Heartseeker

by Melinda Beatty

  “I know it was your brother and such, but . . . they attacked us!” Gareth complained when I cornered him just outside the banqueting hall.

  “I told you back on the road—it’s only ’cause some slippery fish told ’em they’d be able to get their whelps back if they did. They’re going to hang, Gareth!”

  The steward bit his lip. “This isn’t something I can hide with a song, Only. This is—”

  “Do you know the way or don’t you?” I pressed.

  “I do, but—”

  “You’ve already done so much for me, but I can’t let Jon . . .” My throat closed up tight. “Please.”

  I hadn’t any right to expect him to be part of this desperate, half-brained plot, but I held my breath, waiting on his answer. His face twisted this way and that as he chewed it over. Nervousness started to creep on me. I was asking the same of him that Lady Folque had asked of me, and there we were in the corridor, for all to see—not even protected by a closed chamber door. Just when I thought I might have to turn tail and haul my britches back to the dinner, he finally spoke up.

  “When and where?”

  “Third bell, the gate outside the barracks,” I put in hurriedly, before he could change his mind. “They won’t give you no trouble. Jon’ll make sure of that.”

  Gareth closed his eyes. “I can’t believe I’m even considering this.”

  “It’s ’cause you know the real villain’s still out there! The one who wants me dead. The one who found a bunch of sad and angry folk to do his dirty work.” I seized him by the shoulders, his wine pitcher sloshing alarmingly. “I’ll never ask anything of you again. I’ll owe you, in fact. If you ever need someone stabbed in the guts or have to break someone out of prison, you only gotta ask.”

  The steward gave a little huff. “You’ll be the first person I’ll come to if I ever need either of those things.”

  “Does that mean you’ll do it?”

  He nodded gravely. “But I’m out at the first sign of trouble. My wages keep my family in food and shelter, and I won’t risk them. You understand, don’t you?”

  “There’re half a million ways this could go pear-shaped, but I’m much obliged to you for even giving me an ear, let alone going along.”

  “Third bell?”

  “Third bell.”

  He swept away, looking unruffled and sure of himself as if he were dangling from atop the carriage roof again. I envied the easy way he put a face on, as if there were nothing going on in his heart—like swans that look graceful above the water, but underneath, they’re kicking their scaly little legs for all they’re worth. It wasn’t a talent I’d ever have, not with my cunning waiting to give me away at every turn.

  But, in the dark of the herbery, I didn’t need worry about my cunning giving me away—only the sound of Lark’s and my feet as we crept round tables, boxes, and copper pots and pans.

  The great herb cupboard stretched the length of the room, and even in the dark, it was an impressive sight, glass jars shining in the candlelight. It was three times the size of Non’s cupboard, easy. I thought Non must’ve had every remedy that grew above or below ground, but the palace cupboard was another thing entirely. I brought the candle closer to the jars nearest me on the bottom shelf.

  “Devil’s salt, chewsop, usceolla . . . I haven’t heard of any of these.”

  “Maybe Mistress Devi’ll give you a tour in the morning if you’re interested,” hissed Lark. “But we’re looking for just one thing, right? Where do you suppose we start?”

  I looked from one end of the cupboard to the other. “If they’re ordered like Non orders them, they start with remedies for complaints of the head and end with complaints of the feet.”

  “Why don’t they just go by name? That’s how Auntie Maven keeps them.”

  “When you got as many herbs as this, it’s easier to have all the bits you need for one problem in one place,” I explained, holding the candle closer to the lines of neat jars in the dark. “Non’d give her big toe to have a gander at this. Oh!” In the guttering flame, I spotted my prize, two shelves up, way beyond my fingertips. “Drat.”

  Lark tapped me, pointing to a rolling ladder fixed to the side of the enormous case.

  “That’ll squeak to high All. We’ve gotta do this quiet like.” I glanced round, spotting a few low stools, but nothing quite tall enough to stand on to reach.

  “You’re smaller’n me,” Lark suggested. “You can sit on my shoulders. Think you can grab it?”

