Ally of the Crown

by Melissa McShane

  She put up the hood of her cloak against the rising wind and set out. This part of the city was old, and showed its age in its worn wooden walls, in the cracked paving stones and old-fashioned gutters, but everything was brightly painted and clean. It reminded her strongly of Kingsport, though the roofs here were shingled with wood and not slate. A handful of children rushed past her—on their way home from school, possibly? Or just racing the sun for a few more minutes of playtime.

  She bought her paper from a grubby urchin on a street corner, then returned to the Crown Inn, took a seat in the taproom, and opened the newspaper. Nothing exciting was happening in the world. There were the usual tensions between Tremontane and Veribold, the usual gossip about people in the capital. Prince Douglas, youngest of Queen Genevieve North’s four children, was once again the center of scandal, this time involving the daughter of the Count of Waxwold. How embarrassing for the Queen. At least he wasn’t the heir to the throne, though by all reports Crown Prince Landon was as pleasure-loving as his youngest brother. How tiring to do nothing but have fun, all day long. Fiona had never been indolent and couldn’t see the appeal.

  She turned a page and ran her finger down the list of business announcements. There, a trading consortium was putting together an expedition to Dineh-Karit. They were looking for investors, but might be persuaded to accept simple labor. They were leaving in a week. Perfect.

  “Do you mind if I sit with you?”

  A young woman stood beside her table, her hands clasped tightly in front of her. After a second look, Fiona identified her as the woman she’d nearly run over coming down the stairs. The woman’s red hair was tousled, as if she’d been outside and had it blown by the wind, but she was still only dressed in trousers and sweater and her cheeks lacked the ruddy look of someone who’d been standing in the cold for too long. Fiona glanced around the room. Most of the tables were unoccupied. “Crowds a bit much for you?” she said with a sidelong smile.

  The woman flushed. “I just…don’t want to be alone…and you looked…I thought you wouldn’t mind.”

  The woman’s embarrassment made Fiona feel bad about having been sarcastic, even gently. “I don’t mind,” she said. “Have a seat. I’m Fiona Cooper.”

  “Lucille,” the young woman said. “Lucille Paget. Thanks ever so much.” She waved over the serving girl and ordered the same meal Fiona had. It was the only thing on offer.

  Fiona folded the newspaper and set it aside. “You passing through Ravensholm?”

  “I’m on my way to Magrette. I have work there.”

  Magrette was the capital of Barony Silverfield. “Looks like you’ll have fine weather for traveling tomorrow.”

  “Yes, but I wish I could move on right now!”

  “You in a hurry?”

  Lucille shook her head. “It’s not that. I—” She shook her head. “It’s not important. I just don’t want to stay in Ravensholm any longer than I have to.”

  “I see.” Fiona didn’t see, but it didn’t matter. Lucille struck her as one of those highly-strung young women for whom any small setback was a potential catastrophe. Or maybe Lucille had a good reason, and Fiona was just being insensitive. “You don’t have to say anything more.” She leaned back as the serving girl set a plate of roast pork loin and sautéed chunks of winter squash in front of her.

  Lucille nodded, and waved at the barman to bring her a beer. “Do you want something? I’m buying,” she said, and Fiona, after a moment’s consideration of her plate, nodded and asked for fresh cider. They drank in silence, Lucille’s attention darting in every direction. She squeaked and twitched every time the wind made the door rattle. Finally, Fiona’s patience gave way.

  “You seem worried about something,” she said.

  “What? Me? No, I’m not—” The door banged in its frame again, and Lucille gasped. “That is—”

  “Why don’t you just tell me?”

  “Oh, I don’t want to involve you!”

  “Nothing says I have to be involved just because you’ve told me your problem. Go on. Maybe it’ll help.”

  Lucille drew a deep breath. “I’m being followed,” she whispered.

  “By who?”

  “Two men. They’ve been following me since I left Sharpesford. I thought I’d escaped them, but I saw them watching me when I went down the street to the shops.”

  “What do they want?”

