“Yes,” Judge Piri said. “She was suspected even before Felip’s confession. Her family had been living in the castle for years.”
Elias could not imagine it. Full-blooded Mondragans living within the castle along with their entourage, fully accepted and enjoying diplomatic privileges. Eighteen years later, Mercedes continued to be spat on in the streets.
The judge might have read his thoughts. “It was different then,” he said. “Our kingdoms were cordial, if not overly friendly. King Andrés had admired the previous Mondragan king greatly. He was not as impressed with his son, I believe. But they were allies.”
“Was the ambassador ever questioned?” Elias asked.
“No. She’d fled by the time Felip was captured.”
They paused to allow a queue of women to pass. They were women of the Bushido, dressed plainly in varying shades of brown. Each balanced a rush basket on her head without having to use her hands to hold it in place. The baskets were filled with cherries. One of the younger women winked at Elias. She reminded him a bit of Luca—broad shoulders and a distinct row of black hair above her lip—and he smiled and offered a small bow in return. They disappeared into the House of Trade.
The judge frowned after them, distracted. “Are you certain that was even a woman?”
Elias laughed. “The mustache is a symbol of fertility among the Bushido women. A sign they’re searching for a mate,” he explained, then turned the conversation back. “What happened when Felip reached del Mar?”
It took Judge Piri a moment to recall what they were speaking of. “After several weeks, the men were contacted and told to act quickly. A picnic had been planned for the princes the next day. With your father. They were to follow the party at a distance and wait until the wine had been consumed. All they had to do was listen for the screams, for this particular poison was a painful one. Then they were to take the boys off, as well as the nurse and your father if they were living. Lady Esma and Lord Antoni would have fetched sizable ransoms as well.”
Elias said, “And your prisoner did this? He confessed to taking the boys, my father, and Lady Esma?”
“He did,” the judge confirmed. “The plan was to take the del Marians to an island off Mondrago to await the ransom payment. But there was a storm. Felip only survived because he’d found a piece of wood to cling to. A Hellespontian ship sailed by and rescued him.” Judge Piri tossed his second stick, frightening some chickens pecking away in the dirt. “That is all I know. It was an ugly business.”
Elias was silent. Felip of Mondrago had lied even while being tortured. Lady Esma had been left behind. Why would he say she’d been taken?
And something else: everyone connected to the crime was long dead. Poisoned, drowned. In Felip of Mondrago’s case, hanged, his body left for the crows. Mercedes had been furious with Lady Esma for staying hidden. But he asked himself if Lady Esma would still be here, among the living, if she had left the safety of Javelin.
And another thing. “How long have you been a judge?”
“Nearly eighteen years.” The judge eyed Elias’s skewered mollusc. “That will go bad soon.”
Elias offered him the skewer, which was accepted with thanks, and said, “A judgeship is a lifetime appointment, isn’t it? What happened to your predecessor?”
“Killed at Mondrago.”
Commander Aimon, Judge Piri. Who else? How many others had catapulted to positions of power, out of necessity, far earlier than they should have? “Why did he go to Mondrago? I’ve never heard of a judge fighting in a war.”
“They murdered our princes.” Judge Piri looked grim. “The king is your friend. What wouldn’t you do, if harm came to him?”
It was a fair point. Piri tossed his third stick. As he did, an object fell from his red robes and landed, sparkling silver, on the ground. Elias bent to retrieve it. It was a miniature painting set inside an oval frame. The portrait fit into his palm. He studied the image: a woman, slender and dark-eyed, with straight black hair parted in the center and left to flow in loose waves to her waist. Seated beside her was a child, a girl of six or so with a marked resemblance to the judge.
A hand clamped around Elias’s wrist.
“Give it to me,” the judge ordered.
As though Elias had intentionally snatched the portrait and tried to run off. Wordless, he offered the miniature, feeling as though he had intruded on something very private, had seen something he was not meant to see. He had never heard of the judge having a daughter, but that did not mean she had never existed.
“They are very beautiful,” Elias said quietly.
