Sword of Waters

by Hilari Bell

  That could work! Arisa’s heart leaped. She grabbed Edoran’s arm and hauled him toward the door. “Tie the other kerchief over your face,” she told him. “We might be able to stop this before it starts, which will be much safer for everyone! You be careful,” she added, turning to Weasel.

  He had picked up the woolly mask from Edoran’s dressing table, and his face held more laughter than fear. It made Arisa nervous.

  “Don’t take any chances you don’t have to,” she added, as Edoran concealed his face. “Not one!”

  “I won’t,” Weasel assured her. “I won’t leave this room until someone comes for Edoran, and I’ll keep out of their hands entirely if I can. I never take unnecessary chances,” he added, seeing her skeptical expression. “You’re the crazy one!”

  Hiding the shield and sword was more important than staying to argue with him. Arisa grabbed Edoran’s arm again and pulled him through the sitting room into the corridor. She’d expected to find Jenks hovering there, but he wasn’t. Reporting to her mother? Or simply gone to the servants’ hall for a cup of tea, since his master had dismissed him? No way to know, but she was grateful for his absence as she and Edoran hurried down the halls toward the old wing.

  “I still think we should go to Holis,” Edoran fretted. “That way there’s no danger at all.”

  “Except to my mother, who’d probably hang,” Arisa snapped. “But you wouldn’t care about that!”

  It was hard to tell behind the mask, but she thought Edoran sighed. “She’s your mother. At least I understand why you care. But if nothing happens, if it’s only a plan that never came off, that we couldn’t even prove she intended, she wouldn’t need a pardon. Holis would probably fire her, but that’s all he could do without proof.”

  Arisa’s steps slowed. There was some logic there. Still… “I think Weasel’s right. The surest way to keep anything from happening is to get the sword, the shield, and you, all hidden away. Then nothing can happen.”

  Edoran was silent.

  “What are you thinking? I can’t tell through that mask.”

  “Why aren’t you wearing your mask?” Edoran asked. “If I have to wear mine—”

  “I’m who I’m supposed to be,” Arisa pointed out. “You’re Weasel, remember?”

  He hadn’t answered her question. But since her mother was plotting to abduct him, Arisa decided she’d rather not know what he was thinking.

  The throne room was empty, guarded only by a dozen suits of ancient armor propped on their stands around the tapestry-lined walls. Not posting a guard in this room had seemed reasonable to Arisa a few days ago. Now it struck her as lunacy.

  She heard a click, and turned. Edoran had shot the bolt that sealed the doors.

  “If we’re going to steal them we need privacy,” the prince pointed out.

  “We’re not stealing them,” said Arisa. “We’re… We’re…”

  They were stealing the sword and shield.

  “We’re out of our minds,” she murmured.

  “Steal them first,” said Edoran practically. “Worry about it later. How are we going to get them down without a ladder?”

  The sword and shield hung on the wall behind the throne, roughly ten feet above the floor. “Could you stand on my shoulders?” she asked.

  “I doubt it,” said Edoran. “Let’s see if there’s something we can stand on in the staging room.”

  “Staging room?”

  “Behind the throne,” said Edoran, leading her across the long stone floor. “If they needed to bring out props for some kind of ceremony, they had a servant fetch them from in here.”

  “In here,” once they’d drawn the bolt and opened the door, proved to be a small, windowless room, slightly larger than a closet. Except for a few rolls of tapestry, it was empty.

  “Nothing we can stand on,” said Arisa, turning back to the throne room. “Nothing out here, either. We can’t do anything with the tapestries. The armor would fall apart as soon as we took it off the stands—and the stands are too flimsy to help us either!”

  The swords clasped in the metal gloves were shinier than the sword that hung on the wall, even after its cleaning, and the shields were brighter and not so battered.

  “There’s nothing else in here,” said Edoran. “Except…”

  They turned together to stare at the tall throne. It rested on a low dais, about four inches above the floor, but it hardly needed the extra height. It was constructed of thick, dark wood. The elaborately carved back rose higher than Arisa’s head, and the base looked as solid as a boulder, but…

  “Do you think we could drag it?”