  “I don’t know!” Lucille’s voice went shrill, then dropped to a whisper again. “To rob me, I think. I’m carrying my whole savings so I can start over in Magrette.” She patted the leg of her trousers, and Fiona heard the muffled clink of coin.

  “Haven’t you ever heard of banks?”

  “My granfa’ says not to trust them. Besides, I need some of it to pay my fare.”

  Fiona stifled a few choice comments about Lucille’s granfa’. “Well, so long as you stay where lots of people are, you should be fine.”

  “I’m afraid because I have an outside room, though. They could get in easily.”

  “No one’s going to break into the Crown Inn. It’s in the middle of town.”

  “But they could!” Lucille was shrill again.

  “Then ask for a different room.”

  “There aren’t any free rooms.”

  Fiona sighed. Lucille was young, and dramatic, and oversensitive, but Fiona couldn’t help feeling sorry for her—alone in a strange city, on her way to a new beginning. Or maybe it was envy she felt. “Why don’t we switch rooms?” she said. “My room’s on the inside and you should feel safer there.”

  Lucille blinked. “Would you? That would be so kind of you!”

  “It’s the least I can do,” Fiona said drily. “Come, I’ll show you where it is, and maybe then you can relax. But I really don’t think you have anything to worry about.”

  Having stowed her bag in Lucille’s room, which was a nice big one on the corner with plenty of windows, Fiona sat on the bed and wrote a few lines in her journal. Not sure if L. is exaggerating, but it hurts no one to be kind. Something it took me far too long to learn. She put the little book away in her bag, thought about going back to the taproom for more cider, then decided she was ready for the day to be over and a new one to begin.

  She put on her nightdress and turned off the lamp, then curled up in the slightly damp bed. This room was warmer and drier than the one she’d given Lucille, but still chilly despite the heating Device she’d turned to full. Time for her nightly routine.

  She closed her eyes and pictured a bonfire, blazing hotter than the noon sun at Midsummer, bare ends of logs sticking out all around like a fringe. In her mind’s eye, she took hold of a log and pulled it away from the fire, smothering it and tossing it aside. The bonfire burned less brightly. She repeated the trick until the fire was no bigger than a breadbox, then embraced it, pulling it close to her and pinching off the flames until it was extinguished and all that was left was a head-sized lump of char. She pictured it dissolving in rain until nothing was left.

  She didn’t know if this ritual actually prevented her from igniting a fire in her dreams, or if it just calmed her mind enough not to sleep too deeply, but it had been over a year since she’d woken to the smell of smoke, and she was just superstitious enough not to break with tradition and forego the routine. The few times it had happened during her marriage, she’d had to do some fast talking to convince Roderick it had been the lamp. She dreaded the day she slept so soundly she burned the bed, the room, the house, and would have to explain walking unscathed from the conflagration.

  Despite her mental exertion, she wasn’t sleepy, but there wasn’t anything else to do but go down to the taproom and not drink. She flexed her toes, then her ankles, and proceeded on up the length of her body, encouraging it to relax, and finally her active mind took the hint and drifted off to sleep.

  She dreamed of doors lined up along an endless hallway, banging open and shut, until a final loud slam brought her awake. Confused and disoriented, she tried
to sit up, but was restrained by hands gripping her arms. “What—” she began, but a hand went over her mouth, pressing her into the mattress.

  She bucked and kicked, and her bare foot collided with something bundled in many layers of cloth. Someone grunted, and the grip around her arms tightened. The hand over her mouth was replaced by one holding a thick, wet cloth that stung her lips and smelled sour and bitingly cold. She sucked in another breath to scream, and the acrid stench filled her nostrils, dizzying her. Suddenly her limbs were too heavy to move, and a gray haze fogged her vision. She heard mumbling, tried to understand the words, and then unconsciousness claimed her.

  3

  She woke to rhythmic movement, a jostling, jouncing motion that nauseated her. She tried to raise her head, but it was too heavy for her to lift. Her cheek bounced off a smooth, hairy surface, warm and slightly yielding, and she inhaled the musky scent of a horse. Feeling began returning to her limbs, and she realized she was face down over the animal’s withers, with heavy fabric, a coat or a cloak or something, flung over her upper body. Cold air blew across her legs and bare feet. The thudding of the horse’s hooves echoed in her aching skull.

