Cerúlia was scanning the Bay of Cinda with the spyglass when a flock of large gray pelicans, their striated wings barely counterbalancing their big beaks and throats so they looked ungainly in flight, beat its way to the top of SeaWidow Cliff.
The leader of this flock, waddling on its webbed feet a little closer, staring with button black eyes, asked the queen, Why did thee snub us ones, in favor of those screeching garbage eaters?
Marquise of the Marine, Cerúlia improvised a flattering sobriquet, I did not know you were nigh. Do you have information for me?
Us ones always keep watch on these waters. We have kept watch for years and years. One’s mother kept watch, her mother, her mother, her mother, her mother, one’s sisters, one’s cousins, one’s aunts, one’s brothers, one’s uncles—
Cerúlia had no patience for this litany and she held up her hands. Forgive my slight. I was ignorant. I have not spent enough time here at the coastline. What have any of you seen?
Ships. Many ships. A few of the men toss fish to us. With sails the color of mussel shells. Mussels are very tasty. Not as tasty as—
Tell me about the men on the ships.
The pelican flapped her wings huffily; Cerúlia guessed that she hadn’t seen or hadn’t paid any attention to the sailors.
Another of her flock waddled forward a few steps. White-haired men on the deck, playing with shiny sticks.
Are you sure you saw white hair?
As white as screechy garbage eaters.
“Tilim,” Cerúlia called behind her, in a careful tone. “Step forward and slowly pull your sword. Easy now.”
The boy did as he was bid. The pelicans took several steps backward as he approached, but they did not fly off the cliff.
Shiny sticks like this? Cerúlia prodded.
The pelicans all bobbed their heads on their long necks.
Have you seen any whales? Have they all left the Bay of Cinda?
What is a whale? asked the marquise. Is it good to eat? Does it toss the fish?
Cerúlia tried to explain about whales, but pelicans paid no attention to marine life they couldn’t consume. She wanted to send this flock back to scout the ships again, but the birds grew huffy when they heard she had already sent a flock of gulls. So she thanked them for their scouting and dismissed them.
“Tilim, I need you to ride back to the palace with a message. Tell my councilors that the ships are not bringing Pellish to raid us—they are bringing Oros, who intend to invade us.”
* * *
For hours Cerúlia sat on the stool, scanning the waters below her, looking for whale spouts. She couldn’t send a message to the whole vast ocean; she needed a specific creature. The sunlight made the water look cheerful, but it defeated her vision, and until a page took off her own hair leather and offered it to the queen, her loose hair kept blowing in her face. Kiltti started a fire in the lighthouse hearth and warmed up the food that Vilkit had sent.
Finally, far off, Cerúlia saw spray that gushed higher than the swell and a shadow that flicked underwater.
Whale, can you hear me? If you hear me, swim closer to land and blow air three times.
Moments elapsed. Cerúlia’s nails dug into her own palms.
Then, much closer to shore: three spouts. But it must be a small creature, merely a pilot, nothing like what Cerúlia needed.
Ah, sent Cerúlia. Thank you, whale. I need your help and the help of any other whales within a day’s swim of here. Please, please, will you gather all the whales?
A whale’s thoughts sounded different to the queen than those of a bird or land animals. Rather muffled, bubbly, and inflected on rising or falling notes.
Dun-no. One’s pod? One’s podlings swim nigh.
All the pods of all the whales. Are you a pilot whale? I’m told you swim with big whales, the queer-shaped ones and blue ones.
Dun-nooo. Lau-tan rules us, not Narrr-gis. One hears thee, but dun-noooo whales follow thee-eee.
Indeed, I know about Lautan’s dominion. Once, in southern waters, I heard whales sing “Beloved of Lautan.” I believe that Nargis and I are also “Beloved of Lautan.”
The juvenile pilot whale was distracted by this story. Dun-nooooo. Did they have the right tune in the southern waters? Let one sing it for thee now—ow—ow.
Pilot, please! Time presses. Could you search for other whales? Have they left on their winter journey?
