by Gary Meehan
Megan and Afreyda shared the kids’ porridge then it was time to leave. They made an awkward goodbye. Megan, unsure how to thank the family, curtsied; the householder, in turn, gave her a paternal ruffle of the hair. It was good to be reminded people could be kind. Especially if you paid them.
With the fleet at sea and memories of the curfew still lingering, the streets around the docks were quiet. Afreyda tucked her hands in her sleeves and pulled her hood down low. “Can you tell it is me?” she asked.
“No one carries off mangy fur quite like you.”
“Can you see my skin?”
“No, you’re fine.”
Afreyda turned to go. No, Megan couldn’t let her go like this. She remembered what Eleanor had said to her once. When you thought there was a chance you might never see someone again, you had to tell them how you felt, you had to be with them. For however short a time.
“Wait!”
Afreyda spun back round. “What?”
“I . . .” Megan’s courage evaporated as soon as it was called upon. She had fought witches and confronted priests and swum rivers and marched from one end of Werlavia to the other, but nothing was so scary as her own feelings and the dread of rejection. “Give Cate a kiss from me.”
“She will not know it is from you.”
“I will,” said Megan.
Afreyda gave Megan a solemn nod before rearranging her hood and hurrying down the street. Megan took a few deep breaths to steady her beating heart and, raising her own hood, headed the other way, into the heart of the city. The people milling around were wary—the soldiers gripping their weapons tight, the civilians keeping their heads down as they scurried to their destinations. There was a yell. Megan looked down an alley to see a soldier being dragged away. The unmistakable crunch of breaking bones followed soon after.
Megan entered the great hall. There was an odor of sour beer and body odor the holes in the ceiling couldn’t quite clear. It had been used as sleeping quarters the night before, and sergeants and corporals were still kicking awake a few stragglers hoping for a lie-in. Megan picked her way through to the high table. A soldier was slumped across it. She pulled his chair—the Lord Defender’s chair—out from under him. The drop to the floor jolted him awake.
“Hey! What the . . . ?”
Megan sat down and lowered her hood. She tried to imagine how Eleanor would do this—apart from being more beautiful and poised and with far better hair. “What’s your name?” she said, haughty as possible.
“Er . . .”
“You can’t remember?”
“Hang on,” said the soldier, bleary-eyed. “It’ll come to me.” He frowned and massaged his forehead. “Andswarian.”
“Well, Andswarian, I want to speak to Father Broose.”
The soldier rubbed the sleep from his eyes. “Hey, aren’t you . . . ?”
“Megan of the house of Endalay, Countess of Ainsworth, Baroness of Laxton and Herth, First Lady of Kirkland, Overlord of the Spice Isles and Defender of the Southern Lands.” Andswarian gawped. “Just tell him ‘Megan.’ He’ll infer the rest.”
The other soldiers began to realize something was going on. They drifted toward her.
Megan leaned back and rested her feet on the table. “What does a girl have to do to get arrested around here?”
Father Broose strode into the great hall, indignation incarnate. “You dare come here?”
“You dare offer my daughter to the witches?” said Megan. “Do you know what I usually do to people who try that?”
Father Broose took a step back, a little put out. “Why is she sitting?” he snapped at Andswarian.
“Er, well, she wasn’t doing any harm, father.”
The men hadn’t known what to do with Megan while they’d been waiting for the priest. None of them were professional soldiers. A few months ago they would have been farmers, smiths, craftsmen. How should they treat a girl who had given herself up?
“You’d best stand, love,” said Andswarian.
Megan swung her feet down and stood up, trying to pretend it was the most natural thing in the world, that fear wasn’t coursing through her veins. She swept down to Father Broose.
“You killed two soldiers of the Faith,” said Father Broose.
“I’m sorry about that.”
“You know the punishment for murder?”
“Yes.”
“You seem unconcerned,” said Father Broose. “Do you expect me to show clemency because of our shared past?”
