The Spy Princess

by Sherwood Smith

  The blue dining room overlooked the lake and the garrison. Everything was new and smelled of fresh paint. I set down the tray, then ducked under the table and felt along the carved leaves and vines along the baseboard. It was impossible to see, and I had to go over it three times until a section clicked and a small square of wall opened.

  I saw what Mirah meant. As small as I was, I just managed to fit inside. With the door shut, tiny holes in the carving gave me bits of view. A short while later, people entered. There was the clink and tinkle of silver, plates, and wineglasses being set out. Mouthwatering smells came next.

  All but one of the servants withdrew. Then the door opened again, and I saw three sets of heavy blackweave military boots, followed by a pair of green court shoes with emerald and diamond clasps.

  There was the sound of pouring, and then, “Begone. We can wait upon ourselves.” It was a fussy courtier’s voice—the owner of the expensive green shoes.

  After the servant left, closing the door behind him, Fussy-Voice said, “Benoni. I trust you’ll have a better report today.” Benoni! I knew who that was—Petran Benoni, the army commander!

  “No,” came a deep voice. “Same.”

  Another voice, higher and more sarcastic, observed, “Are you worried about your own report, Flendar?”

  Without warning, a pinched, aristocratic face appeared upside-down in front of me. I held my breath. Just as well I couldn’t move, or I would have betrayed myself.

  The pale gaze swept this way and that, and then the face disappeared.

  A snort from Benoni. “Expecting spies under the table, eh? Do you check under your bed at night?”

  “It’s my job,” Fussy-Voice—Flendar—said officiously, “to see to it that the only eavesdropping is done by us. If you’d done your job, we wouldn’t all be sleeping in camp quarters while the rabble that half destroyed the palace laughs behind our backs.”

  A fourth voice said with good-natured humor, “Oh, give it over. Petran jokes us all—”

  He stopped as the door opened. I heard another pair of boots. From the silence, I knew they had to belong to my uncle. I’d planned to stay away from him—and here we were, in the same room, my second day in Miraleste!

  Cramped as I was, I wormed my fingers under all those clothes to close comfortingly around Tsauderei’s ring as my uncle said, “Sit down. Serve yourselves. Benoni, your report.”

  “There’s trouble all along the east. I’ll give you the details when we meet with the couriers. We’re pretty certain it’s Bernal Diamagan and his old contacts, though everyone we talk to insists they’ve never heard of him.”

  “Then you should be executing the town leaders as an example,” Flendar cut in.

  “No,” my uncle said. “At that rate, half the populace will be gone. Anyone you catch, send to me. Anyone you suspect, send to me. No more summary hangings, unless you apprehend them in the act of sabotage. Flendar, your report?”

  “I’m up to thirty couriers, but recruitment is necessarily slow. I have to be very careful, I’m certain you’ll agree—”

  “Your command structure is?” Uncle Darian interrupted.

  “All any of them know are two others. They report to me, and I tell Leonos where to send a patrol.”

  “Have you given their identities to Leonos?”

  “No,” said the third man, obviously Leonos.

  Flendar’s tone was ingratiating. “You yourself ordered—very wisely, I might add, Your Majesty—that you wished their identities known to as few as possible. We don’t know how many of the city guard have relatives among Diamagan’s rabble, for example.”

  “Yes, yes. So there is an identifier?”

  “Everyone outside of my staff here in the palace wears a heron signet, all copies of my own.”

  “Leonos?”

  “Aside from the fact that the loyalty of my guards has never been questioned, it works so far.” Leonos sounded slightly hesitant.

  “But?” Darian prompted.

  “Most haven’t the stomach to be putting civs to the question, especially children or the elderly.”

  “Flendar?” Uncle Darian’s voice was sharp.

  “It seems more efficient to conduct my own investigation . . .”

  “You heard me: hold them. If they have to wait a week—a month—so be it.”

  “As you wish, Your Majesty. I take it, then, you’ll want to make time for the old man we found this morning? He’s been positively identified as one of Diamagan’s messengers.”

