“Quickly!” Effander hissed, leaving the other men to their fighting. “Down here!” He opened a door that led to a narrow spiraling staircase. It went down two floors into a cellar and seemed to end, but Effander put his hands beneath the bottom three stairs and lifted. They came up in a single piece, cleverly joined to look like separate stairs, revealing still more stairs beneath, but these were cut into the stone. He found a candle in a niche at the top of the stairs and took a moment to light it, revealing a straight flight of stairs and a corridor beyond that. The ceiling was so low that they had to stoop when walking and the floor was wet. The walls and the floors stank of mildew and worse things.
“Okay, little king’s eye.” He said. “It’s your show, now. This is the upper sewer system, and I can take us just about anywhere in the Suzerainty, or I can run us down to the upper dock district. If you want to try for a ship, we can do that, or if you want to go to the eyrie, I know the way there, too.”
“How do you know all this, Effander?” Lanae asked wonderingly.
He laughed. “I’m a Queens’ Guard, little king’s eye. This is what I’m made for. We prepare for exactly this. This is hardly the first time there’s been a change in houses at the palace.”
“To the eyrie.” Lanae replied. “I don’t suppose there’s a way that stays out of the street?”
“Matter of fact there is.” Effander replied. “But you might not care for it.”
“We will suffer it, so long as it is safe.” The queen said, and Effander guided them down dark and stinking corridors of uneven footing, filled with recent rains and the effluent of the sewers and toilets above. Many times they were up to their ankles and knees in the stuff, and Lanae’s boots were quickly soaked through. The queen was wearing velvet slippers and Effander had knee high boots, and after perhaps five hundred paces all of their footwear was ruined. They came at last to a long and sloping corridor that looked no different from any other they had been in, and above their stooping heads was a grill through which dim light shone down. A small river of waste flowed by them in the corridor.
“Here it is.” Effander said. “Your servants’ privy, Madam King’s Eye. The grill is not secured.” Nevertheless it stuck, and it took all of Effander’s strength to loosen it in its stone casement and push it upward. He went up first, and once he had declared the room safe, Lanae came up second. The queen handed up the prince, then they pulled her up behind.
They stood on the first floor of the eyrie, in the large building with the apartments of the riders, in a small privy adjacent to the servant’s quarters. Effander replaced the grill and Lanae put her head out of the door, ensuring that the way was clear. She nodded, and they followed her. The prince was mercifully quiet, and the queen steadily rocked him in her arms. The walls were composed of thick stone blocks carefully mortared, for the entire eyrie was built like a fortress, and this enabled them to move silently. When they came out of the servants chambers and into a central hall, they encountered half a dozen guardsmen, all wearing royal crimson, but with the king’s eye eagle in profile on their shoulders, rather than the royal eagle symmetrically placed on their chests, such as Effander had.
“Lanae!” The leader of the guards said, looking at her. “What is happening? We heard that the king was killed.” Eleinel made a sharp noise. They had known, of course, but hearing the words shocked her.
“Yes.” Lanae said simply. “They will be having a new king now. I have delivered some refugees from the palace, and I am taking them up to my apartments. You need to await the king’s commands.” She was in her own domain now, and these men were used to following her orders.
“Is that all we do?” A junior guardsman said, earning a glare of rebuke from the leader. “Shouldn’t we be doing something?”
“We don’t take part in wars of succession, Torhis.” She replied, just then remembering his name. “We serve the king, whoever he might be. Whoever gets the ratification of the lords and the bishops. Wait and see what happens. In the meantime let no one pass the door without my permission.”
She turned away from the guards and led her companions upward, coming to her apartment door. She opened it and led them inside. “I have clothes for you, Your Majesty.” She said. “I’m afraid the fit might be a little tight.”
“I’ll manage.” The queen replied. “Are we just going to wait here?”
“No.” Lanae responded. “At least not you and I.” She realized it was time to inform the queen of her escape plan. “Have you ever dreamed of flying?”
