Oh, Shrimpella! My sick, suffering, orphaned girl.
May all the Spirits love and keep you. May your hurts be mended and your soul made whole. Lautan, Lortherrod, and I will be waiting for you.
And we will stand beside you, against all enemies, with all our might.
PART TWO
Reign of Regent Matwyck, Year 14
WINTER
12
Wyndton
Percia was so excited she couldn’t stop twirling. The letters from Lordling Marcot and Duchess Naven had arrived a week ago. After spending time in the other two Eastern Duchies, Marcot had chosen to return to the duke’s manor house for Winterfest. The duke and duchess had invited her, her mother, and Tilim to spend a week with them and their special houseguest from Cascada. They would be sending a coach for their visitors on the morrow.
“I’m so pleased,” said Stahlia. “Holidays are the hardest time; we miss Wilim and Wren keenly then. Being somewhere new will be a welcome change. How very thoughtful of the duchess.”
Percia privately wondered if the invitation came at the duchess’s instigation, or whether the duke and Lordling Marcot had pressured her into the invitation, but it really didn’t matter because she was overjoyed to see Lordling Marcot again.
Marcot had visited their cottage once more in the fall. He had invited Percia to show him Wyndton and her dancing school, and they had had several hours alone together (if one didn’t count the Cascada guards, who followed him discreetly). They had talked and talked; they could have gone on for hours. When he left that day, he had bowed to her and kissed her hand.
Percia had hardly been able to think of anything else since meeting Marcot. Thoughtful gifts had arrived from Barston—a lovely bowl for her mother, a practice sword for Tilim, and a wrap of the finest silk for her. Just as precious was the note that accompanied the gifts.
Mistress Stahlia of Wyndton,
Greetings.
My visits with your family have been the high point of my journeys. I hope you will accept these small tokens of my esteem. In addition, I entreat you to permit me to visit with you again before too long.
Your servant,
Marcot of Cascada
When the letter had come, Stahlia had said to Percia, “We should not encourage this young man if you do not fancy him. Do you know your own heart?”
“Aye, Mother, I do.”
“You’d like to get to know him better?” Stahlia had asked with a teasing smile.
“Oh, yes!”
So her mother had written back, thanking Marcot for the gifts. And she’d allowed Percia to add a line.
And Percia would see him tomorrow! She ran about in a joyous flurry, unearthing skirts from trunks, trying to get Tilim to sit for a haircut, and arranging for Lem and Rooks to tend the horses and chickens while they were away.
Stahlia took care of gifts to give their hosts. With her backstrap loom she had stayed up late into the nights, creating sashes for the duke, duchess, and all their daughters, each colorful and one of a kind. For Lordling Marcot she wove a blue river running through a green embankment, with a fringe of green and blue.
Percia hugged her mother with gratitude. “Oh, Mama, such a special gift!”
When they arrived at the manor house, the duchess greeted them with formal politeness. But Percia didn’t mind; she only had eyes for Marcot, and he only for her. When they could escape on a walk together, they didn’t notice the frosty temperatures.
Their hosts planned for dancing in the manor’s great room, so Percia organized everybody into lessons to refresh their knowledge of the Winterfest Reel. Tilim and the children of the now-wedded duchettes who were also visiting for the holiday went wild with delight. The house servants joined in, as did the lordling’s Cascada guards and even the duke and duchess. The practice sessions sent them all into gales of laughter, especially when Marcot collided with a footman.
“Oh, I beg your pardon,” Lordling Marcot said. “Let me help you up.”
“My fault entirely, my lord,” said the footman, whom Percia recognized as one of Nettie’s cousins. He added, with a wry smile, “I should have known better than to take my eyes off a man in his cups.” Although no one had been drinking any spirits, Marcot was obviously drunk on something, so the room rang with laughter.
The night before the feast it snowed heavily, and white blankets decorated every tree and shrub. The manor house overflowed with candles, and the fireplaces glowed; candied nuts and hot mulled cider were set out in every room. Two other families—one a wealthy sawmill owner, and the other distant relations—came for the feast, which was served at midday. The table grew so cluttered with cuts of venison and roast goose, potatoes and glazed carrots, spinach in walnut paste and stewed apples, that passing the dishes around became an exercise in finding space to set them down.
