Shadowmarch

by Tad Williams

  It was Lord Nynor the castellan who leaned in toward her now, wrapping his beard around his finger in a distracted way, waiting for her attention to return.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “What did you say? Something about Chaven?”

  “He has sent me a rather odd letter,” the old man explained. Briony had been horrified and fascinated to learn that overseeing this wretched parade of denianders and complainers was the sort of thing Nynor had been doing every day of his long career, or at least through the several decades since he had become one of her grandfather Ustin’s chief courtiers. He didn’t look mad, but who would choose such a life? “The physician has had to leave on an unexpected journey,” Nynor said. “He suggests I summon Okros of Eastmarch to the castle in his absence, which he says may be a few days or perhaps even more.”

  “He often goes to consult with other learned men,” said Briony. “Surely that is not so surprising.”

  “But without telling us where to find him? And with the queen so close to giving birth? In any case, the letter itself struck me as strange.” Nynor s eyes were red-rimmed and watery, so that even at the happiest of times he looked as though he had been crying, but he was sharp-witted, and his long years of service to the Eddon family had proved him worth listening to.

  “He says nothing that is directly alarming? Then give it to me and I will examine it later.” She took the folded parchment from the castellan and slipped it into the hartskin envelope in which she carried her seals and signet ring and other important odds and ends. “Is there anything else?”

  “I need your permission to summon Brother Okros.”

  “Given.”

  “And the poet fellow . . . ?”

  “Tinlight? Tin . . . ?”

  “Tinwright. Is it true you wish him added to the household?”

  “Yes, but not in any grand way. Give him an allowance of clothing, and of course he is to be fed . . .”

  There was a murmur in the crowd as someone pushed his way forward, a drawing back as though an animal, harmless but of doubtful cleanliness, had been set loose in the room Matty Tinwright burst out of the front row of courtiers and cast himself down on the stones at the foot of the dais.”Ah, fair princess, you remembered your promise! Your kindness is even greater than is spoken, and it is spoken of in the same proverbial way as the warmth of the sun or the wetness of rain.”

  “Gah. Perin hammer us all dead,” rumbled Avin Brone, who had been lurking beside the throne all day like a trained bear, growling at those he deemed were wasting the monarchy’s time.

  The poet was amusing, but just now Briony wasn’t in the mood. “Yes, well, go with Lord Nynor and he will see you served, Tinwright.”

  “Do you not wish to hear my latest verse? Inspired this very day in this very room?”

  She tried to tell him no, that she did not wish to hear it, but Tinwright was not the type to wait long enough for rejection—a trick he had needed to learn early, judging by his verse.

  “ ‘Dressed all in mannish black she stands, like the thunderheads of Oktamene’s dour wrath in the summer sky Yet beneath those sable billows there is virgin snow, white and pure, that will make the land in cool sweetness to he . .’.”

  She couldn’t help sympathizing with the lord constable’s groans, but she wished Brone might be a little more discreet—the young man was doing his best, and it had been her idea to encourage him: she didn’t want him humiliated. “Yes, very nice,” she said. “But at the moment I am in the middle of state business Perhaps you could write it down for me and send it so that I can . . appreciate its true worth without distraction.”

  “My lady is too kind.” Smiling at the other courtiers, having established himself as one of their number—or at least believing so—Tinwright rose, made a leg, and melted into the crowd. There were a few titters.

  “My lady is too kind by half,” Brone said quietly.

  Steffans Nynor still lingered, a slightly nervous look on his face. “Yes, my lord?” Briony asked him.

  “May I come near the throne, Princess?”

  She beckoned him forward. Brone also moved a bit closer, as though the scrawny, ancient Nynor might be some kind of threat—or perhaps simply to hear better.

  “There is one other thing,” the castellan said quietly. “What are we to do with the Tollys?”

  “The Tollys?”

  “You have not heard? They arrived two hours ago—I am shamed that I did not inform you, but I felt sure someone else would.” He gave Brone a squint-eyed look. The two were political rivals and not the best of friends. “A company from Summerfield Court is here, led by Hendon Tolly. The young man seems much aggrieved—he was talking openly about the disappearance of his brother, Duke Gailon.”

  “Merciful Zoria,” she said heavily. “That is dire news Hendon Tolly? Here?”

  “The middle brother, Caradon, is doubtless too pleased to find himself next in line for the dukedom to want to come stir up trouble himself,” Brone said quietly. “But I doubt he tried very hard to stop his little brother—not that it would have done him much good. Hendon is a wild one, Highness. He must be closely watched.” As the lord constable finished this little speech, one of the royal guard appeared at his shoulder and Brone turned to have words with him.

  “Wild” was not the word Briony would have chosen. “Almost mad” would have been closer—the youngest Tolly was as dangerous and unpredictable as fire on a windy day. Her sigh was the only voice she gave to a heartfelt wish to be out of this, to turn back the calendar to the days when there had been nothing harder to think on than how she and Barrick would avoid their lessons.

