The Queen's Tower

by J. S. Mawdsley

  “I slept poorly last night,” she said. Too many dreams. Not bad dreams, precisely, but terrible all the same, because they left her panting and sweating and quivering.

  “Try some Annenstruker whiskey before bed,” said Anik. “It always works for me. Now, my lady,” he bowed slightly, “I’ll go tell Grigory to gather his notes and charts and such. You’ll be late for your meeting at the university if you don’t leave soon.”

  Daryna went to the door of the queen’s suite and looked out again. Just to be on the safe side, she tried yet another detection spell.

  This time she felt a pulse along her jawline and a sensation like a rushing wind, though there was no sound at all. One second, the hallway was empty, and then Caedmon Aldred blinked into existence right in front of her. He was far more richly-dressed than usual, in blue velvet robes and the gold chain of a privy councilor. His bushy, reddish-brown eyebrows were contracted in a scowl, and he had his arms crossed.

  “Is something the matter?” he asked.

  She had spent so many years away from other hillichmagnars that she had forgotten basic etiquette. Sending out a flurry of detection spells was like throwing pebbles at someone’s window over and over again.

  “Oh! I’m sorry,” she gasped. “You must be wondering what I’m doing up here.”

  He looked past her at the stained-glass window of Leofe the Blessed, then met Daryna’s eyes again. “I would assume that you are trying to discover if a hillichmagnar is nearby. Somehow I doubt the hillichmagnar you are seeking is me.”

  Her cheeks burned. “Have you heard from Faustinus? Is he in town yet?”

  “I do not believe so.” Caedmon’s thick eyebrows rose. “But then, you know as well as I do that one can never really tell with Faustinus.”

  “Very true. I really am sorry to bother you. You weren’t busy, were you?”

  “I was with the king and his council.” His scowl returned. “Why are you and the queen still here? I thought I heard that you were all going to the university today.”

  Briefly, Daryna explained about Nina’s letter. Caedmon looked visibly relieved when he heard that Anik would stay behind to make sure that Nina didn’t write anything impolitic.

  It suddenly occurred to Daryna that she was just as likely to run into Faustinus in the city streets as she was to meet him here at the castle. He might even try to follow her, in fact. That meeting—the inevitable meeting—would be far less awkward, far less fraught with all sorts of dangers, if Caedmon were there, too.

  “Listen, I don’t suppose you’d like to come along to the university with us,” she said. “You must know all the most prominent professors, and I’m sure they would be more apt to listen to you than to Grigory or to me, whom they’ve never even met.”

  Caedmon bowed. “I wish I could be of service, but truly, I must return to the council meeting. The king will be wondering where I have gone.” He gave her an avuncular sort of smile. “I promise that if I hear any news of Faustinus, you will be the first to know. After all, we three still need to decide what we will do for the entertainment at the feast.”

  “Oh, yes. That.” One more thing to worry about.

  “Perhaps we could discuss it this afternoon over tea,” he suggested.

  Daryna nodded, and then Caedmon vanished again, returning to the council chamber with the same transport spell that had brought him upstairs.

  Moments later, she was joined at the doorway by Mr. Kemp and Grigory, each of whom had a satchel of charts and papers.

  “Time to be going now,” Mr. Kemp said. “My friend, Professor Lord Randal, will be waiting for us.”

  The Duke of Leornian had loaned them one of his carriages for the day, which turned out to be fortunate. The sky darkened, and before they left the Bocburg, a sudden downpour struck. Rain drummed and pounded on the carriage roof. It filled the gutters of the city streets and streamed down the overhanging second stories of the big, half-timbered shops.

  They passed along one side of the great cathedral square, nearly empty except for a few workmen and apprentice boys running for cover. Then they reached the university, where the buildings bristled with spires and buttresses and glowering old statues. In flashes of lightning, Daryna caught the silhouettes of domes and cupolas high above them. Warm, inviting firelight shone in high, narrow windows, but most of the gates seemed to be locked.

