The Verdigris Pawn

by Alysa Wishingrad

  “Is that this one?” Nate pointed to the verdigris pawn. “With the ruined color?”

  “Far from ruined,” Doone tutted. “It’s verdigris.”

  “Verdiwhat?”

  “A color achievable only by an act of alchemy,” Doone said. “Our cordwainer can explain, I’m sure.”

  “Oh, yes. Alchemy is, well, it’s a kind of magic, but not magical,” Beau said. “It’s a process that transforms one thing into another. Verdigris is only achieved through an alchemical reaction.”

  “So the pawn becomes the king?” Nate asked.

  “Not quite.” Doone placed the verdigris pawn on its starting position, the black square in the far-right corner. “The pawn is far more powerful than the king because it’s the only piece that can threaten his rule. Neither side can win without taking the pawn.”

  “Oh, I see!” Nate was clearly working through the idea, untangling knots as he went until it all fell into place. “So whoever controls the pawn controls the king.”

  “And whoever controls the king controls the game.” Doone sat back and took a deep draft of his cider. “Don’t just stand there, Crafty. It’s time to play.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  A Game of Fist II

  For the first time ever, Beau sat down at a Fist board trying not to play his best, but his worst. He asked a lot of questions and blundered even the easiest of moves. But as the match progressed, everything Fledge had taught him—the tricks and tactics—began to take over. He was playing instinctually. Guided as if by second nature, he positioned two yellow guards to block the rear flank of Doone’s king.

  Doone looked impressed. “I’ve only known one other player to use their yellow guards so effectively.”

  “You . . . you played the same move in the match we watched at the gathering,” Beau said. “It worked for you, so I thought I’d give it a go.”

  “Clever. You see how he’s playing?” Doone asked Nate, who’d been hovering over his shoulder the whole match. “Crafty indeed.”

  “Nice.” Nate sounded impressed, but the look he shot Beau said something altogether different.

  “Too bad you didn’t think it all the way through.” Doone took one of his rear flank guards and, in an exceptionally bold move, used it to take out another of his own players. It left his king exposed to the north, but it also completely blocked Beau’s advance from the south.

  “Guess I’m not that clever after all,” Beau said.

  “No, you’re not,” Nate scoffed. But his scorn melted away as he turned to Doone. “Too bad you can’t use one of those grenades. Now, that would be something. If you had one of those mage pieces that really had powers, and an ace with grenades, you’d be invincible. The game would be over before it began.”

  “That’s not how the game works.” Beau couldn’t resist taking a small swipe back.

  “I’m not talking about the game, Crafty. I mean in life.” Nate pulled his chair up closer to Doone’s. “Think about it. You already have grenades. You could demolish the Manor if you wanted to. But what happens if Himself has them too? The field is leveled.”

  Talk of blowing up the Manor was braiding Beau’s stomach into knots.

  “It’s a good point,” Doone said. “The smart warrior always assumes your opponent knows as much, if not more than you. But even if the Manor has grenades, the best powder they could ever hope to get would be that soggy dust Grater was peddling at the gathering.”

  “That was powder?” Nate exclaimed. “The black-hearted viper didn’t even warn us. We could have been blown up three times over.”

  “Never. It’s so wet it wouldn’t light in a bonfire. Even if they hit us with a thousand grenades, they’d be throwing torches into the wind.”

  “That’s good. But still, it’s too bad there are no charmers left.” Nate shook his head dolefully. “Imagine all you could do for the people of the Land if you had a charmer’s help. Crops could grow in the Bottom again; people could feed themselves and keep their children. Even rule themselves. Guided by your wisdom, of course, Doone.”

  “That’s true!” Beau brightened. Here came his chance.

  “It’s a fine dream, but there are none left.” Doone’s voice took on a wistful tone.

  “But what if there was one?” Beau asked, testing the waters.

  “He just said there are no charmers left,” Nate scowled. “Are you deaf?”

  “I heard him loud and clear. But your friend . . . Crossi. She could be one.”