Dun-nooo. Some have; some have noo-whoa-whoa. The whale spouted dramatically and flapped its tail in the water. Dun-nooo. Dun-nooo. Dun-nooo. Then it sped off.
Cerúlia hoped that it had gone to gather other whales, but it might have just decided it didn’t like the conversation. She scanned the sea to the southwest again, wondering how much time they had left, what had happened in Vittorine, and how preparations proceeded in the city.
“Begging your pardon, Your Majesty, this woman says she has information of utmost importance.”
Whirling around, she saw that one of the guards stood on top of the cliffside path next to a well-dressed, middle-aged woman, with hair elaborately coiffed in a high style on top of her head.
“Can’t you take this to someone else?” Cerúlia said.
“She says she knows about the Pellish ships,” said the guard.
“Really.” Cerúlia frowned and then addressed the unfamiliar lady. “Who are you? And how do you come by this information?”
“My information is for your ears only,” she said, from her deep curtsey. “Your Majesty, may I approach?”
Impatiently, the queen beckoned her to move forward. When the lady had moved within three paces of the queen, the guard, with automatic protectiveness, called out, “That’s close enough!” He then turned to talk to another figure, a shadow that had appeared from the footpath.
“Those ships are in communication with Weirs, with people who wish your death,” the stranger said in a low tone.
“Communication? But how?”
“They use trained petrels.” She took another half step forward.
“Trained petrels…” The queen recalled that she had once read something about such messengers. “How do you know this? State your name.”
“I am Clovadorska of Riverine, Your Majesty.” The wind pulled at her elaborate hairstyle and she tried to pat it back in place.
“Clovadorska of Riverine, how do you know about these petrels and Weir traitors?”
“You don’t even recognize the name, do you?” the woman asked the queen softly.
“No, I don’t think that I’ve heard it before. Tell me, what is your connection?”
“The Pellish have been sending us messages for three moons, updating us on the armada’s progress, so we can coordinate our timing.”
Too late, Cerúlia realized her danger. Instinctively she took a half step back. She couldn’t retreat far—the cliff fell away right behind her. Her right hand grabbed her dagger but the woman stood just too far away for a lunge.
Clovadorska hadn’t been smoothing her hair; she’d pulled out something hidden within its high stack. She now brought this object (it was cylindrical, hollow black wood) up to her mouth.
“I’ve thought of you so often,” she said, her voice now charged with repressed ferocity. “And you’ve never even heard of me! I want you to know my name. I am the widow of Captain Lurgn. Your mother was responsible for my husband’s death.”
As the woman raised her poison blowdart to her lips, Cerúlia dived to the ground and rolled. Since her would-be assassin could easily pivot to adjust her aim, this desperate movement would not have saved her life, but it bought the queen an extra half tick—and in that instant she heard a faint whoosh of air, a thud, and a cry. A bloody dagger point suddenly appeared, poking right out of Clovadorska’s heart.
The woman collapsed to the ground, dropping her weapon.
When she fell, she revealed the person behind her who had just joined the gathering on the cliff top. It was Ciellō.
People rushed to the queen wi
th exclamations and cries of fear, helped her to her feet, and dusted off her clothing. While she was so engaged she saw Ciellō retrieve his dagger, wipe off the blood on his victim’s velvets, examine the blowdart, and toss it into the sea.
A little shaky on her feet, Cerúlia turned to him.
Ciellō sketched a bow, keeping a self-satisfied grin off his lips, though it sparkled in his eyes.
“Damselle, I hear there is trouble from invaders. Quick as the wind, I come. You see, your man Ciellō, he is invaluable.”
51
Cascada
Dust etched the lines of their faces by the time that Thalen and Wareth reached the palace’s Arrival Gate, in the late morning, two days after the skirmish at Belcazar’s estate.
They had pushed themselves hard, changing horses at inns along the route, snatching a few hours of shallow sleep while new mounts were readied, but traveling at night had slowed their progress. Thalen was hounded by apprehension over Cerúlia’s safety and over what might be transpiring in Cascada.