During the meal, much talk ensued about conditions in Weirandale. All the older guests wanted to ask Lordling Marcot about his father’s plans to quell the flurries of unrest they had read about in the broadsheets. While most of the Weir gentry stood behind Regent Matwyck (Percia saw Duke Naven raise his eyebrows at his cousin’s protestations), everyone worried whether the common folk would rise up. Percia found the political situation confusing and slightly frightening, and she was eager to spare Marcot any discomfort or embarrassment. The children inadvertently aided her, because they grew bored by political talk, started wiggling, and interrupted. Another day, they would have been disciplined and sent to the nursery, but Winterfest was a time of indulgence.
After the meal, the furniture was pushed back, the musicians invited in, and the floor belonged to the dancers. The older generation paraded through the reel with dignity. Duke Naven escorted his female relation, and Marcot accompanied Duchess Naven. Then the young adults and children took over—twirling, capering, and shouting with laughter. Every time Marcot and Percia touched hands, she felt a tingle; when his hand held her waist, she grew warm.
The dancers got so overheated they had to throw wide the room’s windows for a spell. Light snow fell steadily—and with curtains drawn and windows agape, it looked as if it were snowing inside. Then servants opened the house to everyone from the hamlet surrounding the manor for dessert: throngs came to enjoy hot apple custard cake and snowballs with pumpkin-honey syrup, while Duke Naven passed out coins and toys and Duchess Naven bestowed bars of her lilac soap. The adults were servile and quiet but their children ran wild with excitement.
The hour grew late. As the servants cleared the dishes and restored the great room, the houseguests gathered in the manor library to exchange presents. When her mother passed out the sashes, the duchettes exclaimed over them and Percia beamed with pride. Marcot thought his was “magnificent,” but he pretended he didn’t know the best way to wear it, so Percia had to go help him tie it on, standing so close she could smell the honey on his breath and a whiff of pomade in his hair.
Marcot gave her mother a set of small porcelain bowls that matched the large one he’d sent previously and handed Tilim a small archery bow. He passed Percia a box; she held on to her gift as long as she could, watching other people open their packages, savoring the expectation. When she finally opened the box she found two bracelet cuffs of hammered gold nestled in silk, perfect accents for a dancer’s arms.
Percia looked at the glittering bracelets. The library, so full of chatter a moment ago, fell awkwardly silent. Such jewelry was too costly a gift for a friend or an acquaintance. (He had given each of the duchettes a fox fur hand warmer—a nice gift, but impersonal.) By giving her golden jewelry, in the duke’s house, no less, Marcot had publicly announced his intention to court her.
“Mother,” Percia asked quietly, “may I accept these?”
All eyes turned to Stahlia. She kept her face neutral when she answered, “That’s for you to say, my daughter.”
“If the choice is mine,” said Percia, carefully looking down, “then I am grateful for such a lovely gift.” She slipped her ha
nds through each cuff and held her arms out.
One of the young duchettes squealed and clapped.
“The bracelets are not half as fair as she who wears them,” said Marcot.
The day guests had their coaches brought out to ferry them home, and much fuss ensued about blankets and foot warmers, and many cautions about snow-covered roads. In the bustle, Marcot grabbed Percia’s hand and pulled her into a servants’ stairwell and up half a dozen steps.
“Do you like your present?” he asked.
“You know I do,” Percia answered, cheeks growing hot.
“Percia, may I speak to your mother about courting you?” He kept his court poise, but his eyes danced.
“Oh, is that what you’ve been doing?”
“Vixen!” He bent to kiss her.
In a moment she pulled back. She looked at him seriously a moment and brushed his amber top curls back from his forehead. “Scoundrel!” she chided, and kissed him back.
“Well, may I?” he asked, shaking her arms just a little.
“You’d better,” Percia answered, “because by now I’m sure everybody has noticed our absence.”
