In the Shadow of the Bear

by David Randall

  The Mayor of Low Branding sat in front of her on a small gilded chair. He wore a dark blue velvet doublet and hose, a scarlet tunic, and a jet black hat with a silvery feather protruding from the brim. Sapphires the size of robins’ eggs studded his golden belt and necklace. He examined Clovermead curiously, with calculation and almost with sympathy. The Mayor held a perfumed handkerchief to his nose and turned his face to one side when the wind blew toward him from Clovermead. He drummed his fingers with nervous satisfaction on his thin knees, crossed and uncrossed his legs, and rubbed his bulging stomach.

  Lucifer Snuff stood by the Mayor’s side. He was dressed in the same brown leather, muddy boots, and black cape he had worn when Clovermead first saw him back at the Ladyrest stable. Now he also wore strips of bear fur on his arms and legs. His balding pate and sharpened teeth shone in the sun. He slouched comfortably in His Eminence’s presence, his thumbs hooked through his belt. He nodded amiably to Clovermead when he saw her look his way—only a fiery shimmer in his eyes revealed his anger.

  Two popinjay Low Branding patricians and two grim bear-priests flanked the Mayor. The patricians regarded her with mild curiosity thinly veneered over profound indifference. The bear-priests looked at her with loathing but spent more time rolling their eyes every which way, wary for any sudden intruder.

  The little party stood surrounded by a tight circle of prison carts, whose wooden walls formed a stockade between them and the rest of the army. High over the far carts Clovermead could see the shining pink towers of Chandlefort.

  “We are pleased that you have agreed to appear before us,” said the Mayor. Clovermead could tell that he used the plural to refer to himself alone. His smooth, courteous voice rang out with power. “We regret the difficulties placed in the way of this meeting by inclement circumstance.”

  Why, you potbellied stoat of a kidnapper, Clovermead wanted to say, but the words didn’t make it past her lips. A brutal gleam in the Mayor’s eyes belied his affable smile. It warned her to be polite.

  “I do not believe you have been well served by your messenger, Your Eminence,” said Clovermead with a courtliness she thought would have made Sir Auroche proud. “His manners are sufficient to make repellent what was in its nature a most attractive invitation.”

  Snuff muttered an oath and the Mayor chuckled. “Miss Wickward, we must acknowledge that Lucifer is not graced with your smooth tongue. Nevertheless, he is efficient. We have very few such liege men.” The patricians bridled at his praise of the bear-priest, and the Mayor chuckled again. “Ah, but we need both bear-priests and patricians. Bear-priests are powerful, but patricians are loyal to us. Mr. Snuff and his furry friends cooperate wonderfully with our plans, but they obey Garum and Lord Ursus. We would be foolish to dispense with our steadfast patricians. Wouldn’t we, Lucifer?”

  “Your Eminence’s prudence is a byword,” said Snuff. He grinned broadly. “Lord Ursus is loyal to his good friends.”

  “Doubtless—but prudence will remain our principle.” The Mayor’s fingers fidgeted on his legs, then darted inside his tunic. He brought out Clovermead’s brooch. The dents had been smoothed from it, and it had been polished till it shone like white gold. Or was it truly white gold? The bee glittered, the sword gleamed, and Clovermead stared at it in amazement. The Mayor tossed the brooch from hand to hand and rubbed the metal between his fingers.

  “This is yours?” he shot out suddenly. “The truth, now.”

  “My father’s, Your Eminence,” Clovermead faltered. “He gave it to me for safekeeping. Your Eminence, I’m terribly thirsty. Will it please Your Eminence to be merciful and allow his prisoner some water to drink?”

  “Not yet, Miss Wickward,” said the Mayor. “Perhaps when you have finished answering our questions.”

  Thirst and hunger pummeled Clovermead. She swayed and almost fainted. She kept herself awake from pure defiance.

  “A good father should hand down his family heirlooms,” the Mayor continued agreeably. “Our father gave us the Stork Scepter, the Barrel Throne, the Mayor’s Palace, and the city of Low Branding to rule. His familial instincts were impeccable.” He smiled, but his eyes had turned cold. “Miss Clovermead, that brooch doesn’t belong to Mr. Wickward. He stole it from Lady Cindertallow. He was supposed to deliver it to us. Did you know that? Do you know what else he was supposed to bring us?”

