“So why are you helping her?” Sir Roger stared at her, as if he could force her to talk by sheer willpower. “You’re only making life easier for the enemy. The real enemy.”
“Alassa isn’t the enemy,” Emily said. She felt a flicker of sympathy for the young man in front of her, tied by blood and honor to a king who was steadily going insane. “She’s...”
“Going to fight a civil war,” Sir Roger said. “And leave the country devastated.”
Emily took a breath. “The tensions that are exploding now have been building up for a long time,” she told him. “The king has been trying to consolidate his power, the noblemen have been trying to resist him while grinding the faces of the poor, the merchants have been trying to survive and prosper in a world that regards them as slaves and...and the people on the bottom don’t want to stay there any longer.”
She took another shuddering breath. “Randor has already given the necromancers an advantage,” she added. “He’s ensured a civil war that will, as you said, devastate an entire country. The Allied Lands will be weakened and the necromancers won’t have to lift a finger. Hell, his growing madness will lead to worse problems in the rear. What will the Allied Lands do if Randor attacks his neighbors?”
“He wouldn’t,” Sir Roger said. He sounded as if he didn’t quite believe himself. “The king knows what is at stake!”
Emily met his eyes. “Does he? Because, from what I can see, the king isn’t trying to take steps to make peaceful change possible. And he’s made violent change inevitable.”
“The king ennobled you,” Sir Roger reminded her. “He put you right at the top, a step below himself.”
“And I should be grateful?” Emily shook her head. “I liked him, when I first met him. But that didn’t blind me to his flaws. And now...he’s gone mad. The house is already burning brightly and he thinks he can put it out by spitting on it.”
“We have to deal with the real threat,” Sir Roger said.
“That’s my point,” Emily said. “Sir Roger–Roger–listen to me. The necromancers cannot be defeated the old way. They were slowly, but steadily winning the war until I killed Shadye. The only thing keeping them from winning is the simple fact that they don’t work together very well, if they manage to work together at all. You know this. Put an army of soldiers up against a necromancer and all you’re doing is giving them more victims to sacrifice. They’re just too powerful to be stopped with swords and arrows.”
She looked down at the floor. “The New Learning will change everything. You saw what muskets could do at Farrakhan. What do you think is coming further down the line? I’ve unleashed creative juices that were corked up for far too long. Each change, each innovation, will breed more change and innovation. It won’t be long before everything changes and the necromancers are left behind once and for all.
“But it will also change the world. The people at the bottom don’t like being at the bottom. Why should they? And what right do the people at the top have to be at the top? Why should a tiny group be served by the rest? Why should promotion be determined by family lineage instead of merit?”
She saw Sir Roger wince as the blow struck home. He was a competent man–and loyal too–but he would never hold a senior command. Of course not. There were men of impeccable lineage and breeding who practically had to be given such commands by right. Sir Roger was far down the pecking order, too insignificant to be given command of anything larger than a regiment. Indeed, now the true power of gunpowder weapons had been amply demonstrated, she wondered how long it would be before one of the senior men demanded Sir Roger’s command for himself. Not long, if she was any judge.
“Join us,” she said, knowing it wouldn’t work. “Help us stop the king–and the nobles–before it’s too late.”
Sir Roger gave her a sharp look. “That’s treason!”
Emily giggled, despite herself. “If this be treason, let us make the most of it,” she said. “Are they going to hang me twice?”
“I am a man of honor,” Sir Roger said. His voice was very firm. “I swore an oath to my king, an oath I intend to keep. If I had married your friend, I would have been a good husband to her...”
“You might have had to offer her up to the chopping block,” Emily said. She doubted it would have been a peaceful marriage. Imaiqah was a sorceress, with all the power that implied; Sir Roger was a nobleman of Zangaria, someone who had been raised to expect his wife to be obedient at all times. It wasn’t a recipe for a comfortable marriage. “Would you have done it, if Randor had demanded her head?”