That shared past involved getting him out of Kewley before the witches got to him. “I expect you to follow the law as laid down in the Book of Faith, father.”
“I will.” He cleared his throat. “I hereby sen—”
Megan leaned in. “Just one thing, father. I am a citizen of Ainsworth. Only the monarch or the lord of my home county can pass judgment on me.”
“The lord . . . ? You’re asking to try yourself?”
“I’ll settle for Father Galan,” said Megan. Father Broose’s eyes narrowed. “The High Priest of Eastport, capital of Ains—”
“I know where Eastport is,” said Father Broose.
“Sorry, father. You northerners do get confused with southern geography.”
“Why do you want Father Galan?”
“Don’t worry,” said Megan, “he’s unlikely to let me off. He’s tried to have me killed at least once.”
“Then why . . . ?”
“If I’m going to die, it’s going to be properly. You don’t want the Faithful and the Hilites to think you’re some murderous tyrant, do you?”
“It is the law, father,” said one of Father Broose’s priests.
Father Broose turned to him, an incredulous look on his face. “You think to lecture me?”
The priest shuffled awkwardly. “No, father. Just remind, that’s all. It’s been . . . you know . . . Things get forgotten. Chapter seven, paragraph eight, where Edwyn lays out . . .”
Father Broose’s glare froze the words in the priest’s mouth. “Thank you, Brother Hlér.”
The crowd murmured in agitation. “Very well.” Father Broose motioned to a squad of soldiers. “Go fetch Father Galan.” His voice darkened. “Make sure he knows what’s expected of him.”
“While you’re at it . . .” said Megan.
Father Broose sighed. “What?”
“I believe I’m allowed someone to speak in my favor.”
“Chapter seven, paragraph nine,” said Brother Hlér in the smallest voice possible.
“Unless you can summon one of the Saviors,” Father Broose said to Megan, “it’s not going to help you.”
“I’d like Fordel.”
“That jumped-up pervert?”
“He is alive, isn’t he?” said Megan.
“Alive and lecturing us on prison administration,” said Father Broose with a grimace.
“I’m sure you can spare him. Indulge a countess. The job doesn’t come with that many perks.”
Father Broose gave a tired wave to another squad. As they left, Megan spun on her heel and returned to the high table. She wanted a drink, but she feared the cup would shake itself out of her grip. Instead she gripped the edge of the table, hoping the pressure would squash her nerves. How had Eleanor done this? How had Gwyneth? It was a performance, a self-confidence trick, and if she got her lines wrong she’d face more than catcalls from an angry audience.
The hall was filling up: soldiers and civilians, both Hilites and refugees from the Realm. Word had got around something interesting was happening. The bigger the audience the better, but Megan couldn’t ease her increasing anxiety. She took deep breaths while trying not to appear as if she was doing so.
Father Galan was escorted into the hall, followed moments later by Fordel. Both men were bruised and bloodied, but whereas the High Priest simmered with impotent rage, the Secretary maintained a look of bemusement.
“This is monstrous, Broose,” spluttered Father Galan. “You’ll—”
<
br /> “I need you to pronounce sentence on this citizen of your county,” said Father Broose. “Nothing more.”
“Isn’t it traditional to hear the evidence first?” asked Fordel.
“She admitted her crime.”
“Not to me she didn’t,” said Father Galan.
“Very well.” Fordel jabbed a finger at Megan. “Girl, say your piece.”
Here goes. Megan straightened, wishing she had Eleanor’s height. “I am Megan of the houses of Endalay and Kalvert, Countess of Ainsworth and legitimate descendant of Bardanes the Avenger, King of Werlavia. I hereby claim the throne of the Unifier, all the rights and privileges granted to him by the Saviors, the lands of the Realm and the allegiance of the Faith.”
nine
The great hall fell silent, so quiet you could almost hear the snowflakes drifting in from the gaps in the ceiling. People glanced at each other, expressions of doubt, confusion and incredulity etched on to their faces. Megan hadn’t been expecting cheers of approval, but some element of support would have been nice.