  She thrashed, trying to sit up, and someone cuffed her hard across the back of the head. “Be still, or I will give you worse,” an unfamiliar male voice said. Fiona lay still. It wasn’t as if she could go anywhere.

  So. Time to think, if she could manage that through the pain in her head. She remembered being assaulted in her bed, the biting smell of the cloth that had sent her unconscious. Kidnapped, but why?

  Lucille. Those two men. Fiona closed her eyes and cursed silently. Apparently Lucille hadn’t been exaggerating her danger. And Fiona had merrily put herself in Lucille’s place. It would be funny if she weren’t uncomfortable and being dragged away heaven knew where.

  She let her head bounce against the horse’s smooth, warm body. There had been two sets of hands when she was attacked, so at least two kidnappers, which matched what Lucille had said. They’d stop eventually, and discover they had the wrong woman, and then…what? They might just let her go, but they might decide leaving a witness was a bad idea. The ache in her head turned into a throbbing pain. She forced herself to breathe calmly. No sense borrowing trouble. Wait until they stopped, and see what happened next.

  The jouncing went on for several minutes, as Fiona’s toes grew colder and her stomach ached from being ground into the animal’s spine. She couldn’t see much beyond the horse’s side and, if she turned her head, her kidnapper’s thigh, but it was still dark, which told her it couldn’t have been many hours since they’d taken her. Just as she had decided to grab hold of the man’s leg and drag herself into a more comfortable position, and to hell with the consequences, the horse’s gait slowed, and the darkness faded as lamplight bloomed around her. The rider came to a stop and dismounted, then hauled Fiona off the horse and set her on her feet, the cloak still tangled around her shoulders and head.

  She wobbled, flung out her arms for balance, and kept from falling over. She fought free of the cloak’s folds and dropped it on the hard, cold ground that felt gritty against her bare feet. “I don’t know who you are,” she said, “but you had better explain yourselves. Now.”

  The man, who’d been about to speak, blinked at her. He was easily the tallest man she’d ever seen, tall and gaunt, with a face that looked like roughly modeled brown clay, and aside from the blink, he was completely expressionless. “Sir,” he said.

  “Sweet holy heaven,” said his companion, coming around the horse to stand beside the gaunt man. “You’re not Lucille.”

  Fiona transferred her attention to the newcomer. He looked dwarfish beside the gaunt giant, though he wasn’t shorter than the average man, and he was handsome, with a square jaw and hazel eyes that looked as if they smiled a lot, from the faint lines at their corners. At the moment, they were wide and incredulous.

  “I owe Lucille an apology,” Fiona said. “I thought she was exaggerating about being watched.”

  The two men ignored her. “You said it was her room, Holt,” the second man said.

  “It was her room. I am nothing if not thorough, sir,” the giant Holt said. “I apologize for my failure.”

  “It was her room before we traded,” Fiona said.

  The second man groaned. “You traded. Why the hell—excuse me—why would you do something so idiotic?”

  “It’s hardly idiotic when Lucille was clearly right about being in danger. I’d apologize for inconveniencing you, if I cared anything for your comfort.”

  “I suppose you also don’t care that you’ve interfered with me retrieving my property, or that you may have indirectly cost someone his life?” The man took a few quick steps that put him almost nose to nose with Fiona; she was tall, but he was taller by a few inches. “You’re incredibly brash for someone whose life is in jeopardy.”

  “You’re not going to kill me.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  “Then prove me wrong.” Fiona stepped back and spread her arms wide, offering herself as a target. “You don’t need me. I’m an inconvenience.” She had to work hard to keep from trembling at the chill in the air. They were in a small barn, lit here and there by lamps, and it was warmer than outdoors, but not by much. Trembling would look like fear, and fear would ruin her gambit.

  The man stared her down for a minute, then cursed and turned away. “This is a disaster,” he said to Holt, who nodded. Fiona lowered her arms, then quickly bent to pick up the cloak—her cloak, she realized—and put it on. The chilly bare earth, packed hard by generations of horses and farmers, hurt her toes, but she refused to show discomfort, instead examining her surroundings.

