Badgerblood: Awakening

by S. C. Monson

  At last, Peter slipped from the room and into the kitchens beyond. It was gloriously warm. Workers hurried in and out of other pantries, and no one seemed to notice him. Steam billowed up from pots around him. Whole hogs turned on spits over open fires. Cooks minced while servants roasted and stirred. Tall, slim-boned hounds slunk under the chopping tables, sniffing out crumbs and evading kicks. The room was lit with hearthfires, lanterns, and the waning daylight that streamed through a row of windows in the wall opposite.

  Peter made his way toward the nearest servant, a slim, cherry-cheeked woman with youth in her step. His efforts to limp confidently set his leg cramping. The woman bounced between two cauldrons, sprinkling herbs and stirring thick, bubbling liquid to keep it from burning.

  “Excuse me, miss—?” Peter asked, politely touching the brim of his beret.

  The woman glanced at him. Her round face was dusted with flour and her dimpled cheeks pudged up in a smile. “It’s Mabel, love. You new?”

  “Yes, and I seem to be lost. Could you point me in the direction of the prison kitchens?”

  Mabel swiped a raven lock from her eyes and leaned back, eyeing him piteously. “Oh, I’d hardly call them kitchens, love—broken down bit o’ shed with a leaky roof.” She shook her head in obvious disgust and waved a ladle at the kitchen side doors. “They’re behind the soldiers’ barracks. Ask for Aloysius. Tell him Mabel sent you. He’ll set you up proper.”

  “Thank you, Miss Mabel.” Peter gave a little bow and started on his way.

  Mabel giggled and called after him in a merry tone. “While you’re there, you might teach that sweetheart of mine a few manners.”

  Peter smiled grimly to himself and slipped a butcher knife from a table. I’ll teach him more than that if he gets in my way. But he just touched his beret again and nodded pleasantly over his shoulder before slipping through the side doors.

  21

  The guards in the square room shot to their feet as the king stormed from the interrogation chamber. As soon as His Majesty was gone, Joshua McNeetch dropped his salute and slumped into the chair at his desk with an irritated grunt. Two of Martt’s escort remained standing by the interrogation door. The other two prison guards sat with their backs to Joshua, ignoring him and playing another game of Shapes.

  The warden sighed. Interrogations usually soured his temper, but today was particularly bad. He had yelled at the prison guards, blaming them for the prisoner’s escape, knowing full well he was just as much to blame, if not more. He shook his head in disgust.

  Losing your blasted grip, Joshua. He flicked a crumb from his desk and picked at the keys on his belt. For years, he had served faithfully as Head Prison Guard, picking up shifts for sick guards in the prison here and the one in the castle. In all that time, no prisoner under his watch had ever escaped. Until today.

  The clomp of boots in the hallway interrupted his miserable thoughts. Joshua glanced up. A man in a white beret, holding a cloth bundle under one arm, lugged a pot into the guardroom. The smell of overcooked meat and onions wafted from it. Another cook limped after him, carrying a second pot. This man was trimmed in the more delicate attire of a castle kitchen cook, and there was a butcher knife tucked into the belt loop of his tunic. His leggings looked a little odd. Too wide. Or perhaps too short? Maybe both… Never mind—it was hard enough to find the right size uniform these days.

  Joshua directed his anger and embarrassment of the past hour at the first newcomer. “You bringing that pig slop in here again, Aloysius?”

  Aloysius glared back and thumped the pot on Joshua’s desk. Liquid sloshed over the rim and onto Joshua’s boots.

  The warden leapt to his feet and the chair toppled over. “Oi, watch it!”

  “Sal-ma-gun-di,” Aloysius said, emphasizing each syllable.

  “Eh?” Joshua stopped shaking a soiled boot to eye him.

  The man nodded at the pot. “This here is salmagundi stew,” he said, fairly growling. “Count yourself lucky it still has the anchovies and beef.”

  Joshua glared down at the pot. Rubbery chunks of meat and vegetables bobbed among indiscernible globs on the oily surface. The wiry cook beside Aloysius looked far more appetizing in his paprika-red tunic and parsley-green leggings. Like a festival hog, trimmed for a feast. But Joshua had never been one for cannibalism. He scowled at the stew. “Looks more like Aloysius-refuse to me. Whatever it is, I wouldn’t feed it to a dog.”

