The Cup and the Crown

by Diane Stanley

  “Good morning, gentlemen,” Richard said, pointedly scratching a rib. “Rather early for a visit.”

  “We’ve come for the foreign gentleman.” Before Richard could reply, they entered his house, stepping right around him. “Where is he?”

  “Well, I don’t know,” Richard said, shutting the door and tugging at his shirt, which was embarrassingly short. “Lord Worthington took rather high offense at being lodged with the ratcatcher. So he cursed me to hell, then turned on his heels and went away. He hasn’t been back since, and I can’t say I’m sorry to see the last of him. Hope he went over the wall and drowned himself in the moat.”

  The watchmen exchanged suspicious looks. They didn’t believe a word.

  “Search the house,” the chief officer said to one of his men. “You look around outside,” he said to the other.

  “What’s the fellow done, officer? He’s a lord, you know, not a petty thief.”

  “I know exactly what he is.”

  “A foreigner?”

  “Right.”

  Richard stopped talking then and started thinking. Once you’ve committed to a lie, then you’d better arrange the furniture around it, so to speak. He did so now, because there were one or two questions he hoped he wouldn’t be asked; but if they were, well, it would be better if he didn’t have to come up with the answers on the fly. That’s how mistakes were made.

  “Mind if I finish getting dressed?” he asked. “I was still abed when—”

  “Stay where you are. I have some questions to ask.”

  “Have a seat, then?”

  “No.”

  The Harrowsgode Watch could be a stern lot, but never as hard as this. Tobias must be serious business, then.

  “You were nosing around the university the other day, asking about the barrister.”

  “I’m allowed the freedom of the city so I can work at my trade. I have an official badge given me by the Council, attesting to my right—”

  “Then you went over to the River District and were seen watching—”

  Ah, one of the questions he’d been dreading, and the furniture not yet in place.

  “—a particular house belonging to—”

  “Claus Magnusson, yes.” Richard pressed his lips together and waited for the rest.

  “And as it happens, a lady who was staying there is betrothed to this same Lord Worthington. All kind of suspicious, don’t you think?”

  “I do. Absolutely.”

  “Perhaps you’d like to offer an explanation?”

  “Look, officer, I was instructed, very official-like, to give house-room to this Westrian gentleman. I got this letter—all loops and swirls and hard to read, not like the usual summonses I get, and delivered by a lad in livery riding a shiny new spinner. He was sent by a master barrister, name of Pieter. Well, I’m not used to none of that, see. And in the letter—besides the part where the barrister informed me I was to make the gentleman comfortable—he happened to mention that Lord Worthington was betrothed to the lady you just spoke of and said where she was staying.”

  Oh, please, please, don’t ask to see that letter!

  The watchman watched, frowning.

  “So I was worried, as you can imagine—having lost the fellow on the very first day, and within an hour of his arrival—that I might be held accountable for it. It wasn’t my fault. I was courteous as could be. And I didn’t look like this, neither, when he came. I was dressed all properlike, not half naked, as I am now—”

  “I don’t want the story of your life, ratcatcher; just make your point.”

  “So I went there to find him.” Short enough?

  “Why?”

  “To ask him to come back so I wouldn’t be blamed on account of his leaving.”

  The watchman who’d been sent to search the house came back into the hall and shook his head. The chief officer nodded and returned his attention to Richard.

  “We came here last night. Nobody was home. Where were you?”

  “Catching rats. It’s what I do, and night is when I do it.”

  “Where?”

  Richard told him.

  “Will this silk merchant vouch for you?”

  “He will, and gladly, too. I caught thirty-seven rats for him.”

  “Where are they now?”

  “The rats?”

  “Yes.”

  “Buried in the rat-pit out back. I’ll dig ’em up if you’d like to see.”

  “Did you go alone?”

  Oh, crikes! Here was the other one! How he wished he’d started with a better story! All the furniture in the world wouldn’t make this one look good. But you can’t put the milk back into the cow; he’d have to do his best with what he had.

  “I brought my apprentice, as I always do. I’m required to have an apprentice by Harrowsgode law, so he can learn the trade and carry on—”

  “What’s his name and where does he live?”

  Richard gave him the name and address, desperately hoping they wouldn’t bother to contact the boy. Chances of that were good, especially after his client had sworn that Richard had been in his storeroom the night before, exactly as he’d claimed, catching thirty-seven rats.

  The third man came in from the yard now; he hadn’t found anything, either.

  “All right,” said the inquisitor, disgusted with Richard and bored with the whole business. “If you want to know, I think your story smells. I’d watch your back, ratcatcher, if I were you.”

  When the men had gone, Richard went into the pantry and sliced himself a large hunk of bread. He ate it quickly, leaning over the wash-sink. Then he got properly dressed and left the house.

  29

  Spirit Work

  MIKEL WAS WAITING in the study-room, an open letter in his hand. He looked up when Molly came in, his expression grave.

  “What?” she said.

