by Adam Dreece
Contents
Copyright
Preface
Eorthe
Chapter One - This Little Piggy Went Boom
Chapter Two - Simple Plans
Chapter Three - A Hooded Past
Chapter Four - Snappy and the Dashed
Chapter Five - The Thorn
Chapter Six - Key to the Future
Chapter Seven - Faith
Thank You
About the Author
Other Books in the Series
Copyright © 2015 by Adam Dreece.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher, addressed “Attention: Permissions Coordinator” at [email protected].
ADZO Publishing Inc.
Calgary, Alberta, Canada
www.adzopublishing.com
Printed in Canada, United States, and China
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.
Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication, available upon request.
1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 2/22/16 9,745
Preface
The Yellow Hoods series takes place on a world called Eorth, set around a similar period to our world’s early 1800s. In addition to having fairy tales woven into the background, the world is poised for a technological revolution centered around the steam engine, and other such masterful inventions. Two secret societies have long been at odds, the seemingly benevolent Tub is led by a butcher, a baker and a candle & sticks maker. They are opposed by the Fare, led by the brilliant Marcus Pieman.
This short tale takes place after the second installment in the series, Breadcrumb Trail. It centers on Richelle Pieman, granddaughter of the villainous Marcus Pieman. Richelle was on her way home after a confrontation with the Yellow Hoods and their allies. With another one of the leaders of the Tub captured, the Piemans thought themselves ready to bring their vision of the future to all of the kingdoms. It seemed that there was no one to stand in their way, until…
EORTHE
Cartographer: Driss of Zouak, 1793
Created at the behest of the Council of Southern Kingdoms
CHAPTER ONE
This Little Piggy Went Boom
With her ears ringing from the sudden cannon blast, Richelle braced herself as the coach rolled onto its side. A moment ago, she’d been crumpling up a report about confusion among some of her Red Hoods, annoyed at how everything seemed to be slowly unraveling; civil wars, coups and mishaps suddenly seemed in fashion.
As another cannon blast struck the coach, she was thankful that her grandfather had insisted she double its armor. If she survived this, she would owe him an apology for her vehemently resisting the idea.
The coach flipped in the air before landing with a heavy crunch. She blinked the dust from her eyes and imagined what she would do next if she was the one leading just such an ambush. Without a second thought, she dropped to the bottom of the coach and made herself into as small a ball as possible, covering herself with her protective red hooded cloak.
One breath later, chained cannon balls ripped the coach in two. The sky was instantly decorated with shreds of reports and correspondence from her mobile office. Taking advantage of the cover, Richelle sprang out of the coach and ran for the opposing edge of the forest, away from the mystery attackers.
As she ran, she caught a glimpse of the last of her soldiers falling, joining dead comrades and their horses. Whoever this is, thought Richelle, they knew exactly where we’d be, and when—and they know what they’re doing. Bullets whizzed past as she entered the forest. Leaping over roots and racing past red pine trees, she tried to think of who’d have the nerve to attack her. She was a Pieman, and along with her grandfather, Marcus, and her uncle, Abeland, she had a reputation for being ruthless, cunning and resourceful. They commanded the Fare, an old secret society whose principles and direction they had reshaped to serve their own purpose. Her attackers had to have known that if they failed, they’d be bringing a formidable wrath down upon themselves, their families and their allies.
Richelle skidded to a stop as a huge golden oak tree came into view. Using her hands to shield her eyes from the sun, she glanced up at the forest canopy. She couldn’t see any hint of the canopy bridges or walkways. She took a moment to study her surroundings. Then, with a nod to herself, she ran around the cabin-sized trunk of the golden oak.
“Over there!” yelled a commanding voice, sounding close behind her.
Leaning against the back of the golden oak, Richelle studied its lowest branches. “Too high to try,” she muttered to herself. The other nearby trees were too thin or awkward to have a decent chance at climbing. She clenched her jaw as she tried to find another way to get an upper hand. It had been a while since she’d been in any real danger— never mind entirely on her own.
Richelle’s blood started to boil with anger, the old blind rage wanting to come out and play. The scars on her back ached, reminding her of the last time she’d allowed it to take control. Now in her mid-thirties, she knew it had no place in her life. Wisdom was of greater value than brashness, despite how much she missed the excitement of it.
Pushing her shoulder-length hair over her ears, she wondered if the secret society known as the Tub was behind the ambush. Even though she’d captured the second of their leaders several hours ago, she couldn’t imagine the nearly destroyed Tub being able to pull together such a strike so quickly, never mind it not being their style.
Besides, she’d handed over the Tub leader for direct transport to her grandfather’s compound in Teuton. She knew that having Anna Kundle Maucher with her could make her a target. The more that Richelle thought about it, the more concerned she became. Something had been feeling wrong for a long time, stemming from the day that she’d considered forming the Order of the Red Hood in the first place.
CHAPTER TWO
Simple Plans
A year and a half earlier, Richelle was resting against a cool white pillar, facing the inner courtyard garden of Marcus’ summer estate. She loved visiting northern Teuton, though it had been years since she’d come for a vacation.
She checked the small pocket watch she wore as a locket and sighed. It was almost time to go back to the planning sessions. She’d learned many things, having been raised by her genius of a grandfather, but probably the most important one was making sure to look one’s allies in the eye on a regular basis.
