"Sparks," said Saf flatly. "Why do you think?"
Bitterblue was quiet for a moment, understanding him. "You think the queen is behind it."
A city clock began its midnight chime. "I'm not ready to say that," said Saf, shrugging. "None of us are. But we've gotten in the habit of warning people not to draw attention to any knowledge they might have of what Leck did, Sparks. Towns applying to the queen for independence, for example. They state their case against their lords plainly and refer to Leck as little as possible. They make no mention of the daughters that their lords mysteriously stole, or the people who disappeared. Whoever our villain is, it's someone with a very long arm. If I were you, Sparks, I would tread carefully in that castle of yours."
17
LECK IS DEAD.
But if Leck is dead, why isn't it over?
Treading carefully through her corridors that night, up her staircases, Bitterblue tried to wrap her head around these murder attempts that baffled her. She could understand an instinct to move on, move ahead, leave the pain of Leck's time behind. But react by becoming like Leck himself? Kill? It was insane.
Her guards let her into her rooms. Hearing voices inside, she froze, panicking. Her brain caught up with her instincts: The voices, which came from her bedroom, belonged to Helda and Katsa. "Weaselbugger," she whispered under her breath. Then a male voice cleared its throat in her sitting room and she had a small heart attack before realizing it was Po.
Marching in to him, she said in a low voice, "You told them."
He sat in an armchair, making folds in a piece of paper against his thigh. "I didn't."
"Then what are they doing in my bedroom?"
"I believe they're having an argument," said Po. "I'm waiting for them to finish so that I can resume the argument I'm having with Katsa."
There was something funny about Po's face, about the way he was steadfastly not turning it to her. "Look at me," she said.
"Can't," he said glibly. "I'm blind."
"Po," she said. "If you could even begin to imagine the night I've had—"
Po turned. The skin under his silver eye was spectacularly bruised and his nose was swollen.
"Po!" she cried. "What happened? Katsa didn't hit you in the face!"
Making a final fold in the paper he was working with, Po raised it over his shoulder and hurled it across the room. Long, slender, and winged, it glided on air, swerved dramatically leftward, and crashed into a bookcase. "Hm," Po said with maddening calmness. "Fascinating."
"Po," said Bitterblue through clenched teeth. "You are being provoking."
"I have some answers to your questions," he said, getting up to recover his glider.
"What? You've asked them already?"
"No, I haven't asked any of them," he said, "but I've gathered some data." He smoothed the crumpled nose of the glider and flung the thing again, this time straight at the wall from a short distance. It crashed and fell. "Just as I thought," he said musingly.
Bitterblue collapsed on the sofa. "Po," she said, "take pity on me."
He came to sit beside her. "Thiel has a cut on his leg," he said.
"Oh!" said Bitterblue. "Poor Thiel. A bad cut? Do you know how it happened?"
"He's got a big broken mirror in his room," said Po, "but beyond that, I really couldn't say. Did you know he plays the harp?"
"Why does he keep that broken mirror around?" exclaimed Bitterblue. "Is the wound stitched?"
"Yes, and it's healing cleanly."
"It's a bit creepy what you can do," she said, leaning back, closing her eyes. "You know that, Po?"
"I had time tonight to poke around," he said blandly, "while I was lying in bed with ice on my face. Next, you won't believe what Holt did earlier tonight."
"Oh," said Bitterblue, moaning. "Did he dive under a team of galloping horses, just to see what would happen?"
"Have you ever been to your art gallery?"
The art gallery? Bitterblue wasn't even entirely certain where it was. "Is it on the top floor, overlooking the great courtyard from the north?"
"Yes. Several floors directly above the library. It's quite neglected, did you know? Dust everywhere, except where pieces of art have been recently removed—which is why I was able to count the exact number of sculptures that have been stolen from the sculpture room. Five, in case you were wondering."
Bitterblue's eyes popped open. "Someone's stealing my sculptures," she said as a statement, not a question. "And returning them to the artist? Who's the artist?"