Cici, cradled in front of Wareth, demonstrated an enviable ability to sleep in the saddle; Vaki, the larger hunting dog, loped most of the distance at their side, but to give him a break Thalen hoisted him up in front of himself; the dog had leaned back against his chest, slobbering into his cloak and providing a constant chorus of ragged pants into his ear.
Throughout this journey, as much as his fatigue and dread allowed, Thalen reviewed everything he had ever read about sea battles and assaults on harbor cities. Unfortunately, he found his internal library barely covered the field.
All in all, they made good time until the riders found that they no longer had the High Road to themselves. As they drew close to Cascada, first a carriage passed them, then two wagons, and then more carts. Within minutes their passageway was blocked by a procession of motley vehicles, all filled to the brim with women and children being borne away from the capital city.
Thalen shook his head at the familiar sight. Wareth led the way into the fields on the side of the road, out of the path of the refugees; this strategy worked well enough until they reached a major crossing of a second road coming in from the south. There the Raiders discovered squads of cavalry, carts carrying gear, and—in the distance—platoons of foot soldiers, all trying to head into the city just as civilians attempted to flee. Despite the soldiers’ orders and curses and the civilians’ protests and wails, both the road and its verge became so congested that no one could move.
“Wareth!” Thalen called.
“Keep your hat on. I see,” Wareth yelled back. “Follow me.” And he led their mounts across a harvested field, away from the crowds. Cutting cross-country posed little danger here, because it was not as if one could lose the capital city—the white towers of the palace glinted in the sun before them.
Once they reached the metropolis itself every street swarmed with people frantically loading carts or beasts with household goods, filling water bags at wells, or carrying dull implements to smithies to be sharpened. More than once Wareth chose a turning, only to decide against it and find another where their progress would be less impeded.
Finally, they cantered up Arrival Avenue. The metal barrier at the gate was closed. Four palace guardsmen, warily holding out pikes, halted the begrimed riders.
“State your business,” said the officer on duty.
“I am Commander Thalen of Sutterdam. I need to see the queen urgently.”
“Ah! I recognize you,” said the officer. “And those dogs I would know anywhere. Herself is not in residence.”
“Where is she?”
The guard hesitated, as if deciding whether or not to give Thalen this information.
“For Water’s sake, Sergeant, that’s the commander of the Raiders,” burst out one of the guards. “Mebbe he can help.”
“Shut up, you,” the sergeant growled, then turned to the horsemen. “She’s on top of SeaWidow Cliff—the cliff that overlooks the sea and the harbor. I’ll send a soldier with you as guide. Expect security up there to be tight.”
“Here, take this dog, will you? He’s all in and needs tending,” Thalen asked, and willing hands reached up to grab Vaki. Other soldiers reached for Cici. She snapped at the guards, missing their fingers by a pinch.
“Huh. Well, better just leave this one be,” Wareth said.
A palace guard mounted a tethered horse. He carried a Weir flag on a pole, and this, the Raiders found, magically cleaved the way through the crowds on the street—everyone dashed to get out of their way. Soon their tired horses labored up a steep path near the harbor. Wareth silently pointed out that the path showed signs of recent heavy use: scores of hoofprints in both directions and a handful of the support beams knocked out of true.
Just below the crown of the hill, a thick ring of white-sashed guards barred their passage.
“Halt!” these soldiers commanded.
Their escort spoke to his comrades. “I’m bringing these two Raiders to the queen.”
“I don’t care if you’re bringing the king of Agfador,” said the sergeant. “My orders are that no one goes cliffside with a weapon. No one. Dismount so that we can pat you down.”
“What’s the reason for all this?” asked Thalen, complying, but with a stab of disquiet. “Has something happened?”
No one answered him. Thalen turned over his rapier and dagger, while Wareth did the same.
“You can leave your horses here; we’ll take care of them. Everyone hikes the rest of the way.”