  I squinted up at the shelf. “Pass me the candle.”

  She handed it to me. “You ready?”

  I braced myself as Lark bent down, gripping my knees as they bumped up against her shoulders. She began counting softly. “One . . . two . . . three!”

  Lark stiffened her back as she heaved me up, settling my weight against her neck. I swayed wildly, trying to balance, leading her on a stumbling dance before the full herb cupboard.

  “Stars and muck!” she swore as drops of hot tallow from the candle splashed against her cheek. “Stop wiggling! And try not to set anything on fire!”

  I reached out a free hand, gripping the edge of one of the shelves. It managed to stop our clumsy thrashing, but shook the cupboard just enough to jiggle the hundreds of jars against their neighbors.

  Neither Lark nor I dared breathe. “So much for quiet like,” I whispered finally.

  Her legs were already starting to shake. “Quick, now, in case someone heard.”

  I licked my fingers, snuffed out the candlewick, and carefully handed it down to her. Reaching out, I slid the jar off the shelf and silently removed the lid. I began stuffing my pockets with the earthy herb. “This should be enough to clear out a whole stable of stopped-up horses.”

  Lark grunted. “I can’t hold you much longer!”

  “I’m near finished!” Shoving one last handful into my borrowed britches, I slowly slid the jar back into its place on the shelf, but as I went to return the lid, Lark’s poor knees decided enough was enough. She crumpled like a cornstalk, bringing me crashing down with her. The lid of the jar flew from my grip and smashed to the stone floor in shards—a noise louder than the end times.

  I rubbed my bruised backside as we both twigged the patter of house-shoed footsteps from round the corner.

  One of the corner mixing tables was covered with floor-length oilcloth—the kind Non used to chop things she didn’t want seeping into the wood. Scrambling for Lark, I dragged us across the floor and under the cloth. I was glad for the dark—my hands brushed over some things best left to my imagination as we frantically gathered in Lark’s skirts and stray leaves that’d escaped my pockets. We clapped hands over our gasping mouths and fought to keep still as the footsteps entered the herbery. There wasn’t much we could see from below the cloth but a pair of slippered feet with colorful Acherian embroidery. While an apprentice might not take too close of a look at what was missing, Mistress Vasha Devi would surely notice which canister’s lid lay scattered on the floor.

  “Hello?” Mistress Devi’s voice echoed around the empty room. “Who’s there?”

  I reached for Lark. The Ordish girl was shaking something fierce. If I got caught, it’d be terrible. I’d be forced to confess the lot, but it wasn’t likely the king’d want to waste a perfectly good Mayquin. But the thought of Lark caught made me cold all over. What was her life to the throne of Bellskeep? No more’n my brother’s in the dungeon below. I cursed myself blue inside for bringing her to do such a fool thing.

  Mistress Devi’s slippers scraped over a piece of broken glass and she made an annoyed chuffing noise. Holding her candle down to avoid stepping on the shining slivers, she picked her way carefully toward the cupboard.

  Any second, she’s going to see. Any second . . .

  Suddenly, there was a screech and a shout from Mistress Devi along with the ring o
f glass on glass. Several canisters smashed to the floor, some of their pieces spinning under the oilcloth bench. A sharp mix of smells stung at our noses.

  Vasha Devi swore roundly in Acherian. Lark gripped me all the tighter. What just happened?

  “Oh, you furry devils, look what you’ve done to my cupboard!” shouted the herbery mistress. “Do your mousing somewhere else! Shoo, shoo!”

  Two striped tails streaked close by the hem of the oilcloth, trying to escape Mistress Devi’s wrath. Me and Lark shrunk farther under the table as the bristles of a broom swished close behind, disturbing our hiding place. The herbist made a disgusted sound. “Ay, what a mess!” She was grumbling still as her slippers retreated back toward the hallway.

  “She’s gone for soap and water!” hissed Lark. “Quick!”

  We clambered out from under the table and sprinted for the door. Pieces of glass poked through the leather of my boots, the pungent smell of clashing herbs stung at my eyes, but we didn’t stop till we’d skidded round several corners and thrown ourselves down a winding staircase that led to All knows where.

