The Cerulean Queen

by Sarah Kozloff

  The judiciary took a step closer to the witness. “How many women—or men—did you and your men rape?”

  “Lots. I didn’t keep count. Taking a little pleasure is good for my lads’ morale. Also, nothing else strikes fear into the populace like knowing what will happen to their mothers or daughters. Good, effective tactic.”

  “How many did you, personally, rape?”

  He counted on the fingers of his left hand. “Fourteen? If you count the lads, which I usually don’t.” He smirked.

  “What did you do with the prisoners after you beat or raped them?”

  “We took them to jail.”

  “Which jails?”

  Murgn listed eight scattered locations in four duchies. These were not official duchy prisons, but secret sites set up by Matwyck and Yurgn to hide their captives. Marcot rushed to borrow implements from a scribe and wrote down their locations with shaking hands.

  “Did Lord Matwyck know what you were doing?”

  “Of course.”

  “He knew about the killings, the beatings, the rapes, the jailing?”

  “I never spoke to him about the fuckin’, but I’m sure he knew.”

  “Who else knew about your activities?”

  “General Yurgn, for sure. Tips on those we should arrest mostly came from him or his people.”

  “Which of his people?”

  Murgn rattled off the names of army officers and enlisted men. The judiciary made him repeat and spell the names. Marcot didn’t try to keep his own record of this information; he assumed the judiciaries planned to issue warrants and follow up.

  “Where is General Yurgn now?” the lead judiciary asked.

  “He didn’t come to the wedding, so he must be at his manse. I’ve been entertained there several times.”

  “What about the other councilors?”

  “Did they go to the Riverine manse?”

  “No, did they know about or order the arrests of hundreds of ‘talkers’?”

  “I never spoke to them. Lord Matwyck said they were fools and lickspittles.”

  “What about Lord Marcot?”

  “Lord Matwyck told us to make sure he didn’t find out. A weakling, that one.”

  Marcot had stopped breathing at the mention of his own name. He realized that the judiciary had just (purposely?) cleared his reputation.

  “The night before the wedding there was an altercation at supper in this salon.”

  “Heard about it.”

  “Who told you, and what did you hear?”

  “One of my men told me that Inrick and Burgn had a spat with Lord Matwyck.”

  “And later, when Duchette Lolethia’s body was found, what instructions did Lord Matwyck give you?”

  “To send fifty of my men to apprehend Burgn.”

  “Did they do so?”

  “I sent them off, but I’ve been in the stable, as you well know, stupid bitch.”

  Another judiciary got up and took over the questioning.

  “Describe where you were and what you did the morning the queen claimed the throne.”

  “I was asleep in my quarters, up to no mischief. I heard the bells and the shouting, and one of my men shook me. I pulled on my boots and grabbed my sword. I took on several of the blue-caped bastards. Killed at least one; injured quite a few.”

  “Were you on the ground floor or one of the balconies?”

  “On the ground floor.”

  “Did you see who was shooting from the balcony?”

  “Lord Matwyck’s personal guards. Four of my best. They did a damn good job.”

  “Did you see who pushed Lord Matwyck?”

  “No.”

  “Did you see who shot the queen?”

  “No.”

  “How were you captured?”

  “By a pack of savage dogs.”

  “Isn’t it true that all of the captives surrendered to the dogs? Did you throw down your sword and surrender to the dogs?”

  “I had no choice.”

  The judiciary turned to the queen and looked around the room. “Does anyone else have any questions?”

  “I do,” said the queen to the judiciaries. “You’ve heard this brute damn himself with his own words—murders, rapes, assaults. What kind of punishment will fall upon him?”

  “We haven’t heard the whole case yet, Your Majesty. It is vaguely possible there might be exculpatory…” The woman’s voice trailed away at the impossibility of further information substantially mitigating the man’s crimes.

  The queen stared at Murgn. “You strike me as a man who takes pleasure in other people’s anguish. I can see why Matwyck found you a useful tool. By the Grace of the Waters, your days of power are over.”