  And curse Barrick for leaving this all to me! A moment later she felt a pang of sorrow and even fear about her unkind thought: her brother needed no more curses.

  “Treat theTollys with respect,” she said. “Give them Gailon’s rooms.” She remembered what Brone had said about the Summerfield folk and the agents of the Autarch. “No, do not, in case there has been some communication left behind in a secret place. Put them in the Tower of Winter so they are not underfoot and will find it harder to move around unmarked. Lord Brone, you will arrange to keep them watched, I assume? Lord Brone?”

  She turned, irritated that he was not paying attention. The guardsman who had spoken to him was gone, but Brone himself had not moved and there was a look on his face Briony had never seen before—confusion and disbelief. “Lord Constable, what is wrong?”

  He looked at her, then at Nynor. He leaned forward. “You must send these people away. Now.”

  “But what have you heard?”

  He shook his great, bearded head, still as slow-moving and bewildered as a man in a dream. “Vansen has returned, Highness—Ferras Vansen, the captain of the guard.”

  “He has? And what has he discovered? Has he found the caravan?”

  “He hasn’t, and he has lost most of his company beside—more than a dozen good men. But, stay, Lady—that is not what is most important! Call for him. If what I hear is true, we will need to speak to him immediately.”

  “If what you hear is . . . But what do you hear, Brone? Tell me.”

  “That we are at war, Princess, or shortly will be.”

  “But . . . war? With whom?”

  “The armies of all fairyland, it seems.”

  26

  The Considerations of Queens

  THE DISTANT MOUNTAINS:

  We see them

  But we will never walk them

  Nevertheless, we see them

  —from The Bonefall Oracles.

  He arrived with surprisingly little ceremony, not mounted on a dove this time but on a fat white rat with a fine spread of whisker. She was accompanied only by a pair of guards on foot—their tiny faces pale and drawn because of this great responsibility—and by the scout Beetledown. Chert had been sitting longer than he would have liked and was glad he was not expected to rise; he was not certain his legs would bend that well without a little limbering first
. But neither could he imagine greeting a royal personage without making some show of respect, especially when he hoped to beg a favor, so he bent his head.

  “Her Exquisite and Unforgotten Majesty, Queen Upsteeplebat, extends her greetings to Chert of Blue Quartz,” announced Beetledown in his small, high voice.

  Chert looked up. She was watching him in an intent but friendly way. “I thank you, Majesty.”

  “We heard your request and we are here,” she said, as birdlike in pitch as her herald. “Also, we enjoyed your generous gift and it has joined the Great Golden Piece and the Silver Thing in our collection of crown jewels We are sad to hear that the boy is missing. What can we do?”

  “I don’t know, to tell you the truth, Majesty. I was hoping you might be able to suggest something. I have searched all the places that I know—all of Funderling Town knows he is gone—but I have found no sign of him. He likes to climb and explore and I know little of the rooftops and other high places of the castle and city. I thought you might have an idea of where he might have gone, or even have seen him.”

  The queen turned. “Have any of our folk seen the boy, faithful Beetledown?”

  “Not hair nor hide, Majesty,” the little man said solemnly. “Asked in many holes and away down all the Hidden Hall last night, did I, without a sniff of un to be found.”

  The queen spread her hands. “It seems that we can tell you nothing,” she told Chert sadly. “We, too, feel the loss, because we believe the Hand of the Sky is on that boy and thus he is important to our people, the Sm’sni’sntk-soonah, as well.”

  Chert sagged. He had not truly thought that the Rooftoppers could solve the mystery, but it had been the only hope left to him. Now there was nothing he could do but wait, and the waiting would be terrible. “Thank you, anyway, Your Majesty. I am grateful that you came. It was very kind.”

  She watched as he began to climb to his feet. “Hold a moment. Have you smelled for him?”

  “Have I what?”

  “Have you smelled for his track?” When she saw Chert’s expression, she raised an eyebrow more slender than a strand of spiderweb. “Do your people know nothing of this?”

  “Yes, we do, I suppose. There are animals used for hunting game and certain other things we eat. But I would not know how to try to find the boy that way.”

  “Bide -with us here a while longer.” She folded her tiny hands together. “It is a pity, but the Grand and Worthy Nose is not well—a sort of ague. This often happens when the sun shines for the first time after the winter rams begin. Most pathetic he becomes, eyes red and his wonderful nose red, too. Otherwise I would send him with you. Perhaps in a few days, when the indisposition has passed . . .”

  Chert was not exactly heartened to think that his hope of finding the boy might rest on the fat and fussy Nose, but it was something, at least, something. He tried to look grateful.

  “Your Majesty, if a humble Gutter-Scout can speak . . .” said Beetledown.

  The queen was amused. “Humble? I do not think that word describes you well, my good servant.”

