by Lian Tanner
Krieg’s arm whipped around his neck and held him in a relentless grip. The chicken, who had landed at the old man’s feet, clucked in loud disapproval at being used as a missile.
Lord Rump bellowed, ‘Duckling, quickly, grab his keys!’
Duckling raced across the stone-paved floor and wrenched the bundle of keys from the turnkey’s flailing hands. The turnkey aimed a feeble kick at her, and Krieg’s arm tightened.
‘If you do not want your neck broken,’ growled the arms-mistress, ‘be still.’
The old man gurgled. Duckling thrust the first key into the lock and tried to turn it, but it wasn’t the right one.
‘Hurry!’ hissed Sooli.
Duckling snapped back at her, ‘I’m doing my best.’
She found the right key at last, and slid it into the lock. But even as she began to turn it, Pummel heard the clatter of heavy footsteps.
Otte cried a warning. And three soldiers appeared in the far doorway with their swords drawn.
‘There,’ cried Sergeant Bock. ‘I told you she would come, if we waited long enough.’
Duckling threw her weight behind the key. On the other side of the bars, Sooli spun frantic threads, and the soldiers, who had begun to run towards the cell, found themselves turned around and marched back the other way.
But it couldn’t last, not with three of them. The soldiers were trying to break free, and slowly succeeding.
The key turned and the cell door creaked open. Grandpa was first out. He grabbed his walking cane from the turnkey’s table, pressed the button that turned it into a rapier, and stood guard by the door. Sooli followed him, her face grey with concentration.
Krieg hissed something in the turnkey’s ear.
‘Kill him,’ said Grandpa, over his shoulder.
‘No,’ said Otte. ‘He is only doing his job. Let him go.’
Krieg loosened her arm and the turnkey fell to the floor, gasping for breath. Duckling snatched up the chicken, and Otte and Pummel hurried to join her.
By then, the three soldiers were almost back at the doorway. They were fighting the witchery so hard that the veins stood out on their foreheads, and their teeth were clenched.
Krieg snatched the turnkey’s ancient sword from the wall and said, ‘Young Ser, I will hold them off while you get to safety.’
‘No!’ cried Otte, his eyes wide. ‘You must come with us.’
‘Remember what is at stake,’ said Krieg. She nodded at Sooli. ‘Can you release them suddenly? On my word?’
‘Yes,’ said Sooli, without taking her eyes off the soldiers, who had reached the doorway now, and were pressing ferociously against the witchery.
‘Do it,’ snapped Krieg.
Sooli’s hands swept the air in front of her, and the soldiers, who had been pushing with all their strength, were suddenly left with nothing to push against. They flew forward so fast that they almost fell to their knees. One of their swords skidded across the stone floor.
‘Go!’ cried Krieg, and she leaped at the three men, forcing them back against the wall so there was room to pass.
Grandpa led the way, dragging Otte behind him. Pummel followed, then Sooli, stumbling with the effort of what she had just done.
Duckling and the chicken brought up the rear, slipping past the soldiers just as they recovered their senses and began to fight back.
‘Run!’ shouted Krieg. ‘I will hold them.’
‘You will not,’ roared Sergeant Bock.
Otte looked back over his shoulder, as if he might change his mind. But Grandpa jerked him forward so hard and fast that both his good leg and his wooden one left the ground. Behind them, swords clashed together. One of the soldiers bellowed with rage or pain.
By the time Duckling caught up with the others, Lord Rump was carrying Otte in his arms, saying, ‘Where are we going, boy? None of us knows this place like you do. Where can we hide?’
Otte pointed down one corridor and up another, and Grandpa went wherever he was told. He was panting and red-faced, but his feet were sure and his instincts keen.
Once, he stopped, whispering, ‘I hear voices ahead,’ and they all dodged back the way they had come.
But that was the only time they were interrupted. Most of the grafs and grafines were still in the Great Chamber, and Duckling hoped they would stay there for as long as possible.
They were on the sixth floor of the Bear Tower, and heading for the staircase that would take them to the seventh, when Grandpa said, ‘How much food is stored within these walls, young Otte?’
