A Broken Queen

by Sarah Kozloff

  Just as the three Raiders stepped from the top of the gangplank onto the deck, they heard the noise of horses, galloping fast. Two stunning mounts came into view on the High Road, bells in their tails jingling. Their riders were an older man and a stripling lad.

  “Wait! Wait!” yelled the man. “I mean, ‘ahoy’! Ahoy, Island Song!”

  The seamaster and mate, and most of the townspeople, came into the street to see what caused such a commotion.

  “What in tarnation are you?” asked the seamaster, fairly drunk.

  The townspeople, however, recognized the strange figure. When he dismounted, twenty-odd villagers all gathered round him as if he were a celebrity, all talking on top of one another.

  “Peddler, haven’t seen you in a long time!”

  “What news?”

  “Where’s your cart?”

  “Where’d you get that beauty of a horse?”

  “Who’s the boy?”

  “Did you see my brother on your way east?”

  “Hey, did you hear if my girl had her baby?”

  Peddler smiled at the villagers and patted a few shoulders, but he didn’t answer their questions. He approached the swaying captain with a genial smile.

  “Caught you just in time. And I remembered the word ‘ahoy’! Sir, we need to sail on your boat.”

  “Sure,” said the seamaster, wrinkling his nose and throwing his arms open in a wide gesture. “Come aboard. Join the floating circus. Come one, come all. Already got me a one-armed freak, a Mellie whore, and a ruffian; why not a jingling peddler and his suckin’ bumpkin?”

  Like a cloud blocking the sun, Peddler’s cordiality vanished. He struck the man a backhanded blow across his face, a blow of such force that the seamaster, unsteady to begin with, lost his footing and fell down in the dirt.

  “We rode so hard to catch you,” said Peddler to the drunk on the ground. “You will keep a civil tongue in your mouth.

  “Culpepper.” He turned to the stableman, who was out in the street along with everyone else. “Will you rest and feed Sunbeam and Sundrop for a few days, then turn them loose? They know how to take themselves home to their stable. Hold on to their tack for me?”

  He stroked the larger horse’s nose a moment before grabbing a saddlebag. He flipped a gold coin to Culpepper. “Oh. Saw your youngest sister two nights ago. She and her family are thriving. She sends her love.”

  “That’s swell news, Peddler,” said Culpepper. “Don’t worry about your horses.”

  Peddler smiled and addressed the boy, “Come along, Gunnit. We made it, just in time.”

  The yellow-haired man and yellow-haired boy walked up the gangplank a bit warily. Peddler stopped halfway, turned around, and shouted to someone in the crowd near the horses, “Darrott! The babe was a boy. Healthy as can be. Mother and father are busting with pride.” A cheer went up from several throats.

  Thalen had watched these events with great interest. When the new passengers reached the safety of the deck, he offered his hand. “I suppose I am the ‘ruffian.’ Actually, I’m Thalen of Sutterdam, and these are my companions, Eli-anna of Melladrin and Tristo of Yosta. We are the ones the seamaster was complaining about.

  “That”—Thalen inclined his head toward the captain, who was being helped to rise by his mate—“was very well done.”

  “Ah, fellow voyagers!” said Peddler, his tone switching in an instant to effusive friendliness. “Well met! Well met indeed! I go by ‘Peddler,’ and I’m pleased to present my young assistant. This is Gunnit of Cloverfield. We are both completely at your service.”

  In a lower voice he said, “Could you be the folk responsible for that fire in Femturan a short while ago, hmm? I am so very pleased to meet up with you.”

  11

  Pilagos, The Green Isles

  As the leagues of turquoise water slipped by Island Dreamer, Mikil diverted himself by devising an elaborate plan for what he would do as soon as they docked in Pilagos. First, he would declare himself to the local authority—from his earlier life he recalled a very competent magistrar. Then, he would sell a portion of the valuables they had found in the queen’s chest or the swords from their scavenging that night under the Pellish cliffs. This, in turn, would allow him to properly reward the captain and crew of Island Dreamer, purchase wardrobes for himself, Arlettie, and Gilboy, and hire the best healer on the island for Mistriss Phénix. Finally, when these tasks were completed, Mikil would inquire when the next Lorther ship was due in harbor.

