He reached for the rope, climbing over the rail. He braced himself, wrapping the rope through his legs and then he let go, easing himself down hand over hand. Nicholas was no soft dandy. He prided himself on keeping himself fit. He spent hours every sennight fencing, boxing, climbing, and running. Majick could only keep him so safe—and clearly not safe enough. He wanted to be able to defend himself in any situation.
The branches of the hemlock battered him as the wind swung him like a pendulum. His cold hands slipped on the wet rope and he clenched them, feeling the burn on his palms. He kept going, his arms aching with the strain, his head spinning with hunger and the Kalibrian whiskey he’d drunk. Fool.
He reached the ground at last and stepped back out of the way to allow Margaret room. But the rope suddenly pulled up and away. He waited, gazing upward to find her. Suddenly a hand gripped his shoulder. He spun around. She stood behind him. There was a tear in the shoulder of her shirt and a red scrape made a seam across her pale skin. Hemlock needles tangled in her hair.
“Let’s go.”
“How far?” he asked quietly, not moving. She just looked at him, not answering. “I have horses,” he explained. She didn’t, he knew. The Crown kept only a few, and Geoffrey had taken possession of them.
She hesitated. “They’ll call attention to us.”
“But we’ll make better time, wherever we are going.”
She licked her lips and brushed the rain from her eyes, then nodded. “Can we get them out without notice?”
He lifted his shoulder in a half-shrug. “I think so.” The horses would be bedded down for the night and the staff would be dining in the kitchens.
“All right.”
He didn’t ask her if she could ride, as he would have done even an hour before. He had a feeling she could do a great many things he never would have expected of her.
They slipped into the barn through a small door at the west end, farthest from the house. It was dry and warm, heated with woodstoves on either end of the barn. The musky smells of horses, grain, and hay filled the air. There were soft nickers, the sounds of chewing, and the scrape of hooves. Nicholas eased out into the main corridor that ran the length of the barn. There was no sign of anyone. He motioned Margaret to follow him and hurried down to the tack room, holding the hilt of his rapier to keep it from jingling or scraping against the wall.
The door of the tack room opened with barely a creak. He slipped inside, touching the sylveth lamp inside. A gold glow illuminated the room. It flickered and was weaker than it ought to have been. He went quickly to the bridles and selected what he wanted, then did the same with the saddles. He lifted one down and handed it to Margaret, then retrieved his own.
“We’ll need another,” she said when he started to leave.
Ah, yes. Their “help.” He wondered who it was.
“Can he ride?” Nicholas asked as he sorted through which horse to use.
“It’s going to be fun to find out,” she said with wicked humor dancing in her eyes.
That caught Nicholas up short and he stared. “All these years,” he said, shaking his head slowly. “I never even suspected what you were. I thought of you as soft, insipid—even stupid.”
One brow rose in a roguish look. “And what is your impression of me now?”
“I think you won’t fool me again.”
She smiled and it was cold and dangerous. “Think again.”
Chapter 4
The horse that Nicholas gave Margaret was a leggy gray gelding with a smooth gait. He was a quiet animal, but responded quickly to her legs and heels. She had heard many times that his horses were the highest quality and best trained—he sold them across the Inland Sea for a tidy sum.
She glanced at her companion as they jogged along. She hadn’t intended to help Nicholas retrieve his son, but his reaction to his son’s kidnapping had changed her mind. It was clear that he not only loved the boy, but that Nicholas would sacrifice himself for his son. Her father had loved her, but he would never have allowed that love to interfere with his kingly responsibilities. Margaret had never questioned that. But faced with Nicholas’s agonizing fear for his son, she’d known she had to help. Besides, it could win his support to the Rampling side. It was worth the risk. She hoped Keros agreed. She grinned. If only he’d known what he was getting himself into when he promised to help her.
The rain had let up and was now a slow drizzle. They’d left his manor through a rear gate. Nicholas promised that only he knew of it and only he had the key to the wards, though he eyed her narrowly as he spoke, clearly wondering how she’d obtained entrance. Margaret only watched him smugly. Let him eat himself up with curiosity and worry.
