by Lian Tanner
Captain Rabid drew his grenado pistol, aimed it at Rump’s mid-section and said, ‘You are under arrest. Do not move.’
‘Dear me,’ said Rump, ‘I would not dream of moving. I do not want to move. No, Captain, I will not move until I have delivered my terrible news.’
They all looked at him. ‘News?’ said Captain Rabid.
But before Rump could answer, Triggs cut in, saying, ‘There is no news. This is a diversion, Rabid. He is trying to distract us from his crimes. Why, this is the man who plotted to kill the Margravine. This is the man who brought down the most noble leader Neuhalt has ever had.’
‘Take him away,’ snapped Second Councillor Whet. ‘Lock him up.’
Rump shook his head sorrowfully. ‘It seems I am taken fair and square. You had best disarm me, Captain Rabid. My cane is actually a sword stick, but I have no other weapons.’
The captain snatched the cane from him and laid it on the table. Councillor Triggs said, ‘Put him in your most secure cell. This man has more tricks up his sleeve than any honest person could imagine.’
‘I will see to it myself,’ said Rabid.
Rump made a small bow and began to walk towards the door. ‘I am honoured, Captain. And in return for your courtesy, I will tell you about the dreadful disease that is rampaging through the Strong-hold.’
‘You mean it is true?’ said Rabid. ‘I was just asking the councillors about it. I saw nothing of it when I was there yesterday.’
‘They are dying like flies, poor creatures,’ said Rump. They were at the doorway by then, and he stepped through it with a humble willingness, as if all he wanted was to be a good prisoner.
Behind him, Triggs cried, ‘What? Wait! Come back here!’
A moment later, Rump and Rabid were surrounded by the four councillors.
‘Ah – dying like flies?’ said Triggs. ‘Is that what you said?’
‘The groaning,’ said Rump, ‘still echoes in my mind. The babies scream. The old people cry out for mercy, but the only relief from such a sickness is death.’
Captain Rabid took a hurried step away, though he still aimed the pistol with admirable steadiness.
Councillor Triggs said, ‘But you do not – ah – seem concerned for yourself?’
‘Those of us fortunate enough to be born in the Spavey Isles,’ said Rump, ‘have a natural immunity to the Speckled Plague. But others – why, you would not even have to touch a sick person. The infection floats invisibly through the air—’
He stopped, as if something had struck him. With a worried expression, he turned to Captain Rabid. ‘You were there. You may be infected – here, come closer to the light. Oh dear. Oh dear dear dear. Do your eyes feel scratchy?’
Rabid’s face had turned a rather nasty green colour, but he managed to say, ‘Scratchy? No, I don’t think – well, perhaps just a little.’
Rump leaned closer. ‘Are you sweating? Feeling a little dizzy? I fear you have caught it, Captain. Or rather, it has caught you. Soon there will be spots on your hands and on your neck. Then the boils and the black vomiting, and …’ He broke off, as if what came after the black vomiting was too dreadful to speak of.
The councillors all took a step backwards. As for Rabid, he was a brave man, but even he looked shaken.
Rump put a kind hand on his shoulder. ‘You must go home, Captain. Put yourself to bed and do not give up hope. A few rare souls make it through this ghastly disease. Perhaps you will be one of them.’ And he gave the captain a gentle push.
Rabid staggered away without a backward glance. Lord Rump waited until he was out of sight, then turned on his heel and re-entered the meeting room.
‘Sit down, my friends,’ he said, taking a seat himself. ‘We have some things to negotiate, do we not?’
Councillor Whet glared at him. ‘Why did you support our story?’
‘I am always on the lookout for opportunities,’ said Rump. He rubbed his fingers together in the universal sign for coin. ‘I trust you will remember me when the Strong-hold is no longer a problem.’
Triggs had been watching him closely. Now he said, ‘Your little performance with Captain Rabid was very convincing. But when the boils do not appear—’
Rump held up a hand to interrupt him. ‘The boils will appear, Councillor. And so will the vomiting.’