  “Y-yes, Your Eminence,” said Clovermead at last. “You mean the Cindertallow Ruby.”

  “The Cindertallow Ruby?” the Mayor asked softly.

  “He told me everything,” said Clovermead. “Except where he put the Ruby. He told me how Snuff got him to help steal the Ruby and how he went into the Treasure Room at Chandlefort and how he took the Ruby from its case. He said he took this brooch, too, and that he’d turned it into some sort of treasure map, if you knew how to read it right. The brooch will show you the way to the Ruby. Please, Your Eminence, I don’t know how it can be a map, or where the Ruby is, or anything. He didn’t tell me any more. I wish he had, but he didn’t. You can torture me, but it won’t help. Your Eminence, if the brooch doesn’t help you, I’m sure you could trade me to my father for directions to the Ruby. I know he was glad to keep the Ruby away from Low Branding and Chandlefort, but he stole it a long time ago. I think he’d gladly tell you where it is if you’d give me back to him.”

  “You are misinformed,” the Mayor said. His lips were trembling. Snuff’s eyes were aflame with glee. “You are dreadfully misinformed. We are quite sure that Mr. Wickward will do no such thing. In the first place, Miss Wickward, we are informed that he has been taken within the walls of Chandlefort. He will do nothing contrary to the will of Lady Cindertallow. For another, Miss Clovermead Wickward, you have been misinformed for a terribly long time.” The Mayor paused and laughed. “There is no such thing as the Cindertallow Ruby. There is no Treasure Room in Chandlefort. What we seek is something entirely different.”

  And the Mayor burst into peals of uncontrollable laughter. Snuff yelped and slapped his thighs. The two of them laughed and laughed, while Clovermead clenched her fists and tried very, very hard to keep herself from helpless sobs. They must be telling the truth: They wouldn’t laugh so hard, so genuinely, unless they were. Was there no end to her father’s deceits? He was false all the way to his lying heart, and only pain and death were truth. That she now knew.

  The Mayor wiped tears from his eyes and suppressed his chortles. “Only a child raised in a rude land would believe such a preposterous tale. Do not take our words too harshly,” he added hastily, for tears now glittered in Clovermead’s eyes. “You are not to blame for the circumstances of your upbringing. No. But, Miss Wickward, we assure you that there is no Chandlefort Ruby. Hence the trade you propose is, well, out of the question. No, no, the only trading going on will be between Lady Cindertallow and ourself. And for an entirely different sort of gem.” He yelped with laughter, as if at some particularly clever witticism.

  “There is a simpler way, Your Eminence,” said Snuff. “If you would choose to read the prophecies in a different manner.” His eyes rested lightly on Clovermead. “What did the chit call it? The Chandlefort Ruby. You can take the Chandlefort Ruby for yourself and claim Chandlefort with it. You can get rid of the Ruby afterward. Chandlefort will still be yours.”

  “We are not so ambitious,” said the Mayor. “Nor are we so afflicted by hubris as to try to twist prophecy. It is a most dangerous simplicity you suggest. Besides, it is unnecessarily bloody, Lucifer. You have many valuable skills, but you have no sense of politics. That procedure would make a bad impression on many important people. And we are not in a position to ignore impressions. No, no, not nearly. And, Lucifer, your people don’t help.” He shook his head disapprovingly. “We recognize that Lord Ursus requires certain necessary rituals. But your priests could be more polished. Smoother. You are relatively smooth, Lucifer. Could you not instruct your fellows?”

  The bear-priests glowered more determinedly than ever. “Lord Ursus t
ears roughly at a man’s heart,” said Snuff. “He is not smooth. I”—Snuff smiled—”I came naturally to his precepts, Your Eminence. I slid with his claws.”

  “And so you are a courteous beast,” the Mayor said with a laugh. Snuff laughed too, but only with his mouth. His eyes were stony. The Mayor looked idly back at Clovermead. “We have been inattentive of you during our little badinage, Miss Wickward. We apologize for the discourtesy. Tell us, what has Mr. Wickward told you of Lady Cindertallow?”

  “Very little, Your Eminence.” Clovermead desperately ransacked her memory. “She made my father and his parents work very hard. Father said his parents got worked to death in her service. He hated her. I suppose she’s haughty. Father said all the lords and ladies of Chandlefort were haughty.”

