Chapter Thirty
Lenora kept the hood of her cloak close to her face as she walked the busy lane. Sprawling across both banks of Viana and miles of coastline, the port city of Cartenía was Tanalon’s crucial gateway to the trade routes of the South Sea. Like the mouth of a seagull snapping closed upon darting prey, so was Cartenía, its plentiful and varied inhabitants taking full advantage of both the river’s heavy traffic and the many galleons, schooners, and sleek merchant ships moving ceaselessly in and out of its wide, calm bay.
She had been in the chaotic city twice before and both times only briefly. Once, as a girl hopelessly following a dream of finding her lover, and again, when she and Astin had fled Seizo as criminals. In the present she was neither blinded by youthful fancy nor driven by fear and shame.
Though ingrained caution led her to travel anonymously, still she felt a new calmness. Astin would have said it was the enchantress’ doing, that the clarity of her thoughts was an effect of knowing she walked, at last, the Long Road.
She was not certain of the cause, only of her mission.
The air was heavy and humid, thick with the scents and sounds of countless industries. Tanneries and smithies polluted the skyline with steady columns of smoke. A tepid breeze spread pungent aromas from the Spice Quarter, which mingled unpleasantly with odors from the multitudes of overpriced bakeries, restaurants, and taverns that catered to tourists. And beneath them all was the lurking scent of rotting fish, pushed into the estuary’s muddy shallows where the tide eventually abandoned them, leaving them to gasping, flapping ends.
Just north of the city sat tens of heavy mills, built almost atop each other as they vied for waterfront space where their machinery could spin with the southbound currents. Hundreds of carts, either empty or heavily loaded with fleece and grain, clogged the roadways as laborers hauled their raw goods to the mills for finishing. So the cycle began and continued, with flat river barges transporting fortunes in fabric and flour to rendezvous with ocean trade merchants.
The crowds on foot were dense and loud, predominantly unwashed tradesmen and women with a colorful scatter of bejeweled merchants, exuberant sailors on day leave, and heavily escorted ladies bound for Trade Square.
Lenora moved innocuously behind one of the latter party, sharing their destination. Six armed men bearing the mark of seasoned professionals guarded a heavily veiled female patron. The men in front cleared a wide swath with little more than glares, while the men behind kept gawkers at a safe distance. Discounted as a threat by the rear guard, Lenora found herself in a pocket of travel undisturbed by jostling and clumsy feet.
It wasn’t long before she realized that her caution was justified and Cartenía not unaffected by the High Cleric’s control of the capital. The more Lenora observed, the more uneasy she grew.
Nowhere did she glimpse a vagabond begging for change or the quick darting movement of cutpurses. None of the doorways she passed housed women dressed for the fancy of sailors, flaunting their skin and scented hair. Though the lack was camouflaged by the port’s undaunted activity, it was nevertheless apparent to the former Mistress of Dark Alley.
An entire portion of the population was missing.
As they neared Trade Square, the street narrowed and the crowds became dense once more. The sudden press of bodies was stifling. Despite the skills of the lady’s guardsmen, passage ground to a halt. Rising to her toes, Lenora tried to glimpse the front of the crowd. She could see nothing but a sea of bodies narrowing before the high stone walls of the Square.
It was sheer chance that as she lowered, her eyes were teased by a sparkle of light. She tensed, raised up again in time to see three men climb onto the top of a merchant’s cart, near where the crowd bottlenecked. The glare she’d seen had been the sun against their brilliantly polished swords. Their black uniforms were a crisp backdrop to the streak of vibrant green stretched diagonally across their torsos.
Lenora dropped to the balls of her feet and scanned for a plausible exit, simultaneously rethinking her strategy of gaining passage east. All around her were impassible human walls. Sweat beaded at her temples and tickled her neck. Claustrophobia had never bothered her before, but now she felt helpless panic rising. Fighting to control the sudden harshness of her breath, she twitched again, seeking an opening into which she could dart.
Someone next to her spoke in a voice of concern. She couldn’t decipher the words over a curious humming in her ears. To her horror, her eyesight began to dim.