“Are you serious?” said Father Broose.
“Are you serious, Your Majesty?” Megan corrected.
“I’ve never heard such a pile of nonsense.”
Megan looked to Father Galan. She could see the calculation in his eyes as he debated which side to come down on. Come on, she silently urged. Play your part. “Gaderian Endalay’s daughter did marry the son of King Bardanes . . .” he said.
“That was nearly two hundred years ago!”
“And the Saviors appeared to the Unifier nearly four hundred years ago. We don’t dismiss that, do we?”
“There is no throne for her to claim,” said Father Broose. “It was abolished after the war. I should know, I was on the council that abolished it.”
Father Galan smiled slyly. Megan got the impression he was starting to enjoy himself. “If you were, you would know the council had no powers to abolish an institution explicitly granted by the Saviors. The council merely abolished the aristocracy. The throne was left in abeyance until a . . . suitable candidate could be found.” Namely, one who survived the priests’ attempts at slander, exile and assassination.
“And you think you have one? This . . . this . . . ? How can she claim to be legitimate? The Endalay woman wasn’t married.”
“All adopted children are legitimate,” said Fordel. “It’s a quirk of the law. They also carry the same rights of inheritance as natural-born children.”
“And what do you know of our law?” demanded Father Broose.
“It’s much the same as ours. We got lumbered with it after the Unifier paid us his visit.”
Father Broose paced the hall, wringing his hands as if he could squeeze another argument out of them. “This is all a legal fiction you’ve concocted to justify your grab for power.”
Of course it was. Every claim for power rested on fictions: that it was granted by God, blood, precedent. In the end, though, you had one person trying to persuade a hell of a lot of other people they should be listened to above all others, that they knew what was best. Megan might not know what was best, but she did know what was better.
She turned her attention to the crowd and raised her voice. “A Tiptunite army will be upon us before nightfall. Those of us they don’t slaughter will be exiled back to the Realm and left to the mercy of the witches, and we all know they have no mercy.” Mention of the witches prompted murmurings of anxiety from the massed ranks. “The Hilites gave us sanctuary when they had no reason to, and to turn on them like this is near unforgivable. But only near. I can negotiate with them—sort this mess out. I might not be the best queen you could have, but I’m the only one. And I’m the last chance you have of staying alive.”
“We have come too far,” said Father Broose. “The Hilites . . .”
“They’ll welcome an amnesty. They don’t want to see any more death either. Do you, Fordel?”
“It does lead to lots of ill-tempered probate actions.” Fordel spread his hands magnanimously. “We would welcome a peace accord with the Faith, led by a restored monarchy. One that respected our rights and independence.”
“And what of the tens of thousands beyond the mountains you left to the mercy of the witches?” asked Father Broose.
Megan had known this was coming and she didn’t have an answer for it. The crowd stared at her, waiting. She swallowed, tried to think of some non-committal platitude.
“I . . .”
Fordel held up a hand. “If it pleases Your Majesty,” he said, “I’ve been reviewing things with the leaders of the other cities. We think we might be able to accommodate the additional refugees.”
This threw Megan, though the crowd muttered what she hoped was approval. “You have? Why didn’t you tell me?”
“It was an administrative matter,” said Fordel. “Nothing to bother you with.” The fate of thousands an “administrative matter”—there was a bureaucrat’s answer for you. “We’ll be happy to discuss the details with representatives of the Faith.”
Father Broose jabbed a gnarled finger at Megan. “I am not going to disobey the Pledges to gain what is already ours. I pledged to uphold the Faith and destroy its enemies.”
“Not following the Faith doesn’t make people our enemies.”
Someone in the crowd shouted, “Yeah!” Megan took it as a token of support. She stepped to within arm’s reach of Father Broose and slipped a hand inside her sleeve. Her fingers brushed the handle of her back-up plan, warmed by her fiery body. She hoped it wouldn’t come to that, but the calculation was frighteningly easy. Thousands of lives in exchange for one.