  “I have a message here. It seems you’re to be moved from your quarters in the tower to a larger room downstairs—as you’ve apparently decided to take up kite building and will want to do some of the work in your chamber at night. Do you . . . is there something . . . can you explain this to me at all?”

  “It’s true. I do want to build a kite and see if it will fly.”

  “Instead of learning to read?”

  “Can’t I do both?”

  “There are only so many hours in a day, and you’re already so far behind—almost grown and just starting to learn your letters. To waste your precious time on children’s games—”

  “Who was the message from?”

  “Sigrid.”

  “That’s what I thought. It was her idea, you know.”

  “Sigrid’s idea.”

  “Yes.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well.” He looked away and sighed at the walls. “Who am I to question . . . ?”

  “I only need a little help—just see if you can find some books about kites and the principles of flight, then read out the important parts. I’ll do the rest on my own, in the evenings. In my new, large room. Then everything will be as before.”

  He nodded, tapping his knee with the letter—slap, slap, slap. He probed his teeth with his tongue and looked thoughtfully out the window.

  “What? There’s something else.”

  Mikel sighed. “The Great Seer has offered to begin your spirit work. He’s too busy to take it on as a regular thing, but he wanted to get you started.”

  “When did this happen?”

  “This morning. You’ve certainly captured everyone’s attention.”

  “Mikel—”

  “I know. And my answer is the same as it was last night. And there’s something more, if you’ll hear it.”

  She had the feeling she was going to hear it whether she liked it or not.

  “Molly, you tend to say exactly what you think and show the world everything you feel. I’m sure you’re just being honest and straightforward, and that’s an admirable thing; but there
’s tremendous power in keeping your thoughts and emotions to yourself. Let others spill their secrets, then use what they reveal to your advantage. Think of it as buckling on your armor.”

  Molly was appalled. “I should be like that with everybody? I might as well be dead!”

  “No, not with everybody. Just be careful whom you trust.”

  “I trust you.”

  “You do me honor, then. And, if you’ve been paying close attention—something else you need to learn—I have given you my trust as well.”

  “What about Soren. Should I trust him?”

  He was quiet for a very long time.

  “If you have to ask . . .”

  Soren arrived a little after noon. There was a brisk, bustling air about him, as if he’d just come upstairs after a busy morning, which in truth he probably had. He smiled at Molly, not too broadly, friendly but not fawning. She decided that smile had been carefully chosen. Inwardly, she began strapping on her armor.

  “Thank you, Mikel,” Soren said with a curt little nod and a slightly altered smile—as between colleagues, though slightly dismissive. Mikel took the hint and left the room.

  “Well, Marguerite, I’m quite looking forward to this. I hope you are, too.”

  “Yes,” she said.

  “So many new beginnings in such a short time.”

  She nodded, carefully arranging her expression.

  “You are—as I’m sure you know—a very gifted young lady, with enormous potential. But a gift only grows into greatness through hard work.” He raised his eyebrows as if to ask Do you understand?

  “I’m willing to work. You won’t find me wanting.”

  “That’s what I hoped to hear. Now, let’s suppose that I spoke to you in a whisper—like this. Let’s also suppose that you were bustling about, gathering your papers together, sliding books across the desk, scooting in your chair—that sort of thing. Would you be able to hear me?”

  “Probably not.”

  “Well, it’s the same with the voice of your inner spirit. You must learn to listen for its faintest whispers—for unless you hear it calling, you can’t draw it out and help it to grow. Do you see?”

  “Yes.”

  “We’re going to start with an exercise in stillness and concentration. I want you to close your eyes and let your muscles relax: your shoulders, arms, hands, neck, jaw, tongue, fingers, and toes. Imagine you’re melting into the carpet.”

  He waited as she concentrated on one part of her body after another, bidding each to release and go limp. When Soren judged that she was fully relaxed, he began to speak in a soft, mellow voice.

  “Now stay as you are, calm and peaceful; but I want you to move your consciousness away from your body. Empty your mind completely so it becomes like a great, cavernous space with a wide, welcoming door. Then you must have patience. Wait for whatever comes. And when it does, give it your full attention and hold on as long as you can. Begin.”

   

  Molly was floating in a warm sea, deep below the surface. Everything around her was still. Soft light penetrated her world from above, but there was no sound except for her own steady breathing: in, out; in, out.

  She drifted like this for a long time, as though in a dreamless sleep. Then gradually she sensed a change. She still floated, but now she felt the touch of fresh, cool air; and when she opened her eyes, everything was white.

  She was in a cloud. It had dark places and bright places, soft edges and great patches of nothingness. And then it was gone. She squinted against the sudden light.

  Her arms were outstretched, but they didn’t feel like arms exactly. They were more . . . complicated. She turned her head and saw that they had become wings—glossy and black. They trembled with a subtle vibration, reacting to little movements in the air.

  She angled her body and banked to the right—knowing how to do this without being taught—swooping down, circling the towers of Harrowsgode Hall, then rising again. She was conscious of every feather-twitch, each small adjustment she made in the set of her tail. It all came as naturally as breathing.