  If needs dictated he sail on another vessel, he would, but the prince preferred to return home from the dead on a ship of his own. If they had to wait a few weeks, Arlettie would enjoy showing him her former lodgings and looking up old friends, and Gilboy could sample the diversions of city life. They had waited years; a few more weeks meant nothing.

  The crew of Island Dreamer pieced together an outfit more suitable for the prince of Lortherrod than the sun-bleached rags he had been wearing. Once the ship tied up, Mikil disembarked first, bearing the jeweled cutlass.

  In the last few days their castaway had become so ill with a raging fever that they all feared for her sanity and her life; thus Mikil had decided to change the sequence of his actions.

  He addressed the first person he saw. “There’s a severely ill woman on board. Can you fetch the best close-by healer?”

  “I’m a stranger here myself,” the man answered. “One of the harbormasters stands just yonder.” He pointed to a man with a green braid on his cap.

  The harbormaster sent for the healer, who came within a few minutes, carrying her bag.

  Mikil led her aboard and waited on deck while Arlettie helped her examine Phénix.

  While Mikil watched the crew start to unload their trade goods, the healer rejoined him.

  “What happened to cause such nasty injuries?” she asked.

  “Mistriss Phénix either doesn’t recall or won’t tell us.”

  “Well,” the healer sighed. “The burns on her back have gone sour; that’s why she’s burning up. We can try to treat the miasmas with various unguents and draughts. But the worse problem is her left lung is impaired. There’s a condition called ‘lung abscess,’ but it is beyond my skill—or that of anyone else on this isle—to treat. So even if I could clear the burns of corruption, the infection in her chest will eventually kill her. Actually, I’m amazed she has survived this long.”

  Concern drawing down his brows, Mikil asked, “What can we do? What would you do if she were your responsibility?”

  “If she was mine own, I would have placed her on that ship you see under full sail, nearly out of the harbor. It’s from Wyeland; the Wyes specialize in the arts of healing. If you could get her to Salubriton, the Wyes might have the means to save her.”

  “When will there be another ship heading to Wyeland?”

  “No one can say; that one was the first Slagos has seen in over six moons. Could be tomorrow; could be a year.”

  “What!? Her best chance of survival is sailing away before our eyes?”

  “I’m afraid so.” The healer raised her hands helplessly. “If only your boat had docked a few hours earlier…”

  Mikil grabbed Island Dreamer’s first mate and Captain Bajets by their shoulders. “I must have your help in finding a boat that can chase down that Wye ship!”

  The three men ran about the harbor shouting questions. Their quest led them to a catamaran and its Green Isles owner, a man willing to try his craft’s swiftness against the larger ship’s head start.

  “Get the patient on here,” he yelled, “as I ready the boat.”

  Mikil pointed to the jeweled cutlass tucked in his waistband. “Get her to the Wyes safely, and this is yours as reward.”

  Four crew members from Island Dreamer, each holding a corner, brought Mistriss Phénix slung in her sheets, Arlettie clasping her hand at her side as they ran, and they loaded her onto the catamaran. There was no room for additional passengers and no time for goodbyes. Unceremoni
ously, the catamaran cast off, immediately cutting through the waves at high speed.

  Arlettie turned to Mikil with tears in her eyes. “I worried about her all alone and friendless amongst strangers. I grabbed a dagger for her and a piece of the queen’s jewelry she can change into coin and tucked them in her bedclothes. Was that all right with you, my prince?”

  “Of course, my sweet. Clever and kind of you.”

  By now, the Wye vessel was out of sight, around the curve on the island. Mikil sighed. “We have done what we could for her. Let’s find that magistrar and get ourselves settled.”

  Magistrar Destra, looking essentially unchanged through all these years, came running to the door when a secretary brought her the names of the petitioners in her entryway. She recognized Mikil from all the times she had met him as part of the Allied Fleet fighting the Pellish pirates.

  “Prince Mikil!” The magistrar moved forward as if she wanted to pinch him to ensure he was not a phantom. “You’re—alive!” Her eyes went wide, and she took a couple of steps to regain her balance. “We all assumed that everyone perished when the Magi sunk the fleet.”