  As Murgn was escorted out of the room, many people in the audience spit on him. He walked without bravado; he had lost his cocky demeanor.

  The next person brought forward was Duke Inrick. His comportment provided quite a contrast in that he strolled in with cool contempt. Recalling how the duke had insulted Percia, Marcot felt his own cheeks burning.

  The blue-scarfed man who had asked questions about the events in the Throne Room continued with the examination.

  “Duke Inrick, you reside in Crenovale, do you not?”

  “Yes, you are correct. I rarely come to Cascada; it is a long trip and the capital does not amuse me.”

  “Did you attend the supper before the wedding of Lord Marcot and Percia of Wyndton?”

  “Yes.”

  “Describe the altercation you were involved in during this supper.”

  “I made a comment. Duke Naven and Lordling Marcot chose to take offense.” Inrick shot daggers toward Marcot’s settee. “Lordling Marcot made a childish fuss and threw water in my face.”

  “And then what happened?”

  “Lord Regent Matwyck sided with his son and publicly dismissed me from the room.”

  “This made you angry?”

  “Indeed.”

  “Very angry?”

  “Naturally. I am a gentleman.”

  “Describe your actions the next morning,” said the judiciary, who paced in front of the duke.

  “I was asleep in one of the guest bedrooms; the bed was quite comfortable. I awoke because of the bells and the noise. I rushed out on the balcony. ’Twas quite a chaotic scene.”

  “Yes, and then?”

  “One of the queen’s mercenaries shot Lord Matwyck in the thigh.”

  “Yes, and then?”

  “Then … I pushed him over the balcony.”

  “Why?”

  The prisoner tried to avoid the question. “Wasn’t that my patriotic duty? Doesn’t the queen sit yonder due to my action?”

  The judiciary asked again, “In the moment when you pushed Lord Matwyck over the balcony, were you thinking about your patriotic duty?”

  “No.”

  “What were you thinking about?”

  “Revenge. He’d humiliated me. He deserved to die.”

  The judiciary turned to the queen. “In the law, intentions matter, Your Majesty. And due to the Stone we have a rare opportunity to ascertain the truth.” He turned back to the prisoner. “One more question. You were on the balcony. Did you see who shot the arrow that did strike Queen Cerúlia?”

  “Oh, that? Yes. The would-be assassin was Duchette Lolethia’s mother, Duchess Felethia of Prairyvale.”

  The room dissolved into hubbub as witnesses discussed this news.

  The questioning recessed for a short time while guards were sent to the stables to bring the duchess. During this break Marcot conferred with the queen’s secretary about mustering a force to free the prisoners in the secret jails. Darzner suggested that they consult the captain of the Queen’s Shield, who would be available as soon as these proceedings concluded.

  Duchess Felethia bore a faint resemblance to her daughter in stature, jaw, and forehead; she might have been a beauty in her youth. Now her face looked haggard under the mourning circlet someone had provid
ed her. She must have been wounded during the dog chase, because her hands and one of her ankles wore bandages. As she entered the room she limped on the arm of her escort, but she stood erect when they brought her to the table in front. Craning his head, Marcot looked around the salon, recognizing Lolethia’s younger sister and brother sitting side by side in the audience, also sporting mourning circlets.

  “Aren’t there more children?” he whispered to Naven.

  “Two little boys still in the nursery in Prairyvale,” Naven answered.

  The same judiciary continued the questioning. “Duchess, when did you learn of your daughter’s death?”

  “The night she died. The Lord Regent came to my suite to inform me. In this, he followed correct procedure. I was her mother.”

  “That night, did you believe that Captain Burgn had killed your daughter?”

  “Indeed, that is what the Lord Regent told me. And she was found in this Burgn’s chambers.”

  “When did you find out that Queen Cerúlia was the person who actually killed your daughter?”

  Marcot looked at Duke Naven in shock; his neighbor nodded his head.