“How do you know about Carston?” he demanded suddenly.
She debated her answer a moment, then gave a little shrug. It didn’t matter if he knew. “Two days ago I stole some information from the regent’s office.” Father’s office, she corrected herself with silent bitterness.
Nicholas was scowling at her. “You were in the castle? Are you Pale-blasted? He’s desperate to capture you and your brothers. He won’t sell you. He’ll carve you apart until you tell him all your father’s secrets.”
She shrugged. “It’s what I was made to do,” she said. “I am harder to catch than you might think.” Though it had been close. If not for Ellyn—
Margaret frowned. She had intended to make their meeting at the teahouse tomorrow, but now it seemed she was going to miss it.
“Where is my son? How is he?” Nicholas growled.
She shook her head. “I don’t know. I know where they took him and that he was alive when the kidnappers sent the message to the regent.”
“What did they say?”
“They said they killed everyone at Oaksmere and then hunted the boy and his guardian down. They killed the man and took Carston.”
When he said nothing, Margaret glanced at him. She felt herself recoil. Before he’d been angry and scared, but now he had become something else—angry still, but more than that. It was a rage so deep and cold that it curled her toes. His eyes had turned vicious and brutal and he held his body like a knife ready to throw. His horse pranced beneath him and he mechanically patted its shoulder soothingly. When he spoke again, his voice was soft and modulated, as if he was speaking to guests over a dinner table. The lack of emotion sent shivers running through Margaret.
“Where did they take him?”
She could have prevaricated. If she told him straight out, she risked him running off in the night to rescue the boy himself. But why should it matter? His choice. “He’s in the village of Molford, just south of Lake Ferradon. He’s being kept at Molford Manor. The regent confiscated it and is using it to house part of the private army he’s been building.”
“Why are you doing this?”
“I told you: I’m a Rampling. And you’ll owe me. I know you pay your debts.”
“I have worked to destroy your family.”
Her mouth twisted. “I am well aware of that.”
“Your brothers would not help me in this, I think.”
She shrugged. “They are trying to clean up the mess that you made by installing Geoffrey Truehelm as regent.” Her teeth gritted and her chest tightened. “If I find out you were responsible for my father’s death, I will kill you,” she whispered tautly.
“I did not order his death.” His words were short, staccato.
She twisted her head to glare at him. “Why should I believe you?”
“Because it suited my purposes better for him to remain on the throne.”
“That I do not believe.”
“It is true. Your father no longer had the faith of the people. He allowed the Burn to happen, the Jutras invaded and the Pale snapped, and the majicars had only become more recalcitrant. In time, Crosspointe would have revolted and thrown off Rampling rule. It is what I was hoping for.”
Hot anger burned in Margaret’s throat. She curled her lip, wanting to spit at
him. She controlled herself with hard effort. “You have no idea what’s really been happening,” she said. “If you did—” She broke off.
“I know more than you think,” he said.
She only shook her head. What he didn’t know would tear Crosspointe to bits. The truth was that her father had committed treason. He’d sold ships’ compasses to Crosspointe’s allies in an effort to put more ships onto the sea to defend against the Jutras. He believed that in time the Jutras would invade again and he wanted to have armed allies to help repel them. He’d planned to use the earnings from the compasses to quietly build fortresses around Crosspointe and fill them with an army of Crown Shields. He’d been murdered before he could do that.
But selling ships’ compasses was high treason, even for the king; if the people of Crosspointe learned of what he’d done, they’d panic. They’d fear that the Jutras would obtain the compasses. More than that, they would do exactly what Nicholas wanted—they’d overthrow the crown permanently and likely cement Geoffrey Truehelm in power.
That wasn’t even the worst of it. The making of compasses was an unusual ability. Most majicars could not do it. The last of the compass majicars except one had been killed in the fall of the Kalpestrine, and Fairlie, the one who’d escaped, hated Crosspointe and the Ramplings, especially Ryland. Compass majicars were spawn—not like ordinary majicars and Pilots—but the terrifying kind. They were misshapen, malformed monsters, and only they could make compasses that allowed Pilots to guide ships across the chaotic Inland Sea. If anyone learned that Crosspointe had lost all its compass majicars, there would be rioting.
