by Shae Ford
Muggy air hung thickly over the chancellor’s island castle. It was one of those windless days — the sort of day that left the sails empty and the deck baking hot. The weather would’ve been death to any man trapped at sea. His ship would drift sideways along the current, helpless and at the mercy of the waves while the sun drained him of his strength. Yes, to burn alive in the middle of the sea would’ve been a slow, humiliating way to die.
But it still wasn’t the worst fate Thelred could think up.
Blue flags draped from the castle, slack and still. Heat rose in waves all around them. He could see it shimmering off the cobblestone and along the arched tops of the merchants’ carts. Bodies moved in a line through the scant maze of earth left uncovered by the stalls.
Feet rolled beneath trousers and skirts, carrying with them a mass of frilled, colorful sludge that never seemed to end. Mouths moved constantly: opening and closing, blasting more hot air into a space that was already miserable enough. What could they possibly have to say? How could anybody stand to wander around with his mouth hanging trap-open in this miserable, awful —?
“Where’s the battle?” Aerilyn called from behind him.
Thelred wished there had been a battle. He’d rather have a sword hanging from his middle than have to endure this blasted heat. “There isn’t one,” he muttered.
“Exactly. So would you please quit stalking about like we’re expecting an invasion from the north? You’re scaring off all of our customers.”
That was easy for her to say. Aerilyn had traveled with merchants her whole life. She was used to the crowds and the stink — and the stifling heat, apparently. There wasn’t so much as a dark patch on her pale pink dress.
No, she lounged in a chair behind their stall, feet propped on an empty crate and one arm draped absently across the now-noticeable bump on her belly. She waved a blue fan with the other hand, keeping the heat off her face and neck.
She might’ve felt at home in this baking under-realm of a castle, but Thelred was used to a certain kind of life — one in which he’d bargained with his sword. “I’m not stalking. And I haven’t scared anybody off.”
Aerilyn pointed over his shoulder with her fan. “Really? Then what are they rushing off for?”
Thelred turned in time to see three young ladies cutting out of his way. They squealed when they saw him staring and darted off — cramming themselves and their frilly trappings down a passageway lined with baubles.
Aerilyn’s brows rose in mocking arcs. “They must’ve seen a mouse.”
Thelred tugged roughly on his trousers, even though he knew the peg would still show. “Well, what did you expect? Nobody’s going to get anywhere near us with this leg sticking out.”
“Nobody’s going to get anywhere near us with that frown sticking out,” Aerilyn retorted. “The leg is fine — charming, even.”
“It isn’t charming. It’s monstrous.” Thelred pulled on his trousers again, baring his teeth as he felt his raw skin scraping against the leather ties. “Who wants to buy anything from a one-legged man?”
Aerilyn pursed her lips. “If you’d stop being so beastly, I think you’d find that people are more willing to buy from a one-legged man. It’s all in how you limp.” She glanced down the stall, where a middle-aged merchant was inspecting a barrel of apples. Observe, she mouthed.
The merchant picked up an apple, turning it this way and that. “How much for a sack of these?”
“Twenty,” Aerilyn said.
He snorted. “No sack of apples is worth twenty. I could buy full-cooked tarts for less than twenty. I’ll offer you six.”
“Six?” Aerilyn said quietly. Her hand moved from the arm of her chair to the bump on her belly. “Could you do ten?”
He stared at her hand. Slowly, his brows went up and he let out a heavy sigh. “Very well. Ten it is — but not a copper more.”
“Oh, wonderful!” Aerilyn waved, and a grinning pirate stepped up to take the merchant’s coin. “Make sure he gets the best we have to offer.”
“I’ll pick them out myself,” the pirate said.
The moment the merchant and his apples had wandered out of earshot, Aerilyn gave Thelred a rather smug look. “See? Having a condition can improve your bargaining — if you use it properly, that is. No one’s going to feel sorry for you if you insist on scowling the skin off of them.”
