The Smoke Thieves Series, Book 1

by Sally Green

  Ambrose held out the letter, trying to catch his breath.

  Tarquin took it and unfolded the heavy paper. He scanned the contents quickly.

  “Well, it seems our illustrious king knows something of war strategy that we don’t, because this army is going to invade the most remote northern part of Pitoria.”

  CATHERINE

  LEYDALE, PITORIA

  Queen Valeria is famously quoted as saying: “The people love their queen and the queen loves her people.” These words would never, could never, be said by a king.

  A History of Brigant, Thomlyn Thraxton

  IT WAS all very well talking about being one of the Pitorian people, but Catherine didn’t look like them or feel like them; they seemed elegant, elaborate, and exotic, and for her plan to work she needed to look like them, only better.

  She rose at dawn on her first morning in Pitoria and had her maids set out her Pitorian dresses. When Catherine had first seen them, back in Brigant, she had thought they were dangerously exposing, but the ladies the night before had been even more daring. Indeed, most of the men last night had been more elaborately dressed than Catherine. She needed some of that daring, but not too much—something that suggested Pitoria but was also uniquely her.

  Her wedding dress was not laid out, so she asked Sarah to bring it. It was white and gold, with crystal work covering the bodice and more crystals scattered over the wide skirt. It covered her from ankle to throat, but with slashes in the shoulder and bodice that didn’t expose bare skin, as a fine transparent gauze lay beneath. This was a dress that said “Pitoria” and “princess” perfectly.

  “Put this green one on, Jane,” she said.

  Jane approached Catherine and started to lift her nightdress.

  “No, not on me. I want you to wear it.”

  Jane stopped and stared.

  “Tanya, you wear one of the red ones.” Tanya curtsied and grabbed the red dress that Catherine had worn in front of her father. “Sarah, you’re in the black. Today I’m going to ride rather than sit in the carriage. You’ll ride with me. Get dressed.”

  Sarah, Jane, and Tanya glanced at each other with a mix of excitement and nervousness but willingly stripped off their beige maids’ dresses and, with help from one another, were quickly transformed into Pitorian ladies. The dresses fit well enough with a few quick stitches. Standing together, they looked like the stripes of the Pitorian flag, and they looked stunning.

  “Will you wear the dress from yesterday, Your Highness?” Jane asked.

  “I’ll be wearing the white dress,” Catherine replied.

  “But . . .” Jane said meekly, “that’s for your wedding, Your Highness.”

  “I intend to get another for that occasion. I want to wear this one now.”

  They helped her into it. It was heavy and tight on the chest and neck. Riding in it in the hot sun would not be particularly pleasant.

  Sarah started to pack the train away, folding it carefully.

  “No. I want the train too. Sew it to the bodice.”

  “But it’s so long!” Tanya said.

  “Yes. It’s perfect.”

  Sarah quickly unraveled the train, which was sprinkled with crystal. She sewed it to the bodice at the shoulders and clapped with delight as Catherine walked across the room to see how it fell.

  “Should I wear my necklace or not?” Catherine mused.

  The maids looked uncertain.

  “No, you’re right—we must show some Brigantine restraint. The dress is enough.”

  Just then there was a knock on the door, a servant with a message that a gentleman was waiting in the library. Catherine hadn’t realized how long the dressing had taken, but now she was ready to test the effect of her outfit on Sir Rowland.

  When they were organized, Catherine said, “Sarah, you lead the way. I would like you to assess the look on Sir Rowland’s face when I enter.”

  “You look stunning, Your Highness,” Tanya said.

  Catherine smiled. “Good. Nothing less will do.”

  She followed Sarah downstairs to the library, Jane and Tanya a step behind, ensuring her train didn’t catch on anything. Sarah opened the doors and Catherine entered. She had intended to surprise Sir Rowland, but it was she who was surprised.

  “Noyes!”