Pummel stared at him. ‘How can you think about food when they’re trying to send us to the chopping block?’
‘Are we dead yet?’ retorted Grandpa. ‘No? Then we must think about a number of things, and balance those things against each other. It will do us no good to escape the block and then die of starvation. So, Otte, how long will it be before the absence of the food wagons begins to bite?’
Otte blinked several times, as if his mind was miles away and he was having trouble dragging it back. ‘Not long. The nobles are used to feasts, and they will not accept less. They will have to start slaughtering the beasts tomorrow or the next day.’
Duckling tightened her arms around the chicken and whispered, ‘Don’t you go wandering off.’
The chicken murmured, as if she understood. But Duckling didn’t think she did, not anymore. The Bayam was still there inside her somewhere, but she couldn’t be reached.
‘Not the cows,’ said Pummel in a dismayed voice. ‘They wouldn’t kill the cows, would they?’
No one answered him. But Sooli said, ‘I do not understand why the food wagons have stopped. Who would order such a thing?’
Grandpa peered around the corner to make sure the way was clear, then beckoned them on. ‘It is a question of who benefits, my dear girl. A simple matter of profit and loss. Who profits if everyone in the Strong-hold is brought to their knees by starvation? Who profits if they die?’
Pummel’s mouth fell open. ‘What are you talking about? No one profits. Every single person in Neuhalt respects and admires the Faithful Throne.’ He glanced apologetically at Sooli. ‘Everyone except the Saaf, I mean. And the slaves in the salt mines.’
‘My dear boy,’ whispered Grandpa, ‘I cannot remember a time when I was as innocent as you. Such a happy state to be in – but not a useful state, not when we are faced with such villainy.’ He set Otte carefully on the ground. ‘Duckling, explain it to our friends while I make sure the next stairway is clear.’
Duckling hadn’t had time to think it all the way through yet, but she knew where to begin. As Grandpa crept away, she whispered, ‘Remember how all the slave children called the salt mine the Margravine’s mine? And Otte said that the Margravine didn’t know anything about it?’
‘She knew about the mine,’ said Otte, ‘but not the slavery. No one in the Strong-hold knows about the slavery, I swear.’
‘I believe you,’ said Duckling. ‘But someone knows about it. Someone’s been making an awful lot of money out of those slaves, and keeping it secret from the Margravine. So when we all escaped, they must have been dead worried. First, they lost their unpaid workers. Second, some of those workers might just turn up here and tell the new Margrave the truth.’
‘But—’ said Pummel.
Duckling interrupted him with a question. ‘Who rules Neuhalt?’
‘The Margrave or the Margravine,’ said Pummel. ‘Everyone knows that.’
Duckling turned to Otte. ‘Who rules Neuhalt?’
Understanding dawned on the younger boy’s face. ‘The Privy Council are the ones with the real power. They pretend to follow orders, but go their own way. They come to the Strong-hold in rags …’
‘While outside, in the streets of Berren,’ said Lord Rump, who had reappeared without anyone except Duckling noticing, ‘they wear expensive furs and diamond rings.’ He shook his head in admiration. ‘It is neat. Very neat. I would wager that they lie about the profits from
the salt mines, too, and keep most of it for themselves.’
He tapped his cane softly against the nearest wall and said, ‘But for now we must forget about the Privy Council, and save our own skins. The stairway is clear. Let us hurry, before that changes.’
Otte led them to a dark, windowless room, with a bare wooden floor and what seemed to be a large number of wooden chests and boxes stacked on top of each other. ‘The southern wall,’ he said. ‘Look for a small cross cut into the stone at knee height.’
Duckling made a quick calculation of directions, put the chicken down and groped her way across the room to the southern wall. The darkness hemmed her in, and for a moment she felt as if she was back in the salt mines, with nothing ahead of her but starvation and death.
Pummel was already moving some of the boxes so he could get at the wall. Duckling helped him, and when the way was clear, she squatted down and ran her fingers over the stone. ‘Here,’ she said.