Sir Roger’s lips worked incoherently for a long moment. Emily almost pitied him. Oaths were taken seriously, particularly by men who depended on trust, honor and respect. But what should one do if one oath contradicted another? Either way, Sir Roger would have been screwed. No one would trust a man who’d broken an oath to his wife...or to the king.
“I swore an oath to the king,” Sir Roger said, curtly. He didn’t seem to want to answer the question. “I’m sorry it had to end like this, Lady Emily.”
“Yeah,” Emily said, as Sir Roger turned to leave. “Me too.”
Chapter Thirty-Five
THE DWARF DIDN’T COME BACK.
Emily was relieved, even though she was fairly sure the dwarf had orders not to hurt her too badly. Randor wouldn’t want her to look like a battered wife–or worse–in front of a crowd that might be inclined to take her side. The nobles might hate her, but even they would have qualms about mistreating her. Randor was gambling by sending her to her death, gambling that he’d be able to quash any angry response from both sides of society. She wondered, idly, if he’d win his bet. Whatever happened, she wouldn’t be around to see it.
She leaned against the wood, taking long, deep breaths. No matter how she worked the problem, escape was impossible as long as she was inside the cell. Perhaps, just perhaps, she could escape when they took her out of the castle. They’d know how to control prisoners on their way to the execution grounds, she knew, but...it wasn’t much, but it was all she had. Jade and the others would be a very long way away by now, probably assuming that Randor would keep her prisoner rather than behead her at once. She might have drawn the same conclusion if she were in their place.
I did well, she told herself, firmly. Even if she didn’t escape, she had the satisfaction of knowing that her changes would spread right across the continent. Randor couldn’t put the genie back in the bottle, not now. I started an industrial revolution. The world will be changed forever.
She felt oddly calm as she waited, even though she knew the odds of escape were almost non-existent. Death was waiting for her, under the executioner’s axe...she wondered, absently, if she was meant to pay the man. It was tradition, but...she had no money. Perhaps he’d want the snake-bracelet instead. She felt a flicker of vindictive glee at the thought. Whatever spells Matilda had put on the snake-bracelet wouldn’t last forever, certainly not after Emily’s death. The executioner might be in for a very nasty surprise.
Unless he sells it on at once, she thought. His fence might get the surprise instead.
It felt like hours–or days–before the door unlocked and rattled open, revealing Matilda and the dwarf. Matilda looked unchanged, but the dwarf had a nasty bruise on his forehead. Sir Roger had clobbered him as he walked out, Emily guessed. The dwarf glared at her evilly, but didn’t seem inclined to come any closer. Perhaps Sir Roger had threatened to report him to the king. The dwarf was expendable. No one would care if he wound up in one of his cells, being tortured by his former underlings...or if he was simply marched to the execution grounds and beheaded. Randor probably saw the dwarf as a potential scapegoat if things really got out of hand.
Matilda inspected Emily for a long moment, then nodded to herself. “We can do this the easy way or the hard way,” she said, curtly. “If you cooperate, you can walk under your own power; if you refuse to cooperate, I’ll layer spells on you and manipulate your body like a puppet. Are you go
ing to cooperate?”
Emily hesitated. Stubborn pride wanted to tell Matilda to do her worst, but she knew that she wouldn’t have even a faint hope of escape if her body was under Matilda’s control. She could do it too, Emily was sure. Controlling someone else, particularly someone without magic, took a relatively simple spell. She couldn’t risk being turned into a puppet as long as there was a chance to turn the tables and escape.
“Yes,” she said, sourly.
Matilda nodded and started to work on Emily’s manacles, freeing her hands from the wooden bar. Even without the cuffs, she had to wait for the wood to be lowered before she could pull her hands free. Her arms and wrists ached, nasty red marks clearly visible on her bare skin. She gritted her teeth as she forced her muscles to move, trying desperately to get the blood flowing again. It was uncomfortable as hell, but necessary. She had to be able to move if she wanted to escape.