“Good. I don’t want them feeling sorry for me. And I don’t have a condition — I’m a bloody cripple,” Thelred snapped. Sweat dripped off the end of his nose. He pulled roughly on the neck of his tunic. “I don’t see why we’ve got to be here again. We were just at this blasted castle!”
“A month ago,” Aerilyn reminded him.
“Right. And we made plenty of gold. So why do we have to drag our ship out here again if we’ve already got enough to feed the Bay?”
Aerilyn jabbed her fan at the blue shield on the chest of his tunic. “The chancellor’s council is in session — and like it or not, being the only merchant allowed in the Endless Plains makes you a part of that council,” she added when he started to argue.
He didn’t need to be reminded. Having that thing stitched to his tunic was reminder enough. It reminded him that he belonged to Chaucer — that he had to answer his every beck and call.
He had no idea what they were voting on. He never knew. All the other councilmen seemed to have at least some idea of what to expect, but Thelred didn’t care enough about the politicking and rumor-chasing to find out. To him, a session meant having to sit in a stuffy room for however long it took to draft a law and pass a vote — which, he’d quickly discovered, could take ages.
At their last meeting, Chaucer had kept them locked up for nearly an entire day. The servants weren’t allowed inside if the doors were closed. And in order to open the doors, the chancellor’s cabinet needed to be in agreement — which they weren’t. So the whole council had gone without food or drink for hours while Chaucer droned on about taxes.
Aerilyn had said it was some sort of trick: Chaucer had been trying to starve the votes he needed out of the opposing councilmen, and it’d worked. But by the end of it all, Thelred was furious — and having to sit in one place for so long had given him the chance he needed to plan his revenge.
So when it came time to open the voting chalice, he’d had some of the pirates drop Chaucer a little … gift, from the balcony.
“No mischief this time,” Aerilyn warned, as if she’d been reading his thoughts. “We’ve been lucky so far, but Chaucer already suspects that one of us was responsible for the bee incident — it isn’t funny!”
She batted at the pirates who’d been snickering behind her, swatting them away with her fan.
“Dropping an angry hive into the voting chalice isn’t appropriate councilman behavior! It wasn’t even that clever … all right, it was slightly clever.” Aerilyn’s brows dropped quickly over her smile. “But no more tricks. One toe out of line, and Chaucer will lock you all straight in the dungeons.”
“Let him try,” Thelred grumbled. He could feel the heat settling in the nub of his leg. It was pounding. Sweat rubbed him raw, scratched him against the leather. If he stood still, he would do nothing but think about it. So he started to walk.
“Where are you going?” Aerilyn called after him.
“To stretch my blasted leg out,” he snapped.
Thelred lurched through the crowded streets. The sludge peeled out of his way. Eyes scraped across him. Everyone was watching — no, they were staring. Their eyes were drawn to the clatter of his leg and they gaped at him openly, as if he deserved to be gaped at … and perhaps he did.
Thelred gasped against the stabbing of his knee for as long as he could before his breath grew too short. He stopped and balanced himself against a nearby cart, closing his eyes as the throbbing relented. The ache was still there. It would always be there, just as people would always be staring at him. But with his eyes closed, at least he couldn’t see the people.
There was nothing he could do about the ache.
The footsteps around him followed a pattern: the strollers, the rushers — the stomping of spoiled children. It was such a familiar racket that Thelred didn’t even realize he was listening to it until he heard something that sounded out of place.
Authoritative steps — the march of a guard about his duties. This was a sound Thelred had always had to be especially wary of, and he focused on it immediately.
A young forest man stepped out of the crowd and headed purposefully towards the gates. He wore a deep green tunic with the grand oak of Countess D’Mere stamped upon his chest — stamped right there in the middle, shining like a beacon. That dark-haired codpiece hadn’t even tried to hide it.
When the guards at the gates spotted him, Thelred expected him to get thrown out on his arse. But instead, they parted to let him through.