"Ah," said Po, pleased. "You seem already to be familiar with the overriding concept here. Excellent. I had to go have a chat with someone—Giddon—to understand it myself. Here's the situation: Holt had a sister named Bellamew who was a sculptor."
Bellamew. Bitterblue had an image of a woman in the castle: tall, broad-shouldered, with kind eyes. That woman had been a sculptor?
"Bellamew sculpted transformations for Leck," Po continued. "A woman turning into a tree. A man turning into a mountain, and so on."
"Ah," said Bitterblue, understanding now that not only did she have some familiarity with Bellamew's work, but Bellamew had had familiarity with her once. "Did Giddon tell you all this? Why does Giddon always know more about my castle than I do?"
Po shrugged. "He knows Holt. Really, you should be asking Giddon what's wrong with Holt, not me. Though I didn't tell Giddon what I witnessed."
"Well? What did you witness?"
Po smiled. "Are you ready for this? I witnessed Holt entering the castle from the city with a sack on his shoulder. He carried it up to the art gallery, removed a sculpture from the sack, and placed the sculpture in the sculpture room, right on the non-dusty spot it was missing from. That girl who disguised Danzhol's boat and turned into canvas, you remember her?"
"Oh, balls!" said Bitterblue. "I'd forgotten all about her. We need to find her and arrest her."
"I feel more and more that we don't," said Po. "She was with Holt tonight, because, guess what? She's Bellamew's daughter and Holt's niece. Her name is Hava."
"Wait," Bitterblue said. "What? I'm confused. Someone stole my sculptures to give back to Bellamew, but Holt and Bellamew's daughter are bringing them back to me?"
"Bellamew is dead," said Po. "Holt stole your sculptures. Holt brought them to Hava, Bellamew's daughter, but Hava told Holt, no, the sculptures had to go back to the queen. So Holt brought them back, with Hava supervising."
"What! Why?"
"Holt puzzles me," said Po, musing. "He may or may not be mad. He's certainly confused."
"I don't understand!" said Bitterblue. "Holt stole from me, then changed his mind?"
"I think he's trying to do the right thing," said Po, "but is confused about what the right thing is. I understand that Leck used Bellamew, then killed her. Holt feels that Hava is the rightful owner of the sculptures."
"Is Giddon the one who told you about Hava?" asked Bitterblue. "Shouldn't something be done about Hava if she's floating around the castle? She tried to kidnap me!"
"Giddon doesn't know about Hava."
"Then how did you figure all this out?" cried Bitterblue.
"I just—did," said Po, looking sheepish.
"What do you mean, you just did? How can I be sure it's all true on the basis of 'you just did'?"
"I'm quite certain it's all true, Beetle. I'll explain why another time."
Bitterblue studied his battered face as he smoothed the glider against his leg. It was clear to her that he was upset about something he wasn't saying. "What are Helda and Katsa arguing about?" she asked quietly.
"Babies," he responded, flashing her a tiny grin. "As usual."
"And what are you and Katsa arguing about?"
His grin faded. "Giddon."
"Why? Is it about Katsa not liking him? I would love someone to explain that to me."
"Bitterblue, don't pry into the man's business."
"Oh, such commendable advice, coming from a mind reader. You can pry into
his business whenever you like."
Po raised his eyes to her face. "As he well knows," he said.
"You told Giddon," she said, understanding everything now; understanding when he hung his head. "Giddon hit you," she continued. "And Katsa is angry with you for telling Giddon."
"Katsa is frightened," said Po quietly. "Katsa is too aware of the
strain I'm under. It frightens her, knowing how many people I'd like to tell."
"How many people would you like to tell?"
This time, when he raised his eyes to her face, Bitterblue was also frightened. "Po," she whispered. "Please start small. If you're going to do this, tell Skye. Tell Helda. Maybe tell your father. Then wait, and get advice, and think. Please?"
"All I'm doing is thinking," he said. "I can't stop thinking. I'm so tired, Beetle."