  “I’m not sure. Men in the stable were talking in loud voices. I can hardly credit their gossip. Was she in Burgn’s chambers?” Her voice quavered. “Why would she kill my daughter?”

  “Please describe your actions the morning of the Dedication.”

  “I had not been able to sleep after the news. As it started to get light, that healer—an odious little man, I’ve forgotten his name—gave me a sleeping draught and I managed to drift off. I awoke to all this commotion, and I followed the crowds of people to the balcony. I almost thought I was sleepwalking; my youngest boy ofttimes wanders in his sleep. I was dressed only in my nightshift, but no one seemed to notice or care. I saw her” (she pointed at the queen) “standing up on the dais, all proud and bold. Young, and about to seize all the riches and power of the realm.

  “Lolethia—my eldest, my most beautiful, the one in whom I had such hopes—had been chosen to marry Lord Matwyck. Those riches, that power, should have been hers. Should have been my daughter’s—and mine. I could have paid off all my husband’s debts and provided for my younger children.

  “There was a bow lying on the balcony floor. No one was paying any attention to me; I’d been an important figure in court before, but now they think me just an old widow woman. Long ago, my husband taught me to shoot.… We used to go hunting together.… One day I brought down a doe, all by myself. He was so proud of me; he often repeated the story at our dinner parties.”

  “Go on,” prompted the judiciary.

  “I picked up the bow.” She said nothing more.

  “Did you intend to kill the queen?”

  The duchess faltered; she pulled her hand off the Stone and used both hands to sweep her hair back from her face and straighten her circlet. The sergeant next to her reinstated her contact with her right hand.

  “Duchess Felethia, I must repeat, did you intend to kill the queen?”

  “Kill?… I wanted the woman standing on the dais, the woman who was stealing everything from my family, to vanish, to go back to whatever hole she’d sprung from.”

  “Do you understand, Duchess, that Queen Cerúlia is the rightful heir to the Nargis Throne, and Lord Matwyck was a traitor and a usurper?”

  “So they tell me,” she answered in crisp tones, but then her voice faltered. “I am finding all of this somewhat hard to credit.”

  Marcot had heartily despised Lolethia. He had met her mother on numerous occasions, discerning in her no redeeming qualities. Still, he felt a pang of pity for her losses and confusion.

  “Judiciary, what is the normal penalty for assaulting the Throne?” asked the queen.

  “Your Majesty, the penalty is death. This is the most grievous of all crimes.”

  The room held its breath.

  “No,” the queen replied slowly. “Unless you discover that this lady was in other ways involved with the traitors, that doesn’t fit her crime. She was half-drugged and out of her senses with grief. You’ve just taught us that intent matters.”

  “Your Majesty, the monarch always has the power to show mercy,” commented the judiciary.

  “Oh, please!” came a cry from the middle of the room. All heads turned in the direction of Lolethia’s younger siblings. Marcot couldn’t tell which one had shouted out, the girl or boy.

  The queen nodded. “I would not orphan more of my subjects. And perhaps, because of my own responsibility for their misfortunes, I owe extra consideration to this family. I will discuss other possibilities with you, Judiciaries, at a later date.”

  This ended the official proceedings for the afternoon. The queen formally thanked Envoy Rakihah for the use of the Stone and the judiciaries for their careful gathering of the facts. She dismissed the onlookers; as the judiciaries packed up their papers and books she turned for a word first with her bodyguard and then with the Rorther ambassador.

  Marcot lingered in hopes of speaking with her about his plans for freeing the political prisoners.

  He was not the only person lingering for the opportunity of a private word. An intense young man holding a writing folio, with quills behind his ears (and a trickle of ink running down his neck), jumped from his seat and bowed very low.

  “Your Majesty, a moment, I pray,” said the inky man.

  “You are?” asked the queen.

  “My name is Alix of Cascada. I work for the Cascada News.”

  “What do you ask of me?”

