The Spy Princess

by Sherwood Smith

  This time the laughter was so loud that the herald had to bang his staff on the floor. The sharp sound echoed up the stone walls, and the voices died away.

  Peitar addressed the crowd. “It grieves me,” he said in a tone of rebuke, “that my words are perceived as insult. Why can’t we value those whose hearts and minds are gifted with insight, whose wisdom might otherwise benefit everyone, just because they’ve been born to the wrong family? How many potential leaders have been forced to become shoemakers or wagoneers because their families owned no land? There are many, I can tell you, because I’ve talked to them.” Now he turned to our uncle. “Some agreed with me, others did not. The debate of ideas can lead to better ideas. When it doesn’t—well, one thing I’ve begun to learn is what many of your servants have been forced to learn, which is compromise.”

  His choice of word—servants, not subjects—sharpened my attention.

  “You think,” Darian said, his voice hard, “that there is no compromise in ruling?”

  Peitar said swiftly, “I know I lack experience. But I’ve spent my whole life observing, and I say that your compromises are only with yourself, not with the people you govern. You ceased to respect the needs of your subjects years ago—the day that you forbade your truest and most loyal servant to interfere, because she had dared to voice a protest.” He had to be talking about Lizana!

  “Your chief priority has been to build a powerful military defense against Norsunder, but the price has been paid by the people, not the crown. I believe the threat is real, but I also believe that when the infamous Norsundrian commander Detlev does turn his eyes this way, he will not have to come with armies and death-dealing magic, because he’ll find his own lack of ideals and an angry populace ready for recruitment. We have managed to make ourselves part of Norsunder all on our own.”

  Which was just what Mother had said in her diary.

  Uncle Darian tightened his hands on the arms of the throne. “All this commentary circles the real question: would you take my place, had you the chance?”

  Peitar seemed to look past our uncle, past the throne room’s walls, and I knew he was making up his mind. Then the moment passed, and I could see in his stillness that the inner debate was over.

  “Yes,” he said.

  The king addressed Derek. “And you, Diamagan. Were you to have the chance to take my throne, would you?”

  “Only if Peitar were dead.” Derek came forward to stand beside my brother. “Because I swear that there is none better suited in this entire kingdom than he.”

  “Then there is nothing more to be said, is there?”

  At a gesture from my uncle, the herald again brought down his staff and announced, “The jury will withdraw to determine judgment.”

  In the prisoners’ alcove, the guards moved toward Peitar and Derek, but Uncle Darian stopped them. “A moment,” he said.

  The guards halted, and so did the judges. The king waved them on, and when the last had passed, he looked up and asked conversationally, as if everyone stood around in a garden and there was no trial or guards or threats of executions, “Have you been masking some of your efforts under the alias Sharadan brothers?”

  Peitar’s reply was just as casual. He smiled. “No. I wish I knew who they were.”

  “As do I.” Uncle Darian nodded at the guards, and they took Peitar and Derek out. And then my uncle, too, was gone.

  Timeos gave me a strained look. “Can you nip out and get something cold?”

  Down in the courtyard, I took a long drink of water. Then I loaded my tray and started back, my head throbbing counterpoint to my steps. Where were the boys and Deveral? If ever Peitar needed help, it was now.

  The guards were quick to relieve me of my burden. One said, annoyed, “No one is going to get a wink until those two are dead. We’ll be on day-and-night watches.”

  The oldest refreshed himself before he replied. “Guard duty is better than marching in the heat, looking for Diamagan’s rabble.”

  “That’ll be next,” the last said dourly. “You wait.” He glowered down at the waiting crowd. Some had gathered in small groups, and others munched away, having come prepared with provisions. The light shafts were now weak ochre lances against the walls opposite the dais. It was almost sunset.

  I wanted to be here, I thought, clenching my fist. Peitar had tried to talk me out of it. Tsauderei, too. Only Atan hadn’t, because she recognized a kindred spirit, although her task—the freeing of Sartor from Norsunder—was worlds beyond mine.