  “Her name is Cressi, and that’s the stupidest thing I ever heard,” Nate sneered.

  “It’s not stupid,” Beau hit back. “Think about it. You told me yourself that she had a way with healing, right? Something about cuts knitting back together faster than anything. That sounds like the work of a charmer to me.”

  “If she were a charmer, I’d have known.” Nate glared at Beau. “No one was closer to Cressi than me. Now drop it.”

  “No, I want to hear more.” Doone leaned forward in his seat. “What else was she able to do?”

  Nate’s ire vanished under the spotlight of Doone’s attention.

  “Well, she could clear up your cough faster than anyone,” he began. “And not one of the babies died under her watch that I can remember. She had a way with cuts and bruises. No one ever wanted Matron or her nursemaids to tend to them when they were sick, knowing they might never recover. But Cressi could get you back to health before you knew it. I . . . I never thought of it, but . . . could she really, maybe be a charmer?”

  Doone cocked his head as if he’d caught the scent of something delicious. “She’s still in Mastery House?”

  “No, she got sent into service for the Manor more than a season ago. Right before the fever broke out.”

  “As a nursemaid?”

  “Posted in the back barns, last I knew.” Nate was sitting up straighter now, as if suddenly imbued with some kind of authority. “That’s where they’ve got the sick Manor guards.”

  “I’d like to meet her.”

  Beau could hardly contain himself; his plan was working!

  “You should!” Nate crowed, giving voice to Beau’s own elation. “We can find her when we go free Mastery House. She can help with the little ones too.”

  “No.” Doone looked like he’d bitten into an unripe cherry. “We’re not ready yet. That operation requires proper planning and preparation. Those slings to begin with. Trout and I will go and find her. You’ll stay here and keep working.”

  “But how will you know her?” Nate pressed. “You’ll need help.”

  “That’s true. She could be anywhere,” Beau chimed in. “Even in Barger’s custody.”

  “Cressi?” Nate scoffed. “She’s never been in trouble, ever. If you knew her, you’d know how stupid that was.”

  “The details are mine to sort out. Oh, look.” Doone held the pitcher of cider upside down. “Drained. Nate, would you fetch us more from the cookhouse, and bring more wood for the fire while you’re out.”

  “Of course.” Nate stepped away from his post behind Doone’s chair and left the room, but not without first glaring at Beau, a warning not to get too close to Doone in his absence.

  Beau tried to offer a smile in return, a peace offering, but Nate looked away.

  He hadn’t meant to compete against Nate for Doone’s attention. As soon as Cressi was safe and the children of Mastery House freed, he’d step away, leaving Nate to bask in the sunshine of Doone’s admiration and trust.

  First, he had to play his hand out.

  “Your move, Crafty,” Doone said.

  Beau fought to keep his face relaxed and his mind focused. This was likely to be his only chance alone with Doone. He had to make it count. He searched for the most benign move he could find, advancing a blue guard one square forward then asked, “So you’re convinced that Cressi is a charmer?”

  “I never said I was convinced,” Doone scoffed. “I said I was curious.”

  “Right, of course
.” Beau regrouped. “But don’t you think that anyone else who’s heard similar things about her might be curious too?”

  “Why do you care so much?” Doone asked. “I thought she was Nate’s friend, not yours.”

  “She is.” Beau tried to shrug it off. “But, like he said, having a charmer on your side could mean nothing short of victory.”

  “It could also mean treachery. Charmers can be slippery, their allegiances easily bought and traded. The Badem lost control of a charmer once, and it cost us everything.”

  “Yes, but just because Cres . . . Nate’s friend is named for Cressida the Bold doesn’t mean she’s anything like her.”

  “Cressida the Bold?” Doone scoffed. “More like Cressida the Deceitful. She wasn’t a charmer, just passed herself off as one to the Manor. No, I meant that traitor Annina. May she rot evermore.”

  Beau flinched. He couldn’t help it; it was too hard to mask his feelings at hearing his mother vilified.