His problems were so peculiar. Bitterblue's heart reached out to this cousin who slumped on the sofa looking weary, disgruntled, and sore. "Po," she said, going to him. She smoothed his hair and kissed the top of his head. "What can I do?"
Sighing, he said, "You could go comfort Giddon."
A VOICE ANSWERED her knock. When she entered Giddon's rooms, Giddon was sitting against the wall on the floor, in rapt contemplation of his left hand.
"You're left-handed," Bitterblue said. "I suppose I should have noticed that before."
He flexed the hand and spoke grimly, not looking up. "I spar sometimes with my right, just for practice."
"Have you hurt yourself?"
"No."
"Is left-handedness an advantage in fights?"
He shot Bitterblue a sardonic glance. "Against Po?"
"Against normal people."
A disinterested shrug. "Sometimes. Most fighters are better trained to defend against a right-handed assault."
Even Giddon's grumpy voice was nice in timbre. "Shall I stay?" Bitterblue asked lightly. "Or shall I go?"
He dropped his hand then and looked up at her, looked straight at her. His face softened. "Stay, Lady Queen." Then, seeming to remember his manners, he made a move to stand up.
"Oh, please," Bitterblue said. "It's a stupid custom," and she lowered herself to the floor beside him, putting her back to the wall for symmetry's sake, commencing an inspection of her own hands.
"Less than two hours ago," she said, "I sat beside a friend, just like this, on the roof of a shop in the city."
"What? Really?"
"We'd been chased there by people who wanted to kill him."
"Lady Queen," Giddon said, almost choking, "are you serious?"
"Don't tell anyone," Bitterblue said, "and don't interfere."
"You mean that Katsa and Po—"
"Don't think of him and think of it at the same time," Bitterblue said calmly. "Don't ever bring him up in any conversation or contemplation you don't wish him to be a part of."
Giddon made a noise of disbelief; then went quiet, working that over for a while. "Let's discuss what you've just told me another time, Lady Queen," he said, "for my thoughts are rather singlemindedly on Po right now."
"The only point I wanted to make," Bitterblue said, "is that I have an irrational terror of heights."
"Heights," Giddon said, sounding lost.
"On occasion," she said, "it is profoundly humiliating."
Giddon went quiet again. When he next spoke, he was not lost. "I've shown you my worst behavior, Lady Queen, and you respond with kindness."
"If that's really the worst you've got," Bitterblue said, "then Po has an excellent friend, indeed."
Giddon stared into his hands again, which were broad and big as plates. Bitterblue resisted the urge to hold hers up to his and marvel at the difference in size.
"I've been trying to decide which is the most humiliating," he said. "That I was only able to hit him because he let me—he stood there like a punching bag, Lady Queen—"
"Mm? And you know, you won't get the credit for it," said Bitterblue. "Everyone will think Katsa made a mistake in one of their practice fights. No one will believe you managed it."
"Don't feel the need to spare my feelings, Lady Queen," he said dryly.
"Go on," Bitterblue said, grinning. "You were enumerating the points of your humiliation."
"Yes, you're very thoughtful. Second, it's not pleasant to be the last person to know."
"Ah," Bitterblue said. "I'll just point out that you're far from the last person to know."
"But you understand me, Lady Queen. I spend more time with Po than any of the rest of you. Even Katsa. Though really, there's no contest."
"What do you mean?"
"The truest humiliation," he said, then stopped, suddenly stiffjawed and miserable, drawing his arms and shoulders close to his body, as if it were a thing he could protect himself from physically, like a blow, or like cold weather. Which, of course, it wasn't.
Bitterblue stretched her legs out straight and made a quiet show of smoothing her trousers, to spare him the embarrassment of being watched. She said simply, "I know."
He nodded, once. "I've opened so much of myself to him. Especially in the early years, when I had no suspicions and never thought to take care with my thoughts—and also happened to hate him. He knew every point of resentment I bore against him; every jealous thought, he knew. And now I'm remembering all of it, every single piece of malice, and the humiliation is double, because as I relive it, he does too."