Wareth gave the terrier a lift from the horse’s saddle to the ground. Yipping excitedly, she ran ahead of them up the steep dirt path.
As they climbed the last paces to the top of the cliff, Thalen tried—pretty much in vain—to wipe the dust off his face and clothes and retie his hair in his hair leather.
When the path allowed him to see over the crest, Thalen discerned several groups of people clustered about—pages, maids, the queen’s secretary, and the queen herself—standing near the edge, overlooking the ocean.
“Commander!” A male voice interrupted Thalen’s wave of relief that she appeared uninjured.
“Fedak!” shouted Wareth. Fedak and Shield Pontole were standing guard, with weapons drawn, one on each side at the top of the path.
“Damn, it’s good to see you,” said Fedak. “We’ve been worried, Commander, about what was happening in Vittorine.”
“There was a bit of a scrap,” Thalen said, his mind and eyes elsewhere.
“But you’re all right. And Wareth!!” Fedak shook Wareth’s hands in two of his own.
“Easy on the fingers,” Wareth said, wincing.
Thalen addressed the shield. “Your Captain Yanath was unscathed too. There were a few injuries—but let’s not go into that now. Why this much security around the queen?”
“An assassination attempt,” Shield Pontole answered. “Spoiled just in the nick by her personal bodyguard—see that man with the strange hair? That’s Ciellō. I don’t know where he’s been the last few days, but he was always at her side before the festival, and by the grace of the Waters he appeared in time to kill the traitor who tried to kill the queen.”
Alerted by the terrier pawing her skirts and the sound of their voices, Cerúlia turned in their direction. She wore her warm black cloak against the wind. Someone (it must have been Fedak) had given her a Raider black-and-white armband to use as a headband to keep the wind from blowing her hair in her face. Thalen wanted—he expected—her to come rushing into his arms, but she didn’t; her face brightened and she took two steps forward, then halted.
“Commander!” she called.
Taking his cue from her formality, Thalen strode forward and bowed. “Your Majesty. I returned as soon as I uncovered that the visit was a trap to lure you out of town.”
“Please rise. And my mother’s councilor?”
“Belcazar was not actually a hostage, though a gang of Marauders were using him as bait. He’s not on his deathbed either; he shoul
d live long enough to face your justice.”
“Do you know who set the plot in motion?”
“The name I heard was ‘Burgn.’”
“That makes sense.” She looked at the man with braided hair who stood two steps behind her.
“Commander, three moons ago, I assassinated the head of the family—one of the key members of the coup against my mother, General Yurgn. I did not even consider that we needed to destroy all his kin. Burgn, his son, fled before we captured the general’s manse, as did the widow of another son. That woman tried to kill me yesterday with a poison dart. I realize now that allowing the family to escape was a grave mistake. We should have followed and hunted them all down when we had a chance.”
“Hatred can corrode a whole family,” Thalen remarked, “and we all know about the desire for vengeance. But do not blame yourself; if letting them escape was an error, it is better to err on the side of thinking well of others. Should you have killed Marcot because of his father?”
“Of course not!” she answered, and some of the cloud on her face lifted. “Well. Through luck and skill I survived their plot—and so did you. Are you injured? Presently we must face a bigger threat: we are about to be invaded by an armada. My birds have confirmed this.”
“Pellish ships?”
“Aye, but they transport Oro soldiers. This is not a raiding party. They bring an occupation force.”
“In point of fact, I would hazard their goal is not to occupy Weirandale,” said Thalen, “but to sack Cascada, to enact revenge for the Femturan Conflagration. And to put an end to the line of Nargis Queens, as we destroyed the Magi.”
The bodyguard snorted through his nose.
“Ah. I don’t believe the two of you have met,” said Cerúlia. “Commander Thalen, for my voyage home from Wyeland, I hired a bodyguard. Ciellō of Zellia saved my life yesterday morning.” She grinned. “He believes that no harm can come to me as long as he is nigh.”
The Cerulean Queen Page 38