The dwarf left the room as Matilda freed Emily’s ankles, then returned with a steaming bucket of water and a bundle of clothes. Emily eyed them, surprised, as Matilda helped her to stand, then passed her a washcloth. She briefly contemplated trying to tip the bucket over their heads, but she knew it would be fatal for her. They’d both have protections to keep them safe...and, even if they didn’t, the entire cell would be surrounded by wards. She wouldn’t be able to get out the door without permission.
“Undress,” Matilda ordered. “Now.”
Emily hesitated, eying the dwarf. Matilda sighed and snapped her fingers in his direction. The dwarf let out a yelp, his hands scrabbling at his eyes. Emily stared, horrified. Blinding spells were also relatively simple, but forbidden. A student at Whitehall who blinded another would be unable to sit down for days. And yet, they were a simple defense in the outside world...
He’s a slave, she thought, as she started to remove her battered dress. Her skin looked odd; there were no bruises, yet her body was covered in patches of tanned skin blurring into pale whiteness where the healing spells had done their work. He’s just as much a prisoner here as I am.
She pushed the flicker of sympathy aside. A dwarf might be nothing more than a figure of fun in Zangaria, condemned to little more than life as a circus freak, but he was still a sadist who found amusement in tormenting prisoners. An abuser who kicked down deserved no sympathy from her. She’d been abused too much herself to have any sympathy for someone who didn’t face his real tormentors.
Matilda watched, calmly, as Emily washed herself, then pulled on the new dress they’d given her. She couldn’t help thinking that it looked like a simple bridal gown, as if she were going to a wedding...or a sacrifice. It fit her perfectly, something that nagged at her mind until she realized that Matilda had probably gotten her measurements from Queen Marlena. Perhaps she should have asked the king about his wife, while they’d been talking...or perhaps that would only make matters worse. Marlena would have to be put aside if Randor wanted to rewrite history to claim that Alicia’s son was legitimate after all.
“Brush your hair back, but let it hang down,” Matilda ordered. “There’s no time to have it pinned up properly.”
Emily shrugged. She’d never really cared for elaborate hairstyles. Alassa might claim they helped mark a person’s position in society, if only by proving that the wearer was wealthy enough to hire maids to do their hair, but Emily had never seen the point. She normally wore her hair down anyway. She ran her fingers through her hair, silently wishing–just for a moment–that she had time to wash it. Her hair felt grimy and uncomfortable.
Matilda snapped her fingers at the cringing dwarf, undoing the spell. Emily shuddered at the look of fear–and naked malice–in the dwarf’s eyes. Matilda had better hope that she never ended up in Randor’s dungeons. The dwarf would make her life hell. His eyes traveled across Emily’s body, then looked away as Matilda took Emily’s wrist. A moment later, her hands were firmly tied behind her back. Emily tested the bonds as quietly as she could, cursing her mistake under her breath. If she’d thought to tense her arms...no, Matilda probably knew that trick. Unsurprisingly, she couldn’t weaken the bonds. Her hands were trapped.
“This way,” Matilda said. She put a hand on Emily’s arm to guide her towards the door. “If you do anything stupid, I will make you regret it.”
I’m going to my execution, Emily thought, dryly. What could be worse than that?
She shrugged as they walked through the door and up a darkened staircase. Emily had half-expected to see the castle staff, from the footmen and guards she’d barely noticed to the maids who’d tended her room, but she didn’t see anyone until they reached the main hall and started down towards the doors. The walls were lined with noblemen, wearing their finery; their eyes followed her, coldly, as she walked on. She saw no pity or sympathy in their eyes, nothing that might suggest they’d take up arms in her name. But then, none of the noblemen would be foolish enough to wear their hearts on their sleeves. Randor had eyes and ears everywhere. He’d be watching them.
A gust of cold air struck her as they entered the courtyard. There were more guards on the gates than ever before, carrying muskets and flintlocks as well as swords, spears and wands. Sir Roger’s men, Emily guessed. They were certainly organized by someone who knew what he was doing. She’d seen plenty of mistakes made by people who didn’t understand gunpowder–and heard horror stories about people who hadn’t survived their mistakes–but the soldiers looked competent. There was no risk of accidentally blowing down the castle gates, allowing the mob to enter the building. It didn’t look as if there was any risk to the defenders at all.