  And I was unable to protect my one brother from our own uncle.

  Then the herald came out, and the guards brought Derek and Peitar back in. Every warrior in the throne room stood with sword at the ready.

  There was a tense, expectant silence as the jury returned. They remained standing until my uncle emerged. After they were all seated, the herald announced, “The judiciaries have finished polling the jury. They will now pass judgment.”

  The three masked judiciaries all raised their hands and touched the black sides of their masks.

  The herald struck his staff—this time it seemed to crack inside my skull. “Lord Peitar Selenna and Derek Diamagan. The judgment is that you have committed treason, for which the sentence is death. The sentence is to be carried out at dawn.”

  ten

  Deon cried with noisy, angry abandon. “Stupid, cursed Innon! Stupid, rotten Bren! Why can’t they be here! I’ll kick them all around the city!” She buried her face in her arms.

  After the other guards had left the alcove, Timeos had seen my face. His expression echoed my own. “Go,” he said, and I ran.

  Now I was crouched over my fashion book, staring down at the most recent entry, the day before Derek and Peitar were taken. My description of our “secret” messages was no longer funny, and I hated the sight of the last note from the Sharadan brothers.

  I wanted to destroy it all, but that wouldn’t change the triumph we’d felt in fooling the Buckets any more than it would change the helpless anger and sorrow we felt now. And Peitar had called it a valuable record. What’s valuable are the words he spoke, I thought. Those should be in the record.

  The ink blotched and my letters scrawled and skittered over the paper. I wrote as quickly as I could, ignoring code words and secret symbols. I had to get it all down—the heat, the sound of the crowd—the way the speakers accused Peitar and Derek. How Timeos’s knee had pressed into my back when my name was mentioned. Most of all, Peitar’s words, and his determination—so like our uncle’s. I set down every detail because I knew the story behind Peitar’s and Derek’s unjust deaths would vanish from the version of history my uncle’s scribes would write.

  When I finished, my hand aching, it was full dark. I looked up, and the glowglobe picked out the gleam of tears in Deon’s eyes. “We have to be there,” she said.

  I took the book along with my tools and my bag of Lure. Having Peitar’s words close to me was a small comfort.

  We hurried to Athaeus House, hiding when we had to. Deon tried to distract me by asking about the trial. I got to Uncle Darian’s mention of the Sharadan brothers, and she gave a watery laugh. “We’re the brothers,” she said with resolve. “We have to think of something.”

  I used my lock pick to open the basement door, and we hurried through the tunnel to the dark, empty palace kitchen and crept through the hall to the servants’ wing. A sliver of light no wider than a nail trimming glowed at the base of Nina’s door. I tapped softly.

  “Who wakens me?”

  “Larei,” I whispered. The door opened. They were all there. “This is my friend Daen. We couldn’t sleep.”

  We’d just found a place to sit when there was another tap at the door. The newcomer was a familiar guard in full uniform—Pirlivah, Timeos’s sister.

  “Though you’d want a report,” s
he said abruptly. “Bernal Diamagan’s just sent a threat to the king—if he goes through with the execution, Bernal will torch the city and leave nothing standing.”

  “Now the king will have to let Derek and Peitar go,” Deon whispered.

  “Not Uncle Darian,” I said bitterly. “Threats would just make him madder than he is already.”

  “Lady Lilah is right.” Pirlivah sighed. “The city guard is to oversee the execution and hold the city. Bernal’s people plan to attack on the east side—they hope the poor will join them. After the execution, the king is going to ride there, meet up with the assembling army, and personally take command. The orders are to put all Bernal’s people to the sword.” She looked miserable. “The only one who’s been able to get near the prisoners is Captain Leonos. And Flendar has been bragging about how Therian knew where Derek and Lord Peitar were a week before their capture. The king wanted the army here before they grabbed them.”

