Everything had fallen in pieces around her. Ash wanted nothing more than to take her friend that she’d thought she’d known and the woman whose face she’d thought was Old Merta’s and pull them out of the darkness to scratch their eyes out. It’s not what Vanita would have done, but still. Yet she could not, she must not, waste this chance to at least make one thing right. It was too late for the Head Pathfinder to be saved from Ash’s rash judgment, but what about the rest of the castle, its sleeping children and ladies, old men and other innocents?
She was so angry breaths were coming in gulps that Ash had to fight to keep quiet. Wrestling with her lungs, another thought popped into her mind: what would Tarah do?
She let them go. In the dark of night, she slipped away.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
No one of us
It took Ash hours to find Tarah’s sleeping quarters undetected. But found them she did.
As luck would have it she was in the little bunk closest to the entrance, it could only be her – the sliver of hair poking out was fiery-coloured even in the pre-dawn darkness, where the others were washes of mousy brown and grey.
Ash crept up close and cupped her hand over the sleeping girls mouth just as she let her feel the cold edge of the knife against her throat. Tarah got up willingly enough, perfectly silent, and for a moment the knife almost faltered as it occurred to Ash that this was probably not the first time the girl had been aroused from sleep this way, for who knows what reason. But she steeled her mind quickly against the thought and the knife held true. She needed answers, not pity.
Once Ash had dragged her backwards up the ramshackle stone stairs leading down to the servants” sleeping quarters, she removed the knife and let Tarah turn around. The servant’s eyes bulged as she saw Ash’s face.
“You?”
“I might say the same thing, actually.”
“What on earth Ash?”
“Don’t play dumb with me, Tarah. I heard you in the kitchens. Tell me about the plot to overthrow the king and take the castle.”
Until she’d said the words out loud, Ash couldn’t quite believe it. It had never occurred to her, not in all her years having servants and a few being a servant, that such a thing could be done. But now that the words were out in the air, it seemed so obvious. There had likely never been a more spectacular failure by a royal family in the history of Europe and a less defended throne. She had never heard of peasants removing their monarchs before, never, but she’d also never heard of monarchs causing a thing such as the Expansion Project.
“You know nothing,” Tarah hissed as though she could hear Ash’s thoughts. “Nothing! You think you know about us from one overheard conversation in the night? Or why? Or how?”
“The how is what I’m planning to find out.”
“You can gut me here on the floor like a pig if you want, for I’ll not tell you.”
The venom in her voice was so unsettling. Still, Ash pressed on.
“Let me rephrase. I know full well you plan to have us all poisoned at breakfast, with most of you guarding the Great Hall while sending the men in on it up to the private quarters of king and prince and whomever else to dispatch of them there once they’re unconscious. What I don’t know, the how I’m wondering about, is how you then plan to run a country afterward.”
Silence.
“With the people governing the needs of the people.”
“Which people? Your people? All people? Because some of those people are going to involve nobility. The Sir and Mary Faireweathers, the Pathfinders… there’s going to be some non-peasants alive out there somewhere. What will you do about them? And your so-called “people governing the people’, how mobilised are you? Have you got a weapons expert, a finance master? An ambassador? Hell, do you even have a single carrior killer?”
“We… we have more than what you lot do. We have eyes in our heads to see the people outside these walls dying. And no Path magic or royal blood is helping them, so we have to.”
“You lot? Good lord Tarah, what makes you think I don’t agree with you? I’ve been one of “you lot” for the last four or five years!”
“You’re no one of us. You may have taken off your pretty skirts and played with flour in the kitchens to keep from marrying some dull lord, but you’re noble in your heart. That’s your blood, and blood don’t lie.”
There it was, between them. There was nothing to say.
“To be honest, I haven’t been convinced from the moment I arrived here that the king should rule,” she said instead. “Or his son,” she added quietly.
“You may well say that, but you’re going to let us kill your boyfriend?”
“He is no longer my boyfriend.” That, at least, was true, whatever Rize was now. “Look, it’s not about him, Tarah, or the king. There’s dozens of other extra lives you’re planning on ending just because they happen to be noble. Like Naomi’s sick father, or Derrick. And what about the Pathfinder children, have you thought of that? They have powers already and were born into being servants of the royal family. You alright with killing six-year-old girls?”
For a moment it looked as though the servant might cry, but her face hardened. “Ain’t no more than all the other girls that have gone before. Like my sister.”
Ash shook her head, disbelieving, but then her face hardened too. “Well, that’s all I needed to know. Thank you.”
“And what makes you think you can just leave?” From behind Tarah, three burly-looking women stepped out of the shadows, all with kitchen knives raised. Tarah smiled grimly without taking her eyes off her. Ash glared at her former friend, but she raised her knife meekly enough and allowed them to lead her away.
“Keep an eye on her,” Tarah said to one of the women once Ash had been gagged and bound to one of their bunk beds with torn-up linens that looked suspiciously noble.
“I did like you,” she murmured into Ash’s ear and, when she tried to squirm away, Tarah gripped her by the hair and kissed her gagged mouth. “Let’s get to it,” she said to her fellow criminals, standing again.