‘Count seven blocks to the left,’ whispered Otte, ‘and one down. Then press on the bottom right-hand corner of that stone.’
Duckling did as instructed, pushing as hard as she could, but nothing happened. Pummel joined her and they pushed together, grunting with effort. There was a grinding sound, and a small portion of the wall swung inwards, leaving a gap even darker and dustier than the room.
Duckling hesitated, then crawled cautiously into it, brushing away cobwebs and keeping her mouth shut, in case of spiders. The chicken stalked beside her, murmuring with curiosity.
Somewhere behind them, Sooli whispered, ‘I do not like it. We could be trapped in that hole too easily. I do not wish to be imprisoned in stone.’
‘There is a tunnel at the back of the hole,’ said Otte. ‘It is only small, but you will fit through it. You will not be trapped.’
‘Who else knows about this?’ asked Grandpa. From the sound of it, he had dropped to his knees and was peering into the hole.
‘No one except me,’ said Otte. ‘There are several such hiding places in each tower, built secretly by the ninth Margrave. I found the plans two years ago when I was looking at old manuscripts. I tried to tell Brun about them, but he was more interested in his horses.’
Grandpa cleared his throat. ‘I hope you are right. But this is no place for me. If the way is tight, I will not be able to pass.’
Duckling had found the entrance to the tunnel by then. She ran her hands around it, brushing away more cobwebs, and her fingers bumped against a narrow ledge, with a candle and tinderbox tucked in one corner. Beside her, the chicken was snapping at something, her beak clicking in the darkness.
‘There’s no way you’ll get through here, Grandpa,’ called Duckling. Her voice echoed a little, bouncing from stone to stone. She crawled back to the entrance and peered out, though all she could see was dusty shapes.
‘Well, it cannot be helped,’ said Grandpa. ‘I had thought to stay with you, but perhaps my talents will be better put to use elsewhere. I shall go after the Privy Council and see if I can get the food wagons restored.’
‘How will you get out of the Strong-hold?’ asked Otte.
‘I am a master of sneakery, dear boy. If the three-headed cave trolls of Exudia could not catch me, then Sergeant Bock certainly will not. And when I come to the gate, I will simply bluff my way past it.’ His voice took on a tinge of anxiety. ‘I will be able to leave, will I not? You are sure that the curse only affects those who stay past midnight?’
‘Yes,’ said Otte. ‘If you can avoid the soldiers, you will be able to leave.’
‘In truth,’ said Grandpa, ‘we should all go. With the chopping block hanging over our heads, it is far better to be outside than inside.’
It was tempting to agree. They all felt it; Duckling could tell from the stutter in their breathing, and the way no one spoke for a long moment.
But at last Pummel sighed and said, ‘We won’t find out who raised the Harshman if we are outside. We won’t be able to stop him. We won’t get the raashk back.’
‘True, true,’ said Grandpa. ‘You must get the raashk, I can see that. And I suppose you must deal with the Harshman. Though I still think it more sensible to go to some distant place where he cannot catch us.’
It was then that suspicion began to trickle into Duckling’s mind. Perhaps she should have thought of it earlier, but everything had happened so quickly and desperately that she had not had time.
She whispered, ‘You’re not going to run out on us, are you, Grandpa? You’re not going to go off somewhere safe and leave us behind? You really are going after the Privy Council?’
Even in the darkness, she could hear how offended he was. ‘You doubt me? My own flesh and blood? Of course I am going after the council.’
‘To get the wagons coming in again?’ asked Duckling. ‘Not for some Scheme of your own?’
‘You wound me beyond measure,’ said Lord Rump. ‘Remember how I snatched you out of the snow when your own mother threw you away? Remember how I fed you, educated you—’
‘Yes or no?’ insisted Duckling.
‘Yes,’ said Grandpa. ‘I am going to do my best to get the food wagons moving again. Now climb into your rathole. And do not let the soldiers catch you, if you please. I do not want to lose my only granddaughter to the axe.’
The darkness murmured as he made his way towards the door.
‘Grandpa,’ hissed Duckling. ‘Who do you suspect? Who do you think is behind the Harshman?’