  There were two battered stalls against one wall, neither in use, and the back wall bore tracings of pieces of harness done in chalk by some past owner. Below the tracings, a couple of messy bales of hay were stacked in a way that suggested no one had much cared if they were orderly. A ladder led up to the hayloft, which was in shadow thanks to the lamps, but it looked empty. She couldn’t count on anyone from a nearby farmhouse coming to her rescue.

  The two men had withdrawn to the hay bales and were speaking quietly to each other. “Excuse me,” Fiona said. They ignored her. “Excuse me,” she repeated. The man Holt had addressed as Sir turned on her.

  “Well?” he said irritably. “We’re not going to kill you. I hope you’re happy about that. Now, if you don’t mind, we have plans to make.”

  “If they include going back to kidnap Lucille, I’ll stop you,” Fiona said, though she had no idea how she could do that.

  “It’s nearly dawn,” Holt said. His voice was a mellow tenor unsuited to his inhuman face. “Lucille will be gone in an hour. Sooner, if our botched kidnapping is made public early.”

  “We don’t have time to chase her down. We’ll have to start over,” Sir said.

  “We don’t have time to start over, sir.”

  “Do you have time to return me to the inn? I’m feeling a bit cold,” Fiona said sarcastically.

  “As if we’d do that, and have you turn us in as kidnappers,” Sir said. “And we brought all your things. I thought we’d be traveling west today.” He went to his horse and hauled Fiona’s bag off it, tossed it in her direction, and said, “You can change into something warmer in one of those stalls.”

  Fiona snatched up her bag and strode to the stalls, which were splintered and rough and had gaps between the boards, but were shelter enough to satisfy her modesty. Though she didn’t think either of her kidnappers was the type to peek. They didn’t seem like hardened criminals at all.

  Her boots were at the top of her bag, her journal was where she’d left it—they had been thorough in gathering her things. She dressed rapidly in trousers and a heavy shirt, tidied her nightdress away, then pushed open the door of the stall. She’d half-expected the men to be gone, but they were still talking at the back of the barn and gave her only the barest of glances when she emerged.


  “I’m leaving,” she said. “How much of a walk do I have ahead of me?”

  “Wait,” Sir said, and came toward her. “We’ll take you back.”

  “Aren’t you afraid I’ll turn you in?”

  “Weren’t you afraid we’d kill you?” He smiled, a sardonic grin that dispelled the shadows from his eyes. “We’ll leave you at the outskirts of town and let you make your way wherever you want to go. We’re not criminals.”

  “Really? I thought kidnapping was a criminal offense. My mistake.”

  “Lucille Paget is the criminal. She stole a large sum of money from me and ran off.”

  “So have her arrested. The Crown looks dimly on vigilante justice.” So long as it didn’t involve potential Ascendants.

  The smile went even more amused. “I have my reasons for not wanting to involve local law enforcement.” He gestured at his horse. “If you’re ready, we can leave now, and maybe I’ll be able to salvage something of this day.”

  Fiona looked in Holt’s direction. The giant was as expressionless as ever, but his stance was tense, and she was sure he wanted to remonstrate with his…master? But he said nothing, just came forward and mounted his horse. Sir did the same, then held out his hand to help Fiona. She’d ridden before. Once. She’d be lucky to remember how to stay facing forward. She let the man pull her up behind him, then wrapped her cloak more closely around herself as they headed back out into the night.

  It wasn’t true night anymore. The horizon to the right was limned with pale blue that grew brighter and warmer as they rode north across the endless plains—no, not endless, there was the sparkling hunch of Ravensholm, and beyond it the silver ribbon that was the Snow River. The indigo sky, star-filled except in the sun-faded east, promised another beautifully clear winter day. The horse’s hooves crunched over the crust of frost, and that and the sound of five creatures breathing was all that interrupted the peaceful early morning.

  “So Lucille stole from you,” Fiona said, when the silence had gone on long enough to be tedious rather than pleasant. “And for some reason you couldn’t just call for her to be brought up on a charge.”