Thelred took a few halting steps forward. The guards had seen him. They knew full well what he was — and they’d still let him through. They waved him on like he had every right to be there, as if the Countess had any business at all in the seas. What were they think …?
Chaucer.
Bloody Chaucer, that idiot.
Pain stabbed him with every step, but Thelred willed himself towards the gates. The guards saw the badge on his chest as he approached and had moved well out of his way by the time he reached them.
“Councilman,” one of them grunted.
Thelred didn’t reply. He kept his eyes on the dark back of the forest man’s head. Everything else was a blur: the people, the carts and wagons, the guards who paced about their watches — they were nothing more than shadows in the corners of his eyes. He could follow at a distance in the courtyard. But when the forest man ducked inside the castle, Thelred had to hurry to catch up.
Blasted leg. He cursed as he swung it up the steps and to the large front door. The grand room in the heart of the castle was teeming with servants. They swarmed here and there, laying out the tables and chairs in preparation for the session.
Thelred knew it would be a dull evening. He was beginning to understand why Lysander had dumped the whole business on him in the first place: sitting through rump-numbing meetings was about the only thing he was good for.
The forest man’s head bobbed through the crowd, and Thelred followed closely. He glanced away when a familiar clanging sound caught his attention. A small army of servants was busily working a new piano out of a crate. He was certain the pale wood the instrument had been carved from couldn’t be found anywhere in the High Seas.
Chaucer, you idiot.
Thelred followed the forest man out of the ballroom. Deeper down the passageway, the noise of the servants faded — which made the clumping of his peg echo all the louder. Soon he had no choice but to slow and step carefully.
He cursed under his breath at the next corner — and swore aloud when he saw the hallway was empty. The forest man was gone.
Countless passageways twisted around the castle. If Thelred didn’t hurry up, he could lose him for good. He’d managed to go a few paces down the hall when he heard familiar steps coming from behind him. He turned in time to see the forest man cross the end of the hallway.
How had he gotten behind …?
Thelred didn’t have time to think about it. He moved as quickly as his leg would allow, lumbering to the hallway’s end. When he glanced around the corner, he saw the forest man standing outside a door. At his knock, a muffled voice bid him inside.
Thelred waited until the door had closed behind him before he ventured out.
He knew this hallway. This was where Chaucer kept his office. After what had happened to the Duke, the chancellor seemed unwilling to take risks: he kept his office in a windowless room on the bottom floor.
There was a brass keyhole set into the door. Thelred bit his lip against the stabbing in his leg as he bent to look through it. All he could see was a tapestry of a ship and the hem of a woman’s dress. She was sitting, one leg crossed over the other. He could see the slight heels of her pale blue slippers from beneath her skirt.
“I thank you for the gifts,” a voice said — a voice so solemn and undisturbed that he knew it belonged to Chaucer. “The instrument is very fine, of course. But I’m rather looking forward to discovering what’s inside those bottles.”
“My gift to the council — for welcoming me on such short notice,” a woman replied. “It’s an oak-aged liquor. I was hoping you might use it to open the session.”
“I see no reason why not. Having a bit of drink in us can only make the vote go smoother.” A moment of silence. Then, quite suddenly: “But I don’t understand why he sent you. I’ve already spoken with His Majesty’s envoy. He knows I’m open to an alliance.”
Thelred’s breath caught in his throat.
“The forest and the seas were allies, once. I hope we’ll soon be allies again. Consider my presence an act of faith,” the woman said. “The King wishes you to understand that there are lands that must be reclaimed — empty thrones that wait to be filled. The Sovereign Five squabbled over the mountains for years. You have a rare chance to extend your reach, Chaucer. The King would like for you to consider it.”
She spoke with all the deadly hush of lightning behind the clouds. A long moment passed before Chaucer replied: “I have absolutely no interest in a throne. A man who sits upon a throne is exposed to his people, but a man who sits behind a desk is protected. As chancellor, there are dozens of votes between me and any misfortune — and dozens of goats to shoulder the blame. A ruler has no such luxury. This business of new lands, however …” There was the tapping of papers being arranged; the clearing of a throat. “Are the rumors true, then? Has Titus really managed to carve a road through the mountains?”