Yes. This was the worst, the most unfair and humiliating thing about any mind reader, especially a secret mind reader. It was the reason Katsa was so frightened: a great wellspring of wrath and humiliation, all focused on Po, especially if Po began telling his truth indiscriminately.
"Katsa has told me that she was also humiliated when Po first told her," Bitterblue said, "and furious. She threatened to tell everyone. She never wanted to see him again."
"Yes," Giddon said. "And then she ran away with him."
He spoke those words mildly, which interested her. Bitterblue considered his tone for an instant, then decided to seize it as justification for asking an utterly inappropriate question about something she'd been wondering. "Are you in love with her?"
He shot her an incredulous brown glare. "Is that any of your business?"
"No," she said. "Are you in love with him?"
Giddon rubbed his eyebrows in wonderment. "Lady Queen, where is this coming from?"
"Well, it fits, doesn't it? It explains the tension with Katsa."
"I hope you haven't been stirring up this sort of talk with the others. If you have nosy questions about me, ask me."
"I am," Bitterblue said.
"Yes," Giddon said, chewing on the word with admirable good humor, "you are."
"I haven't," she said.
"Lady Queen?"
"Asked anyone this question but you," she said. "And no one has said anything definitive about it to me. And I can keep a secret."
"Ah," he said. "Well, it's not much of a secret, really, and I suppose I don't mind telling you."
"Thank you."
"Oh, my pleasure. It's your delicacy, you know. It makes a fellow want to bare his soul."
Bitterblue grinned.
"I was—rather obsessed—with Katsa once," he said, "for a long time. I said some wrong-headed things I'm ashamed of and Katsa won't forgive me. In the meantime, I've recovered from my obsession."
"Is that true?"
"Lady Queen," he said patiently, "among my less attractive qualities is a certain pride that serves me well when I discover that a woman I love never would, and never could, give me the things I want."
"The things you want?" Bitterblue repeated acidly. "Is that what it's about: the things you want? What are these things?"
"Someone who can bear the grievousness of my company, to start with. I'm afraid I insist upon it."
Bitterblue burst into laughter. He watched her, smiling, then sighed. "Some bad feelings linger," he said quietly, "even when the thing that brought them into being has died. I've wanted
to hit Po practically since the first time I laid eyes on him. I'm glad it's finally done. Now I can see what an empty wish it was."
"Oh, Giddon," Bitterblue said, then went quiet, because the things she wanted to say were things she couldn't articulate. Bitterblue loved Katsa and Po with a love as big as the earth. But she knew what it was like to be lost on the edges of their love for each other.
"I need your help," she said, thinking that distraction might be a comfort to him.
He looked at her in surprise. "What is it, Lady Queen?"
"Someone is trying to kill people who wish to bring Leck's crimes to light," she said. "If, in your wanderings, you hear anything about it, will you let me know?"
"Of course," he said. "Goodness. Do you think it's someone like Danzhol? Other nobles who stole for Leck and don't want the truths of their past to come out?"
"I have no idea," she said. "But at least that would make some sort of logical sense; yes, I'll have to look into that. Though I hardly know where to start," she added tiredly. "I've got hundreds of nobles I've never even heard of. Giddon, what do you think of my guard Holt?"
"Holt is a Council ally, Lady Queen," Giddon said. "He stood guard during the meeting that took place in the library."
"Did he?" Bitterblue said. "He's also been stealing my sculptures."
Giddon stared at her in the sheerest amazement.
"Then bringing them back," said Bitterblue. "Will you pay him close attention in your dealings, Giddon? I'm worried about his health."
"You want me to pay close attention to Holt, who is stealing your sculptures, because you're concerned for his health," Giddon repeated incredulously.
"Yes. His mental health. Please don't tell him I mentioned the sculptures. You do trust him, though, Giddon?"
"Holt, who is stealing your sculptures and is of questionable mental health?"
"Yes."
"I trusted him five minutes ago. Now I'm at a bit of a loss."
"Your opinion five minutes ago is good enough for me," Bitterblue said. "You have good instincts."
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