what was happening, frowning at each other and trying to see past the guards, who also appeared to have lost interest in their charges and appeared equally confused.
Over the heads of the people between her and the podium, Johanna spotted one of the boys trying to climb the podium, boosted up by a mate. A bear jumped up, growling.
All of a sudden the guards’ attention was back where it should have been. They shouted and pulled weapons.
The boy dropped himself off the platform and hid by pressing himself against the side. But a few Saarlander guards came from the other side and tried to drag him away.
Alexandre uttered a cry of frustration. He turned back to the podium. His men made a path for him. He shouted something in which Johanna picked up the Burovian word for kill.
The prisoners’ eyes widened.
Father was looking out over the crowd. He knew that Johanna was amongst all those people somewhere. He would have heard the King’s Hail. The young man next to him was pulling on his arms, tied around the post at his back. He was shouting at the top of his voice—inaudible to Johanna over the tumult in the square—but his eyes bulged with fear.
Someone from behind fired an arrow while seated on another fellow’s shoulder. It struck the bear between the eyes.
“Good shot!” someone shouted.
Johanna raised her fist. “Come on! Free the prisoners!”
Alexandre had almost reached the podium but turned around again. Seeing the crowd surge forward and one of his bears sprawled on the floor, his expression grew hard.
He raised his hand—
No. Johanna knew what would happen.
A snake made of fire sprung out of mid-air. It coiled over the heads of the onlookers and set the pile of wood at the feet of the prisoners alight with a fleeting touch.
All of a sudden everyone was screaming.
People were running away from the fire creature, other people were trying to hit the flames out with their jackets. It was a futile activity and they only succeeded in setting fire to their clothes.
A sudden wind came up. It whipped through the square and tore at hair and hats. One of the market stands was blown over. Instead of fanning the flames, the wind blew them out. Alexandre waved his hand at the pyre, but the wind blew the flames out again.
What . . .
Master Willems. He was the only one with wind magic. He stood with his face turned up at the sky, praying.
Alexandre conjured a bigger snake.
Greetje was crying at the top of her voice. “Do something. Somebody, free my husband!”
Father was looking straight at Johanna over the heads of the crowd.
Some people tried to run away, others tried to reach the prisoners. The guards didn’t seem to know what to do and seemed to decide to just defend themselves.
Roald was shouting at the top of his voice, but even standing near him, Johanna couldn’t make out what he said. His face shone with sweat.
Johanna remembered Loesie’s words. Wood is stronger than fire. Fire needs wood to burn.
She meant wood magic was stronger than fire magic.
But was it really? Wet wood didn’t burn. Live wood didn’t burn. She remembered pieces of wood sprouting leaves when Duke Lothar had performed the exorcism on Loesie.
Alexandre was not a strong magician, the Baroness Viktoriya said. Johanna had wood: the handle of the king’s staff. A lot of other people in the market square had wood, too. They had brooms, and the broom heads were made up of twigs. They had shovels with wooden handles. They had pitchforks and garden rakes. Master Willems controlled the wind.
Johanna took the staff from Roald’s surprised hands. “Hail the king!” she called out, holding the staff over her head.
A few people in the chaos around her repeated her, and then more and even more. The chant spread over the market place like an ink stain.
Hail the king, hail the king.
Roald himself was shouting as hard as everyone else, apparently not quite clear on the fact that he was the king.
As they chanted, people held their brooms or shovels over their heads.
Master Willems still held his face turned up to the sky. His lips moved in prayer.
The people shouted, “Hail the king!”
Johanna held the king’s staff in the air, willing it to spring into life. The fire snake dived in and out of the woodpile at the post where Master Willems stood. The wind whirled around him, putting out the flames as fast as the fire snake could light them. Gusts of wind drew sparks and strands of fire away from the creature, threatening to dissolve it.
Johanna spurred the wind on. Come on, come on.
The wood of the staff moved under her hands. Buds sprouted between her fingers. While she watched, vines grew and sprouted leaves.
A man shouted. His shovel had turned into a bush. He dropped it, but it hung in midair from fast-growing vines that extended faster than a man could walk.
All around, shovels, picks and pitchforks had also sprouted leaves. Brooms turned into living forests of glowing, snaking vines.
They reached the platform and intertwined with the wood from the woodpile. And that wood started sprouting, too. The fire snake whirled around so fast that it was hard to see where it went. Because the wood was alive, it could no longer make it burn. It only produced lots of smoke, which in turn made it harder to see.
Alexandre had climbed up on the platform and was throwing fire directly at the prisoners, but each time the wind blew the flames away.
A vine sprouted from the boards of the platform and twined around his leg. He roared with anger and cut it with his sword, but a new one grew, and another one around his other leg.
The boys were back on the platform, because the bears were busy swatting away sprouting leaves. They cut Master Willems free. He collapsed on the boards.
“Come, someone help carry him!”
Then Father. He rubbed his wrists. His face looked pale, but he was able to walk away by himself. A couple more boys assisted him down the platform. No one took any notice of Alexandre’s guards, who were trying to tackle the encroaching greenery by hacking away with their swords. But Alexandre’s legs were already rooted to the platform’s boards, held there by thick vines. He was screaming at his men and they hacked at the wood, but it grew faster than they could cut it.