  “Then we have lost.” Halbrek was bleak. “We’ve lost.”

  “But people are out there, beyond the city gates, keeping watch,” Lexian said. “Hundreds and hundreds of them.”

  Pirlivah said, “More. We’re on double duty, no one to get any rest.”

  After she left, the adults began a whispered conversation about what the military might do, what they should have done, what had gone wrong. Nobody was able to sleep. My head hurt so much I put my head down. . . .

  • • •

  AND JERKED AWAKE, my mouth dry. The room was dark. I started up, but Deon whispered, “Wait. They just left. They think it’s better for you not to know it’s almost sunup. I pretended to be asleep.” Her voice wavered. “Should we go, too?”

  “We—we have to.”

  I heard her inhale. “Derek’s got to have one friend there.”

  “Here.” I stripped off the purple-edged tunic and gave it to her.

  As we raced through the empty servants’ halls toward the garrison, we heard the faint sound of voices rising and falling in unison—singing. We got to the outside door, which was propped open, and a blue-white glare stopped us short. Deon ran into me.

  “L-lightning,” she squeaked. “Close.”

  “Real close.” The lack of rain made it the more frightening.

  As the thunder rumbled away into the distance, the singing became more distinct.

  Deon’s eyes widened. “That’s my song.”

  I listened in amazement. Somewhere out there, unseen, hundreds of voices sang the freedom verses—no, it sounded like thousands.

  Then she tugged at me impatiently. This was the garrison proper, and forbidden territory; we needed an excuse to be there, however flimsy. There it was, on a hall table: a loaded tray. I picked up a half-filled pitcher and handed the tray to Deon.

  We reached the big military courtyard at last, just as lightning flared directly overhead, a startling twist of living blue-white light that revealed rows of silent, armed city guards in efficient lines, some glancing skyward, their faces apprehensive.

  When the thunder passed, the singing rose.

  “. . . and all the nobles lied.

  Slam justice for the people

  When true justice is denied!”

  “No! They left off the verse about us!” cried Deon.

  “They made new verses,” I said.

  “It’s not about us!”

  “But it’s the people making verses—they’ve taken our song as theirs!”

  Deon paused, cocking her head, and then grinned.

  The sound echoed between the stone buildings, and the rolling thunder never quite died away, so we only caught phrases and the occasional word—and then a hand gripped my arm.

  I started so violently my pitcher shot into the air, but its crash was lost in a tremendous clap of thunder.

  Deon and I stared into Bren’s lightning-bleached face. “Come on! I thought you might be here.”

  The storm broke at last. Rain streamed down as we stumbled into the courtyard behind him and slipped behind a row of tall figures that smelled of wet wool.

  In the next flash of light I saw that the enormous yard was full of city guards, and Uncle Darian stood alone on the balcony.

  Peitar and Derek were against the far wall, facing a line of guards with bows drawn.

  Someone yelled commands. When the sky lit up again, I was stunned. The execution squad was aiming its arrows at the rest of the guards!

  The commander shouted, “Now!”

  And the lightning revealed his face—Deveral from Diannah Forest, in guard uniform!

  “We did it!” Bren yelled, jumping up and down. “We did it!”

  No one could see the struggle as the foresters attacked the guards, for even torches refused to burn in the downpour, but we could hear clangs and scrapes and grunts.

  “Come on!” he screamed. “We’ve got to follow—”

  More lightning flared as a squad of guards burst through the doors and crashed into us kids. I was thrown into the stone wall, landing heavily on my knees as a sword fight began two paces away.

  Derek and Peitar were gone. Uncle Darian remained on the balcony, streaming wet, his expression the same one I’d seen at the trial.

  eleven

  Somewhere nearby a man roared, “Huzzah the Sharadan brothers!”

  A hoarse cheer went up, and the sounds of fighting increased.

  “There you are!” Bren pulled me to my feet.