“It’s time to make a decision, father. Either recognize my claim or order your soldiers to move against me.” She leaned in and lowered her voice. “Only make sure they’re yours before you do.”
The men lining the room nudged one another, exchanged muttered comments. Which way would they go? Did they understand what was going on? Did they care? Were they waiting for someone else to make the decision or were they going to realize the power lay in them and the arms they carried?
Father Broose stalked to the high table. He sat down and folded his arms. “Pah,” he said. “Have your fantasy. Do with me what you will.”
“I’m not going to do anything with you,” said Megan.
“Your Hilite cronies then.”
“The amnesty applies to all.” Megan took a deep breath and looked around the ranks of soldiers. Father Broose might have given in, but would they? “Where’s your commanding officer?”
The men looked among themselves. “Not here,” one eventually said.
“Any officer?”
“They’re always the first to bugger off.”
“All right, then”—Megan counted the stripes—“sergeant. Order all the men in the city to stand down and release any Hilite prisoners.”
“Um . . .”
“Fordel will go with you. Make sure there are no . . . misunderstandings.”
“I’ll have to insist the soldiers of the Faith disarm themselves,” said Fordel. “Temporarily of course. As a sign of good, er, faith.”
“You should have insisted on that before all this happened,” said Father Galan.
Yes, thought Megan, you should have, Fordel. Why didn’t you? “Sergeant?”
“This amnesty sounds more like a surrender.”
“We’re guests here,” said Megan. “Would you go into your neighbor’s house waving your sword?” The sergeant made to speak. “No, don’t answer that.” She foresaw him trotting out decades’ worth of border disputes, noise complaints and wars over whose latrines emptied out on to whose land.
“As hosts we’ll make sure there’s plenty of food and drink available,” said Fordel.
The sergeant nodded in appreciation, then looked to Father Galan. The High Priest gave a slight nod. “All right.” He motioned to Fordel. “After you.” The two men marched out of the hall.
Megan turned to a squad of soldiers.
“Would you take Father”—Father Galan’s cough didn’t quite disguise the word “brother”—“Broose here somewhere safe?”
“Safe as in ‘safe from harm’ or safe as in ‘safe from people seeing him come to harm’?”
“The first.”
“Your call, ma’am.”
The soldiers led the dejected Father Broose away. Megan spun slowly on her heel, taking in all the people staring at her, waiting to see what would happen next. She didn’t have a clue what it would be, other than it was time to find her daughter.
Cate was in the Lord Defender’s mansion, gurgling away to herself in her restored cot. Megan scooped her up. The gurgling stopped. Cate didn’t start bawling, but the expression on her face did seem to say, “You again?”
“How are you, sweetheart?” said Megan.
“I’m fine.”
For an alarming moment, Megan thought her daughter of a few months had learned to talk, which suggested she was the Savior and raised all kinds of questions, until she recognized Synne’s voice. She turned round. Synne was trying to restore some order to the room.
“I’m . . . I’m sorry. I thought . . .”
“That I wasn’t important?” said Synne. “Did you worry about me at all?”
If you’re fighting for the people, Megan’s inner critic scolded, it would be nice if you thought about them sometimes. “Of course I did. How are you?”
“I said I was fine.”
“Wasn’t sure if that was just, you know, ventriloquism.”
“What?”
“Nothing,” said Megan. “Have you seen Afreyda?”
Synne scowled. “She is at the infirmary.”
The world stopped. Possibilities and consequences rushed through Megan’s brain. “The infirmary! Why didn’t you tell me?”
“You would have had to notice me first.”
Megan looked down at Cate, reluctantly settling in her grasp, then over to Synne, who sighed and held her arms out.
Megan burst into the infirmary and hurried along the rows of beds, where soldiers and Hilites nursed broken bones, split heads and simmering grievances. Men nudged each other as she passed, muttering comments unheard or not understood. She paid them no heed. Despite Synne’s assurances, she had to know Afreyda was going to be all right.