  “Sweet Mother!” I exploded. “We ain’t half lucky! Were those cats?”

  “Balon and Bonnet—they mouse the pantries. I could kiss those little hairy little malkins!” said Lark, panting. She opened her pockets of her apron so I could dump the dark brown leaves inside. “I’ll get this to Rowan in the kitchens.”

  “And then?”

  She pouted. “I still think I should go with you. You ain’t never been there and—”

  “We already been over this. We almost got twigged, and I ain’t putting you in any more danger!”

  I wanted to tell her everything, tell her she might not have to wait too much longer to get back to the river if only I could rouse my own nerve, but some helping of canny kept the words stuck tight in my chest. “Where’re you going after the kitchens?” I pressed.

  Her shoulders drooped. “To your chambers.”

  “You pull those covers up tight round your ears, just in case anyone’s of a mind to check on me.”

  “I can give my hair a little glamour, make it look a bit more like yours.”

  “You’re sure you’ll not be missed?”

  She shook her head. “It ain’t unusual for some of us to get called up at night. An empty bed ain’t nothing to get in a flap about.”

  “That’s good. You’ll tell Rowan thank you for me, won’t you? I know he’s putting his neck out, too.”

  She stood up again, smoothing her skirts. “I will.”

  Sitting on the steps, I knew I could still back out of this dangerous business, but the sinking feeling at the thought of meeting Jon face-to-face with a group of interrogators was more fretsome. But it wasn’t only the business to come that evening weighing heavy on my mind. “Lark, if someone asked you to do something, something big you knew was wrong, but could lead to a lot of right, would you still do it?”

  She shrugged. “I guess that would all depend on who’d suffer for the wrong and who’d profit from the right.” She raised an eyebrow at me. “After all that, you ain’t having second thoughts, are you?”

  “No, no,” I said quickly. “I just . . . wanted to know what you thought.” I looked up the stairs, into the uncertain future. “I ought to get going.”

  Lark kissed me on the cheek. “Wind to your back, Only.”

  The bewitching harmony of the Ordish parting song rang sweet between my ears.

  “Wind to your back, Lark.”

  29

  When you’re far from home, it’s not the big differences that surprise you most. It’s the little things that stay the same.

  Crouched and shivering behind a rain barrel to the back of the barracks, I looked up at the moon. It was the same moon I’d blinked at through my window in the orchard a little over a week gone. What was I expecting? A moon that was square instead of round? One that was purple instead of white? It just didn’t seem possible that this world—the one where I was about to try to loose six Ordish men and my brother from the king’s own jail—could share the same moon with the drowsy quiet of the orchard, but there it was. At quarter on the wane, the crescent looked like my thumbnail—a curved sliver in the sky. Not much of its light fell on the castle grounds, for which I was sore grateful.

  Lark’s directions were easy to follow, even in the dark. Left at the kitchens, out into the stable yard, about a hundred paces till you come to a crack in the wall that looks like a frog sitting on a man’s head, and then straight ahead to the barracks. I’d come upon the place in plenty of time, but waiting and freezing my backside off behind the rain barrel gave me too much time to chew over all that could go ill. What if the herb got too spread out in the stew to do anything? What if we ran into a troop of guard somewhere we weren’t expecting them? What if . . .

  My worrying was cut short when someone grabbed me from behind, fixing one hand over my mouth and the other tight round my middle. There was no River this time, but it didn’t stop me fighting like a weasel. I brought my right foot down hard on my attacker’s instep and was rewarded with a painful grunt. I threw my head back, my skull making a satisfying thunk against a cheekbone.

  “Only!”

  I froze, my elbow halfway to a meeting with a soft sack of guts. The hand round my mouth came away. I wriggled free and spun round to face the enemy that knew my name.

  “Sweet All!” whispered Gareth, clutching his face. “You fight dirty.”

  “Are you soft in the head? Grabbing a body in the dark like that! Mother’s milk! What’d you think was going to happen?”