Margaret rubbed her forehead with cold fingers. If Nicholas knew any of that, he’d have the weapons he needed to destroy Rampling rule forever. And that still wasn’t the worst of it. Not as far as he was concerned. His nephew was Shaye Weverton, the majicar who had become so powerful he had helped bring down the Kalpestrine with Fairlie’s aid. The two had fled to the Root to be safe from those who would hunt and imprison them, and learn their secrets. But Nicholas knew none of that. All he knew was that Shaye and Fairlie had disappeared and no doubt believed that her father had had them murdered. Even Margaret wasn’t supposed to know the truth. She’d been reduced to spying on her brothers for information. It was a secret she had no intention of ever telling Nicholas. Shaye hated the Ramplings and Ryland in particular for deliberately transforming Fairlie with sylveth. The two had been best friends, which made the betrayal even worse. Add in the fact that Shaye loved his uncle, if Nicholas ever discovered Shaye’s whereabouts, he’d have the services of one of the most powerful majicars in the world, if not the most powerful. Luckily, Shaye had decided he wanted to live in seclusion for the moment, helping Fairlie adjust to her transformation. In time—
Margaret shook off the thought and urged her gelding faster. One worry at a time.
They were following a cart track that wound through the foothills above the city. It was faster and less conspicuous than riding through Sylmont. It took a little more than an hour to travel down past the city center and Cheapside, past the Maida of Chayos and the Mystery of Hurn, until they reached Cranford and the Ferradon River.
“You should leave the extra mare,” she told him. “We’ll come back for her. It will be safer.” She waited as he tied the chestnut beneath a traveler pine where she was protected from the rain and prying eyes.
When Nicholas rejoined her, Margaret turned east and crossed the Westenra Canal. She’d retrieved her cloak from where she’d left it outside Nicholas’s manor house and now pulled the hood up to hide her face. Her companion did the same.
“We are going to the Riddles?” he asked dubiously.
“We are.”
He pulled his horse to a halt, eyeing Margaret suspiciously as she followed suit. “With horses? I thought you did not want to call attention to us. We’ll be a beacon for every thief around. Add in the fact that you have a spectacular bounty on your head, and we’ll be swarmed in minutes.”
“We’ll have to chance it.”
He scowled, his face pinching in desperation and anger. “Are you mad?”
“Let me consider. . . . I’m about to expose to you, my enemy, one of our safe houses, which will render it useless. After that, I’m planning on revealing the identity of an unregistered majicar who has been critical in the resistance against the regent. All this to save the son of a man who hates my family and likely murdered my father, just in the hopes of cultivating an alliance. Am I mad? You tell me.”
With that she wheeled her horse and trotted away. Much as she wanted to spur the gelding into a dead run, the racket of his hooves on the cobbles would wake everyone within hearing and bring them running. Instead she pulled him down to a quiet, springy walk, gritting her teeth as Nicholas settled in beside her.
“My apologies,” he said stiffly. “I will repay you for your sacrifices.”
“You can’t,” she spat without thinking, then more quietly, “Your help to put a Rampling back on the throne is all I want.”
He didn’t answer. Margaret gave a silent sigh. This was all futile and stupid if she didn’t win his support. And yet—She wanted to help him. Or rather, she wanted to help the boy. She was so tired of sitting on her hands and doing nothing while innocent people suffered right in front of her. And this boy was innocent. No matter who his father was, Carston had done nothing to deserve this kidnapping. She grimaced. It was exactly that sort of thinking that made her unfit to rule. Given the choice, she let her emotions rule her actions more often than not.
They reached the edge of the Riddles and plunged in without pausing. The place was a sprawling, nonsensical maze. It had originally been built by the founders of Crosspointe before they realized that no one could follow them across the Inland Sea. What they’d been running from, Margaret didn’t know; the history books didn’t say. But they were terrified of being found.