  Following Mr. Kemp’s directions, they stopped under a wide archway and took a creaking, sagging old wooden staircase to the second floor, where they entered a dimly-lit, dark-paneled room that smelled of pipe smoke, ancient dust, and mildew. A brass plaque on the door proclaimed it the “Fellows’ Common Room.”

  A pale, slender, balding man in patched gray robes rose from a rocking chair to greet them. Mr. Kemp introduced the man as Professor Lord Eugene Randal, Baron of Helmsted, famous as the author of Myrcia’s largest catalog of ferns, although the professor dismissed this as “merely a trifle.”

  “My daughter, Haley, happens to be lady-in-waiting to the queen,” he said, proudly. “Her majesty has asked, as a personal favor, that I gather all of our best natural philosophers to help with...,” his smile faltered, “with whatever it is you need help with, obviously.”

  Two other professors wandered over from the dingy recesses of a small library. One man was enormously fat, with red, sweaty jowls. The other was wizened and bent nearly double, with a long beard that he had tucked into his waistcoat, presumably to keep from stepping on it.

  The fat man was named Professor von Kolwitz, who specialized in astronomy. The older man was Professor Ipswich, the leading expert in alchemy and metallurgy.

  “I don’t suppose you gentlemen have any experience in mining or engineering, do you?” asked Grigory hopefully.

  “H’m...mining. Not mining, as such,” said old Professor Ipswich, “but my thesis advisor was Professor Snelling, who edited the critical edition of Prennius’s De Metallis et Mineralis.”

  “Well...that’s something, I suppose,” said Mr. Kemp, as he and Grigory spread out their meticulously drawn plans of mine shafts and ancient pumps.

  Then Grigory explained about the problems in the mines, about the cave-ins and the rising water level that would soon make it impossible to reach the silver. Mr. Kemp hovered by his side, shifting the charts and graphs so the three professors could see them properly.

  The learned gentlemen nodded and made soft, grunting noises of agreement and appreciation. Professor Randal lit a pipe, and Professor von Kolwitz mopped his glistening forehead with a golden silk handkerchief, and Professor Ipswich drew out a strand of his long beard and twirled it thoughtfully around a finger.

  “So you see,” Grigory concluded, “our current pumps are inadequate. I remember reading about newer forms of pumps when I was a student at Briddobad, and—”

  “Ah, Briddobad College,” said Ipswich. “Fine institution. Very fine. Knew a fellow there named Anupam. He taught geology. Or was it modern literature? Can’t remember now. You didn’t know him, did you? No, I suppose this was before your time.”

  “No, sir, I’m afraid I didn’t,” said Grigory. “But as I was saying, there are newer forms of pumps, but I don’t know how to build them. I wonder if one of you gentlemen might—”

  “Talking of pumps,” said von Kolwitz, “puts me in mind of that reception at the pump room in Sydensby. We were down there for a conference, weren’t we, Randal? What year was that? ’14? ’16?”

  “’22, I think it was,” said Randal, through puffs of fragrant smoke.

  “Ah, Annenstruk,” sighed von Kolwitz. He nodded at Grigory. “That’s where you should go if you want to know about modern mining, my dear chap. Remember that reception that the Miners’ Guild held for us? The pork was exquisite; I still dream of it to this day.”

  Seeing Grigory’s look of dismay, Daryna cleared her throat. “Gentlemen, I have no doubt we might learn a great deal from the Annenstruker miners, but Annenstruk is hundreds of miles away, and we are here. Might y
ou possibly have recommendations of your own?”

  Ipswich recommended they ring the bell so the porter could bring some fortified wine, and the other two quickly seconded the motion. Once everyone had a drink, Daryna pressed them again—did they have any ideas to improve the mines?

  Randal went first. “It seems to me that you could draw the water up through capillary action, as the sap rises in a tree.”

  Von Kolwitz and Ipswich nodded vigorously.

  “Er...yes,” said Grigory. “That’s, um....what a pump is for, sir. To raise the water. It’s just that...,” he looked at the drawings he had spent so much time making. “Our current pumps are no longer adequate.”

  “Then perhaps some manner of pulley system that raises and lowers buckets,” suggested Ipswich.