  “Sure, she was gifted, but not nearly as talented as my own mother. She was one of the best to ever live.” Doone almost sounded wistful. “They were close once. Like sisters. But unlike my mother—a pragmatist, a realist, a true loyalist—when Annina spouted all those high ideals about peace and unity, they were nothing more than cover. She was a traitor of the highest degree and got everything she deserved. Still, it’s not every charmer that could’ve turned the heir to the Manor.”

  Beau fought to keep his voice from betraying him. “What do you mean?”

  “Himself was cut from the same cloth as all those who came before him—rough, colorless burlap woven through with nettles and greed. Then he met Annina and renounced it all to marry her.”

  This was exactly the story Beau had always hoped to hear—that his father once had a loving and compassionate heart. That there once was hope in the Land. “So he married her for love?”

  “That’s what he thought.” Doone plucked up one of his guards and planted it next to the verdigris pawn, putting himself within one move of ending the match. “But right after Annina had their son, Himself’s father, who’d raged against their marriage, turned blue and died. Clearly charmed. The next day Annina’s husband, newly named Himself, also began to turn blue. If not for their apothecary, he’d have followed his father to the grave, leaving the new baby the title. It didn’t take Himself long to realize who Annina truly was. What she was. That the only love she had was for power—power for her son and herself. The way I heard it, Himself’s ragged heart truly broke then. But like everyone else in his bloodline, he mended himself by breaking other people’s bones, lives, and spirits. Your move.”

  Black spots clouded Beau’s vision as he grabbed the first game piece he could.

  This tale about his mother couldn’t be true. Not in a million lifetimes.

  “Maybe she was set up,” Beau said. “Someone else concocted a poison and made it look like a charming. Or maybe she was trying to unite the Land, put an end to war and pain by giving the Land an heir to both sides.”

  “An heir to both sides?” Doone mused. “Interesting idea.”

  Beau had thrown the idea out in desperation, but hearing it echoed back, it hit him like a revelation. Maybe that’s exactly what his mother had wanted him to be—a bridge reconnecting the Bottom and the Manor.

  If only Beau were capable of fulfilling her dream.

  “Maybe,” he sighed. “But an idea is all it will ever be.”

  “Not necessarily,” Doone said. “Not if the girl is a charmer.”

  “What does she have to do with it?” Beau asked, his voice pinched and strained.

  “Everything. Think it through,” Doone instructed. “What could a charmer do for me?”

  “Like Nate said, make the crops grow, the rivers flow, the—”

  “I asked what you thought, not to regurgitate feeble-minded ideas,” Doone hissed.

  “Nate’s not feeble-minded,” Beau hit back. “He’s brilliant and he’s devoted to you.”

  “And he will serve his purpose carrying cider and wood and whatever else I have him do. You, on the other hand, have the mind of a strategist and belong at my right hand.” The clean, handsome lines of Doone’s face hardened, making him resemble more closely the villain on the WANTED poster. “You’ve already said it. You know exactly what the charmer could do for me.”

  Beau didn’t want to say it, for it would mean everything he’d come to believe about Doone—his ace—was wrong. That instead of saving Cressi, Beau had exposed her to even greater danger. That the children of Mastery House were no closer to freedom. That he’d been wrong about everything.

  “Say it,” Doone pressed.

  Beau swallowed back his revulsion, his regrets, his rising rage. “She could charm the heir?”

  “Exactly.” Doone blazed with admiration. “Compel him to kill his own father, then once he’s the new Himself, she’ll charm him to appoint me regent. He’d be known, for a while at least, as the great uniter, leaving me as his heir apparent upon his untimely death. And if the people suspect a charmer at work, as they did with Annina, we’ll offer the girl up on a platter.”

  “You’d use her like that?” It was getting harder for Beau to keep his anger from seeping out around the edges.

  “We’d be fools not to,” Doone said. “You going to play that guard or not?”

  Beau looked down at the yellow guard in his fist, knuckles wrapped so tight they were turning white. Unable to think about a move, he placed the guard on the first empty square he saw, realizing only after he’d lifted his hand that the move had exposed his mage.