“Yes,” the woman said. “The Earl believed he would be out of the King’s reach at the summit. But in trying to make his army’s path easier, he’s slit his own throat. Titus’s road runs directly to the gates of his castle. A well-stocked army will have no difficulty reaching it.
“The reign of the Sovereign Five has ended, chancellor,” the woman went on. “A new order has begun — one in which all who defy Midlan will be destroyed. You have a rare opportunity to earn the seas a little power over the other regions.” Her hands spread wide. “Don’t waste it.”
There was a creak as Chaucer shifted his weight. “It isn’t that simple. None of this will pass without a vote — and there are still plenty of councilmen against it. I’m afraid I’m little more than a mediator.”
“Reginald’s death left you in a dangerous position, chancellor,” the woman murmured. “You know this, and your people know it as well. You wouldn’t have offered Crevan your allegiance if you believed you had any other choice. There will be some resistance, I’m sure. But the King’s terms are not unreasonable, and there’s much to be gained. All you have to do is make sure the council sees it.”
There was a sound of fingernails raking across stubble. “And if it fails … what then?” Chaucer said after a moment. “The King won’t wait forever. What if I do everything in my power —?”
“You won’t have to do anything. The vote will pass.” Thelred could almost hear the smile in the woman’s voice as she added: “I’ll see to it.”
Chaucer’s harsh laugh grated against Thelred’s ears. Then came the rustling of parchment. “I’m going to keep these conditions close, if you don’t mind. It’s not that I don’t trust His Majesty’s word —”
“I’m a daughter of the seas, in case you’ve forgotten,” the woman murmured. “You don’t have to explain your reasoning to me.”
Chaucer laughed again, and the woman stood. Thelred was leaning to look through the top of the keyhole when a pair of strong hands grabbed him around the shoulders.
They swung him back — then hurled him through the door.
Chapter 27
On Good Terms
Splinters showered down Thelred’s neck as the latch gave way. His ears
went numb against the sound of his head slamming into the door’s hardened flesh. He fell flat on his chest and gasped at the sudden emptiness in his lungs.
No sooner had he struck the ground than the hands came back. They flipped him over roughly, forcing him to stare at the ceiling. The tip of a sword bit the middle of his chest. Thelred followed the steady line of the blade up to its wielder …
Impossible.
The forest man stared back at him — the very same man he’d seen enter Chaucer’s office. He heard the noise of a second blade sliding from its sheath and saw the forest man’s reflection standing at the other end of the room.
“There’re two of you,” he said without thinking.
“Twins,” a woman replied.
She stood before of one of Chaucer’s gaudy chairs, hands clasped at her middle. Golden brown hair flowed past her shoulders. The soft lines of her face drew him to her crystal eyes … but her stare made him shiver.
He knew without a doubt that this must be Countess D’Mere.
“What’s the meaning of this, chancellor?” the Countess said, without ever taking her eyes off of Thelred.
Chaucer hardly glanced up from the parchment he’d been reading. “That’s nothing more than a common sea thief, Countess. We’ve tried our best to civilize them, but it’s difficult to train rats.”
The Countess’s icy gaze never faltered. “I see. Shall I handle it?”
Chaucer sighed heavily as he stood. “No, you’d better let me.”
Thelred knew the moment he met Chaucer’s eyes that he was in very serious trouble — mostly because the left one was still a bit swollen.
It had been nearly a month since the bee incident. When Chaucer had opened the voting chalice and that hive had come crashing in, he’d thought it been worth it — worth the trouble, worth having to endure Aerilyn’s squawking for three days after, worth the few stings he’d gotten himself to watch the councilmen hike up their girth and run for their lives.
It’d certainly been worth the wait to see just how horribly Chaucer’s head would swell: he wound up having to wrap his face in bandages and call the session short.