Ash struggled against her bonds as they left, then made a show of struggling for a good while in front of the remaining servant, just to be sure. As soon as she thought it was realistic, though, she fell silent. You would make a good bandit, Tarah she thought to herself. But you still think like a servant. Not like someone at court.
***
At the same time, miles and miles away, the poor slept in darkness. In one decimated chateau there were sprawling legions of them, curled together and shivering on the once-manicured lawns. These were the ones outside, at the mercy of the birds. For these had never slit another man’s throat and looked in his eyes as he bled into oblivion. These had never tasted human flesh or, more remarkable still, brought down winged birds with their weapons or their will. And so, these slept outside with both cold and carrior feasting on them occasionally. This was the life of the weak.
Further up the marbled steps, where the tents grew thicker, were those who the others had seen doing what it takes, by violence or cunning or both. And further still was the most hallowed place, the actual hollowed-out, blackened shells of rooms in which the strongest and the most feared slept.
One of these rooms was roofless with walls thick in grime like most, with a dirty burlap strip running from one wall to the other in an approximation of a tournament tent. Someone out of tribute or fear had given a precious keepsake – a tiny spring of dried-out lavender that filled the air with its dusty perfume and hung like a carcass from the rickety fallen beam in the middle of the room propping up the tent overhang. Even more amazing was the threadbare carpet blackened with soot and grease that covered the floor and, later, gave way to a scant bed of straw where two figures dozed – the only two women in the whole of the hallowed inner court.
Vanita awoke to imaginary hands just as the actual man came through what was once the room’s door. It had been a brash move to claim Pathfinding so, but once she’d
done it her powers seemed in no hurry to leave. And so she was able to say “you have a message” to the man without a question mark on the end and make the magic stretch on a little longer.
The man dipped his head, a habit from a lifetime of being a servant for the likes of her, then remembered where he was and turned the gesture into an awkward, long nod.
“My – I mean, Pathfinder – you’re wanted by Rayce.”
She nodded as though she knew this already, of course she did, though her mind was spinning with questions. “Stay here Mother,” she said softly as she stood up, for she knew well that the wily old fox was just pretending to be asleep and was listening.
Vanita passed very few rooms as they padded towards the former inner courtyard. There were few that were feared as much as her. How life changed, and how quickly… A month before she would have apologised for her intrusion and all the disruption. She would have hidden within herself like a mollusc and have been killed. Instead, killings were done in her name now. The first had been Lar, actually, Safi had seen to that. She hadn’t known until it was too late. They’d brought her out to accept the burning of his stabbed corpse as though it were a present. They burned their own out of respect, Rayce advised. And what was she to do as they burned this man just for attempting to try and rape her. She’d stood with her face composed, upturned to the light, and let his ashes lowly fall on her face. That was life now, and only the strong survived.
Rayce looked as though he hadn’t slept in days. It was just him in the “war room’, standing in front of a panting Safi who had clearly come fresh out of the night, and with some urgency by the look of it.
Vanita turned to Safi first. “You weren’t out on a routine mission,” she guessed. “Something else.”
Rayce nodded. “We’ve just got word from our men inside the palace. It’s time to move.”
“The palace?” For a second Vanita completely forgot to be all-knowing. “I didn’t you know had men in the palace?”
“Well, castle, whatever. Same thing. The royals have had some huge upset, some important Pathfinder just died and they’re moving to another location tomorrow.”
Vanita discreetly gripped the sides of her shift to give herself something to hold onto as she screamed internally. Pathfinder. No… But who else could it be?
Rayce, meanwhile, was systematically destroying every family member Vanita held dear. “The servants we’ve planted in there will have poisoned all the nobles by the time we arrive, and they’ve no idea we’re coming, especially what with no Pathfinder of their own. So we’re moving out, changing locations ourselves. We’ve been planning this for months, with our people on the inside. It’s finally time to take back from the bloody royals who got us into all this mess.
“We leave at first light to take the castle.”
***
In spite of this, the sun rose all the same and first light came soon, too soon. And with it came breakfast time, and sleepy-eyed lords and ladies and one grim-faced duke all filed into the Great Hall for their gruel. Beneath their feet, one of their own chafed against her linen chains. They could not have heard her, even if she had tried to cry out, and if they did they would not notice for the heavenly scent wafting through the air.
“Good gracious girl, what is that?” asked one duke to the serving girl nearest him.
“Cinnamon, m’lord,” she said, bobbing her red head and smiling. “The cook found some and been saving it for a nice morning like this.”
Near her, the steward standing in the middle of the hall frowned. He had not been told of any cinnamon and generally wasn’t the kind of man to like surprises. He discreetly caught her arm as she passed and began to tell her this when, at the table closest to him, Lady Naomi Verraine turned to him, face pale.
“Walters, the cinnamon, how old is it. I don’t, I don’t feel very… Excuse me.” She stood to leave, paused, then fell in a heap on the floor at the steward’s feet.
“Tarah, quick! Go get a Pathfinder!”
But the serving girl just stood there gaping. Then, promptly ran in the wrong direction. “I – I’ll go get help,” she yelled stupidly as she ran.