  “Actually, I wish to beg the envoy if I might place my hand on that Truth Stone.”

  The queen looked at Envoy Rakihah, who replied, “I am intrigued. We can allow this.”

  The sergeant carried the Truth Stone over to the young man. He glanced at his hand, vigorously wiped the ink on his shirt, and then placed his hand upon it.

  “As I said, I am Alix of Cascada. I have heard rumors that all the people, not just the gentry, will choose the new steward. I intend to stand for this election. But given Weirandale’s recent experience with stewards, I want all to know that I would serve the crown and the country most faithfully.

  “I should probably tell you straightaway that I have been involved with the Parity Party and I would work for equal treatment under the law for all classes. I do not believe that the rich should profit from the labor of the poor.” He spoke very quickly, as if the queen might object or the Truth Stone might be taken away from him at any moment.

  The queen merely smiled at his eagerness. “Do you think you have a chance of winning the election? Do you know who else has declared his or her candidacy?”

  “I believe I will be the first person to bid for the position. I intend to canvass everywhere.”

  “Well. I’m glad you had the opportunity to show us your heart. I wish you luck in the election, Master Alix. Whether you win or no, sometime after the current emergency, I’d like to hear of the Parity Party’s concerns and the redresses you propose.”

  Then, appearing pressed for time, accompanied by her bodyguard and her dogs, she swished out of the room before Marcot had a chance to consult with her.

  * * *

  Taking the responsibility on himself, that night—in consultation with Darzner, Captain Yanath, and Chamberlain Vilkit—Marcot organized several expeditions of soldiers, healers, and supplies. At dawn, he sent four of these convoys to the secret holding cells that lay in duchies removed from the capital.

  The largest caravan he personally led to the location closest to the palace.

  Perhaps originally a warehouse, the shabby building sat hidden in a dark alleyway. It was deserted. From what he and Captain Yanath could tell, the jailers had abandoned their posts when the queen seized power, and the prisoners had managed to break down the cell doors and had scattered into hiding. Marcot had soldiers search for any record books they could find in the noisome and grimy location. Then, his expedition moved on to the next-closest location Murgn had r
evealed.

  Here too the jailers had fled, but the bars of the cells holding the prisoners had been too firmly set in concrete to fall to their desperate efforts. The prisoners had not been fed or watered in Waters knew how long. A third of their number had died from this deprivation, and the others were in terrible straits.

  Marcot moved amongst the living, helping the healers give them water. But seeing how these unfortunates barely clung to life, he felt a desperate urgency to get to the other jails.

  Leaving a contingent of healers, he split his followers into two teams. Captain Yanath guided one half to the prison in the western suburbs, while Marcot escorted his team to an address south of Cascada.

  No one accosted his men as they broke down the locked street door. Inside the dark, cavernous building, which had once been a factory, Marcot lit a torch. His light revealed a few tables and chairs, debris and playing cards littering the floor.

  “We’re here! Help us!” came faint cries from the basement.

  Hastily, the soldiers located the stairs that led to the cells. On that end of the building closest to the stairs, a horrible sight met their eyes: a room filled with a dozen dead women, each with her throat cut.

  “What…?” Marcot choked out.

  One of his guards spit to the side. “Probably silencing them. They would have been used, you know, and the jailers wouldn’t want them able to accuse or identify.”

  “Used?” asked Marcot, his mind moving slowly.

  “Raped, sir,” said the guard.

  “Down here, help us!” came a cry, louder now.

  “Prisoners are alive down here,” said Marcot, tearing himself away from the ghastly sight and running down the stone corridor.

  At the end of the sloping hall, they found a large cage holding on the order of forty male prisoners. Although a few could hardly hold up their heads, many stood on their feet, their thin arms straining toward their rescuers through the bars.

  Marcot ran to the door, but of course it was locked and wouldn’t move to his grasp.

  “They left the keys hanging, over there,” cried a chorus of prisoners, pointing. A guard threw them to Marcot, and he unlocked the cell door.