  “What have you done with him?”

  “Well, we used the knouts. His attitude was defiant, and it was necessary to remind him who holds the whip-hand these days.”

  “Go. Find out his status. If he’s alive, send word to me, and I’ll interview him myself.”

  “But . . . now?”

  “Yes. We all agree that the sooner we tie Diamagan by the heels, as well as my enterprising nephew, the sooner we’ll have peace, do we not?”

  Scrape of a chair, and footsteps. Door shutting.

  Benoni said, “I don’t like Flendar being able to whistle up our own people whenever he thinks he’s flushed some spy—either he or his thirty ‘well-trained’ minions. He’s trying to interfere with our own orders.”

  Uncle Darian said, “We all know he’s a lying, sneaking weasel, but I want such moling done for me, not for Diamagan. Just see to it that he doesn’t get an opportunity to exercise his taste for torture. He’s to spend his time finding spies. And we need that done, because surely Diamagan has people moling here. There are probably two or three of them in the kitchen or making beds right now.” I held my breath. “Let Flendar sniff them out. You, Therian, are to continue trying to find my nephew.”

  The fourth man said, “Understood, Your Majesty.”

  The clink of a wineglass.

  Then, without any warning; “And what is the progress in locating my little niece, Lilah?”

  two

  My heart battered my ribs so hard and fast I was sure they could hear it.

  Oh, Bren, Deon, you birdwits! I told you I didn’t want to come near the palace, and here’s why!

  “No trace,” said Therian.

  “Never mind, then. If she isn’t here or in Selenna, then I know precisely where she is. Put someone to watch the Diannah Road. If she appears, I want her brought straight to me. It’s the only way to ensure that my nephew will come out of hiding.”

  The rest of the talk was about the army, Bernal, and the east. Then my uncle wanted to look at a map.

  They left, and I stayed where I was, that horrible phrase, “my little niece, Lilah,” repeating over and over in my head until the door opened again, and someone said softly, “Mirah sent me. Are you here?”

  “Yes,” I said, and someone pressed the catch on the baseboard.

  I crawled out under the interested gaze of a tall, skinny boy of about fourteen.

  “I can’t get in there,” he said. “My uncle had to work fast, so he made it too small. Here, we’d better clean up.”

  We were halfway through collecting the half-eaten meal when a girl in a page’s tunic came to help. The boy gave me a warning glance, and I wondered if this meant that she was a Flendar spy.

  Back in the kitchen, we set down our trays, and he left. Mirah led me back to that little room, then gave me an inquiring look.

  My uncle’s words still echoed, but I was afraid that if I said my name I would give myself away. “Bernal was almost caught twice; the revolutionaries are now cutting communications; Benoni is to put out more patrols, but they can’t kill people. They’ll send them to the king for questioning.”

  “And that horse-dropping, Flendar?”

  “He’s spying on everyone! Even in the kitchen, and his spies outside of the palace all w
ear heron rings.”

  “But not the palace spies.” She let out her breath slowly. “One of his snoops is on the pastry staff, and another is a page.”

  I shivered, despite the stuffiness of the room. “Do they meet there often?”

  Mirah shook her head. “Only when the king wants the military and Flendar together. It’s midway between the garrison and Flendar’s office in the south parlor.”

  The south parlor. The last time I had been there was the night of the revolution, when Peitar and I were thrown into the garrison. I shivered again.

  Mirah gave me a look. “Remember. You only talk to me, or Nina-cook, or her son Lexian—that’s who fetched you. Now eat. It’s past noon, and food comes with the job. We’ll be cooking for dinner before long.”

  I was already exhausted.

  All too soon, it was back to the hot spit. I was anxious to talk to the other Sharadan brothers, but I had a full afternoon of sweaty work ahead first. By late afternoon, when the night staff started to arrive, I felt like I’d been trampled by a herd of horses.