The judge snapped the miniature closed and shoved it deep into the folds of his robes, his expression remote.
“They were.”
Fourteen
HERE WAS NO avoiding Commander Aimon. Elias returned to his chambers only to hear a terse message relayed to him through Reyna, who had taken over his worktable with the second map. The commander wanted a word. At once. Elias sighed inwardly. Aimon would never berate Ulises or Mercedes for riding off yesterday without escort. But Elias, as usual, was fair game. He ignored the at once part of the order, lingering in the tower long enough to share a meal with Reyna—mussels and fried clams—and to make her promise not to spend her entire day indoors. Then he headed off to answer the commander’s summons.
From the arena’s darkened tunnel, he emerged into blinding sunlight. Off to one side, soldiers practiced military drills; marching in time, hundreds of boys and men in green and silver. To his left, a catapult lay fully dismantled. Various parts littered the ground: beam, counterweight, sling, wheels, framework, what looked like a thousand iron bolts. Commander Aimon instructed a swarm of apprentices on how to reassemble the catapult as quickly as possible. A skill they would have to master in a real war, during a real siege. Elias walked toward them, his steps slowing as the smell of rotting animal flesh assaulted him. A long trough sat just outside the circle of apprentices. Normally, rocks would have been set within for swift placement in the slings. But Elias did not see any rocks, only severed pigs’ heads piled in the trough.
Commander Aimon caught sight of Elias. He motioned for one of the older boys to take his place, then joined Elias, crossing his arms and regarding him with a stony expression.
Commander Aimon could hold a silence better than anyone. Elias did his best not to shift and squirm under his scrutiny. When that failed, he said, “Commander, I didn’t ask them to come. I couldn’t get rid of them.”
“I don’t doubt it.” Was that amusement in the commander’s voice? He couldn’t tell. “There’s no need to quiver. I’m not going to throw your head in with the pigs’ today.”
“I’m grateful.” Elias eyed the heads. No one could accuse him of having a weak stomach, but he had just consumed his fair share of mussels and clams, and the smell wafting from the trough was not sitting well. “Why are these heads here? Have we run out of rocks?”
“Oh, we’ll still use the rocks,” Commander Aimon said dismissively. “But a rock causes only physical pain.” He reached into the trough and held up a head by one ear. The pig stared back at Elias with a gaping mouth and half-closed eyes. The commander said, “Tell me, how would you feel, after months of siege, low on food and water, to have rotting heads flung at your feet?”
“Pigs’ heads?”
Commander Aimon didn’t blink. “Whatever heads are available.”
That unleashed several morbid images: horse heads, dog heads, human heads. Elias did not have to think about it long. “I would want to cling to my maman’s skirts.”
The commander appeared satisfied with the answer. “That is what I want. For grown men to cling to their mamans’ skirts.” He tossed the head back into the trough. “To win any war, it’s not enough to draw blood. We must hurt them here.” He tapped his head twice, transferring blood from his hand.
Elias looked at the blood on the commander’s temple and felt the hairs rise along his nape. This felt like a warnin
g. He said, “We’ve not been to war for years.”
“True,” the commander acknowledged. “But we’re always prepared for it.” An apprentice appeared and offered him a rag. The commander cleaned himself off, his expression assuming more normal lines. “I didn’t ask you here to discuss war strategy. I’ll tell you the same thing I told the king. A reminder, if you will, that he is the only surviving son of del Mar. Whatever anyone thinks of your maps.”
“You think they’re fakes? Even now?”
“Who can say? Riddles on maps. Grand ladies living in the woods.” The commander tossed his rag to another boy running past, who caught it without stopping. “What I do know is that this puzzle is for you to solve. You, Lord Elias. Not the king, not the lady Mercedes. Neither one of them has an heir. What happens to this kingdom if they fall?” He shook his head. “Stealing away like you did to Javelin without a single guard to watch your back was a child’s act. You are no longer children.”
The words stung because he knew they were true. “Peace, Commander. You’ve made your point.”
