by Sally Green
Finally the king took his leave, which meant that she could go too. Tanya and Sarah led her back to her chambers, so tired she could barely stand. Before the door to her sitting room waited a servant holding a silver plate with a small envelope on it. Inside was a note.
You might find the gardens more interesting than the dancing.
Tomorrow morning, nine o’clock, on the terrace?
“Who sent this?”
“Prince Tzsayn, Your Highness. He asked for a reply.”
Catherine hesitated. She wasn’t supposed to meet him alone before the marriage, and she definitely didn’t want a lecture on the manufacture of silk. On the other hand, Boris and Noyes certainly wouldn’t approve. That decided her.
“Tell Prince Tzsayn . . . yes.”
TASH
NORTHERN PITORIA
TASH LAY dozing in the back of the wagon, warm in the sun. Gravell was up front, sitting by the driver, who was returning to his farm having sold his load of vegetables at the Dornan fair. It would have been quicker to travel on horseback, or even by the daily coach service that was put on for the fair, but they didn’t have enough money, so they’d agreed with the wagon driver on ten kopeks each to take them as far as he was going north. From there, they’d walk.
The wagon was slow, but the farmer traveled from dawn to dusk. They had passed through several roadblocks that had been set up to stop the murderer, but as they were manned by unpaid locals Tash didn’t think they would be very effective. The old men and boys were more interested in taking bribes than catching fugitives. Sheriff’s men were highly visible in each town, warning the populace against harboring the villain, Edyon Foss, though that seemed unlikely, given that the general view was that he was a fearsome killer.
Toward nightfall, as they stopped at the latest roadblock, Tash and Gravell got down from the wagon. The farmer was almost home and could take them no farther. Pasted clumsily to the pole that barred the road was a poster.
Gravell scanned it.
“Wanted. For murder. Edyon Foss. Seventeen years old, tall, slim, brown hair. Reward: twenty-five kroners.” He moved to the side so Tash could see and said, “Nice picture too. Is it a good likeness?”
Tash nodded. The picture of Edyon was totally accurate.
“He’s worth half a bottle of smoke, which seems generous to me. Though the reward and my smoke back would suit me nicely.”
“But you wouldn’t hand him in to the sheriff, would you? I told you, he didn’t kill the sheriff’s man; Holywell did. If Edyon’s arrested, they’ll hang him.”
“No, you’re right. He’s only a thief who hangs about with murderers. He shouldn’t lose his life, just his hand, and maybe some other parts of his anatomy too.”
Tash smiled at Gravell. “You’re joking, right? I mean, we just want the smoke back.”
But Gravell had wandered away, muttering, “They’ll all think they can steal from me if this idiot gets away without punishment. They’ll all be at it.”
EDYON
SPURBECK, NORTHERN PITORIA
THEY TRAVELED faster once March was healed, but keeping to the quieter roads meant slow progress, and the villages were often so small there wasn’t even an inn. They studied the map every morning and evening to work out roughly where they were. Holywell said they were heading toward Pravont to catch a barge downriver to Rossarb, and from there they’d get a ship to Calidor. But to get that far they needed to eat. Edyon was tired and hungry. And now as they crested the hill they saw a small roadside inn beside a stream in meadowland surrounded by wooded hills. There were chickens pecking around the back, goats in a pen, and a few pigs too. Fresh eggs, bread, and milk would all be there. It was beautiful.
“I’ll go,” Holywell said.
Holywell or March always went. And only one of them, as if they didn’t trust Edyon to be left alone. Holywell said that one person at an inn was less conspicuous, but Edyon thought that one person buying enough food for three was more noteworthy. He was tired of the whole charade. Holywell was paranoid—they were miles from Dornan and perfectly safe. And Edyon wanted a warm pie straight from the oven.
“Actually, I think I should go.”
“How do you figure that?” Holywell asked. “Your Highness.”
“You’re a foreigner. Your accent gives you away and your eyes are . . . distinctive. We’re in the remote north of the country. What reason will you give for being here?”
“It’s none of their business.”
“Maybe not, but that doesn’t mean they won’t be interested. They won’t get many customers. What else are they going to talk about?”
“And what reason will you give for being here?” Holywell asked.
Edyon didn’t hesitate. “I’m going north to join my uncle’s law business. He specializes in trade contracts and really my interest is criminal law, but I’m young and have to start somewhere.”
“I suggest you avoid any mention of criminals or where you’re going.”
“You think I need a better story? I could be . . . going to buy the special wool they make in the north for my lover, a great dancer, who dances at court in Tornia.” He waved his arm dramatically. “He’ll look so wonderful in woolen trousers.”
Holywell seemed, for once, stunned into silence. March was almost smiling, though, which was at least a little grati-fying.
“You lie well,” said Holywell, giving him an appraising look that made Edyon feel uncomfortable. “Stick with the lawyer story. Get a couple of those chickens if you can. And eggs. Ham. Cheese. Stuff that’ll last. Find out if the sheriff’s men have been by. We’ll ride round and meet you in the trees at the far side. Don’t dally. The longer you’re there, the more likely it is others will turn up. Possibly sheriff’s men.”