  “You’re going to need your rest tonight, Crafty,” Doone said. “Leave the making of the slings to Nate. You’re coming with me in the morning. We’ve got a few friends to collect from the Manor.”

  Up to this point, Doone’s play had been careful and methodical. Nothing hasty, each move executed like some kind of a slow dance. But now he swooped in like a hawk on a mouse. His last remaining blue guard clutched in his talons, Doone knocked out three of Beau’s yellow guards.

  The game was over.

  The pawn was his.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Into the Woods

  With a vial of her loyalty brew safely tucked next to the pawn in her apron pocket, Cressi headed out to the wagon.

  Boz and Keb were already awake, perched on the driver’s seat exactly where she’d left them. Though she knew they both had slept—how could they not have with all the ferrita she’d fed them—they sat there stiffly coiled, a pair of springs ready to be sprung.

  “Took you long enough!” Boz shouted. “We need to get out of here before the fever catches us.”

  “That’s not how it work—” Cressi stopped herself. “It doesn’t catch you; you catch it.”

  “I ain’t caught nothing!” Keb held his hands up to prove they were empty.

  Cressi looked the guards over, shaking her head as if they were painted blue, then muttered a fretful “Oh, goodness.”

  “Why you say that?” Keb turned white. “What do you see?”

  “Nothing.” Cressi made a big show of trying to laugh off her concern before turning dead serious again. “You do feel all right, don’t you?”

  “We feel fine,” Boz growled. “Long as we get outta here.”

  “Good.” Cressi clutched her heart in relief. “Then you have no aches, no pains, no stiffness?”

  Keb and Boz exchanged a sideway glance, neither wanting to be the first to admit to anything.

  “I see.” Cressi paused as if to think before tentatively adding, “Those are some of the first symptoms.”

  “I told you it wasn’t cause we slept funny!” Keb punched Boz in the arm.

  “Touch me again and I’ll break you,” Boz barked.

  But for all his bravado, he looked just as scared as Keb.

  “Don’t fret,” Cressi counseled. “I have something that might help.”

  Cressi reached for her pocket but Boz batted her away
. “You ain’t giving us none of your charms. Cook warned us good to take nothing you give us.”

  Cressi threw her hands up in surrender and sighed deeply. “I told her that’s what you’d say.”

  “Told who?” Boz asked.

  “The nursemaid here. She makes this, uses it herself, every day, and she’s healthy as can be. I told her you’d never take it.”

  Keb leaned in, loudly whispering to Boz, “I think we should take it.”

  “She’s lying,” Boz warned. “Probably about to turn us into frogs.”

  “That’s not how charming works. This isn’t a fairy story,” Cressi said. “And I already told you, I didn’t make it. Go inside and ask her yourself if you don’t believe me.”

  “We ain’t going no closer than here.”

  “I understand,” Cressi said. “I do. But when you break out in a rash, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

  “A rash?” Keb pulled his sleeves back to inspect his arms.

  “Or worse. You might lose all control of yourself, piss your pants, or—” Cressi stopped as she spotted Anka running up from the barracks, waving and calling to get their attention.

  “Who’s that?” Boz asked.

  “That,” Cressi said, “is the nursemaid.”

  “By the Goodness of Himself, there you are!” Anka’s cheeks were flushed pink from her run, brightening her face with a sunny glow. “I came to check on you, make sure all is well.”

  “That’s kind of you.” Cressi dropped a small curtsy. “But I’m not sure it is. These men are complaining of some aches and pains. I suggested they take your tonic to keep the fever from taking hold of them, but they refuse.”

  “Oh, but you must. You have to stay healthy. The Manor relies on you,” Anka replied without missing a beat. “May I?”

  Anka stepped to Keb and took his palm in her hand, gently examining it from every available angle. “Does this itch at all?”

  “Why? You see a rash? Is there a rash?” Keb paled and went to work itching his palms madly. “I knew it.”

  Anka then turned on Boz. “Are your eyes always that bloodshot?”

  Boz shrank back. “I . . . I don’t know.”