  I snitched one of the fine napkins to wrap up my dinner and some rolls and cheese. Evening bells were ringing as I finally slipped inside the hideout.

  “It’s me,” I whispered.

  “Larei!” Deon popped her head up. They had hung an old cloth to block the glowglobe light. “Did you bring food?”

  “Food and report.” I climbed the ladder to the loft.

  The other three ate and listened, and when I finished, Deon rocked back and forth in delight. “You’re wonderful, Larei!” She rubbed her hands. “We have to do something to this Flendar!”

  “No,” Innon said, in his painstaking manner. “Attacking him won’t get the information we need for Peitar and Derek.”

  Bren snapped his fingers. “You’re right. We have to try to find out who those spies are and warn Derek’s people. Heron signet—did that Flendar have a ring?”

  “I don’t know. All I saw were shoes.” I rubbed my stiff neck.

  “Then that’s tomorrow’s work.”

  • • •

  FOR SEVERAL DAYS the others roamed the city, looking for people with heron rings. Or rather, Innon and Bren did. Deon spent more time with the local kids, learning their songs—and the neighborhood gossip.

  I worked in the kitchen, confident that there’d soon be another conversation of importance—that spying was easy. Mirah never asked where I lived. It was clear she thought I was a messenger. I got to know Nina-cook, who was short, round, and friendly, but I scarcely saw Lexian, who was always busy with page duties.

  A few nights later, Bren returned with chalk-smudged fingers. “Have you been wasting time wall-drawing again?” Deon accused him.

  “Not any more waste than you and your songs.”

  “Some of those songs are revolutionary songs,” she said. “I notice the guards listening.”

  “And chasing anybody singing them,” Innon said.

  “But they get heard! I want to make up a good one that everybody will sing.”

  Bren said, “Well, the drawings get seen, too. I made a good one of Dirty Hands crushing a lot of people with his boot. You should have heard the squawking! And I signed it ‘Sharadan Brothers.’”

  “I don’t just sing, either. Remember, I got our bucket.”

  “True,” Bren said, helping himself to a drink.

  Deon hugged her knees against her chest. “I stole it from a meanie, like the brothers said—a porcelain seller in Five Points. He won’t even let kids near his front window! Says we dirty up his nice glass. So I taught some of them my song about misers, and they went to the shop to sing it, and I ran around back to pinch the bucket.”

  “Good job,” said Bren, and Innon and I agreed.

  She sighed. “But it’s boring, walking around looking for heron rings, which is why I listen wherever there’s music. This bard’s come to town with a new song, and it’s got the prettiest melody!” She hummed a snatch, then scowled. “Too pretty for silliness about a weaver and her suitors. I think I should turn it into something interesting.”

  “I’ve been following the patrols and learning their schedule,” Innon said, and grinned. “The brothers always made sure to know where the patrols were.”

  “So? Even I wouldn’t throw things at a patrol.”

  “If we know where they are, we can avoid them,” Bren said. Deon didn’t know Innon yet, but we did. That grin meant he had news. “Talk.”

  “Well, here’s what I discovered. The loyalists mostly live where nobles support them. Like Boatmakers Row, over near the fish market and dock. Who buys lake boats but nobles? And Upper Weaver Street—where most of the good flax and the silk goes. Nobles order cambric and silk and embroidered clothes. Most of our people live here, on the east side, so that’s where the guards patrol. And the patrols’ favorite tavern is here, too. It’s called the Red Raven. They stop there between rounds.”

  “Red? Raven?” I asked, trying to picture one.

  Innon laughed. “The owner’s name is Raven, and he has red hair—like yours. Anyway, he used to be in the guard, so they like going there. And he makes these crispy potato things. I sneaked one off someone’s plate . . .” Innon shut his eyes in remembered delight. “We have to get some money. Anyway, when I was there today, I saw three people all wearing the same sort of ring—square, with a bird’s head embossed. I figured it had to be the heron signet.”

  “Were they talking to the patrols?”