  She looked down on the city spread out below her and the patchwork of fields in the valley. It would be so easy to fly there, to land amid the barley stubble. But why not go higher, farther, out over the very mountains themselves to the villages of Austlind and beyond, to Alaric in his garden back in Westria? How amazed he would be when she flew in!

  But her wings weren’t responding anymore; she couldn’t move her primary feathers. They’d become nothing but outstretched arms again, she realized; and her hands were gripping something. Her chest and hips were cradled by strong bands. And above her, holding her aloft, was a great canopy of silk—the color of garnet, embroidered all over with sunbursts in thread-of-gold. New wings of her own design, the wings of a Magus Mästare. But they weren’t as clever as her bird-wings had been. All they could do was soar, floating gently down, always down. . . .

  Molly opened her eyes. A stack of books lay on the desk, and beside it a basket of materials for building a kite. Someone must have come into the room, probably knocking first, and put those things down on the table. Then whoever it was had gone out again and shut the door. Yet she’d heard none of it.

  “How do you feel?” Soren asked.

  “Fresh as springtime.” She looked out the window and was startled. “It’s almost dark!”

  “Yes. You held on for a very long time.”

  “It didn’t seem long.”

  “It never does.”

  She nodded. She’d spent a whole day flying.

  “So, tell me,” he said, leaning forward on the desk, wearing a friendly smile, “what did you see?”

  Molly felt the hair rise up on her arms. Then, quick as lightning, the armor was back on again.

  “I was in a barn,” she said, “very big and very dark. And there were all these cows. . . .”

  30

  The Silversmith’s Shop

  RICHARD STOOD AT the entrance to a silversmith’s shop, his hat in his hand. He’d been directed to go there by Molly, who’d sent another message by her raven.

  He’d never been to this particular workshop before. He’d bought his own little treasures—the tray, the cups—in the Neargate District, where they didn’t stare at foreigners or ignore them altogether as they did in the city establishments. So this visit made Richard uncomfortable. He’d had to nerve himself just to walk through the doorway.

  “You the ratcatcher?” asked a very young apprentice, noting Richard’s cape and badge.

  “Yes, I am.”

  “Well, you’ve got the wrong place, then. Nobody called you here.”

  “I’m not on official business,” Richard said, feeling once again a boy of eight years, a lowly servant expected to bow and doff his cap to his betters.

  “Then why have you come?”

  “To spend my gold, lad—which I earned by honest labor in the service of Harrowsgode. I believe it’s as good as any other man’s.”

  The boy was taken aback by Richard’s boldness. “Shall I call the master?” he asked.

  “No. We won’t bother him. I just want a few brief words with one of your fellows, Jakob Magnusson.”

  “Oh,” said the boy. “He’s over there.”

  “Jakob,” Richard said, pulling up a stool and settling himself on it, “I have come at the request of a lady whose name I shall not mention.” He kept his voice very low so only Jakob could hear. “She is related to you—a cousin, I believe.”

  “That lady is in no position to request anything, or send anyone anywhere.”

  “So one would naturally assume. All the same, she has found a way to get messages out of . . . the place where she is.”

  “Yet I still don’t believe you.”

  “And why not?”

  “Because she’s just as incapable of writing a letter as she is of sending one.”

  “Well, see, that’s changed. They’ve got teachers up there at . . . the place where
she is, and she’s rather a quick study. Now why don’t we just move on to the point, which is this: the lady wishes me to ask you about a certain cup. How soon will it be ready?”

  Jakob put his hand over his mouth, a small gesture of astonishment, then disguised it by rubbing his jaw. Richard had his attention now.

  “I worked on it for a while after she left—or to be more precise, after my father arranged for her to be taken. After that there seemed no point. So I stopped.” He gave a little snort and shook his head. “She wanted it for the king of Westria, you know.”

  “I was aware of that, actually.”

  “Well, the king won’t be getting his cup, alas. My cousin isn’t going anywhere.”

  Richard allowed a smile to creep onto his lips. He leaned forward and lowered his voice even further. “I wouldn’t be so sure of that.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Exactly what you think.”

  “There’s a plan?”

  “Two.”

  Jakob started. “Two plans?”

  “Think about it.”

  He did. It took a minute.

  “One to get her out of . . . her current location, and one to get . . . away?”

  Richard smiled and gave the slightest nod.

  “Can you tell me what they are exactly?”

  “No.”

  “Is time important?”

  “You mean the cup? The answer is yes. The sooner, the better.”

  Jakob sighed, more in resolve than despair. “I still have the gilding to do on the base, and the last of the trim. Then there’s all the enamel work—very precious business; it can’t be rushed.”

  “How long?”

  “A week, maybe more. I’ll have to come in early and stay late. It’s my own personal project and must be done on my own time.” He smiled now. “Tell her I’ll try to finish it in a week, and it will be everything she expects. Make sure you tell her that part.”

  “I will, and she’ll be right glad to hear it. Now, there’s one other thing. The lady has no access to her money at present—”

  “I know,” he said bitterly. “It’s in her bag, with her things, in my house.”