Commander Aimon sighed. “Why do you look at me that way?” he asked quietly. “As if I’m your enemy. You are not the only one who lost a father.”
Elias’s head came up. He thought of the spirit in the meadow, a twin to this man. “I’m sorry.”
Neither was accustomed to having anything in common with the other. They both looked away. Commander Aimon’s words were gruffer than usual. “I think they’re dead. There’s something else at play here, but whatever it is, I believe . . .” He paused as a triumphant cheer emerged from behind them. The catapult had been reassembled. “I believe in an eye for an eye. A life for a life. I’m here if you need help. My men are here. Use us. You are not the only one who wants to see this put right.”
“You told me once that Aimon was made commander right there in the meadow,” Elias said to Lord Silva.
“Yes, by King Andrés.”
“How old was he?”
“A few years older than you.” Lord Silva spoke from behind his desk, where he watched Elias pace from one end of the chamber to the other. On the desk was a wooden sphere twelve inches in diameter, braced between two weighty manuscripts to prevent it from rolling away. A world map had been cut into curved strips, or gores, and laid out on the desk. Soon they would be glued, piece by piece, to the sphere. Lord Silva was building a globe. “Just a boy. But there was no one left in front of him.”
Elias pictured the soldiers at their dice game, one in particular. “His father died that day.”
“Yes. And he lost two younger brothers at Mondrago.”
Elias stopped pacing, horrified. “Two?”
“Yes.” Lord Silva steepled his hands before him. A window had been left open, and through it came the low, sustained horn from a departing ship. “Elias, he’s the most powerful man on this island, after the king. What you’re thinking is dangerous.”
“I don’t really think it. I think . . .” Elias set his carrier on the desk and dropped into a chair. “I don’t know what I’m thinking.”
Commander Aimon was stern and humorless, but he was not only these things. The commander had taught Elias how to fight when he was a boy. He had dragged him away from his maps and paints and into the royal arsenal. Sword, dagger, bow and arrow, crossbow, Elias had learned how to use them all, right alongside Ulises. What was it the commander had said to him? For whatever reason, the prince has chosen you as a friend. You will learn to keep him safe. One can’t fight off the enemy with a compass divider. And to Elias’s amazement, he had been a good teacher, a patient one. Aimon had never shown much appreciation for the geographic arts, but what he had taught Elias had saved his life. Many times.
Elias told all of this to Lord Silva, who, after a lengthy pause, said, “Bad men are capable of generous acts. It’s a rare person who is completely evil. The reverse is also true. A good man may commit a terrible thing and spend the rest of his life trying to set things right.” Lord Silva pinched the bridge of his nose, a sign that he was tired. “We humans are complicated creatures. There are so many in-betweens within us.”
Elias said, “You think I’m being foolish.”
But Lord Silva surprised him. “I wish I could say so with absolute certainty.” At Elias’s startled look, he mused, “Is Commander Aimon capable of murder? Of course; he’s killed plenty. But always for the good of del Mar, so far as we know. You were one of my finest apprentices, Elias. What have I always taught you?”
Elias was silent. Then, “To trust my instincts.”
“Yes. Your reasoning has always been sound. Trust yourself.”
Elias was always surprised by the faith Lord Silva showed him. “I’m glad you were here. This is not something I can speak to anyone else about.”
“No,” Lord Silva agreed. “Your friends will not thank you for your suspicions.”
“I know it.” Mercedes in particular. After a minute, Elias asked, “Have you ever wondered what your life would have been like if none of this had happened?”
It could not have been a simple thing for Lord Silva. To step down as Royal Navigator after his son, Vittor, had died. Only to be summoned back for another eighteen years.
“I imagine it would have been very quiet,” Lord Silva responded with a small, sad smile. “Perhaps too quiet. I don’t regret returning. I only wish it had not happened the way it did.”
Elias was starting to feel gloomy, and he could see its effect mirrored on Lord Silva. Very deliberately, he changed the subject. “Have you seen Reyna? I’m hoping I’ll go upstairs and find she’s solved this entire riddle for us.”