Once it was discovered that the queen and the prince were gone from the palace, the royal guards surrendered it to Duke D’Cadmouth of Elderest as temporary regent until such time as a new king would be selected by the lords. Of course, they knew it would likely be him, and many suspected he’d had a hand in the king’s death, but without the queen or the prince to rally around there was no point in fighting the duke, especially in light of the fact that he had fifteen-thousand men assembled at the front door to ‘maintain order,’ and the palace had not been made to withstand a siege. The captain of the guard surrendered the palace relatively quickly, saving his men from a prolonged battle against the duke’s army and his own life as well. To be fair to him, as far as he knew, the duke’s claimed right to take it might very well be legitimate.
Of course, the duchess knew better, but she also knew her place. She had done what she could for the queen within the limits of her station. By the time the duke thought of the eyrie and wanted to have a look at his new acquisition, several hours had passed, hours that Lanae had used wisely, getting the queen and the prince ready for a desperate journey.
Once she had them dressed appropriately for flight, with the queen in bundled clothing under ill-fitting flying leathers and the prince so bundled in blankets that only his cheeks and eyes could be seen and he looked more like a large loaf of bread than a baby, she led them into the upper eyrie, explaining their options.
“I have two eagles here. Darkwing is half-wild, so I must fly him. Sentinel is strong enough to bear both you and the prince, Your Majesty, but he will know right away that you aren’t me. You will have all you can do to stay on him, although I will strap you in tight. My hope is that he will follow my lead, for he’s my eagle. There is an abandoned landing near Dio where I can take you both.”
“How long will you be in the air?” Effander wanted to know. “How many hours of flying in the cold must they endure?”
“An hour at the most.” Lanae answered. “It depends on how fast I can convince Darkfeather to fly. I may have some trouble with him.”
“And from there? Where will you go?” The man demanded. “I am sworn to guard her, and I understand why I cannot go, but I would meet with you later.”
Lanae turned to the queen. “Your Majesty?”
The queen glanced at the bundle in her arms while climbing the stairs carefully. The prince was struggling in the blankets, for he was very warm, but Lanae knew he would be cold enough soon. “I can’t carry him, can I?” She asked, looking suddenly at Lanae. “You have to do it. I have no training, and you said it will be all I can do just to hold on.”
“That’s what I think.” Lanae replied honestly. “I’m a very good flier, but I’m not going to lie. It will be a risky flight.”
“A flight to where?” Effander said again. “You haven’t said where you will be.”
“Back to Pulflover?” Lanae asked, but the queen shook her head.
“Pulflover shares a border with Elderest.” She said. “Once the duke learns that I have escaped, Pulflover will be the first place he thinks of. With both the Regency and Elderest in his hands, there is no power in Mortentia that will be able to resist him, and I don’t doubt the baron will turn me over to his keeping.”
“What about hiding?” Effander asked. “Is there a place you can hide?”
The queen shook her head. “I have no secret friends. Everyone I know is known by others. They would find us both.”
“My mother.” Lanae said. “In Walcox. It is very far, but if Darkfeather will take me as a rider, and if Sentinel will follow, I can have you in Walcox by tomorrow evening. She will make you cut wheat and pick peaches, I’m afraid.”
The queen laughed. “If that is the worst I have to face, I will be grateful. That man they call the Privy Lord is in Walcox, is he not? My husband seemed to like him. Do you think he would offer protection?”
“I cannot say.” Lanae said. “But I think so. I liked him very much, and his brother did me a service once.”
“I will look for you in Walcox, then.” Effander said at last, then he knelt and offered the hilt of his sword to the queen. “I am in the king’s service, but I have always been a queen’s man.” He said. “I know Mortentia has never been ruled by a queen, but I have watched and listened. I would follow you, if you will take me into your service.”
Eleinel touched the hilts of the sword in her hands. “I’ve never done this, Effander, but I’ve seen him do it. I don’t remember the words, but I know that you do.” He removed his helmet and his dark hair was creased and shiny with sweat. She reached out and laid her hand on it. “I accept your service. You have a long way to go, Sir Knight. I will look for you in Walcox.”