  In truth, Joshua knew salmagundi to be quite tasty, so long as it was served fresh and made with today’s ingredients. Unfortunately, this pot of stew was on its fourth day and beginning to wear on his stomach.

  The cook’s face was mottled red with rage. His cloth bundle was on the table now, the long, skinny item dented under his fist. Despite his guilty conscience, Joshua could not stop the next snide comment from slipping out.

  “Ooh.” He pulled a long face. “Have I offended your Royal Cook-ship? My humblest apologies,” he said, stooping low to bow.

  The bundle nearly split in two as Aloysius ground his fist into it harder. “You can forget Mabel’s when your shift ends tonight, brother.” His voice was low and quiet. “I’ll have Jib whip up a meal for you instead.” With that, he spun on his heel and stomped from the room.

  “That’s fine by me,” Joshua shouted after him. He slammed his chair upright and slumped into it, muttering under his breath. “Didn’t want to eat at Mabel’s anyway.” After a moment, he noticed the second cook fiddling with something beside the prison room door. His pot sat beside him. The keys to the prison room that usually hung from the peg beside the door were missing. “You there.” Joshua strode over and snatched the keys from the man.

  The man’s hand rested on the knife in his belt loop. “Just going in to feed the prisoners, sir.” His voice was muffled as he spoke, but there was a hardness to the one silver-blue eye showing under the beret that made Joshua draw back.

  “Well, you go through me, first,” Joshua said, faltering. “Understand?” The man hesitated, then nodded. Black beard hair bristled out around the edges of his cook’s face mask. Joshua unlocked the door and returned to his desk. The other two guards were staring at him. “What are you gawking at?” He waved at the pot and bundle on his desk. “Clear this off and help the man feed the prisoners.” They hastened to obey, moving the items to their own table. Joshua slouched in his chair, glaring off at nothing in particular as the two followed the cook into the prison chamber.

  Mabel was his brother’s girl, a slim, merry little sweetheart who seasoned food so well that Joshua almost forgot they were leftovers. She worked in the castle kitchens and often brought home scraps, mostly chunks of fruit and vegetables, or tough bits of meat. At least once a week, Joshua and Aloysius ate at her place. Her food was far better than anything Joshua ever had at work. He dropped his head in his hands, groaning at the thought of Jib’s cooking. Mabel’s cooking was far better than Aloysius’s, but Aloysius’s was still leaps and bounds better than Jib’s. The other guards often joked that Jib’s cooking could bring down a borlan.

  Joshua sighed, dragging his hand down his face and pulling at his cheeks. He closed his eyes and massaged them, berating himself for lashing out at his brother. The prison chambers were straining his nerves. Had been for weeks. The tortured screams of prisoners gave him headaches and put him in a foul mood.

  Stuck in the dungeon with no recognition and no time to visit my boy. You’d think I was the prisoner. Every week, he sent his son the food rations and coppers he earned, but it never seemed like enough. The last time he had seen him, the boy’s ribs were practically poking through his skin. The boy could stay with Joshua within the castle walls if he chose, but he refused. When he had last tried to join the ranks, the soldiers had laughed him out of the castle walls and called him “papa’s little runt.” The young teenager had not set foot past the castle gate since. He preferred to prove himself by living on his own, or until he could figure a way to sneak into the army as an underage soldie
r.

  “Stubborn, prideful boy,” Joshua said under his breath. But the same pride and stubbornness flowed in his veins and it had just suffered the shattering blow of a prisoner’s near escape.

  An idea came to mind and he straightened in his chair. The same idea had been pestering him more and more lately. He glanced at a drawer in his desk and reached for it. For a moment, his hand hovered near the knob, then, making his decision, he pulled it open and drew out a parchment. An inkstand sat in the corner of his desk. He dragged it toward him and picked up the quill. A change of duties was in order. Start fresh on something new, that’s what he ought to do…give his nerves a rest. He tapped his chin with the quill, considering. Wall duty could be pleasant enough. A soldier would have to endure all kinds of weather, especially in the upcoming season, but the pay was better. The food, too, was more tolerable, or so Joshua had heard. Besides that, the fresh air would do him good. With a determined nod, he dipped the quill in his ink bottle and started writing:

  I, Joshua, McNeetch, reekwusts transfer to kassul wall dooteee dyutee…

  Joshua stopped writing and cocked his head at the paper. Somehow, the words didn’t quite seem right. With a grunt of frustration, he crumpled the paper and chucked it under his desk.