The chances of the sheriff’s men having followed them there seemed tiny. Edyon was sure Holywell was trying to frighten him. And he’d completely forgotten about addressing Edyon as “Your Highness,” not that that really bothered him. The words sounded strange in his ears, particularly when they fell from March’s lips.
“I’ll be as swift as an arrow, Holywell.”
“And leave the smoke with us. Don’t want you getting into trouble over that stuff again.”
Edyon set off, quickly forgetting about Holywell and thinking instead about bread, cheese, and—if he was lucky—hot pies.
A boy ran out as he rode up, offering to take care of the horse for a kopek. Edyon dismounted, gave him the coin, and brushed the mud stains from his trousers as he walked to the door of the inn, realizing too late that most of the marks were actually blood.
He was the only customer. He exchanged greetings with the woman behind the crude bar—little more than a trestle table, really—and ordered a pie for his lunch. While he waited, he went to sit outside in the sun. That’s when he noticed the poster pinned to the wall.
WANTED. FOR MURDER.
His blood seemed to freeze in his veins.
EDYON FOSS
And below his name was an awful picture of him.
His life should have improved once he knew his father was a prince. Instead it had got worse, much, much worse. But was it about to get worse still? Had the innkeeper recognized him from the poster? Had she gone for help?
Just then she appeared and set his pie down on a table by the door, just below the poster.
“Actually, I’ve had enough sun on the road. I’ll eat inside.”
The woman sighed. “Yes, sir.”
But as soon as he was indoors Edyon regretted moving. If she had recognized him and called for help, now he was trapped inside.
Edyon ate the pie as fast as he could. He was starving, but he also felt sick with anxiety. He wanted to leave, but he knew he had to get food for March and Holywell.
Then a man appeared. “Ah, sir, my wife said we had a customer. Nice to see you on
this lovely day. You’ve had a long journey from the looks of you?”
Edyon coughed on the last crust of his pie. Was this a ruse to delay him, or was the man just being friendly?
“A long journey and a difficult one.” He held his arms out to show rather than hide his sorry condition. “I got lost, dropped my bag crossing a river, and spent the night in the open. I’m not used to this sort of traveling.”
“Well, I can give you a room for the night, a bath, and dinner. All at a good rate.”
“Alas, your offer is tempting, but I’ve lost too much time already. I have a new legal position awaiting me with my uncle.”
“Where’s that, sir?”
“Pravont.”
The word was out before he could stop it, and Edyon could have kicked himself. Still, it was too late now, and he could at least ask directions. “Can you confirm my best route? And perhaps sell me some bread and cheese to sustain me on my way?”
“To be honest, I didn’t even know they had lawyers in Pravont.”
“How so?”
“Well, it’s so small.”
Another mistake! But a short time later Edyon had a bag of food, a well-fed and groomed horse, and a full if slightly nervous stomach, as well as clear directions to Pravont. He rode swiftly away, and waiting under the trees out of sight of the inn were Holywell and March.
“All go well?” Holywell asked.
“Yes. Fine.” He hesitated. “There was a poster there. A wanted poster. For me.”
Holywell swore.
“You weren’t recognized, though?” asked March anxiously.
“No.” Edyon shrugged casually. “No one ever looks at those things. I knew I’d be fine.”
He handed over the sack to Holywell. “Bread, cheese, and eggs. And a pie.”
Holywell’s eyes gleamed. “Well done, Your Highness. Given the poster, though, we’re best being on our way.”
“Yes, but at least now I’m sure of the way. I got directions.”
Holywell looked up. His voice was dangerously expressionless as he asked, “How did you do that? Your Highness.”
“Well, I mentioned that we were going to . . . to Pravont.”
“We?”
“I mean, I was going there. Of course I didn’t say, ‘we.’ I said, ‘I.’”
“So they have a poster of you. And you told them where you were going.”
“He didn’t recognize me,” insisted Edyon. “I would have known.”
“Yes, but next time he walks past that poster I’ll bet he has a little think, and then he mentions the remarkable likeness to one of his customers—who was on his way to Pravont—to the next sheriff’s man that comes in.” Holywell shook his head. “We need to move faster.”
Edyon’s face burned. “I’m sorry. I realize I made a mistake.”
“Do you, Your Highness? I’m so gratified.”
Holywell mounted his horse and set off.
Just to make things perfect, it started to rain.
* * *
The midges were thick in the air. March, Edyon, and Holywell were sitting around their campfire with cloths wrapped round their faces and necks, and their jackets tightly secured. The rain had been bad, but the midges, which had been attacking them from the instant the rain stopped, were worse.
March was picking at the last of the pie with his long, delicate fingers, while Holywell had his map out and was working out a route to Pravont that was not the way the innkeeper had told Edyon.
March said, “We could try cutting west, but I think there’ll be more sheriff’s men on this westerly road.”
Holywell shook his head. “We keep going to Pravont. We can’t risk getting a boat now—they’ll be watching the river—but we can cross there and go west to Rossarb. And from there it’s a ship to Calidor.”
“There’s nothing north of the Ross except the Northern Plateau,” Edyon said.