  Grigory sighed. “Yes, that is certainly another way of raising water. Just...um, not a very efficient way.”

  “I’ve got it,” said Ipswich. “Prennius and Terrance Regulus both write that it is in the nature of salts to absorb water. All you need to do, young man, is to place enough salt in the mines to dry them out.”

  “I really fear you do not understand the scale of the problem,” said Grigory sadly. Mr. Kemp reached out, a bit hesitatingly, and patted him on the shoulder.

  “The real problem,” said von Kolwitz, “is the extraordinarily wet spring and summer that we had.”

  Grigory looked up, hopeful again. “Yes, sir. I think that’s certainly part of the problem.”

  Von Kolwitz pulled out his own pipe and started filling it from a little leather pouch. “Well, then, my dear fellow. There’s nothing to worry about. This is all tied to a retrograde motion of the planet Termis at midsummer—surely you observed this—in the sign of the Camel, which is, naturally, a water sign. We simply need to wait for Orloch to become ascendant in the Shield, and all this excess water will dissipate.”

  There was a long pause, and then Daryna said, “I think we were hoping for a more practical suggestion, gentlemen.”

  Ipswich gave her a pitying look. “Then I’m not sure why you came to the university, my dear lady. We’re natural philosophers, not ditch-diggers.”

  “Have you considered asking the army engineers?” asked Randal. “They’re more attuned to the mundane details of life than we are here.”

  “Well, they couldn’t possibly be less attuned,” muttered Mr. Kemp, though probably only Daryna heard him.

  Chapter 16

  “ANOTHER PAIR OF SILK leggings? Really? In addition to the two you already have there?” Hildred made it sound like a personal affront.

  Merewyn tried to ignore the woman, hoping she would go away, hoping that she wouldn’t start thinking she had a standing invitation to come up here whenever she wanted. Instead of answering Hildred’s question, she went over to the new maroon gown, hanging on the wooden form near the window. She held up the black leggings to it first, then the cream.

  “Neither is right,” she said. The cream was too flashy, the black too somber.

  “Shall we provide you with every color in the rainbow until you find one you like?”

  Merewyn could remember a similar debate early in her marriage, when Ethelred had asked why it mattered if she wore blue or green leggings under a certain yellow gown, since no one would ever see them. She could have told him that a sudden twirl on the dancefloor might expose an ankle or calf. She could also have tried to explain the satisfaction and confidence that a woman derived from knowing she was put together properly. But he would never have understood that, so she had flashed a seductive grin and said, “But darling, you’ll be able to see them.” A flimsy argument at best, but it had carried the day.

  “Are you listening to me?” Hildred said.

  “I think a silvery-gray would match, don’t you think?” Merewyn said, not bothering to look at her.

  “Personally, I think you’re taking advantage of my brother’s good nature,” said Hildred. “You’re only getting out of this tower for one night. I can’t see why you think you need an entire new wardrobe.”

  Someone was coming up the steps, and in a moment, Brandon joined his sister in the doorway. “Ah, Hildred,” he sighed. “I thought I heard your melodious tones echoing down the stairwell. Did you need something?”

  Hildred shook a finger at him. “You need to show some spine, Brandon. Stop catering to her every whim.”

  “In three days,” said Brandon, “she will appear at the king’s side as the Queen of Myrcia. You might want to get used to referring to her as ‘her majesty’ again.”

  “Very well,” Hildred’s face turned almost as red as the new gown, and she curtsied. “Very well. I can see when my presence is no longer required. Earstien knows, I certainly don’t need to be told twice. Good day to you both. Brandon.” She curtsied again. “Your majesty.” Then she hurried away.

  Brandon looked at Merewyn and seemed to notice the leggings in her hands. His face, too, reddened. “I’m sorry to intrude. I can return later if this is an inconvenient time.”

  “It’s no intrusion at all,” she replied. “I am simply attempting to put the finishing touches on my wardrobe for the feast. It’s so kind of you to allow me yet another gown.”