Dear Gods, don’t let me faint, she prayed.
Strong arms grabbed her up as she sagged. Lightheaded, she let herself be supported as she gasped for air, trying not to vomit. There were more voices, abrupt movement of the man’s arms, and suddenly she could breathe again.
She opened her eyes to a woman’s face. It was the lady she’d been trailing. The colorful veils had been lifted to reveal a plain visage, lightly marked by time. But what she lacked in prettiness, she made up with the unmistakable beauty of a kind heart.
“Are you well?” she asked concernedly. Not waiting for a response, she turned to one of her escorts. “Give her the water flask, please.”
Unable as yet to steady her shaking legs, Lenora gratefully opened her mouth as the flask was pressed to her lips. The water was cool and fresh, washing away the bitter taste of bile. When she’d drunk her fill, she whispered, “Thank you.”
The lady had a radiant smile. “Thank Simeon. It was he who grabbed you. The grouch has a soft spot for fainting maidens.”
The man behind her grunted, and to second his point, released his arms from around Lenora. She stumbled a little before finding her footing. Outside the small sanctuary provided by the guards, the crowd milled ever more thickly. More than once one of the guard’s arms shot out to clasp his fellow’s shoulder, effectively blockading the masses.
“I am Tivia, Duchess of Tuscena,” the woman said.
Lenora gave a clumsy curtsy, not bothering to pretend peasant ignorance. Tuscena was a fairly new House of nobility, not more than a hundred years old. The first Duke of that name had distinguished himself as a commander in decade-long series of skirmishes against Borgetza.
The Borgetzan King, Terrin’s grandfather, had shared the familial madness, pushing his army to suicidal extremes in his desire to conquer Tanalon. At the end of the war, Tuscena was one of three men honored with lands and titles by House Caville.
“What is your name, dear?” Tivia asked.
“Esmi,” she replied. “I’ve never been to Tuscena.”
Tivia beamed with pleasure. “You simply must visit,” she said, her exuberance reminding Lenora of a much younger woman. “It is in the foothills many miles east, fertile terrain laden with orchards and fields. Our modest holding and outlying town occupies the most lovely stretch of coast…” She trailed off, chuckled self-deprecatingly at the look on Lenora’s face. “But that hardly matters to you, I’m sure.”
“It sounds beautiful, my lady,” she said quickly.
The man behind her snorted derisively. “Shush, Simeon,” Tivia admonished. She leaned forward, spoke in a conspiratorial whisper, “Simeon is worried, as we all are, at news of the Borgetzan army’s approach. It is why we are here, really. Tuscena is near the border. Thus, my husband has sent me away.”
“That must be terribly hard,” Lenora murmured.
Tivia’s air of frivolity subsided, revealing that she was worried indeed. She glanced at the backs of the guards. “They say Cartenía’s watch has been called to the capital for integration into the army. I have seen many soldiers of the Church, here and traveling the roads of Tanalon.”
Though Lenora found it odd to be so abruptly confided in, she didn’t take Tivia for a gossip. The lady was obviously under a tight reign; it was more plausible that she was starving for conversation. The Duchess continued in a whisper, “They say they are maintaining peace, but in
truth they are imprisoning people by the hundreds. Suspected traitors to the crown, they say.”
“Arrogant, ignorant, prissy—” Simeon’s growling tirade was stopped by his mistress’ hiss.
Tivia looked inquiringly beneath Lenora’s hood. “These are uncertain times, dear. Please take no notice of my guard’s sour temperament. He is only mad that he must nursemaid me as my husband prepares for war.”
Unable to help herself, Lenora asked, “Do the nobles rally for the High Cleric, my lady?”
Tivia drew a breath. “It is a difficult question,” she hedged. And it was, for if she admitted Tuscena’s allegiance to the Church, she admitted its betrayal of House Caville. Absent though Serephina was from Vianalon’s current politics, Lenora had heard many rumors on the road and in the city. Most of them were whispers of Queen.
Blaming her risk on the Duchess’ kind eyes, Lenora murmured, “Would the Houses follow a cleric to war, or a queen?”