  “I’ve never seen it moved,” said Edoran. “It could be fastened to the floor, for all I know.” He stepped onto the dais and examined the square base.

  Arisa grabbed the back, braced her feet, and pulled.

  Edoran yelped as the chair tilted, just missing his nose.

  “It’s not fastened,” Arisa puffed.

  It was too heavy to lift, but between them they were able to maneuver it off the stone platform. Once they got it to the floor, they dragged it over to the wall without much trouble.

  Arisa started to climb up onto the seat, stepped on her skirt, and swore.

  “Let me. I’m dressed for it.” Edoran had pulled the mask off his face when they were wrestling with the throne, but he still looked appropriately burglarish as he scrambled up the chair’s carved back while Arisa braced the bottom. He had to cling to one corner post as he reached up, but with his other hand he lifted the sword from its brackets and lowered it down to Arisa.

  “Now the shield,” she said. “Then we’ll find a place to hide them.”

  “It’s heavier,” Edoran complained. It was also almost out of his reach. He pushed it up, bouncing it in its brackets several times before it fell—and he missed his grab. “Rot!”

  The slab of iron and wood hurtled toward her, and Arisa leaped out of its path. The crash as it hit the floor made her wince, and the throne wobbled dangerously as Edoran hurried down.

  “Why didn’t you catch it?” he demanded. “It could have broken!”

  “It could have broken me,” said Arisa, dropping to her knees to examine it. “I think it’s all—”

  The bolt on the throne room doors rattled. “Is someone in there?” a man’s voice called.

  “The guards!” Edoran gasped.

  “Or my mother’s men,” Arisa said grimly. “We’d better pray it’s—”

  The door rattled again. “Let us in,” the man demanded. “We’ve come to… clean. To clean the floor. Who’s in there?”

  Not the guards. They were too late! Arisa’s gaze darted to the narrow windows that divided the tapestries on the outer wall. They’d been arrow slots once, but then glass had been put in, and the lower panel, the only one that opened, was both narrow and short. The sword could be thrown out. The shield was too big.

  “We have to hide them.” Edoran looked frantically around the room. “But where? They’ll look behind the tapestries first thing, and search the staging room right after that!”

  “You hide them,” said Arisa. “I’ll go around and delay them as long as I can. Once the sword and shield are hidden, you can follow me out the window and hide yourself. When they go into the room, I’ll go for help.”

  “Hey, in there!” It was a different, deeper voice. “We’ve come to prepare the room for the noble guests who’ve come to see the sword. Let us in.”

  “Hide them where?” Edoran whispered. “And you can’t get out those windows—no one could!”

  “Hiding them is your problem,” said Arisa. She darted to the wall, unlatched the first window she saw, and pushed it open. Bushes below, bare of leaves in this soggy winter season. The window was shoulder height at the bottom, almost a foot wide and two feet high—no problem in britches, but it was going to be tricky in a gown. At least she wasn’t wearing hoops!

  She’d wiggled halfway through before her skirts jammed. The wall
s were thick enough in the old wing that lying on her side wasn’t too uncomfortable, as she dragged yards of fabric through the gap between her hips and the top of the window. The cloth tumbled frothily over her head, obscuring her vision, but she could feel it when Edoran began pushing her petticoats through. Then two firm hands grasped her knees and shoved. Arisa smothered a shriek as she tumbled headfirst into the bushes.

  She managed to get her hands up to protect her face, but that meant her arms took the brunt of the scratches as she floundered to her feet, then thrashed free of the brush and out onto the lawn.

  “You withless runt!” she hissed at the open window. “I wasn’t ready!”

  Even from outside she heard the crash of a heavy body against the doors. The window closed.

  Arisa turned and dashed for the low terrace, which opened onto the corridor that held the throne room doors. She shook dead leaves and twigs out of her skirts as she ran. A scratch on one wrist was bleeding, but there was nothing she could do about that—if there were marks on her face, the mask should conceal them.