Lanae led him down to the bottom of the eyrie tower and unlocked the door there, then locked it again once he had left into the lower apartments. She returned to the fifth level where the queen waited, holding the prince close and looking with wide-eyed terror at the two giant eagles nesting there. “I think he likes you very much.” She said to the queen, meaning Effander, but the queen was looking at Sentinel, who was regarding her closely.
“Really?” Eleinel said. “How can you tell? Is there something in his face I should look for?”
Lanae laughed. “Let me give you your first flying lesson.” She said. “First I will strap you into this harness, here and here.” She began, and after an hour she had given the queen the basics, information and instructions that they spent a minimum two weeks teaching a new flyer. Lanae put her head right up to Sentinel’s and grabbed the corners of his beak with her two hands. She looked the eagle right in the eye.
“You will carry her safely, you hear?” She said, and she could swear the bird was listening. “You will not let her fall. You will follow me.” Then she stroked Sentinel’s great head and kissed the feathers between his eyes. The greatest of all eagles permitted this only because it was Lanae.
Then she went over to Darkfeather’s messy and dishevelled nest and began helping him preen his feathers. He was still skittish, but she had spent the better part of two days working on his temperament and thought he was manageable. She had meant to pair him with one of the king’s eyes below, but they were justifiably frightened of the prospect. Now she would be trusting this traumatized bird with not only her life, but also that of the prince. Or maybe he was the infant king. She wasn’t sure how those things worked. There were any number of straps, buckles and bits of harness in the eyrie for use of the king’s eyes, and she was expert in their use. She wrote a note and placed it in the uppermost level of the eyrie, strapped the baby to her stomach, rigged a harness for Sentinel and strapped in the queen, who was looking pale and sick.
She did not doubt that the queen was going to vomit once they actually left the eyrie, for most new fliers did. She also knew that Sentinel was used to this. She gave him a last admonition to carry the queen safely, climbed into Darkfeather’s restive harness, and urged the uncertain eagle over the edge of his nest. She guided Darkfeather’s flight while she looked over her shoulder for half a minute, until finally she saw Sentinel take wing behind her. The queen’s fearful shriek carried clearly in the afternoon silence.
Darkwing went where Lanae bid him, and Sentinel followed. The queen had escaped from the King’s Town.
“The king is murdered! The king is murdered!” The shouting from the dock brought forth a host of lookers-on, for it was not every day one got to see a king, much less a murdered one. The black-haired witch heard the cry, and so did her tall guardian. They emerged from the Kalgareth’s hold and looked over the rail. The Kalgareth’s sailors were talking.
“By the gray goat’s balls, did you see that, O’Coho? Them Auligs kilt him right in front of us!”
Hude O’Coho looked irritably at Bannin. “I seen it.” He declared. “And who gives a fart, I’d like ta know? King, duke, queen or lord, them highborn is all the same, and not one any better than the worst of ‘em. Meantime I got planks to sand and oil to put down.”
“Aye, like as not we’ll be moving on soon enough.” Hude replied. “Still, it an’t every day you gets to see a king kilt.”
“Wish it was everday.” Bannin replied. Then he noticed the two who had emerged from the hold standing there. Bannin never looked at the hold if he could help it, there were witchy things down there, so he hadn’t seen the woman or her tall lackey approach. “Cap’n on deck! Attention all!” He shouted. The four men there went to rigid attention.
“It is fine.” Anrealla said. “You can go about your duties.”
But the sailors weren’t the only people who looked at the witch and her man and came to attention. Dom Burkitt turned to his companion quickly. “Is that what I think it is?”
“A twin masted grand sloop with lateen sails bossed by a black haired woman and a tall man?” Jo Fletchman looked at Burkitt sagely. “It sure is. We need to go.”