She felt rather than saw the stiffening of Simeon. The other guards responded too, shoulders betraying sudden tension. Tivia herself grew pale despite the balmy air. Lenora knew she had made a grievous error as the Duchess glanced over her head and nodded. Simeon tugged her hood off, tearing several hairs from her head as he exposed her face to the light.
“Oh my,” Tivia gasped, lifting a lace-gloved hand to her mouth.
A broad hand encased Lenora’s shoulder, jerked her about. She stared up at the broad face of Simeon, half of which was covered by a bushy white beard. His eyes were black and piercing, framed by tanned, sun-wrinkled sun.
“Lenora di Salvatoré,” he grumbled. “Your face is on a thousand posters and a thousand cleric’s lips. The Church has branded you a traitor to Tanalon, a spy of Borgetza. It is said you were once the mistress of Terrin, the evil bastard himself. What do you have to say for yourself?”
She could think of nothing, so she laughed. “I am no traitor!”
Simeon was undaunted, maintaining his bruising grip. “What are you doing in Cartenía, if not seeking escape to Borgetza?”
Knowing that whatever she said would condemn her, she spoke the truth in a fierce whisper, her eyes never leaving Simeon’s. “I am not fleeing to Borgetza but hunting its king. Betray me to those Church soldiers yonder, if your loyalty be with them. Mine, however, is with Tanalon’s queen.”
“Simeon,” Tivia murmured uneasily, “We near the soldier’s post.”
The soldier said nothing for a pregnant moment, then snapped, “My lady, give over one of your veils.”
Tivia passed him a swath of dark blue veil, which he draped over Lenora’s head and shoulders. The fabric was lightweight and surprisingly breathable. Simeon turned her to face Tivia and said, “Esmi here is your new maid.” And then, bending so that his lips pressed near her ear, he murmured, “Tuscena waits for the queen.”
Lenora felt a disproportionate surge of triumph, as though she were, indeed, an emissary of the queen. Even as she realized her childish folly she understood that it was, in some obscure way, undeniably true.
Somewhere, she knew, Bellamont was raising an army. There was no way this side of Beyond that he would allow the High Cleric sovereignty. If they both succeeded, turning back Borgetza and disposing of Luther Viccole, Serephina de la Caville would take her throne. They might all have a future then.
“Long live the queen,” she whispered.
Simeon gave her shoulder a final squeeze.
Their passage into Trade Square was swift once Duchess Tuscena presented her signet ring to the Church soldiers. The men’s gazes slid over Lenora’s veil disinterestedly, already searching faces in the queue behind their party.
Once inside the spacious open-air market, Tivia and her guards took her as far as the first planks of the marina. She made to return the veil but Tivia insisted she keep it. With tearing eyes, the duchess gave her a fierce embrace.
“Blessed is this day of my life, to have met you, Lenora di Salvatoré. You are more brave than a thousand men.”
Simeon grunted and shooed Tivia onward, though not before pressing a heavy purse into Lenora’s hands. “May the God speed your journey and guide your hand,” he growled in parting.
Gaining passage on an eastbound vessel was more easily done than she’d anticipated. As yet, the lucrative trade between Tanalon and Borgetza remained unhindered by political animosity. In fact, by the number of merchant ships either at anchor or preparing for departure, business was booming.
That evening Lenora was invited to dine with the captain of the Fancy, a shallow bellied ship dealing in silks and spices. To her relief, Yimmel was an aged, happily married man from Greiza and had no interest in her physical person. Clearly pleased to have polite company, he entertained her with fine wines and a history of his life.
He also made it clear that he cared not a wit for the intrigues of the Church, or for Tanalon and Borgetza’s imminent conflict except its inevitable hindrance to trade. He remarked it was only a matter of time before taxes soared to support the needs of war.
As all good merchants, he had a contingency plan in place. Once trade on the Calabrian peninsula slowed, he would shift his route to the east and his cargo to the raw foodstuffs and oils which were preferred commodities of those distant nations.