She heard a soft chuckle. Then her grandfather’s voice said, ‘It is obvious, is it not? Who benefits? Who is Regent? Who has ten times the power she had when the Margravine was alive? It is the Grafine von Eisen, of course. It is young Otte’s aunt.’
Grafine von Eisen, Regent to the underage Margrave, was grinding her teeth. Just a few turns of the hourglass ago everything had been going so well. Her plans had been delayed by the true Heir escaping from the Stronghold, but she had sent the Harshman after him, and was confidently expecting victory.
In the meantime, she was Regent, and had supreme power until Brun came of age. (Which would never happen. The boy would die – tragically – sometime in the next six months, and she would step up as the new Margravine.)
But then Otte had walked into the Great Chamber with his ridiculous wooden leg, claiming to be the real Margrave and warning everyone about the Harshman.
Luckily, they had not believed him. But he should never have got this far in the first place. He was supposed to be dead. And the Harshman, gods rot him, was supposed to be hurrying back here with his new-found power, to break down the walls of the Strong-hold and free them all.
‘I will rule Neuhalt,’ whispered the Grafine. ‘And I will rule it in truth, not just in name.’
‘Did you say something, Aunt Grafine?’ asked Brun.
The boy had not been raised with smiles, which was just as well, because the Grafine could not smile at him. He might act the part of Margrave well enough, but there was not a drop of noble blood in his veins, and she could not forget it. ‘I am thinking about the food carts,’ she replied, and she went back to contemplating the Great Chamber and its restless occupants.
When times were good, the grafs and grafines confined their energies to fighting among themselves. But when times were bad …
They knew perfectly well that it was she who held the real power. So if the carts were not restored quickly, they would turn on her. Unless she could distract them in some way.
I do not have to hold them for long, she thought. The Harshman will return soon. He will kill Otte and break us out of here. Then the food carts will not matter.
In the meantime, she must provide some sort of entertainment, something that would satisfy the nobles’ lust for action.
She turned to Brun. ‘We will begin executing the prisoners later today.’
The boy had excellent control over his reactions – she would give him that. His scar twitched, but apart from that he gave away nothing. ‘No, I do not wish—’
He paused, as a clamour arose at the back of the chamber, and Sergeant Bock and two of his men appeared in the doorway, dragging ex-Arms-mistress Krieg between them. All three soldiers were bleeding terribly. Bock’s right arm hung useless at his side, and one of the others was limping so badly that he looked as if he might tip over.
But they at least were on their feet, while the half-conscious Krieg was not.
They hauled her the length of the Great Chamber and threw her to the floor in front of the Faithful Throne. ‘Your Grace,’ said Sergeant Bock, swaying alarmingly. ‘The other prisoners escaped, but we caught Krieg.’ Then his eyes rolled up and he fell to the floor.
The Grafine was used to anger; it was part of her nature. But the wave of fury that surged through her at the sergeant’s words surprised even her. She pushed past Brun without a word and strode down from the platform.
‘Escaped?’ she demanded. ‘You let the prisoners escape? We were going to chop off their heads. Perhaps we should chop yours off instead, for failing in your duty.’ A murmur of anticipation swept through the chamber. The Grafine turned to Krieg. ‘Where are your fellow escapees?’
‘Where you will not find them,’ croaked Krieg.
The Grafine bent closer, and lowered her voice so that no one else could hear her. ‘I know your secret,’ she whispered. ‘I know that you swapped the boys at birth.’
Krieg’s eyes widened in shock, then quickly shuttered.
The Grafine nodded grimly. ‘If people should learn the truth, they would not be happy.’ She gestured to where Brun stood completely alone in front of the Faithful Throne. ‘They would take it out on your son, and I would not be able to stop them.’
‘You mean, you would not choose to stop them,’ said Kreig, expressionless.
‘It would be my duty to stand out of their way,’ replied the Grafine. ‘If we should recover the prisoners, however, you and I could come to an arrangement. The boy would have to step down as Margrave, of course. But I would let him live.’
‘I do not trust you.’
‘You must trust me. You have no choice.’