  “Go ahead; you can touch me to make sure I’m real. Aye, we thank Lautan for our lives and Green Isles saviors for our return to civilization. I’d like to introduce my fellow survivors: an Islander, Mistriss Arlettie of Pilagos, and this young man, Master Gilboy of Liddlecup, who once served on Shark Racer.”

  Destra took Arlettie’s hand and held it for a long moment. “Welcome home.”

  Mikil continued, “As far as we know, we three are the only ones who lived through the wrecks of Sea Pearl and Shark Racer. Do you know any differently? I’ve nursed a slight hope.…”

  “Alas,” said Magistrar Destra. “The Fountains of Weirandale confirmed the death of Queen Cressa. Though I am pleased to report that they flow on for your niece, who is still undiscovered.

  “There are many other events of the world—in the Free States and elsewhere—to relay to a prince of a Great Power, but those can wait until you have a chance to refresh yourselves from your long ordeal. Do you recall the guesthouse where you lodged during the war? Let me put that accommodation and its staff at your disposal. Perchance you and your companions would do me the honor of dining with me tomorrow night?”

  One of the guesthouse footmen retrieved their belongings from Island Dreamer, and the house chamberlain transmuted two of the lesser swords into ready cash. Finally, the prince was able to show his gratitude to the sailors who had saved them and been so considerate to poor Mistriss Phénix.

  Once upstairs in their rooms, Mikil, Arlettie, and Gilboy bathed in big copper tubs and found Green Isles craftans hanging in the wardrobes to replace their worn or borrowed clothes. Mikil sent for a barber and felt much more comfortable after the man shaved off his beard and cut his hair into Lorther style.

  Rather than requesting a formal meal, they asked the guesthouse servants to set out a buffet of longed-for foods, such as meats, dairy foods, baked goods, and sweets.

  Mikil had slathered a thick layer of butter on bread and topped it with a piece of ham when they heard a knock on the front door. A servant escorted the catamaran owner into the dining room.

  “Please, sit with us,” said Arlettie.

  “Let me pour you some wine,” offered Mikil. “Then you can tell us your story.”

  The sailor downed a cup of wine as if it were water. “Ahh! Well, the Wye ship spotted me about two hours after I set out. Islanders don’t like to boast, but my sweet craft—she just flew above the waves! The Wyes pulled in all them queer-colored sails and waited. I climbed up and told them about the patient. They took her aboard readily enough. I saw them give her healing draughts right there on the deck. Their healer said something about draining an abscess from her “pleural cavity” but waiting until they got her to Salubriton for surgery.” He helped himself to another glass of wine while the family exchanged relieved smiles. “I’ve heard tell those folk are marvels at healing.”

  “How was Mistriss Phénix?” Arlettie asked.

  “She’d been coughing pretty awful the whole time.”

  Arlettie cocked an eyebrow at the sailor. “Did she have anything with her?”

  He laughed. “You mean that dagger? Or that hair band of jewels? Or the bottle of black stuff? All those things you hid under the sheets, as if I would steal them?”

  “What bottle?” Mikil asked, puzzled.

  Gilboy chimed in, “Weeks ago she’d told me that she longed for a hair tonic, so I borrowed coin from the third mate and ran and got it for her while you were hiring the catamaran. It was the one little thing I could do for her.… It didn’t seem important to mention.”

  The catamaran owner grinned at the family as he poured himself more wine. “Not to worry. She had all three things when I left her.”

  “Was she strong enough to speak to you?” asked Arlettie.

  “Actually, when I was leaving she made a big effort. When I bid her, ‘Farewell, go with Vertia’s Grace,’ she got up on one elbow-like and said, ‘May the Waters bless you, kind sir.’”

  “That’s so nice,” said Arlettie, her shoulders falling with relief. She picked up a piece of creamy cheese and nibbled at it.

  Mikil, however, became agitated at the sailor’s words. “May the Waters bless you,” he repeated.

  With a stab of premonition, he turned to Arlettie. “My sweet, which dagger did you give her?”

  “I grabbed the first one on top. I think it was the catamount dagger. I’m sorry—did I err? Was it too valuable a gift? It was all such a mad rush. Surely, you’re not mad at me?”