  “Next time, I’ll announce myself with a parade of cavalry, shall I?”

  “What are you doing here? I thought you were going to meet us outside the gate at third bell to take them through the smugglers’ tunnels!”

  Gareth leaned back against the wall, rubbing his freckled cheek where there would be a fierce shiner the next day. “I thought . . . I thought you might need some help. Didn’t want you to go blundering into something I could have steered you clear of.”

  I didn’t quite know what to say. “I mean it, Gareth,” I answered, “I really do owe you.”

  “Yes, you really do.” The steward peeked round the rain barrel. “Here comes dinner, at any rate. You trust the kitchen boy?”

  Crunching up the gravel path was a burly fellow carrying a heavy iron pot. He looked like there were a bed he’d rather be sleeping in rather than hauling dinner to the nightwatch.

  “Rowan? As sure as the sunrise. It would’ve been easy as apples to do, too. A handful here, a handful there while the cook wasn’t looking.”

  The man with the pot disappeared through the front door. “You didn’t say exactly what it was handfuls of,” Gareth said uneasily. “It’s not anything dangerous, is it?”

  “Psht, no. It’s just a pretty big helping of senarel. You think this is a good place to stop while we wait for it to kick in?”

  “When you say ‘kick in’ . . . what does it do?”

  City folk. “You ever had things . . . slow down?”

  “What things?”

  “Things below the belt.”

  His freckles disappeared beneath a blush in the shadow of the barrel. “What things?”

  “Oh, for the love of All, your bowels!”

  “All right!” he said, stopping me. “So, senarel . . . ?”

  “Clears you right out,” I finished. “And it don’t take much. The amount me and Lark collected to put in that stew should be enough to . . . well, it should be enough.”

  I poked my head above the rain barrel to take a quick peek into the watch house. The kitchen steward had hung the pot on a hook in the small hearth and was already surrounded by six hungry watchmen, clutching their bowls.

  “Hope it’s better than the stew last night, Hal,” one of ’em grumbled.

&
nbsp; “How many times?” Hal answered sullenly. “I lug it; I don’t cook it. You don’t like it, take it up with Ralby.” Hal backed up as the soldiers descended on the pot and, shaking his head, clumped a graceless exit toward the castle.

  As the last guard filled his bowl, he jerked a thumb at the youngest watchman. “Take the rest to Hugin and Neale if they’ve got stomach for it. If not, the wetcollars can choke it down while they’re waiting for their slop.”

  Looking longingly at his own full bowl, the young man grabbed a piece of leather by the fire, wrapped it round the handle of the pot, and began to haul it toward a narrow stairway at the far end of the room.

  “That’s the only way down to the cells,” Gareth murmured.

  I frowned. Our escape route was a little more pinched than made me comfortable. “There’s no way out down below?”

  The steward shook his head. “It is a dungeon.”

  We hugged the window ledge, watching the guards shovel down sloppy spoonfuls of stew. Most of them were half done by the time their youngest member returned from below. “Those river rats were panting like dogs over the smell of supper,” he told his mates with a mean smile. “I think Hugin and Neale are gonna make a show over eating it, even if it does taste like horsemeat.”

  “I’m not sure this isn’t horsemeat,” one of the others grumbled, picking a piece of gristle out of his teeth.

  “Just last week you said you wanted to dine like one of the cavalrymen, Ingram. Looks like you got your wish,” said the watchman at the head of the table, laughing.

  Ingram flung the gristle at him while the rest of the table burst into guffaws. Gareth snuck a glance at me.

  “How long do you think it’ll take?”

  I kept my eyes on the soldiers. “Not long, I hope. Non would only use just a pinch in some hot milk and then cut it with cinnamon to make it gentle like.” The cruel words of the men inside made me feel wicked. “I don’t reckon this is going to be gentle.”

  The first one with a grimace across his face was the leanest of the men—a tall, ginger-haired fellow with a sparse beard. He put a fist to his belly. “Damn that Ralby. He could ruin a bowl of porridge.”