With a gasp, Fourth Councillor Dred stood up. ‘You mean it is real?’ She dabbed at her forehead. ‘I am feeling a little dizzy—’
‘Of course it is not real!’ shouted Triggs. He glowered at Lord Rump. ‘We will not fall for your tricks. Get out of here.’ He spotted the cane, and reached for it—
‘Do not touch that!’ cried Lord Rump.
His tone was so commanding, and so full of warning, that Triggs snatched his hand back, saying, ‘What? Why not? What nonsense are you talking now?’
‘Note my gloves,’ said Rump. ‘Since I entered this room, I have not touched the handle of the cane with my bare hands. Captain Rabid, however …’
Once again they were silent, staring at the cane as if it might leap up and strike them.
Triggs recovered first. ‘Poison?’
‘The distilled essence of a little-known flower from the Beastie Isles,’ agreed Rump. ‘Brings on boils and vomiting within half an hour of being touched.’
‘Will he die?’ asked Whet.
‘I hope not,’ said Rump.
Triggs leaned back in his chair. ‘So you are not here to persuade us to restart the food carts?’
‘Dear me, no,’ said Lord Rump. ‘I am here to help you.’
‘Why?’ demanded Triggs.
‘Because,’ said Rump, ‘when this is over, when everyone in the Strong-hold is dead of starvation and you councillors can do as you please, I am hoping you will be grateful. Very grateful.’
Now at last, Triggs smiled. No, he chuckled. He polished his silver rings and dabbed at the facets of his ruby tiepin. ‘Lord Rump,’ he said, ‘I do believe we can do business.’
Pummel had an inbuilt clock, or so his ma always said. Even when he was inside, with gazettes plastered to the farmhouse windows to keep out the cold, and curtains over the gazettes, and an ancient horse blanket over the curtains, he knew the very moment when the sun rose. He knew when it was directly overhead, too, and when it set, no matter where he was.
He had known the time in the salt mines. And he knew it now, in this dark little rathole beside the stairs on the seventh floor of the Bear Tower.
‘A little before noon,’ he whispered, in answer to Otte’s unspoken question.
None of them had moved during the long night, held in place by the intent footsteps that went up and down the stairs, and the knowledge that the doors were being watched. Their stomachs rumbled, their legs ached and their bladders threatened to burst. But when they weighed those things up against certain execution …
Duckling was the first to realise that something was changing. She tapped Pummel’s knee (the candle had burned out hours ago) and whispered, ‘Listen!’
Pummel listened with every part of his tired, hungry body. He heard footsteps, but that was nothing unusual. Then he heard the voices, carrying up the stairwell.
‘Well I am not missing out on a good execution. Stay if you wish, but we are going to the Great Chamber.’
‘No, I will come. I wager Krieg begs for mercy at the last minute.’
Laughter, then, ‘Everyone begs for mercy at the last minute.’
‘Not Krieg. I will take your wager.’
The voices faded as their owners moved away. Pummel felt a breath on his cheek as Otte whispered, ‘Now we can go. We must help Arms-mistress Krieg.’
‘It might be a trap.’ That was Sooli. ‘They might have left someone behind.’
‘Whether it’s a trap or not, we can’t go,’ whispered Duckling.
‘But the arms-mistress—’
‘How are we going to rescue her from under the noses of all those people, Otte?’ asked Duckling.
‘You wi
ll think of something,’ whispered Otte.
Duckling groaned quietly. ‘I wish I could. I’ve been racking my brains all night, but I don’t see how we can get her away.’
‘We have to try,’ said Pummel. ‘She would try, if it was us about to be executed.’
There was a long silence, then Duckling whispered, ‘All right, we’ll try. At least, I’ll try.’
Otte started to protest again, but Duckling hushed him. ‘If we all go, we’ll get caught, no question. If I’m by myself, I can at least get into the Great Chamber without being spotted, and once I’m there, I’ll see if there’s anything I can do.’
The stale air in the rathole stirred as she stood up. ‘I reckon it’s safe enough to use the privy while I’m gone,’ she said. ‘See if you can find something to eat and some more candles. But don’t leave the tower; if the Grafine’s got any sense she’ll have patrols out.’