  The eyes of the king’s spymaster went wide as he saw her, and he took two quick steps backward. Catherine wasn’t sure if that was a good effect or not, but she certainly liked to see Noyes in retreat. She could feel Tanya twitching at her train, but couldn’t tell if she was straightening it or indicating Catherine should hold back.

  “I was expecting to meet Sir Rowland.” Catherine immediately regretted telling Noyes what she was doing. “Did you wish to talk with me?”

  “I wanted to compliment you on your handling of the situation yesterday evening, Your Highness.”

  “A compliment from you. A rare thing indeed.” Catherine braced herself for the catch.

  “Lord Farrow’s speech was clumsy and unwelcoming. Your own rescued the situation as well as could be expected for a young woman making what was clearly her first public speech. It was an interesting novelty, I’m sure, for much of the audience. However, I know that your father would not approve and would require you not to repeat it.”

  Catherine pursed her lips. “I had several compliments yesterday evening and certainly got the impression that the guests appreciated hearing my views. I intend to ensure they see us Brigantines as friends and not as threats, which is surely what my father intends.”

  “The anti-Brigant feelings held by Lord Farrow and his like will not be swayed by a pretty speech, Your Highness, and you risk . . . well, you risk making a mistake, risk making a public spectacle of yourself.”

  You’re becoming predictable, Noyes, Catherine thought, playing on my insecurities. He knew her fear of failure, of being laughed at, but what Noyes didn’t know was how she was changing. Free from the shadow of her father, the reward of success now outweighed that fear of failure, and Catherine was finding she was more of a gambler than she had realized.

  “Thank you for your advice, Noyes. You’ll be pleased to hear that I don’t intend to make a speech today. Or, rather, I’m going to let my dress do the talking. I’m hoping the crowds will like it.”

  Noyes smiled. “Alas, I fear most won’t be able to see it from the carriage.”

  “An excellent point, Noyes. That’s why I’ve decided to ride.”

  For the second time that morning Catherine had the pleasure of seeing Noyes wrong-footed.

  “Ride! In that?”

  “Yes. The dress will look splendid on horseback.” How it would feel was another matter; Catherine wasn’t sure if she could even sit down in it yet. She turned, swishing her dress so that the jewels jangled. “Was there anything else, Noyes?”

  Noyes didn’t reply.

  “In that case, you may go.”

  Noyes hesitated, then bowed hastily and stalked out of the room. As he left, Sir Rowland entered. He beamed at Catherine and held out his arms.

  “You look magnificent, Your Highness. And your speech last night was a great success. Already I’ve heard people discussing you on their morning rides.”

  “Discussing me?”

  “Being talked about is always a good thing in Pitoria. And soon they will all be talking about that dress.”

  “Good. But I need your help on other things too, Sir Rowland. Firstly I need a horse to ride today, and horses for my maids too. They must be the most well-groomed and well-behaved animals in the parade.”

  “Wonderful. Wonderful! Yes. Yes. Yes. I’ll see to it at once.”

  Catherine laughed. She was so used to being told why she couldn’t do things that Sir Rowland’s quick and positive response warmed her heart.

  “Secondly I want to make our pr
ogress more of an event. Some musicians or acrobats perhaps.”

  “Excellent suggestion. Fewer soldiers, more entertainers. Music that people can be drawn to. That is easily arranged. And dancers, of course.”

  “And finally I need a symbol. Something to carry that will link me to Pitoria. Some flowers might do it.”

  “A wissun, perhaps? It’s a white flower that grows all over Pitoria. Fragrant and beautiful. Loved by everyone.”

  “I like that. I knew you’d be a good adviser.”

  “Then white will be your color.” Sir Rowland hesitated, then said, “If you don’t mind me saying, Your Highness, it’s good to see you embracing Pitoria in this way. There were some who thought the marriage was a ploy of your father’s. It’s well known he has held a grudge against King Arell since the war between Calidor and Brigant. Your actions will help dispel those concerns. I think Prince Tzsayn will be pleased to hear of your enthusiasm too.”