  The gown had saved her—it really had. She had become so worried about her impending doom that she hadn’t been able to sleep or eat. Any moment, she expected Servius Faustinus or Daryna Olekovna to materialize in her room, wreathed in light and flame and ready to kill her. But then Haley had come in that morning and said Brandon was going to send up a pair of seamstresses, and suddenly the world seemed as if it made sense again.

  For the first time in seventeen years, she had a chance to shine on her own—a chance to entice the eye and inspire envy. Yes, she had always attempted to keep up appearances in the tower, but that wasn’t really the same at all. Hearing Haley or (occasionally) Brandon compliment a dress was nothing compared to hearing a crowd of ladies whisper as she glided past, or seeing a group of young men all turn their heads to follow her progress.

  She smiled warmly at Brandon. He really did know the way to her heart.

  “I assure you,” he said, returning her smile, “that arranging for two seamstresses to visit is no trouble at all. When Ellen was alive and Margaret still lived here, I swear the dressmakers stopped by twice a week.”

  “And it was worth every penny,” said Merewyn. “I always loved seeing them in the latest fashions when they came to visit.”

  Brandon’s eyes grew a bit misty. No doubt he, like Merewyn, was thinking of when Margaret was a little girl and had been obsessed with Merewyn, collecting swatches of old royal gowns and pestering her mother for stories she wasn’t old enough to hear—stories of why this strange woman was locked in a tower at their home. And Brandon was probably thinking, too, of Ellen, and how she had been so kind to her “unexpected visitor,” as she called Merewyn. Like her husband, Ellen had always apologized for not visiting more often, even though she visited more than practically anyone else. She had been a good friend, and at the same time, every visit was an aching reminder of her dead brother, Fransis.

  Brandon coughed a few times and wiped his eyes. “Well, then. Is there anything else you need? I’m fully aware that no dress stands on its own. There are always...accoutrements of every sort.”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t wish to take advantage of your generosity. I will be more than respectably attired as is.” With a coy dip of her head, she patted his arm as she skated by him to the decanter. “A glass of wine?”

  “Please. But you must tell me what else you need.”

  “Well, I do have one request, but I’m not going to ask until you promise that you will go to no trouble to get it. If it proves difficult to acquire, you must let it pass from your memory as though I never requested it. I can manage more than sufficiently without it.”

  He chuckled and settled himself into a chair at the table. Hands clasped before him, he leaned toward her, eyes dancing. “You have the most elaborate way of asking for a si
mple favor.”

  She handed him his wine, and she was about to sit opposite, but she chose the chair next to him instead, as he was in a most friendly mood. “Locked up here all day, I have little else to amuse me but to dream up intricate ways to phrase the most mundane ideas. Once, I actually constructed an entire paragraph of exceeding ostentation that essentially meant, ‘Please pass me the salt.’”

  “I fully expect to hear you use that at the feast. Now what can I get for you?”

  “It really is an excessive request. I can hardly believe I’m making it.” She lowered her chin and peered up at him, biting her lip in mock embarrassment. “Gray leggings. Silk, in fact. They really will be the final piece to transform me into someone fit to be seen in public.”

  “Gray silk leggings? Is that all?”

  “Yes, just that. A silvery-gray, if you could manage it.”

  He slapped the table. “Consider it done.”

  She raised a toast to “Silver-gray silk and old friends,” and they both drank.

  Then he shifted in his chair. “I must say, Merewyn, that you’re in better spirits than I expected.”

  “Oh? Why shouldn’t I be in good spirits?”

  “Ah. Um...well, you know I hear things from the housemaids and the guards, of course.”

  “Of course.” She swirled her wine in her glass. Brandon was a friend, and it was never pleasant to be reminded that he might be spying on her—that in fact he was obligated to spy on her.

  “And they say you have been...out of sorts recently.”

  “Do they?” Merewyn pushed the wineglass away, starting to feel ill.

  “I actually came here because I wish to apologize. I believe Lady Haley may have said some things to you yesterday, repeated things to you that she overheard me say to Ethelred, that it would have been better for her to keep to herself.”