  She ran quick hands through her tumbled curls, then pulled the half mask from her pocket and tied it on. It was dark now, too dark to see her reflection in the glass of the terrace doors. It was also too cold for a fine lady to wander in the gardens without a cloak, but hopefully her mother’s men would be too worried about their mission to think of that.

  One final check to be sure her mask was secure. She took a deep breath and settled the act over her shoulders, like a cloak of calm, and then went through the door.

  Four men stood before the throne room doors. They wore the crisp white and green of palace footmen, but their hard faces didn’t suit the proper uniforms. She recognized one of them, vaguely. He’d been a liaison between her mother and a group of smugglers, but he wasn’t one of the main troop, the men she’d grown up with. Men who would recognize her no matter where they saw her, or what she wore. If she met one of them…

  She hadn’t. Concentrate on the battle you’re in.

  “What are you doing there?” she demanded, in the best imitation of Lady Ronelle she could muster. It sounded pretty good. She’d been spending too much time with those people.

  The men before the doors shuffled their feet, looking amazingly guilty. Their postures, their ungloved hands and ill-cut hair, everything about them proclaimed they weren’t footmen. Clearly they were the second team. Was the first team kidnapping Weasel right now?

  “We’re supposed to inspect the room, Mistress,” one of the men said. “Make sure it’s clean, and fit for noble company. But someone’s bolted the door and they won’t let us in.”

  Arisa raised her brows. “Then why don’t you get the master of household, and let him attend the matter? Whoever is in there, he can command them to open up. If they don’t he can send for the guard. Surely that’s more sensible than standing around beating on the door?”

  “Yes, Mistress,” said the man. “We’ll do that.”

  They didn’t move. She didn’t dare move, for Edoran hadn’t had nearly enough time.

  “Then why don’t you go? You’ll not summon him by standing there.”

  The men exchanged glances, and one of them nodded. “You’re right, Mistress.”

  He started down the corridor toward her, trying to look humble and downtrodden, as he no doubt imagined the footmen looked—though in Arisa’s experience they were haughtier than most nobles.

  “The master of household isn’t on the terrace,” she told him, getting ready to run.

  The sudden flick of his eyes was her only warning, but it was enough. Arisa leaped for the terrace doors, yanked them open… and tripped over her own high-heeled shoes.

  Strong arms caught her before she could fall, pulling her back inside, and a strong hand over her mouth muffled her scream.

  She stamped one of those cursed heels down on his toes, and twisted half out of his grasp when he hopped. One more shove—

  It felt as if her head exploded. Her vision darkened, and small lights bobbed in front of her eyes.

  “Break it down,” the man who held her ordered. “Now.”

  She was aware of the crash as he half-dragged, half-carried her forward. Her vision was clearing.

  She saw the broken bolt, dangling from one door as it closed behind her. She saw Edoran standing by the throne, which was back up on its dais. How had he gotten it up there? And where were…

  A sword and shield hung on the wall behind the throne. A fancy, shiny sword, and a gleaming silver shield. He had switched them. He was brilliant.

  “Hey,” said Edoran indignantly. “Unhand Lady Celeste, varlet!”

  “Uh, she’s a bit unsteady on her feet, Master. I daren’t let her go. What are you doing in here?”

  “We were going to meet here,” said Edoran, coming toward her. He looked worried. “But she didn’t knock… I mean, that’s none of your business. You leave the lady to me, and… and take yourselves off.”

  Brilliant. By making it look like the men had interrupted a romantic assignation, Edoran had explained everything from the bolted door to her attempt to get them to leave.

  Arisa let her gaze drift around the room, and spotted the real sword and shield in the clutch of a suit of armor so old it almost matched them. These men would take the fake sword and shield, and…

  Edoran was an idiot! They’d think they had the real sword and shield! They’d report success, and her mother would have no reason to abort the plan! She’d kidnap Weasel, and then…

  She drew another breath. She didn’t know what she was going to say, but she never had the chance. The second blow almost knocked her out. She was vaguely aware of Edoran’s indignant cry, of his furious protests as she was hauled, staggering, across infinite space.