“Phigy! Phigy, leave her and come quick!” Tarah was saying before she even entered the room. “The stuff’s too fast and is being strange and –” She stopped as soon as she came through the entranceway of the servants” bedroom to find Iphigeneia tied and gagged in Ash’s bonds, the Ash in question still calmly righting her dress.
“I did it with the second knife I had on my left thigh, before you ask,” called Ash over her shoulder without looking.
“You won’t get far. Walters! Walters will stop you. He’s one a us. And I’d bet he’d like to know you were involved in his mama’s death.”
“Was I now? I remember it quite differently. How many men, Tarah? How many have been sent up to the king and prince’s solars?”
“Weren’t you listening? I’ll have you in the dungeons in no time. Walters, he’s been in on it from the beginning.” The kitchen girl took a kitchen knife from her skirts suddenly, and held it wavering in mid-air. “Help! Someone, some call Walters!” she shouted without taking her eyes off her foe.
“Someone already did,” said a voice right behind her.
Tarah whipped around, agape. The steward was glaring like a thundercloud at his employee and, by the looks of it, had been standing glaring a while. “Don’t mean to offend you Ashlynne, but I had hoped to hell you were wrong.”
“So did I, so did I. But if I hadn’t been sure, I wouldn’t have woken you at the ungodly hour I did to tell you.”
“Still not sure why you decided getting captured was a good idea. I wouldn’t have slept knowing you were still roaming about the castle, if I was them, but then again I’ve seen what you can do with a crossbow and they haven’t.” For all their differences, the steward bowed low.
Ash bowed too, and meant it. Then she turned her eyes to the manacles Walters carried and fixed her gaze back on Tarah. “No soft sheets for you.”
Minutes later, Tarah safely chained to a bed, the two emerged back up the stone steps leading toward the kitchens. Before they reached the Great Hall entrance, Walters grabbed her arm. “We don’t have much time. The minute they see you they’ll know something’s afoot. I wish we could have left you down there longer to assuage suspicion, but the truth is we need your arm in what I unfortunately suspect will be a rather nasty fight.”
“Do you have it, for later?”
“I have it. Let’s go.”
Unfortunately, Walters proved quite correct. Ash whirled through the door to find slumped bodies in silk at each table – and one familiar blonde head on the floor. The moment she appeared, the servant girls who had been milling around the room began shouting, running at her. Ash raised her knife and waited, Walters doing the same. Just as the nearest serving girl – she recognised her, Iphigeneia, Tarah had called her - was about to fall on her, though, she was tripped up by a hand on the floor. Ash ducked just in time, the girl was inexpertly waving her kitchen knife everywhere, and Ash smartly grabbed her by the hair as she went sprawling and put her own blade to the girl’s throat.
“Put your blades down or she dies!”
“Don’t” gasped the girl.
“What, you think you would be the first grubby treasure stealer I’ve killed? Do you? Down. Put them down, everyone, now!”
The maids were just putting down their knives when a roar came through the entrance from the direction of the kitchens.
Ash whipped around, not letting go of the girl, and came face to face with Mater as she had never seen her before.
The head cook looked like a butcher now, not a mother, her eyes wild and her apron smeared with blood. Ash thought with a lurch of all the innocent kitchen girls that had been in the kitchen. But there wasn’t time for more than that – the woman was running straight for her, screaming. In spite of herself, she stumbled a bit as she took two steps away.
“Stop!” Walters h
ad gained his crossbow, he must have hidden it beneath his cloak earlier, and was pointing it at the old woman. She halted, breathing hard, her small eyes shining with rage as she surveyed the two. Ash looked down and realised with a start that the woman was holding a sword in one hand, a fine dagger in the other. A real sword – where had she got them? Who had died to equip this woman’s rage?
“Put down the blades or she dies.”
But Mater acted as though she hadn’t heard. “You don’t scare me now, Pup, not anymore than you ever did. And there’s nothing you can do to stop this. Hear?”
“Did you not hear me? I said put the weapons down or she dies!”
Mater stared hard back. Then, eyes gleaming, she made a show of dropping one arm to the floor. Then, cackling, she cracked her right arm up and threw the pretty dagger straight into Iphigeneia’s pretty chest.
Ash gasped as the girl slumped, bubbling, into her own blood. “There’re many passageways in this castle, Pup, don’t think we showed you all of them,” she heard Mater say as she disappeared out the door. But Ash was watching the dead girl, disbelieving, staring into her young, young face.
“Ash come!”
It was Walters. The rest of the rebel girls were running at them again now, blades newly raised. Ash sighed, then raised her own blade once more and, gently, prised a second from Iphigeneia’s still and bloody flesh.
They were already on Walters, swinging his crossbow and firing wildly, although it was a woefully inadequate close-range weapon. “A little help, please?” he yelled.
As she looked into their snarling faces, Ash had a sudden moment of clarity: they were waiting for her to behave like a lady. With a weapon perhaps, perhaps even undignified and screaming, but they expected her to think as the noble she was born as, not the fighting, snarling thing she too had had to become in these years of fear. Ash looked to the tables, the slightly raised dais of the empty kings table, and jumped.
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