  “Really?” For a moment, Catherine had almost forgotten that her wedding was the end point of this journey. “I hope so. I want to find a position for myself in this country, Sir Rowland. I don’t want to be locked away in a tower. I want to do something with my life. The people of Pitoria think we’re bloodthirsty warmongers. I want to prove them wrong. I want to conquer the people not as my father would, with swords and spears, but with a dress and a flower. Do you think that’s possible?”

  Sir Rowland bowed. “I think you have the power to conquer anyone, Your Highness, as you have already done me. Today, I myself shall be wearing a wissun, and I’m sure many of the crowds will soon do likewise.”

  MARCH

  DORNAN, PITORIA

  MARCH RAN through the woods back to the fair, hoping that he could find Holywell. He went to Erin’s red and gold tent and was relieved to see that Holywell was still there. March walked up to him as casually as he could.

  “Edyon is in the woods. I’ve told him about his father and that we’re here to take him back to Calidor.”

  “And he believes it?”

  “Yes, but he wants proof. We need the ring the prince gave to Regan.”

  Holywell sucked his teeth thoughtfully. “Regan is still in there with Edyon’s mother.”

  “So she must know what he’s here for.”

  “Which means we must keep Edyon away from her and get rid of Regan. The plan hasn’t changed, brother,” Holywell said, and he nodded over to Regan, who had appeared from the tent, “and the time is right. We need to get him alone, somewhere quiet. There’s a place beyond the caravans, a little dip by the stream. I’ll be waiting there. Your job is to bring him to me.”

  March nodded. “I’ll tell him the prince has sent an urgent message.”

  Holywell slapped March on the arm. “Good. Be ready to assist me. Regan will be no pushover.” And, before March could reply, Holywell strode off toward the stream.

  March had no time to think as he hurried after Regan, getting back into a servant frame of mind; becoming a servant was as easy as slipping on a coat for March. He broke into a run and, full of urgency, called out, “Sir! Sir!” and finally, “Lord Regan!”

  Regan turned round.

  “Lord Regan.” March bowed low. “Excuse me, sir. I’ve been sent with a message.” March raised his head so Regan could see his face. “I’m March, sir. Servant to Prince Thelonius.”

  “And you were told to shout my name out in the streets?”

  “My apologies, sir.” March bowed again. He knew not to make excuses but to wait and hope that the lord would forgive and in this case believe that his own master had sent a message.

  “Stand up straight, boy. Let us go somewhere quiet.”

  “Yes, sir. My associate is this way. He has the message, sir.” And March set off, trying to lead the way from behind, which was always the difficulty with noblemen. “The prince sent us with the utmost urgency. I’ve been searching the fair for you.”

  “Who is your associate?”

  “Brown, sir.” March chose the name of another of Prince Thelonius’s servants whom he was sure Regan wouldn’t know by sight.

  “And when did your master send you?”

  “The prince said that you had been gone three days, sir.”

  “You’ve done well to catch me up.”

  “That was the prince’s order, sir. And we had favorable winds for our crossing.”

  “How did you find me?”

  Was that suspicion in Regan’s voice?

  “Brown, sir. He worked out where you would be.”

  “Did he now? How did he do that?”

  So many questions. Too many questions . . .

  “I’m not sure, sir. He can tell you himself. He’s just ahead, sir. Beyond the tents, by the stream.”

  “And did the prince send anything else?”

  March felt sweat breaking out on his brow. Something was wrong. Perhaps a real messenger would have been given a password or token to confirm their identity. Regan was certainly suspicious about something.

  “Brown has everything, sir. I was honored that the prince trusted me with this task, but he still considers me too young and inexperienced to travel alone. Brown has been to Pitoria before and speaks the language.”

  They rounded the last tent, and the open field was ahead. It felt exposed, but March realized it was a good place for an ambush. The slope of the ground down to the stream would hide them from view of the tents, and yet the spot wasn’t so isolated as to feel like a trap.

  Holywell was there, standing with his back to March and throwing small stones into the stream. March stopped a pace behind Regan, ever the polite servant.

  “Brown?” Regan asked.