  “No. Ignoring them. Except for one woman, who flirted.” He grimaced. “She told them how safe she felt now, and then asked if they’d arrested any plotters lately, and when that disgusting Diamagan would be hunted down.”

  “Huh. Spying on the city guard?” Deon curled her lip. “What a fool.”

  “Not if she’s trying to catch people who are secretly on our side,” I said.

  “That’s not all,” continued Innon. “Those other two with rings? Well, they talked, and did they sneak peeks to make sure no one overheard!”

  “Did you hear anything?”

  “No. But I watched.”

  “No one noticed you?” Bren asked. “Sounds like you were there a long time.”

  “All afternoon. It was crowded. An old man was snoring away in the corner, so I sat at a table with some empty glasses and pretended to be asleep, too.”

  Bren rocked back and forth, drawing little shapes on the wooden floor. I knew he was thinking hard. “We need money, don’t we? I want more chalk without having to steal it.”

  “I need paper.” I held up my book. “I’m running out of pages. I might run out of ink.”

  “I want good food.” Innon gave a deep sigh. “Are you getting paid, Larei?”

  “I didn’t ask,” I said. “And Mirah didn’t offer.”

  “Because then you can come and go,” Bren said. “I learned about it when I was a page. Mirah doesn’t have to report you to the palace steward if you don’t collect wages, and so he isn’t going to be paying attention when you come and go. And you’re still considered a scullion, even if you’re not actually washing, so you get scraps.”

  “That’s why it’s so easy to get food,” I said.

  Bren went on. “We have to get our reputation known, and we need to do something about Dirty Hands’ spies. And we need a name for them! Something no one will pay attention to, if we’re overheard. So, not ‘loyalist,’ or even ‘enemy,’ and definitely not ‘villain’. . .”

  “Buckets. I thought that when I stole ours,” Deon said. “It’s such a stupid word! We’ll call them Buckets.” The boys snickered.

  “I won’t even have to write it,” I said. “All I need to do is draw a little pail.”

  Bren said, “Let’s burgle the Red Raven. First strike against the Buckets.”

&
nbsp; three

  After we changed into our dark clothes and checked our tools, we curled up to get some sleep. I didn’t think I could shut my eyes, but suddenly Innon was shaking me, the midnight bells tolling in the distance. We gathered around the glowglobe.

  “Just as we practiced,” I said. “I check ahead to make sure no one is watching.”

  “I look inside the windows while Larei’s watching the street,” Deon added.

  “I stand guard over Bren while he cuts glass, and take the piece as he hands it out,” Innon said.

  “And I do the glass.” Bren waved the gloves that Tsauderei had given him. “Let’s go!”

  “The Sharadan brothers’ first caper,” Deon whispered. “It’ll make a great song.”

  “Not if we don’t carry it off,” Bren muttered.

  The streets were deserted, and in the dark all the houses looked alike. Innon knew when to listen for patrols, so he took the lead. My night vision helped, too. The Esalans had said, In darkness, watch for movement in shadows, and listen for sounds out of place. All I saw were cats on the prowl.

  We neared the Red Raven, and I could tell from the others’ quick breathing that they were as excited as I was. Innon and I checked the side streets, avoiding the circle of torchlight from the lamp pole. Then Bren chose his window while Deon and I kept watch. He cut out a pane, quick and silent. Innon set the pane aside and laid the cloth napkin from the palace carefully over the edge of the glass. One by one we slipped in.

  Now my heart pounded as loudly as it had in the dining room cubby.

  Our only light was from the street and a dim glow at the top of the stairwell. I moved cautiously, not wanting to bump into a table or bench. The room was close in the night heat, smelling of ale, cider, and cooked food.

  Bren put a piece of paper on the counter as Deon watched the windows. I kept an eye on the stairway, then moved where I could watch the windows and the stairs while the other three searched the entire room by feel, the way we had practiced. Bren was done first. Then Deon. There was a soft clink, and we all stilled. But no one upstairs had heard Innon. He raised his fist, the signal that he was done.