The Riddles was full of roads that dead- ended into buildings, or corkscrewed and wound about in mad tangles, leading back on themselves. There were stairways that led nowhere, buildings without doors, doors that opened onto the river—it was a place designed to confuse armies, separating them so that soldiers could be picked off one by one. Now it confused tax collectors and Crown Shields. It was a haven for thieves and murderers and people who did not want to be found. Ryland had located several safe houses here for family members who managed to escape the regent’s hunters, and Keros had long made his home here.
The roads were buckled and many of the cobblestones had been pried up to make other things, like makeshift hovels, walls, or baking ovens. It made for treacherous footing and more than once their horses stumbled. Nicholas cursed steadily in a low voice. Margaret smiled, liking him the better for it. It made him seem more human. She had always thought of him as the spider in the web, cold and calculating as he ruled his business empire. But he surprised her. He’d managed himself on the ledge and clambering down the rope, and his willingness to go after his son himself spoke well for him.
They were forced to go single file between two buildings that seemed to sway dangerously together as if they were about to tumble down. Margaret drew a knife from her boot and held it ready, the hair on her scalp prickling. Her glance swept the ground before them like a scythe, then moved upward. She saw the first bully-boy crouched in the cross braces beneath a balcony. He sat waiting like a vulture inside a cloak of shadow. He couldn’t be alone.
Margaret tipped her head subtly, scanning the roof-line. More shadows clung to the downspouts and window ledges. They intended to drop down as she and Nicholas exited. She didn’t doubt that more roughs had moved in behind to block their escape.
“Company,” she whispered. Damn them to the black depths! But she’d known that even as late as it was—or early—there was a risk to bringing horses into the Riddles.
“So I see,” came the quiet answer from behind her.
“Be ready to run.”
The trouble was, if she timed it rig
ht, she could probably win free, but the brigands would fall on Nicholas like an avalanche. As entertaining as it might be to see him get a mouthful of knuckles or someone’s boot to his gut, it wasn’t the right time. Maybe one day . . .
She held her knife ready and surreptitiously shortened her reins. Her gelding bowed his head and pawed the air, sensing her tension. Good. She passed the man perching above on the cross braces and was nearly to the end of the alley when she suddenly clamped her legs tight around the barrel of her horse and gave a loud cry. The sound echoed shockingly and her mount sprang forward as if launched from a catapult. Behind her she heard shouts. She cleared the alley and whipped her horse around. He reared and landed, standing more steadily than she had expected. He was a horse trained for trouble.
Nicholas had his sword in one hand and his knife in another. He swung at the figures dropping down around him. His horse was snapping and kicking at them—trained for trouble indeed.
Margaret didn’t wait. She clamped her legs tight and her gray bounded forward again. She didn’t have a sword and the reach that Nicholas did, but she had her knife and rings. She spun them on her fingers and flicked open the needles.
Three men and a woman were trapped between the enraged horses. They screamed and ducked as the horses snapped and lunged. Someone leaped onto the rump of Margaret’s mount and grasped her around her neck. She gripped his arm, digging needles into his flesh. He stiffened and gave a soft moan before dropping to the side, dragging her with him. She braced herself in the stirrup, bending and twisting as he fell away.
She heard the sounds of Nicholas’s rapier cutting the air, smelled the coppery sweet scent of blood and the fetid smell of the alley. A hand grabbed her ankle. She kicked and swiped at it with her knife. The hand released her.
“Go!” shouted Nicholas.
She sat back hard and pulled the reins and her gelding obediently scuttled backward, thank Chayos. She swung out of the alley opening with Nicholas lunging after her. She urged her horse into a choppy canter, zigzagging between buildings and around to the south. She didn’t slow down as they turned into a dead end. She reached out, trailing her fingers down the wall. Ahead, the brick wall melted away as the majick thankfully answered, and they plunged through. She swung about, slapping her hand down on top of the sylveth knob topping a post set just within the small courtyard. Instantly the wall behind them faded back into being and the knob burst into radiant light.
The Hollow Crown: A Novel of Crosspointe Page 6