A quiet rap sounded on the door to the staircase and the lovers sprang apart, anxiously looking down. After a beat the door was pulled open and Tilim poked his head in. “I’ve been watching the door,” he said, “but you’d better come out now. Mama is looking for both of you.”
Percia patted her hair and tried to smooth her cheeks.
“Not to worry, Percie, you look fine—or you would if you’d stop grinning like a lackwit,” said her little brother with a judicious air. “You come first, Lordling. I’ll come back for you in a tick, Percie.”
Mother shot her a stern glance when their paths crossed, but she wasn’t actually angry. When they went up to bed, Percia twirled around the room with her skirt flaring and her golden bracelets twinkling high above her head and then threw herself on the feather mattress to make it bounce. Her mother, seated on a chair rubbing her stiff neck, smiled wistfully and did not chide.
13
Aboard Island Song
Thalen kept his distance from Peddler for two weeks, sensing that the man had some strange connection to Magic. How else could he know about their involvement in the Femturan Conflagration? He had seen in Oromondo how Magic could be used to turn wolves into demons. Thalen would not let down his guard just because this stranger had a twinkle in his eye and treated the boy who accompanied him kindly.
The boy—Gunnit. Thalen remembered every detail about Skylark and recognized the name of her younger brother. But this lad said he was from a town called Cloverfield and that his older sister (who had died) had been named Linnie. He had never heard of anyone named Skylark. Besides, he looked nothing at all like her, because his hair was a different shade of yellow, his nose wide, and his chin square. Talking the coincidence over with Tristo, Thalen concluded that Gunnit must be a common name in Alpetar.
Peddler assumed a polite and detached demeanor with the Raiders. He did not press an intimacy with Thalen, though on such a small ship—the surly seamaster had been honest in saying it wasn’t designed to accommodate passengers—they ran into one another all day long. Though Thalen often sensed the older man apprising him in return, they maintained a discreet reserve.
In fair weather, the passengers spent most of the daytime hours on the stern deck. The cook allowed only Eli-anna to pass the time sitting at the tiny mess table in the galley. Eli-anna’s terror at being on the water subsided somewhat, but whenever the sea turned rougher either Tristo or Thalen would seek her out. She never got sick, but her face would show strain and her hands would clench the table edge. Then they would try to distract her, Tristo by telling wild tales about his orphan life in Yosta and Thalen by reciting Rortherrod poetry.
Today the ocean swells lifted the ship in a soothing four-four time while the wind held steady. Gunnit slid down from the mast with the third mate, rejoining the group of passengers standing or seated on casks around a low makeshift table.
“Play Oblongs and Squares with me, Tristo,” he cajoled.
“Sure. But what do you say—let’s make the game more interesting. Whoever loses has to pay a forfeit.”
“What kind of forfeit?”
“Oh, you have to make a fool of yourself, like stand on your head and sing ‘Bang the Mug and Pour the Ale’!”
“I don’t know that song,” Gunnit said, face falling.
Peddler, leaning his elbows on the ship’s handrail, smiled with his twinkle. “We’ll find you an appropriate song. But by all means, let’s make the game interesting. Whoever wins has to play me next!”
Gunnit laid out the first mate’s board, and he and Tristo played. Tristo let the boy make some good moves, then finished him off without braggadocio.
Tristo forced Gunnit to stand on his head and sing “Nine Ducks Went a-Courting.” The boy only managed a bar or two before falling over in a fit of giggles to the applause of everyone nearby.
When Peddler settled in against Tristo, Thalen noted that other people gathered round to watch. Tristo was a crafty player, having gambled on many a game for his only meal of the day in Yosta bars. Peddler enhanced everyone’s enjoyment by offering an exaggerated running commentary: “Oh no! Don’t move there—you’ll kill me if you move there!” or “Got out of that trap just by a hair, didn’t I?”
Yet Thalen discerned that Peddler held back, allowing Tristo the same dignity that Tristo had granted Gunnit. When Peddler won, he exclaimed magnanimously, “I really don’t know how I did that! What a lucky move!” Tristo’s forfeit involved singing the aforementioned “Bang the Mug,” which he did, with all the nearby sailors joining in the chorus by pounding on wooden surfaces.