It was after dinner, getting late into the evening, when he finally asked after her purpose. Over the course of the afternoon, while occupying the small cabin allotted to her, Lenora had rehearsed the speech so many times that even to her ears it sounded sincere.
“I have lived in Vianalon for several years, making a living as a lady’s maid,” she said unhappily. “When the king passed, dark times fell upon the city. I’m sure you know that princess Serephina fled the capital and the Church enacted martial law. Many people were hung for treason outside the palace gates, mostly landless emigrants. I grew afraid that my patron would turn me out, as she and her family knew my origins.”
“You are from Borgetza, then?” he asked, rings winking in candlelight as he drummed fingers on the table.
She nodded. “When I return, I hope to find my brother in Seizo and stay with him until I find a new career.”
Yimmel blew air heavily from his nostrils and regarded her from beneath thick, dark eyebrows. “It’s not going to work, you know,” he said mildly, reaching to refill her goblet.
Her heart pounded once, hard. “Whatever do you mean?”
“You’re famous, Mistress di Salvatoré. Or did you not wonder why I ordered you immediately below upon stepping aboard?”
She let the façade drop. “I did not,” she conceded.
“The Church patrols the harbor, demands accounting for all passengers before giving clearance to make way.” Surmising her thoughts, he added, “Did you presume to go unnoticed in Borgetza as well?”
“Yes,” she said, certain she was about to receive another shock.
“Impossible,” Yimmel said, not unkindly. “If you are well known here, it is nothing compared to your fame in Borgetza.”
“Gods damn it,” she muttered, dropping her head into her hands.
All of her carefully thought strategies had been obliterated in a minute’s frank conversation. She had planned on joining with one of the continual caravans that would be cycling between Seizo and the moving army, providing supplies, fresh servants, and new recruits. A serving wench would have been an ideal disguise. She would have been able to move virtually unnoticed within the army, to observe and memorize Terrin’s routines, the changing of his guards.
To slip within his tent and plant a knife in his neck as he slept.
“If you need respite, you’re welcome to stay with my family in Valta,” Yimmel said softly. “It’s not an idle offer, either. We’ve an expansive vineyard and are always looking for help. It’s a peaceful place, mistress. There’s hasn’t been war in Greiza for a hundred years.”
; Lenora looked up, feeling twice her age and more than hopeless. “I will be hanged upon disembarking in Seizo, then?”
He gave her an odd look, goblet stalling halfway to his lips. “Nay, mistress. In Borgetza you are a hero.”
It took several stunned moments before realization struck. “I am accredited with Armando’s death.” Terrin, in addition to being mad, was a brilliant orator, and could spin words as skillfully as any bard. Thus, she anticipated Yimmel’s next words.
“Before leading the army from Seizo, King Terrin revealed in a public address that the circumstances upon which you fled Borgetza years ago were staged, that all this time you have been operating as his most valued spy. That Armando’s death was your great success.”
He didn’t ask the obvious question, but she answered anyway. “It is a lie.”
“But not the last part, yes?” he asked shrewdly. Lenora felt her face lose expression, knew her eyes grew glittering and cold. “I’ve offended you, lady. My apologies.”
Affected by his sincerity, she drew a breath and gazed sightlessly at the remains of her dinner. “Did you know that Armando de la Caville was responsible for the deaths of thousands of innocent Calabrians?”
In the following silence, she listened to the creak of the ships planks, the soft lap of calm waters against its hull. From above deck came noises of sailors returning from leave in Cartenía, rowdy with drink and song.
“I am not overly familiar, but I believe you’re speaking of the Year of Death?” he asked at length.
She looked up, read compassion and intelligence in his eyes. “Yes,” she replied. “He burned at the stake hundreds of men as their families watched. Then he beheaded their women and children.”
“An atrocity,” he murmured.
Lenora gave a soft, humorless laugh. “It was not my hand that killed Armando, but many hands. Though I will not lie to you, as you have been so honest with me.” She spread her hands in a helpless gesture. “I am not ashamed of the truth, nor do I have remorse.”
The Gardens of Almhain Page 30