Lord Silva’s smile was indulgent. “It was good of you to let her help with the Hellespontian maps. She delivered them to the captains yesterday with Luca.”
“I told her she could if she helped.”
“And she’ll never forget it. Those captains are a colorful lot.”
Elias had not intended to broach the subject of Reyna today, but since he was here . . . “What will become of her?”
Lord Silva’s eyebrows rose. “That sounds dire. What do you mean?”
If you could sail off today, where would you go?
I would go everywhere.
“I think she would like a chance on one of the ships.”
Lord Silva’s smile faded. “Has she said so?”
“She doesn’t need to.”
Lord Silva stood and walked to the open window. Distinguished as always in his dark robes, hands clasped behind his back. Without turning, he said, “When the child comes of age, she will marry. One of our geographers, preferably. Maybe even you.” He glanced over his shoulder and laughed at Elias’s expression. “Your face, Elias. She won’t be nine forever.”
Elias waved aside his teasing. “Marrying a geographer is not the same as being one.”
Lord Silva turned fully to face him, sober once again. “Women are different from us. Here,” he tapped his temple once, “and physically. Their minds and bodies cannot endure the hardships of an extensive sea voyage, or the rigors of living in the wild. It would break them.”
Privately, Elias wondered what Mercedes would say to being described as inferior to men in mind and body. He shied away from that image and asked, “Why couldn’t Reyna train with the boys? She could be made strong. As for her mind, forgive me, but I disagree. She’s smarter than all of them already.”
“It’s not possible,” Lord Silva said abruptly.
“But—”
“That will be all.” Lord Silva’s expression said the matter was closed.
As much as it gnawed at him, Elias would have to respect his decision. “Yes, sir.” He rose and made for the door.
“Elias.” When he glanced across the chamber, Lord Silva’s gaze lingered on the carrier strapped to his back. “Be careful. Of what you say and who you say it to.”
“I will.”
“Why would Felip do it?” Mercedes wondered. “Confess to kidnapping, to murder even
, if he didn’t do it?”
“Oh, who knows?” Elias frowned into his empty glass. They had gathered in her chambers after supper. He had scorned her too-dainty armchairs, choosing instead to sprawl across deep blue rugs, his back resting against her chair leg. The windows had been left open. A cool sea-salt breeze drifted in, along with the strumming of a lone guitar from the courtyard below.
Mercedes reached down and plucked the glass from his hand. She offered her own in exchange. He murmured his thanks and looked up at her. Neither had changed clothing after supper; they wore their formal attire still. Her dress made of white lace, the skirt full and pouring to the rugs beside him, the blouse cut off her shoulder to expose a delicate collarbone. He watched her, forgetting all about maps and false confessions, distracted by her loveliness.
She pushed a strand from his forehead and said, “You’re not sleeping.”
“No,” he admitted. “Are you?”
She shook her head.
“Come to the tower next time,” he invited. “We can be sleepless together.”
Green eyes widened. She sat up very straight in her chair. Before she could say anything, another voice intruded.
“I’m right here,” Ulises said, his tone mild. Only a few feet away, Elias’s map was spread across a low table where the king had been studying it for the last quarter hour. “I can hear you.”
“And?” Elias smiled slightly. “What are you both thinking I meant? Reyna is there. And Basilio never leaves. Mercedes would be in good company.”
Ulises snorted, and Mercedes said crisply, “It sounds like a party. I will tell Commander Aimon. He will want to come, too.” Which amused everyone in the chamber except Elias. He threw back the rest of his drink and frowned into that glass, too.
Ulises asked suddenly, “What is this here? Is this something?”
Elias set his glass on the table and scrambled to his feet. He and Mercedes crowded in beside Ulises, who had his finger on a bend of the Francoli River, which flowed east of Cortes. The map showed two miniature stone bridges spanning the river at its widest point. In unison, the cousins pressed their noses right up to the map, then turned to Elias with brimming excitement.
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