  The three of us ran back inside, dodging people walking back and forth or standing in knots talking. We didn’t stop until we reached the crockery room, and the tunnel.

  There we sank down wearily onto the dirt floor, Bren unshouldering his pack. For a short time we just looked at each other, Deon shivering. “They’re safe,” she said finally. “Aren’t they?”

  “Yes. Hope so.” Bren’s lips were purple in the dim light of the glowglobes. “We were supposed to follow. But I guess we can catch up. Innon will know where they’re going.”

  “Where is Innon?” I asked, rubbing my throbbing knees.

  “He promised to take our horses straight back to Fionah, first thing. I was to find you two.”

  Everything had taken place so quickly that it felt as if I had imagined it. My head was still spinning. But Deon’s wasn’t. “What happened?” she asked.

  “When we got to the forest, Tsauderei was already at Deveral’s camp—they all knew about the trial.”

  “Already knew!” Deon exclaimed. “I hate that, after all our work. . . .”

  “No, listen!” Bren shook his head, spattering us. “Deveral said they’d try to free them if Tsauderei could magic up a diversion. And Tsauderei said, ‘You shall have one. There is bad weather coming. When you need it, the storm will break.’ So we rode back.”

  “And so? How did you get into the palace without being caught?”

  “Here’s the big surprise—Captain Leonos met us outside the gates. He told Deveral that he’d heard from Lizana.” I thought about all of those letters she wrote in Delfina. “The important thing is, he got us in, and found those uniforms for Deveral’s people himself.”

  “He’s on Derek’s side now!” Deon clasped her hands. “Did you hear our song? Did you?”

  “Captain Leonos is really on our side?” I asked.

  Bren looked up at me through his dripping hair. “He seems to have changed his mind after talking to Peitar in prison. A lot of the city guards agree—they’re the ones you saw with Deveral’s people, fighting the loyalist guards. Let’s go back to the hideout. I want to get rid of this.” Bren indicated his pack. “And change.”

  The moment we slipped out of the tunnel into the overgrown garden, we heard the clash and clang of weapons from the street. After a long while it ended, and we crept out.

  Da
ylight had strengthened as the storm moved eastward. The streets were filled with refugees. People had flung belongings onto carts, carriages, wagons—even a wheelbarrow or two. Rich and poor, it looked like they were all trying to get away.

  The only time they stopped was when groups of armed guards rode by. But the guards ignored the refugees. They seemed to be searching for something—someone—else.

  “Are they looking for us?” Deon wondered. “I heard yelling about the Sharadan brothers when the rescue was going on.”

  Bren began to scoff, then pulled up short. We were two streets away from the hideout. “Wait. Captain Leonos asked Deveral if he was part of the Sharadan brothers. Deveral had a really clever answer—it could’ve been yes or no. If I hadn’t known, even I wouldn’t be sure.”

  “But if that spread around—” I began.

  Deon clapped. “That’s why everyone yelled, ‘Huzzah!’ They all think we did the rescue!”

  “Which means,” Bren said grimly, “that they are searching for us.”

  We looked around uneasily. Several refugee carts passed. We slipped around the back of a building and approached our alley—and there were the guards, busy with a search.

  “Yes,” I whispered to Bren, hating to admit it. “And our packs are there.”

  “And the glowglobe? And our money?”

  I groaned. “With a note, waiting for our next delivery . . .”

  Deon was belly-crawling through the mud to the edge of the alley, where she peered around an old fence. “No sign of Innon,” she told us when she returned. “But they’ve got our knapsacks.”

  Bren made a face, and I knew what he was thinking. The Esalan brothers had said to always have more than one hideout, but it had been so much work to find and set up the one we had that we’d never gotten around to another.

  “Innon might have waited out the rain at the stable,” he said. “Or maybe he caught up with Derek and them. I’ll go find out.”

  “He’s with Derek?” Deon said. “Why didn’t you say so? I’m coming with you!”