The two beringed and bejangled dockhands walked up to Yorgus, the assistant harbor master swiftly. “Beg pardon, master Yorgus. We’ll be needing to draw our pay.” Yorgus had seen this coming as soon as the two had shown up for work on Beggarsday. He’d been short of hands then, or he would never have taken them on, and this would leave him short again. Still, what with the king being murdered, everybody was a useless looky-loo today, and it wasn’t like any work was really getting done.
“Fine.” He said with a long-suffering look. “Ha’penny a day and you got two days in. I’m not counting today. Nobody’s been working for shite today.”
Dom looked angry and made like to protest, but Jo grabbed his arm. “Fine.” Jo said. “And thank you.”
Yorgus grunted angrily. Comes of hiring gypsies. Here today, gone tomorry, and never missed. He handed them two silver pennies, and good riddance.
Chapter 65: Walcox and Points North, Maslit, Late Dire
Soolit hated the sleeping camp. Oh, his tent was fine, and his bedroll was fine, and all of the camp followers and all of the men were tucked in nice and safe and he slept like a baby. He didn’t hate sleeping in the sleeping camp. It was the building of it he hated, and he hated it with a burning fury that almost matched the burning of the blisters on his hands.
He didn’t like sword-drill, but he understood the need of it, especially after the Whitewood. With so many piss-purples around training was critical, for half of them didn’t know one end of a sword from the other. With his wooden sword he smacked their arms, shoulders and thighs from one end of the practice yard to the other, and he frankly enjoyed it. If one of them thought to take a place in the shield wall next to him, he’d better think twice. He wasn’t having some butt-wiping piss purple dropping his shield and getting him kilt.
He didn’t like marching, but an army has to move, and he understood that as well, so he didn’t hate it.
But to build a full-scale wooden fortress every single bleeding night, putting blisters on his hands and then blisters on top of those? When they were marching across a well-patrolled road between two Mortentian towns, both of which had garrisons? It was bull-dung stupid, unnecessary and ridiculous. On top of that, the slave-driver Anbarius had made them put one up before they even left Walcox, then stripped it back down to the dirt, just so he could see how long it took. By the seven hells, that was just plain ludicrous, and with a stone keep and a walled town sitting there, not a hundred paces away.
Oh, he was getting the hang of it, just like all of them. The practice fort they built in Walcox to
ok nine hours to finish, pretty much the whole day, and every one of them too tired to move the next day. The first one they built on the road took five hours to finish, and they were all able to march the next day. The second one had taken four hours, and the one he was sleeping in tonight had taken them three and a half, every man working like a devil and knowing his task, and catching hell from his fellows if he slacked at all. The Second Swords had ten paces of wall each night that they were responsible for, which meant a deep dry trench ten paces long done first, and Soolit was the pick man, so he was the first to break ground, without even resting from the march first.
By damn, these fields hadn’t been plowed since the Secret Gods vomited them up, and half of what Soolit hit with the pick was stone. While he picked the trench’s outline, the other men would start shoveling, and if they hit a rock he’d failed to loosen with his pick, he’d catch bleeding hell. When the men were putting up the damned things, all you could hear for miles was cursing, and Soolit caught the worst of it. First in the ground and the last one to finish, for even when he was done with the pick work, there was the palisade wall to put up, the second wall behind it, the dirt to fill it, and the walkway at the top. Guess who planked the walkway? Soolit, of course.
The whole process was making him mean, and he’d been mean enough already.
Of course, today had provided him some amusement.
They’d been coming down the king’s road between Walcox and Maslit, a nice little roadway with a few abandoned towns here and there beside it, but mostly just grass. Still, the road was straight and level, a good hundred kingdoms road, measured and paved and cutting through hills where needed. It had stone bridges over creeks you could hop and sometimes a low wall marking where it was. A lot of poor buggers had worked that road, you could tell, way back in the old days sometime, maybe when it was the road between the kingdom of Valkaz and the kingdom of Maslit or Redwater or whatever it had been.
War of the Misread Augury: Book One of the Black Griffin Rising Trilogy Page 83