  Chert imagined that the little man was blushing, but the face was too small and too distant to be certain. “I wish only to serve ‘ee, Majesty, and that’s skin to sky. Sometimes, it is true, I find it hard to keep quiet when I must listen to the boasting of tumblers and other pillocks who are not fit to serve you. And perhaps tha wilst deem me boastful again when I say that after the Nose, some do reckon that Beetledown the Bowman has the finest nostrils in all Southmarch Above.”

  “I have heard that said, yes,” said the queen, smiling. Beetledown seemed hard-pressed not to leap in the air and cheer for himself at her admission. “Does that mean you are ofFering your services to Chert of Blue Quartz?”

  “Fair is what it seems, Majesty. The boy bested me and then gave me quarter, fairly as tha might please. I reckon that un has my debt, as ‘twere. Perhaps Beetledown can help bring him back safe in un’s skin.”

  “Very well. You are so commissioned. Go with Chert of Blue Quartz and carry out your duties. Farewell, good Funderling.” She tapped with her stick at the white rat’s ribs; the animal chittered, then turned and began to move back up the roof. Her guards hurried after her.

  “Thank you, Queen Upsteeplebat!” Chert called, although he was not really sure how much help he was going to get from a man the size of a peapod. Her hand went up as the rat disappeared over the roofcrest, but even small queens did not wave good-bye, so he imagined it must have been an acknowledgment of his gratitude. He turned to Beetledown, with whom he was now alone on the rooftop. “So . . . what should we do?”

  “Take me to something of the boy’s,” suggested the little man. “Let me get my fill of un’s scent.”

  “We’ve got his other shirt and his bed, so I suppose I should take you home. Do you want to ride down on my shoulder?”

  Beetledown gave him an unfathomable look. “Seen ‘ee climb, I have. Beetledown will make un’s own way and meet up at bottom.”

  Not surprisingly, the Gutter-Scout was already waiting on the ground by the time Chert set his feet on the cobbles once more. The morning sun was high behind the clouds—perhaps an hour remained until noon. Chert was tired and hungry and not very happy. “Do you want to walk?" he asked, trying to be considerate of the Rooftopper’s feelings.

  “Oh, aye, if we had three days for wandering,” Beetledown replied a bit snappishly. “Said tha hast shoulder for riding. Ride, I will.”

  Chert put his hand down and let the little man climb into it. It was an oddly ticklish feeling. As he put Beetledown on his shoulder, he imagined for the first time what a vast expanse even this small cobbled courtyard must seem to a man of such small size. “Have you been on the ground much?”

  “Proper bottom ground? Aye, oncet or twice or more,” Beetledown said. “Not one of your stay-at-homes am I. Not afraid of rat or hawk or nowt but cats is Beetledown the Bowman, if I have my good bow to hand.” He brandished the small, slender curve of wood, but when he spoke again, he sounded a little less confident. “Be there cats in your house?”

  “Scarcely a one in all Funderling Town. The dragons eat them.”

  “Having sport, th’art,” said the little man with dignity. Chert suddenly felt ashamed. The tiny fellow might be a bit boastful, he might not think much of Chert’s climbing, but he was offering his help out of a sense of obligation, entering a world of monstrous giants. Chert tried to imagine what that would feel like and decided that Beetledown was entitled to a little swagger.

  “I apologize. There are cats in Funderling Town but none m my house. My wife doesn’t like them much.”

  “Walk on, then,” said the Rooftopper. “It has been a century or more since any Gutter-Scout has been to the deep places and today Beetledown the Bowman will go where no other dares.”

  “No other Rooftopper, you mean,” said Chert as he started across the temple-yard toward the gate. “After all, we Funderlings go there rather often.”

  *

  “Where is your brother? Prince Barrick should be here.” Avin Brone could not sound more disapproving if Briony had informed him that she planned to hand over governance of the March Kingdoms to an assembly of landless yokels.

  “He is ill, Lord Brone. He would be here if he could.”

  “But he is the co-regent.

  “He is ill! Do you doubt me?"

  The lord constable had learned that despite the differences in their size, age, and sex, he could not outstare her. He tangled his fingers in his beard and muttered something. She was sensible enough not to inquire what he had said.

  “Hendon Tolly is causing trouble already,” said Tyne Aldritch of Blueshore, one of the few nobles she had asked to join her to hear the news from the west. Aldritch was terse, especially with her, often to the point of near-rudeness, but she believed it was a symptom of basic honesty. Evidence over the years supported this conclusion, although she knew she might still be wrong—none of the people of the innermost circles a
round the throne were as guileless or straightforward as they seemed. Briony had learned that at a young age. Who could afford to be? Briony had ancestors in the Portrait Hall who had killed more of their own nobles than they had slain enemies on the battlefield.

  “And what is my charming cousin Hendon up to?” She nodded as another, only slightly more beloved relative joined the council, Rorick Longarren. The apparent invasion seemed to be on the borders of his Daler’s Troth fiefdom, one of the few things that could lure him away from dicing and drinking. He took his place at the table and yawned behind his hand.