Pummel reached forward blindly and found her arm. ‘Don’t get caught.’
‘Me?’ whispered Duckling. ‘No one’s as sneaky as me, remember? I’ll be back with Arms-mistress Krieg before you know it.’
She laughed, a mere whisper of a sound. But even Pummel, who was used to believing what people said, could tell how frightened she was.
Grandpa always said that you had to think yourself into whatever part you were playing. So that’s what Duckling did. As she trotted towards the Keep, carrying a tray that she’d found on the ground floor of the Bear Tower, she thought about how much she was looking forward to this execution.
Life as a kitchen skivvy (she told herself) was a boring succession of sweeping, stirring and cleaning, with the occasional whipping from Cook’s strong right arm thrown in for good measure.
But an execution changed everything. An execution was like a carnival, even for people worried about the stopping of the food carts. Especially for people worried about the stopping of the food carts.
Everyone else in the Strong-hold seemed to have the same idea. Grafs and grafines, soldiers, washerwomen, cowherds, spit boys and cooks were hurrying up the main steps of the Keep, laughing and chatting to each other as if they were going to a fair.
No one took any notice of Duckling. She seemed as bright and excited as any of them, squeezing between the grafines and edging past the cooks as if all she cared about was getting as good a view of the proceedings as possible.
But even as she laughed and waved to non-existent friends, she was looking for gaps. Loose ends. Something Sergeant Bock and his soldiers might not have noticed. Something she could use to save Arms-mistress Krieg.
But there was nothing – only Brun sitting lonely and white-faced on the Faithful Throne, while his mother knelt on the floor below him, tied hand and foot.
Every time the Grafine went anywhere near Brun, he grabbed her and started to argue with her. Then he caught Krieg’s glare and shut up, though Duckling could see how much it cost him.
He was a loose end. He was a firecracker about to go off, except he was holding it all inside, because Krieg said so. And still Duckling couldn’t see any way of saving her. There wasn’t a diversion in the world, short of an earthquake, that would make this crowd turn away.
She knew that many of these people had respected Krieg when she was arms-mistress. Respected her strength and her honesty and her hardness. And maybe there were a few faces here and there in the crowd that looked sorry about what was to come.
But most of them were caught up in the thrill of it. Death was on its way, and as long as it wasn’t coming for them, they would treat it like a holiday.
As for Duckling, she was filled with fear and sorrow. When she looked up at Brun, she found him looking at her, with desperate hope in his eyes. She shook her head – the smallest of movements – and saw that hope fade.
Behind her the crowd parted with a roar as the execution block was hauled into the chamber. It was huge and heavy and stained with the blood of countless men and women, and the sight of it stirred the crowd up to fever pitch. They sang, they shouted, some of them danced, though there was hardly room for it.
Duckling tried to swallow the bitter lump in her throat. She imagined how she would feel if it was Grandpa about to die, and the thought made her dizzy with horror.
She heard another roar, as Sergeant Bock followed the execution block. He carried an axe, and his face was sober, as if he was just doing his duty. But Duckling, trained by her grandpa, could see the glee that he was trying to hide. The delight. The revenge for insults real and imagined.
Bock stopped beside the execution block and saluted Brun and the Grafine. He made a formal bow to the crowd. He tested the edge of the axe against his thumb and found it suitably sharp.
Brun was like stone now. He didn’t look at Duckling. He didn’t look at his mother either, though Duckling could see him trembling with the effort.
Grafine von Eisen raised her hand for silence. The crowd hushed, though there was still a low rumble of expectation.
‘The escaped prisoners have not delivered themselves to the mercy of the Margrave,’ cried the Grafine. ‘Therefore, he has ordered the immediate execution of Krieg, former arms-mistress, for treachery against the Faithful Throne.’
You cruel old witch, thought Duckling. Pretending this is Brun’s decision. And she was suddenly hot with rage.
But rage wasn’t enough to save Arms-mistress Krieg. Sergeant Bock took up his position. He gestured to two of his soldiers, and they dragged the arms-mistress closer to the block, and forced her head down onto it.