  The two guards and the cook returned from the prison chamber. The guards settled down at the table for another game of Shapes while they ate. The cook made for the interrogation room.

  Joshua stopped him with a wave of his hand. “Nothing in there.” The cook hesitated. “There’s more prisoners in the building next door, and the castle,” Joshua said, jerking his chin at the exit. “Got some of our most wanted felons in the lower chambers. Go feed them.”

  The cook nodded and moved away. Joshua watched him go, then drew out another paper and started writing again.

  I, Joshua McNeetch

  He paused. At least he knew how to spell his own name.

  rekwests

  That definitely looked better.

  transfer to

  He looked up at the two men sitting at the table. “Oi, Carrigan.”

  One of the guards, his cousin, reluctantly turned toward him. Thankfully the man had stopped calling him Joshua in front of the other soldiers.

  “Sir?” Carrigan asked nervously.

  Joshua eyed his paper. “If you had an itch to write castle in, say, an official-like letter, what spelling would you use?”

  Carrigan scratched the back of his neck and squinched his face at the warden. “Why? You got some sort of spelling affliction?” The guard across from Carrigan sniggered. Joshua turned red and Carrigan blanched as he seemed to realize what his words implied. He kicked his sniggering comrade under the table and the man, apparently recognizing the danger as well, shut up. “That is to say,” Carrigan added hastily before Joshua could assign them both to cleaning chamber pots, “I generally likes to say it with a kah.” Unfortunately, the statement sounded more like a question. He cleared his throat. “Yes, sir, definitely a kah.”

  Joshua peered shrewdly down his nose at him. “Kah, eh?” The tips of Carrigan’s ears turned red as he nodded.

  After a long silence, Joshua finally dropped his gaze to the parchment. Kah… Kah… He did not dare admit that he’d forgotten which letter made that sound. Q, K, C, he thought. And c-k. Or was it k-c? Maybe k-k… He settled on the latter.

  Kkassul wall duty…

  That looked better. Joshua beamed at his letter. The door to the interrogation chamber creaked open. He dropped his quill, standing at attention as Martt and his escort approached.

  “No one is to enter that chamber until I give the word,” Martt said.

  Joshua nodded. “Yes, sir.”

  Martt’s gaze dropped to the paper on the desk. He tilted his head at it, then eyed the warden who was avoiding eye contact. “I would not have promoted you to this position if I did not trust you, McNeetch,” the commander said at last. “And I do. We all make mistakes. The key is to learn from them, not run. Remember that.”

  “Yes, sir.” Joshua’s response was a weak mutter and his insides felt like rocks.

  “That said, I think a change can be arranged. Something with a bit more air, perhaps?” Joshua’s face brightened as Martt continued. “And I’ll see what can be done about getting Kellrin into the ranks.” His mouth twitched in an amused grin as he glanced at the parchment again. “No need for a letter.”

  At the mention of his son, Joshua’s eyes went wide and he responded more heartily. “Yes, sir.”

  Another smile played at the corners of Martt’s lips. He nodded, then turned to leave and his escort followed. Joshua watched them go, then dropped his hand to the parchment. He let it rest there a moment before crumpling the paper in his fist.

  22

  Leon paced the floor before his hearth, clenching and unclenching his fists. With every turn back and forth, he ground his feet into the lush carpet. The boy was alive. Kor, as the murdering forest rat called himself, was alive. A phantom from the past, sent to haunt Leon and destroy everything he had worked so hard to build. As he paced, he muttered viciously to himself. “I should have killed the rat long ago, when he killed her.” His throat tightened with the painful memory.