“Is that a problem for you, Your Highness?” Holywell asked with what Edyon thought was exaggerated patience.
“It’s forbidden. No one goes there.”
Holywell smiled. “I like the sound of it already.”
“It’s forbidden because it’s demon territory.”
If Holywell heard him, he ignored it.
“We’ll get more provisions in Pravont. And another horse to carry them.”
Holywell seemed determined, and Edyon didn’t have the will to argue with him. And after all, which was worse? The sheriff’s men or demons?
“Well, I’m sure we’re safe with you, Holywell, right, March?” He smiled at March, who turned his face away. “I’m sorry if I’ve made a mess of things.”
March glanced back at Holywell but didn’t say anything.
They sat in silence.
Edyon scratched his midge bites and then he had an idea. He took the bottle of demon smoke, uncorked it, holding his lips close to the top, breathed in a small wisp of smoke, and then put his mouth over the bites on his wrist. He looked at March, who was watching him closely and for once didn’t look away or pretend he wasn’t interested.
Edyon relaxed his lips, the smoke curling from his mouth, and he sucked it back in, showing off a little, and this time he took March’s wrist and put his mouth over the welts and held it there. Edyon half expected March to resist or snatch his hand away, but instead he let Edyon hold him and he kept totally still. Edyon could feel March’s pulse, slow and steady, as he held his mouth over March’s cool skin, but the smoke didn’t seem to move around the welts as it had done with his shoulder wound. Edyon breathed the smoke out and watched it float up and away, aware that Holywell was staring at him.
“I wanted to see if the smoke works on midge bites,” Edyon said.
“You’re not going to try it on mine, Your Highness?” Holywell asked.
The thought of touching Holywell with his hands, never mind his lips, made Edyon’s skin crawl, but he said, “You could try a little on yourself?” Edyon offered the bottle. “It relaxes you too. You might get a double benefit.” And he laughed at the thought of it.
“Seems the drug is affecting your brain but not the bites,” Holywell said, staring at Edyon’s wrist.
Holywell was right: the welts on Edyon’s and March’s wrists hadn’t improved.
Holywell snorted and lay down to sleep, saying, “March, you’re on first watch. Don’t you go getting drugged either.”
But a short time later, when Holywell’s snores became regular, March took out his knife and told Edyon, “I’m going to try something.”
Before Edyon could reply, March cut the flesh of his palm and took the bottle of smoke.
He mastered the technique first time, sucking a wisp in and then holding his lips over the cut. March breathed the smoke out and then raised his hand in front of his face.
The cut had healed.
“So it works on cuts but not bites,” Edyon said. “Though I’ve not really had a cut. I had bruises and a wobbly tooth. Will you try it on me?”
March hesitated. Then said, “If you wish, Your Highness.”
“Please don’t call me that,” Edyon said. “It sounds all wrong.”
Edyon held his hand out, and March grasped his wrist and, before Edyon could change his mind, March had cut the pad of his thumb with the tip of his knife.
March sucked in some smoke and put his lips on Edyon’s hand. Edyon closed his eyes. He could feel the smoke twining round his thumb, seeking out the wound, but he was mainly aware of March’s lips against his skin.
“Do you feel light-headed?” Edyon asked, his voice barely a whisper.
March grinned, which was a first. “A little. Sleepy too.”
“Sleep then,” said Edyon softly. “I’ll watch.”
And March lay down and covered his face against the midges while Edyon sat, gently st
roking his thumb against his lips.
AMBROSE
TORNIA, PITORIA
AMBROSE HAD ridden hard for three days from the northernmost part of Pitoria to the capital in the south. It was evening when he arrived in the city of Tornia. He was dirty, sweaty, and exhausted, and he was almost too late. The advance on the border by Aloysius’s troops would begin in less than a day, and the invasion of Pitoria would happen the day after that: the day of Catherine’s wedding.
As he entered the city, he stopped at a public well to drink and wash and heard people talking of Catherine’s procession to the capital.
“Well, I certainly never expected a Brigantine girl to be beautiful,” said one old man.
“And her dress!” said a woman. “And all the followers with white hair. So elegant. I might get mine done . . .”
Ambrose felt a twinge of jealousy that these people had seen Catherine more recently than he, but also a strange pride. She had clearly made a success of her progress to the city and an impression on its citizens, but that made it all the more galling that it was for nothing—her wedding no more than a distraction from the imminent invasion in the north. Even if Catherine had succeeded in winning the people over, that very success would soon be interpreted as her complicity in her father’s aims. Ambrose had to find a way to see her.
After darkness fell, and with the worst of the filth of the road sponged from his Royal Guard tunic, Ambrose rode through the streets of Tornia to the castle gates, where his path was blocked by a purple-haired soldier.
“Well met, sir. I’m Sir Ambrose Norwend. I’m with Princess Catherine.”
“Not at the moment you’re not.”
Ambrose smiled tightly. “I was delayed. Are you going to delay me more?”
The guard looked undecided for a moment, but then stepped to the side, allowing Ambrose through. He rode on, feeling hopeful, but that lasted only until the next gate, where the guard was less accommodating.