  “Mmm. Mr. Wickward is most perceptive. She is very arrogant. Perhaps we could have avoided this war if she had not been so haughty.” The Mayor shrugged. “Or perhaps not. They say one yard isn’t big enough for two dogs.” He laughed delightedly. “The peasants have such amusing phrases. Dear me. But Lady Cindertallow is also a woman of honor and a woman of heart, within her narrow bounds. Miss Wickward, do you know that we could have forced Chandlefort to recognize Low Branding’s independence twelve years ago, if not for your father’s unexpected thievery?”

  Clovermead shook her head. She did not dare to speak.

  “We based our actions on Lady Cindertallow’s honor and heart. And then your father intervened—these have been a most frustrating twelve years. We had hoped to be undisputed sovereign of Low Branding in our prime. Instead our son will inherit that pleasure.” The Mayor sighed. “Well, it is over now, and Lady Cindertallow’s honor and heart are intact, if our spies are to be believed. As always, complex ways are slow but certain. Events have borne out that truth, Lucifer, have they not?”

  “So it would seem, Your Eminence,” said Snuff.

  “The appearance is the truth,” said the Mayor, getting stiffly to his feet. “Our bones ache. We are not as fit for campaign as we once were. Well and well. Lucifer, you have kept Miss Wickward ignorant. Well done—you will be rewarded. Miss Wickward, we do apologize for the air of mystery. It is probably unnecessary, but prudence is our watchword. If it is any comfort, you will find out the truth soon enough.”

  “Will I be free when I learn the truth, Your Eminence?” asked Clovermead.

  “A philosopher would say yes,” said the Mayor with a thin smile. “But you are not interested in moral theorizing. You will probably become free, Miss Wickward. That is all we can honestly say. Lucifer, she will not set your bears on our army again, will she? Too many of our soldiers died in that skirmish.”

  “I’ve searched her for my tooth,” Snuff said. “It’s not there. She must have lost it in the raid.”

  “Then, we need not keep the young lady in the carts.” The Mayor turned to one of the popinjays by his side. “Seneschal, Miss Wickward needs food and water, a bath, and a change of wardrobe. She will not make a good impression in her current state. You will arrange it?”

  “At once, Your Eminence,” said the Seneschal.

  “But don’t lose track of her—eh, Seneschal?” The Mayor’s voice was suddenly sharp and grim. “She is a very important prisoner.”

  The Seneschal blanched. “She won’t escape, Your Eminence,” he said in a stifled tone.

  “We will have your head off if she does,” said the Mayor.

  Chapter Sixteen

  The Prophecy of Mrs. Neap

  The Seneschal tied Clovermead’s hands behind her back and kept a tight grip on her shoulder as they exited through the stockade of prison carts. Infantrymen in parade uniform hastily closed the breach behind them. At the Seneschal’s brusque direction two of them marched up to escort Clovermead through the camp. The little party plunged into the iridescent tents of the Mayor’s entourage—young patricians clad in harlequin hues who all seemed to be fencing, drinking, gambling, and swearing lightly about their losses as their servants hurried to and fro, catering to their masters’ whims. The young men cheerfully greeted the Seneschal and looked curiously at Clovermead. The Seneschal grunted his replies and hurried on.

  They came to the servants’ quarters—a place of smaller, plainer tents, mixed with outdoor kitchens and clotheslines. Butlers, cooks, and laundresses chattered amiably with one another as they did their work, and bowed respectfully to the Seneschal. The laundresses clucked their tongues with pity to see Clovermead’s slight figure rushed along by great soldiers.

  The Seneschal beckoned a group of servants standing nearby to attend him. “Mr. Cofferdam,” he said to a hulking redhead, “this young lady needs new clothes. Please fetch Master Carnelian’s tailor—I know the old fellow’s cut dresses for that brewer’s daughter Carny’s so fond of. When you’re done with that, tell my cook to bring a good, hot meal here in an hour. Mr. Jetty, the girl will need privacy, and we need more space than a tent can provide. Please bring some screens. Miss Quay, please fetch a nightdress for her. What she has must be burned, and the tailor ought not to approach her while she is naked. And—what’s your name again?” The Seneschal frowned in puzzlement at a tall, middle-aged woman with a homely face.

  “Mrs. Neap, milord,” she said, curtseying.