  He strode to his desk and dropped into the padded armchair, drumming furiously on the armrest. The logs on the fire crackled and spit, mirroring his mood. He glared at the glow, letting the flames burn into his retinas. A knock came at the door. Leon stopped drumming and glanced left. The knock came again and he huffed impatiently.

  “Yes, come in.”

  Martt entered, closing the door behind him. He slapped both fists to his chest in the king’s salute, and bowed.

  “Ah, Commander Veen.” Leon relaxed and allowed himself a smile. “Report.”

  “The antivenom has been administered, sire, and I gave the prisoner an antidote to purge the chlorweed from his system. His wounds are bound, the scar on his chest is covered, as you ordered, and he is confined to the interrogation room.”

  Leon nodded. “Good, good.” He didn’t want rumors spreading that a phantom had returned. He stroked the connecting mustache and trim, pointed beard that framed his mouth. “And what of his friends—Peter? The McPhersons?”

  “My men have been sent to arrest the miller and his daughter, but…” Martt hesitated.

  Leon’s smile began to fade. “Yes?” he said slowly.

  “The woodsman escaped.”

  There was a stony silence. When Leon spoke again, his voice was barely audible. “Escaped?”

  Martt nodded.

  The king dug his fingers into the armrests. “That blasted traitor has slipped through our hands many times over the past few years,” he said through his teeth. “I hoped this time would be different.” He clenched his fists. “I want the McPhersons questioned. Use spicer venom if necessary, but don’t kill them yet. Find out everything they know or suspect about Kor and his past, and who they may have told.” Martt started to bow in compliance. “And commander.” Martt glanced up as Leon added menacingly, “Find Peter. I want him alive.”

  Martt left. Leon glowered at the fire, wondering how much they all knew—Eliker, Serah, and Peter, the blasted traitor. Perhaps nothing, perhaps all. The rat himself seemed incapable of recalling much—his scar, his origins, his gift…his potential.

  Another knock sounded on the door.

  “What is it now?” he said, not bothering to hide his irritation.

  A tall, gangly youth stepped into Leon’s chambers. “You sent for me?” His tone was flat, almost bored.

  “Ah, Merrick.” Leon’s expression softened as he studied the boy. Half curls of walnut hair crowded the young man’s head. They were coaxed over and around each other in a small, haphazard-looking peak above his forehead. Leon fought the urge to run a hand over his own balding crown and gestured to a chair by the fireplace. “Sit.”

  Merrick flopped into it and slouched against the backrest. One lanky leg stretched out before him and the other b
ent under his seat as he rolled a coin almost nonstop over his knuckles.

  Leon’s gaze flicked to the coin, then he sucked in his cheeks and forced himself to relax. “You’ve been fraternizing with the guests.”

  The youth kept his eyes on his coin. “A good host does that on occasion. Not that you would know anything about that.”

  The king’s nostrils flared. “You have certain duties as prince, my son,” he said, in a low, deliberate tone. “Among them, your arranged marriage to the empress-to-be of Salkar, not Lady Allinor of Tilldor.”

  “You’re so keen on the marriage, why not marry the spoiled beauty yourself,” Merrick said under his breath.

  “Tempting offer, but no.” Leon sighed heavily and leaned forward. Resting an elbow on his desk, he massaged his temples with his thumb and middle finger. “I am securing your future, not mine.”

  “Is that why more than half the tax proceeds go into your personal treasury?” Merrick muttered.

  Leon’s patience broke. He slammed his fist on the desk. Merrick didn’t even have the courtesy to twitch. “I have tolerated your childish impertinence long enough,” Leon said. “You have a duty, boy. I expect you to fulfill it. Remember, you chose the union with Salkar.”

  The prince looked up, locking eyes with his father. “That’s because the only other option you gave me was the Vahindi Isles queen. Even most of her own people hate her.”

  “And she will remain your recourse should you attempt to cross me in this,” Leon said darkly.

  Merrick shot to his feet, chest heaving. The chair teetered, then slammed back to all fours as he clenched the coin in his fist. Without another word, he made for the door.

  Struggling to compose himself, Leon settled back in his chair. “We are not finished yet,” he said.

  Slowly, Merrick turned to face him and gave a low, insincere bow. “My liege. You have more to command?”