Matilda’s grip seemed to tighten, just for a second. A handful of young noblemen–landless, she guessed, judging by their fine clothes and exaggerated masculinity–started to jeer at her, laughing mockingly. Emily forced herself to show no fear, no sign that their taunts were getting to her; she knew, all too well, that they’d only be encouraged if they scented fear. It felt like hours before they were through the gates, leaving the noblemen behind. She had a feeling she hadn’t seen the last of them.
The air grew colder somehow, although it was early summer, as she started the walk down the Royal Mile. A trio of mounted horsemen appeared from nowhere, one leading the way while the other two brought up the rear; the streets were lined with people, watching soundlessly as she passed. Emily wondered, sardonically, if Matilda would be able to maintain her cover after today. She had no idea if a woman marching to her execution was entitled to a female escort or not–it happened so rarely–but people would ask questions about why Matilda had been ordered to escort Emily. Perhaps Randor would try to explain it away, somehow, or perhaps he’d reveal Matilda’s true role. It would certainly set the cat among the mice as everyone reassessed the balance of power in the kingdom.
It was growing harder to walk, her legs starting to stiffen. She had to concentrate to force herself to keep going, looking for a chance to escape. The crowds were steadily becoming more and more lower-class, bright robes and imitation finery giving way to handmade clothes and ill-fitting trousers. She breathed a sigh of relief as she realized there were no children, even though she suspected it was also a sign of trouble. Parents were encouraged to take their kids to executions, just to make it clear that anyone who broke the law would come to a bad end. Randor hadn’t even let her ban the practice in Cockatrice. He was a big believer in object lessons.
And my death is going to be the biggest object lesson of all, she thought. It looked as through the entire city had been invited to the show. The streets were jam-packed with civilians, watched closely by the guards. Or will I become a martyr?
She forced herself to keep her eyes open, searching for an opportunity to escape. But the crowds were too tightly-packed for her to lose herself, even if her hands weren’t bound behind her back. Matilda would freeze her in an instant, then carry out her threat to make Emily walk the rest of the way like a puppet on a string. And the guards wouldn’t hesitate to fire into the crowd if they thought she was
on the verge of escaping. There would be a bloody slaughter...
A low hiss of anger ran through the crowd as they reached the middle of the Royal Mile and turned right, into the execution grounds. The last time Emily had seen it, there had been a set of gallows and a number of rotting heads mounted on spikes. The gallows were gone now, but the heads remained, their faces set in expressions of agony. She tried not to breathe through her nose, even though she suspected it was pointless. Dead bodies spread diseases–she’d taught the Nameless World how diseases spread–but she was going to die long before she could catch something awful from the rotting heads. She wondered, absently, who they’d been. Probably some poor bastards who’d annoyed the king. There was no shortage of them.
Or maybe someone who was in the wrong place at the wrong time, she thought, grimly. The soldiers would have been under strict orders to bring King Randor heads or risk losing their own. They might just have scooped someone off the streets, declared him a rebel and hung him before anyone could ask any awkward questions about due process. Those guys might not have been rebels at all.
Her lips twitched in a moment of gallows humor as she lifted her head, surveying the execution grounds. King Randor sat in a pavilion, Queen Marlena next to him...her face so expressionless that Emily knew she was under a spell. Randor wasn’t a particularly powerful magician, but his magic–combined with the Royal Bloodline–would certainly be strong enough to keep Marlena under control. Nightingale stood beside his master, his face unreadable. He wasn’t fool enough to betray his feelings in front of a massive crowd.
Their eyes met, just for a second. She thought she saw, hidden behind his bland expression, a fear so deep and abiding that it stunned her. Nightingale was terrified. She’d seen the type before, the hangers-on who praised and flattered the bullies for fear the bullies would turn on them, but she thought it was deeper than that. Perhaps Nightingale already feared his time was coming to an end. It might be his head on the block next, if the execution backfired spectacularly. There was no one in the kingdom, save perhaps for his family, who actually liked him.
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