  “Ah, yes, I remember now,” said the Seneschal, who plainly didn’t. “Mrs. Neap, please arrange for hot water and a tub. You will bathe the young lady. Also, bring her breakfast and tea. Soldiers, the three of us will watch the screen while the girl remains inside it. Be prepared for her to attempt a sudden escape.” He clapped his hands and the servants scattered to obey his orders.

  In a few minutes Mr. Jetty returned with curved wooden screens that formed a circle thirty feet across. As he set them up near the servants’ tents on a snowless gray-red expanse of crumbling rock and sparse weeds, Miss Quay came up with a small white nightgown and thin blue slippers, which she left on a wooden chair within the screens. Mrs. Neap returned with a bowl of oatmeal and a steaming teapot, then in three more trips came back with a large woolen rug that she spread on the screened-in ground, two slim chairs, and a five-foot copper tub. Several laundresses came in her train, each hoisting a cauldron of boiling water in her mittened hands. The laundresses poured the water into the tub till it was nearly full to the brim, and left several more cauldrons nearby, with steam trickling from their lidded tops.

  “The young lady will bathe now,” said Mrs. Neap firmly. She shooed everyone out of the enclosure, shut the screens firmly, then turned and smiled gently at Clovermead. “That’s all right, my dear. You sit down by the tub, get yourself a bite to eat, and wait for the water to cool down a bit. Here, I brought you a towel and soap.” She handed them to Clovermead, who let them drop by her side, then joined towel and soap on the wool rug.

  Clovermead gulped at the oatmeal and gasped as the hot mush burned her throat. She washed it down with a draught of tea. “I don’t understand,” she said. “First they shut me up in that horrible prison cart, and now I’m about to have a hot bath. I suppose there’s some reason for what they’re doing, but I am utterly perplexed.”

  “His Eminence has a mind like a corkscrew, so don’t try following it unless you want to end up in knots. Will your mystification keep you from bathing?”

  “Not unless the Mayor put sharks in the tub.”

  “There are no animals in any bath I make,” sniffed Mrs. Neap. Clovermead smiled to see her look so proudly disgusted at the idea. “Dear me, if you’re well enough to laugh, you’re well enough to get yourself into this tub. Off with your clothes and in you go!”

  “Yes, ma’am,” said Clovermead. She seems nice enough, thought Clovermead, like Goody Weft or Goody Merrin or someone like that. She even looks like somebody or another that I knew in Timothy Vale. They did say Gaffer Bolts had an aunt who married a pilgrim from Low Branding. I wonder if this is her daughter? I’ll have to ask her. She finished gobbling her oatmeal, and in a trice she had shucked her clothes and plopped herself into the hot wat
er.

  “Stay still,” Mrs. Neap commanded as she commenced to wash the dirt from Clovermead. “I’m sure you just want to play in the hot water, but we need to get you clean first. The tub will cool before you know it, and who’s going to be heating new water for you? Some poor woman with something better to do with her time. Ee, those scars are ugly.” She ran the washcloth gently over Clovermead’s tooth-welted hand and arm. “My dear, how did you do that? And all those bruises . . .” Clovermead hissed as the washcloth ran over the bump on her head. “Who on earth did all this to you?”

  “Bear-priests,” said Clovermead. “Your Mayor’s friends.”

  “Oh, them,” said Mrs. Neap with unveiled distaste. She scrubbed harder at Clovermead’s back. The pressure of her hands hurt Clovermead’s bruises but relaxed the tight knots in her muscles. “I won’t speak a bad word of His Eminence, but I wish he hadn’t allied himself with that lot. They’re nasty men, those bear-priests. You poor thing. But there’s no helping what can’t be helped, as my mother used to say. And you’re not too badly hurt—you’re lucky, miss, if half what they say about the bear-priests is true. Can I trust you to soap yourself?”

  Clovermead giggled. “I’m not going to throw the soap out of the tub, if that’s what you mean. And I do want to be clean, really clean. That prison cart was just awful.” Mrs. Neap drew in her breath sharply. “I underwent but a day or two of horror, but those other prisoners must have been locked up for years. I think you ought to speak horrid and terrible truths of His Eminence, to speak nothing of a bad word. He bears responsibility for the evils of the bear-priests, and what they do is terrible. Oh! My stomach’s rumbling. The oatmeal was awfully nice, but there wasn’t that much of it. My stomach is not appeased. How long till that hot meal comes?”