  Holywell turned and bowed low, keeping his head down so Regan couldn’t see his eyes.

  “My lord Regan.”

  “You have a message for me.”

  “Yes, my lord.” Holywell rose and stepped forward, putting his hand into his jacket as if to draw out a paper. He took another step, frowning as if he couldn’t find it, and then another step and he drew out his hand, blade gleaming, and charged at Regan.

  “Treason!” shouted Regan, instinctively stepping sideways, grabbing Holywell in a headlock, and forcing the arm holding the dagger behind his back. They staggered around like a wild beast, Regan grunting and wrenching at Holywell’s head as the dagger fell to the ground.

  March had to do something to help Holywell. Heart racing, he picked up the fallen dagger, but Regan was watching him. The lord released Holywell, pushing him away, and drew one of his own daggers, slashing at March. March leaped back, and Holywell threw himself at Regan, grabbing him round the waist, propelling them both down the slope past March. They tumbled headlong into the stream.

  March ran after them. Holywell was lying on his side, purple-faced and panting, blood pouring from a wound in his neck. Regan was facedown in the water, not moving. Upstream, March could see a woman and child looking their way. He turned from them as casually as he could, walked slowly out of their view, and then plunged into the water. He had to get the ring and get Holywell away as quickly as possible. March splashed over to Regan and heaved at his body. On the second attempt, March managed to turn him over. Blood was coloring the water around Regan from a stab wound in his chest, and he didn’t seem to be breathing. Hands shaking with the cold water and fear, March unbuttoned Regan’s jacket, his years of practice at dressing and undressing others finally proving their worth. He quickly found the ring, put it in his own jacket, and grabbed Holywell, who was still purple and gasping.

  “We need to go. Now.”

  March pulled Holywell to his feet and supported him as they walked toward the trees. He looked back, but the woman and child he had noticed earlier had gone. How much had they seen? Well, it was too late to worry about that now.

  Holywell weighed more than he looked, and as soon as
they were under cover, March collapsed with him onto the ground.

  “So, that went well,” Holywell rasped. He was a mess. Wet and panting, the wound in his neck bleeding steadily. “Tell me you’ve got the ring.”

  March pulled it out. It gleamed back at him in the light of the setting sun. The prince’s true seal: the gold eagle with an emerald eye.

  EDYON

  DORNAN, PITORIA

  COULD MADAME Eruth be right? Was Edyon’s father exerting influence on his life? Certainly, life had seemed so dull and hopeless yesterday, and now . . . now he was the son of a prince. And not just any prince: Prince Thelonius, hero of Calidor! A small country, yes, but rich for its size. Civilized. Home to many musicians, painters, and sculptors. The architecture was supposed to be simple but of good quality, the clothing less ornate than the Pitorians’, and their furniture was well crafted, favoring oak and ash or fruit woods. They didn’t dance, which was a good thing as far as Edyon was concerned, since he hated dancing, though they were renowned as good fighters, but he hated fighting too. They were most famous for holding out in the war against Brigant, brother against brother, and Thelonius was respected, intelligent, and honorable.

  That honor would be tarnished when Edyon appeared. He thought about what March had said about the unhappy lords, and it seemed entirely plausible that some of the prince’s courtiers wouldn’t want a bastard on the scene. But it was gratifying to think that his father had finally realized that he, Edyon, was important, and was willing to risk his reputation to see him. Edyon had imagined many fathers, from king to vagabond, but somehow the reality seemed too preposterous and he couldn’t take it in.

  And then there was March. Edyon had fancied they’d be lovers when he first saw him—he was sure the handsome Abask felt the same spark between them, even if March seemed embarrassed to admit it. But now March behaved like a servant. In his years of travel through Pitoria in his mother’s caravan, Edyon had met many people from different lands and cultures, but in all that time he hadn’t met anyone from Abask, had never seen anyone with such remarkable eyes. Edyon could easily imagine a prince wanting such a servant. Perhaps Edyon could have him as a servant and a lover too.