  “Of course not; you did exactly right.” Mikil tugged his Lorther braid. “I just was … curious.”

  The Waters. She deemed a hair tonic important enough to send Gilboy for it. Of all the possibilities Arlettie just happened to grab the catamount dagger and Cressa’s headband. She blessed us by the Waters.

  Mikil tugged his braid again and drained his wine, staring blankly at the table of food that had lost all its savor.

  No. I would have recognized Cerúlia. Of course I would have recognized her. I couldn’t fail to know her; she would have looked like Cressa at her age. I couldn’t have lived by her for weeks and not known her! I couldn’t have touched her and not known her! And what would the princella be doing floating on a dolphin!

  Arlettie was speaking still to the catamaran owner. “We are so grateful to you for your daring race and overwhelmed that you managed to get our friend to safety. Prince Mikil will get you that jeweled cutlass now.”

  “No, I thank you, milady. I didn’t do it for the reward. Sometimes a good deed is a reward itself.”

  “A few coins, then, man,” urged Mikil, rousing himself from his reverie. “Just to pay you for your time.”

  “Nah, thanks. I feel paid aplenty.”

  Mikil rose to thank the man profusely, show him to the door, and shake both his hands. He stood a moment in the evening air of the cobble-patterned courtyard; then he called back to Arlettie, “My sweet, I am going to walk a bit. Stretch my legs after all those weeks on board. I’ll return very soon.”

  He headed back to the waterfront. After so many years on a quiet island, he should have been overwhelmed by the passersby and the horse carts on the busy streets, the taverns filling with evening revelers, the odors of roasts and beer, the shouts and the whistles, the music and the clatter. But Mikil’s thoughts engulfed him so that he walked through the tumult unheeding, drawn by he knew not what, back to the ocean’s edge.

  But whom else, besides Cerúlia, would dolphins have saved? Indeed, why would dolphins have rescued anyone except by the will of the Spirits?

  What an idiot I’ve been! Sitting beside her, unknowing. Sending her off, alone and so very ill.

  Tomorrow I must hire a ship to sail to Salubriton. I must find her, see her healed, and help her regain her throne.

  Mikil reached the harbor side. Unlike the breezes of their former refuge, which
smelled of fresh flowers and fruit, the air here smelled of brine and rotting fish. On his way to a view of the water, Mikil walked under fishing nets stretched out overhead on poles to dry. A gust of wind shook down a patter of drops on his head.

  Suddenly, Mikil felt quite strange—as if he had been somehow changed, anointed. He felt his restless heart quiet, and he knew his purpose.

  Lautan spoke to him from the surf hitting the seawall, in the voice that he had heard before under the Pellish cliffs. A voice that was unearthly and neither discernably male nor female.

  Prince Mikil of Lortherrod, henceforth thou wilt serve as mine Agent in the world of men. Thou art my Sailor.

  I am honored among men, Lautan the Munificent. What is Your will?

  Thou must return to Lortherrod now. Our people need thee.

  What of Cerúlia? That was Cerúlia, wasn’t it?

  We have passed her on to Restaurà and Healer across the Gray Ocean. We have done all that is in our Power.

  But—I kilt her mother. I have a duty to save the daughter!

  The roar of the waves carried something like a chuckle. Thou didst save the daughter, fool. Well, with some assistance. Sailor, have faith. Thy duty now lies elsewhere.

  Mikil’s heart and head swirled with self-blame, guilt, amazement, and hope.

  He stood a few moments gazing out west, in the direction the Wye ship had sailed. The horizon was shrouded with dark clouds; actually, though he struggled against the blackness, he could see nothing at all. With a sigh, Mikil turned back to the guesthouse.

  Exhausted from all the changes and emotional strain, now he trod slowly, unseeing, stumbling over the uneven cobblestones, and his thoughts turned to his long-gone sister.

  Cressa, remember that dolphin I carved for her when she was small? Lautan brought it to life and used it to rescue her. I rubbed her frozen feet and fed her porridge. I fed your daughter warm porridge, and I passed her on to those who can keep her alive.

  Could it be that at the last moment she recognized your dagger? Could that be why she sent a Water blessing?