  Then she tumbled against someone, down and down. It was dark.

  She lay still for a time, her mind drifting. She liked lying down, lying still. But eventually her nagging sense of worry gathered into thought, and she realized she was lying on her back, with her aching head resting in someone’s lap.

  “Where are we?”

  “In the staging room,” Edoran told her. The legs beneath her head shifted, so it was probably his lap.

  “Are you all right?” he added.

  “Yes. I think— No! They’ve got the sword and shield!”

  She sat up. Pinwheels of light exploded behind her eyes. She lay down, quickly enough to be grateful for Edoran’s skinny calves between her head and the stone floor.

  “They don’t have the real sword and shield,” Edoran told her proudly. “They took fakes.”

  “I know that, you idiot! But if they think they have the real ones that’s just as bad! They’ll tell my mother they’ve got them, and she’ll go ahead with the plan! I told you to hide them, not replace them!”

  Her head was pounding.

  “There was no place to hide them!” Edoran snapped. “They’d have been found within minutes, and you know it. I could have taken the sword and run,” he added more calmly. “But then they’d have gotten the shield, and they’d still go on with the main plan. I’m not sure they’d abandon the kidnap plan even if they failed completely. Given the importance everyone seems to place on them, I thought it was better to let them take the fakes.”

  Was he right? Wrong? Either way, it was done. Arisa rubbed her temples. The headache was beginning to ease, but the skin around her left eye was puffy and tender.

  “You don’t think they’re important?” she asked.

  “What?”

  “You said, ‘Given the importance everyone else places on them.’ Don’t you think the shield and sword are important?”

  Edoran hesitated. “Maybe I’d feel differently if I were Deor’s descendant, but Regalis and all the kings who came after him, including my father, managed to rule without them. Pettibone murdered my father, and he ruled the realm just fine before the sword and shield turned up. So, no, I don’t think they’re that important.”

&nb
sp; She didn’t have time to argue with the prince’s obsession about Pettibone’s killing his father.

  “We’ve got to get out of here.” She sat up, slowly. Her head throbbed, but it didn’t knock her flat this time. She rose to her feet, despite her wobbling knees.

  The staging room was nearly dark, but a dim line of light glowed beneath the door. She could make out the pale smear of Edoran’s face, and lumpy rolls of tapestry.

  “I already tried,” Edoran told her. “Even if we had something to pry the pins out with, which we don’t, the hinges are on the outside. The bolt’s on the outside too, and the rods the tapestries are rolled on were too flimsy for battering rams even when they were new, and now they’re rotten.”

  “You don’t know that,” said Arisa. “I’ll bet you didn’t check them all.” She felt along the top of one roll till she found the pole in the center and tried to pull it over. The pole broke in her hand with a mushy snap.

  “I told you,” said Edoran.

  “You haven’t tried them all,” she repeated.

  Every one of them was rotten, just as Edoran had predicted. And the hinges were on the outside.

  “There has to be a way,” Arisa said stubbornly. “There has to.”

  “We won’t be stuck here forever,” Edoran pointed out. “Sooner or later someone will notice the sword and shield are gone and raise the alarm. They’ll find us quicker if we make some noise.”

  He dragged one of the tapestries over to the door and sat on it. Stripping off one shoe, he banged the heel against the door three times. He waited a moment and did it again—bang, bang, bang. It made Arisa’s headache worse.

  “That’s all you can think of?” she demanded. “Sit there and make noise till someone rescues us? There has to be a way—a way to fight!”

  Edoran laughed. “You are the most… consistent person I’ve ever met. If you’ve got any other ideas, I’ll be happy to assist you.”

  “We can try breaking down the door.”

  “Any sensible ideas,” said Edoran. “There’s no way we can break that door.”