“The winner plays me,” Thalen remarked, smoothly sliding into Tristo’s place across from Peddler. “But I propose a different kind of forfeit.”
“What do you have in mind?” asked Peddler. “Do you want me to climb the mast and strip to my skin?” This raised a laugh out of all the onlookers.
“No,” said Thalen. “When I win I want truthful answers to a few questions.”
Peddler regarded him with narrowed eyes. “Three questions,” he agreed. “When I win I get truthful answers to three questions.”
“But Commander,” protested Tristo, “I’ve never seen you play!”
“You’re right, Tristo, I’ve never played before, but I’ve watched a few games,” Thalen replied, not mentioning that in his youth he had read and memorized three books on the strategy of Oblongs and Squares by grand masters. Addressing Peddler, he asked, “You won’t mind if I’m slow in choosing my moves?”
“Of course not. Take all the time you need. Gunnit, my lad, would you fetch my hat and a sip of water?” When the boy returned, Peddler proclaimed, “Well, well, the game’s afoot!” He moved first, and Thalen followed his lead into a maze he recognized as “The Fool’s Gambit.” Thalen slipped out of this gambit (“Oh, what a slippery devil you are!”), and then Peddler pressed his attack with a series of moves the masters termed “Fox and Hounds.” Thalen’s fox pieces eluded the hounds. (“Tsk, tsk, tsk, tsk.”) Peddler attacked with the usually deadly “Oblongs to Crush”; but Thalen blocked the attack with his Squares. (“Well now, well now, quite a clever move for a novice!”)
Their game continued. Even Eli-anna came to join the crowd, resting her hand on Thalen’s shoulder. Peddler’s face grew lined as afternoon shadows fell on the board. His amusing comments fell away, replaced by intense concentration.
Thalen decided he had let the older man keep his pride long enough. He set his pieces into the “Broken Wing Snare,” a strategy detailed in only the most recent of the books he had read. Peddler walked his Oblongs right into the trap, and Thalen won the game.
“Well now! Well now! Skillfully played, young man,” said Peddler, his bells jingling as he stroked his beard. “Haven’t had such a fine game in many a year.”
Thalen shrugged. “Beginner’s
luck. A cup of watered rum on the bow to celebrate?”
“My pleasure, my pleasure. Oh! I’m so stiff!” Peddler got to his feet, stretching with dramatic exaggeration.
The opponents strolled to the bow with their drinks, studiously ignoring the scowls sent in their direction by the captain standing near the wheel. Behind them, Thalen heard excited chatter as the onlookers dissected the match.
“I know I don’t get to ask the questions,” said Peddler. “But if you’ve honestly never played before, how did you do that?”
Thalen had no reason to lie, so he told his opponent about his ability to memorize anything he read and the three books by expert tacticians. This put Peddler back in a good humor; he chuckled to himself. “O-ho! Then I wasn’t actually playing a rank amateur, but three grand masters at once! I did quite well for a humble peddler.”
At the bow, the slight breeze—no longer blocked by the forecastle—felt refreshing. All they could see was turquoise water cut with white ribbons, stretching in all directions. Below, they heard the ship’s wake splashing ka-thump, ka-thump, ka-thump.
Thalen turned to address the older man face-to-face, holding up one finger. “Who are you really?”
Peddler’s face grew serious. “I really am a peddler—I’ve been one all my life—but ‘Peddler’ is also the title of the Agent of Saulė, Spirit of the Glorious Sun above, patron of Alpetar. ‘Peddler’ is the honorific because, like the sun, one is constantly on the move, bringing joy.”
Thalen sputtered a bit. “This is not my question but I just have to remark, so Agents do exist?”
Peddler nodded. “You’ve heard of us before, I take it. We are pledged to keep our positions secret, but over the centuries, with so many people filling these roles, I’d imagine some rumors have leaked out.”
“I don’t think Agents are general knowledge,” Thalen reassured the older man. “I had a friend at Scoláiríum who studied magic. Actually, at the time, I didn’t really believe her.”
A Broken Queen Page 9