Sergeant Bock set his feet wide. He shrugged his shoulders a couple of times. He began to raise the axe …
And a wave of icy air swept through the Great Chamber, stopping the sergeant in mid-swing.
On the ninth floor of the Bear Tower, Pummel dropped his handful of candles and reached automatically for the raashk. But it wasn’t there.
‘The Harshman,’ he croaked, his throat half-stopped with horror. ‘He’s here! He’s in the Strong—’
But he could say no more. Without the raashk to warm him, the ice seized his tongue and crumpled his knees. Within three frantic heartbeats, the blackness overtook him, and he fell to the floor, fast asleep.
The Harshman strode into the Great Chamber like a blizzard. The air around him crackled and groaned; the rushes snapped under his feet. The nobles, the servants, the hunting dogs and the chickens lay sprawled across the floor, sound asleep.
‘I … Have … Returned,’ roared the Harshman, and the stuffed bears wilted under his icy breath. Above him, the hawk’s great wings beat a steady rhythm.
A boy slept on the Faithful Throne, but he was not the Heir, so the Harshman merely picked him up and dropped him on the floor. Then he sat on the throne, pondering his next move.
He liked sitting up there, with bodies everywhere he looked. It reminded him of a battlefield, though there was no blood, which was disappointing, and no slaughterbirds picking over the corpses.
There was, however, an execution block.
The Harshman liked executions almost as much as he liked battles, and for one enjoyable moment, he contemplated chopping off the heads of everyone in the chamber. That would fix the no-blood problem.
But then he would have no one to do his bidding. No one to cower in front of him and beg for mercy.
‘When … I … Am … Margrave … The … Whole … Country … Will … Cower. When … I … Am … Margrave … I … Will—’
His mind creaked out a question. Why should he not be Margrave now?
He gazed out over the Great Chamber, and his iron teeth clattered in something that almost resembled a smile. He had thought to kill the Heir first, but why wait?
Above his head, the hawk settled onto one of the rafters. The Harshman brought his fist down on the arm of the Faithful Throne, and roared to the sleeping people, ‘I … Am … Margrave … Now.’
It sounded so good that he repeated it, even louder. ‘I … AM … MARGRAVE … NOW.’
There
, that was settled. He leaned against the back of the throne, enjoying the sense of power. His first act as Margrave would be to send an army to destroy the Saffies. And when the Saffies were all dead, he would turn to the countries north of Neuhalt, and conquer them. No one would be able to stop him, because—
Ah, yes. To be truly unstoppable, he must kill the Heir.
Sniff sniff sniff. He turned to one side of the chamber, then the other. Sniff sniff sniff.
The boy had been here recently, and so had his – what was the word? His ‘friends’? (The Harshman was not entirely sure what friends were. He had never needed friends when he was alive. He had always preferred underlings. Or slaves.)
‘I … Will … Kill … Them … All,’ he growled, and he lurched off the throne, following that elusive scent.
But then he paused. The Margrave of Neuhalt was too important to go scuttling about the towers like a dog. The Margrave of Neuhalt sat on his throne and gave orders, and everyone ran to obey.
‘The … Margrave … Of … Neuhalt … Sends … His … Slaves … To … Catch … The … Heir.’
And with that, the Harshman drew the cold back into himself, and waited for the sleepers to wake and do his bidding.
Duckling lay on the floor of the Great Chamber, not daring to move. In that first terrible shock, as the Harshman swept through the doors, she had managed to keep her wits about her for long enough to summon a warm breeze.
It protected her from the worst of the cold, but it didn’t hide her from the Harshman’s gaze. If she so much as twitched, he would notice.
So she pretended to be asleep, like everyone else. She hummed so quietly that even the hawk could not hear her. She kept her breeze so small and close that it didn’t even ruffle her hair. But she couldn’t control her trembling.
Through slitted eyes, she saw poor Brun tossed to the floor as if he were no more important than a sack of potatoes. She saw the Grafine pushed out of the way, and heard the Harshman talking to himself in gravelly tones.
‘I … Am … Margrave … Now. I … AM … MARGRAVE … NOW.’