When she was little, she’d spent most of her summers playing in the gardens of the estate while her grandfather and uncle held important meetings. That changed when she turned sixteen and Marcus gave her a seat at the table of the Grand Game. From then on, she participated in the annual retreats with Marcus’ key generals and spymasters.
Abeland had beamed with almost as much pride as Marcus at that first meeting she’d attended. They’d laughed hard when a twenty-something lieutenant had tried to challenge Richelle’s right to be there, claiming her presence dishonored him. Within a minute of rapiers having been unsheath
ed, the lieutenant found himself standing in front of everyone, mortified, with his trousers around his ankles. Richelle’s modest smile had brought the room to applause and laughter. Things weren’t so easy anymore.
Abeland’s inexplicable absence from the latest meeting bothered Marcus deeply. It was very much out of character for his eldest son not to have sent word in advance of an absence. Despite Richelle having told her grandfather repeatedly that she was certain he would arrive shortly, both of them knew something was wrong. Making matters worse, there was a palpable tension among the generals and spymasters, which made every discussion and decision ten times harder than usual. Neither Marcus nor Richelle were able to place their finger on why.
Richelle gazed about as she pulled on her sleeveless white dress, allowing some air to circulate between her and the cloth. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Simon St. Malo handing papers to a servant, who quickly bowed and then hurried off. Trusting her instincts, she sauntered over to him.
She’d known Simon all her life. An odd and prickly genius, he was her grandfather’s right-hand inventor, and the polar opposite of Abeland. Difficult at the best of times, hot weather made him even more of a challenge to deal with. “Simon, I thought you always spent your break time by the carp pond. Not interested in soaking your feet and cooling off today? What are you up to?” she asked, curious.
Simon smiled uncomfortably and smoothed his ruffled, cream-colored shirt. His gray-and-black hair had been trimmed that morning, the same as every week. “I am up to the petty business that must be attended to. And as for the pond, it’s been drained today. I do so hate northern Teuton in the summer, the weather is unbearably humid.”
“You really should—” started Richelle, pointing at Simon’s attire. It was old-fashioned, and spoke of an era that the Piemans were seeking to consign to the pages of history.
He glared at her. She knew how he felt about her ideas on everything, from fashion to philosophy. It hadn’t helped when Marcus had made her responsible for managing all communications with Simon, as he’d finally managed to get on even Marcus’ nerves.
She was certain that one day Simon would change his ways, at least to adopt the fashions she’d been pushing. Her subtle psychological war on everyone in her sphere of influence, by way of words and wardrobe, was one that she was convinced would leave no one untouched—not even him.
“May I ask your opinion on something?” she asked, changing the subject.
Simon studied her expression. He couldn’t remember the last time she’d asked him his opinion on something. “Certainly,” he replied suspiciously.
“Actually, first, what was that about?” asked Richelle, pointing to the servant now nearly out of view. “That particular type of paper is only available in the planning room, and isn’t—”
Simon bristled at her policing. He stroked his face for a moment before answering. “Marcus has been neglecting gardening affairs at the Presidential Palace in Teuton. I was asked for design ideas, so I provided them.”
“You like gardening?” asked Richelle, incredulous.
“I find many things to occupy my time and mind,” snapped Simon. “If you’d prefer that your grandfather’s time be taken up with such mundane tasks, then by all means tell him that the gardeners need to hear from him. I’ve informed him a dozen times, and yet nothing has been done. Most importantly, I’ve approved the gardener hiring an assistant, so they can be more autonomous.”
Richelle scowled at Simon. “That’s not your place. If that responsibility should fall to anyone, it’s me.” For the briefest of moments, she saw something sinister in Simon’s eyes.
“If you’d like to take the opportunity away from a poor, disfigured woman to perform her life’s dream, then… by all means,” said Simon, gesturing to the long-gone servant. His tone was biting.
Richelle paused to shake off the funny feeling he was giving her. “The heat’s just getting to me, Simon. I don’t mean to be difficult.”
Simon gave her a tender half-smile, a rare but familiar sight. For whatever reason, he seemed to be forever complaining about being in someone’s shadow, even when directly under the proverbial sun. He never seemed able to hear the praise given to him, because he was too busy yelling about being under-appreciated.
“Anyway, I would like your opinion on… something,” said Richelle. She wondered whether it was wise to share what she had in mind. She’d planned to discuss her idea with Abeland, but in his absence she felt she couldn’t wait. She hoped that Simon’s critical thinking would serve the purpose. “You’re familiar with Abeland’s Order of the Pieman’s Trust, are you not?”
“I am,” replied Simon, nodding thoughtfully. He held back his usual sarcasm, as it was obvious he knew about it. They had discussed it several times over the past few years.
Richelle smiled like a little kid wanting a candy. “He’s been highly successful with it.”
“Has he?” asked Simon, scratching his neck, seemingly disinterested. “I haven’t paid it much attention. Good for him.” They both knew he was lying, but it didn’t matter. The animosity between the two of them had become nearly legendary since her father’s death.
Taking a moment to look around, and waving to one of the older generals, Richelle confirmed nobody was within earshot. “Simon, I’m considering creating my own organization—the Order of the Red Hoods. Whereas my uncle’s is an elite group of warriors devoted to him, mine would be for intelligence gathering. I want my own spies, everywhere, finding out what I need to know. I want to be able to move the pieces on the board that Opa isn’t able to, or doesn’t have the time to. In some ways, like you with the gardener, I suppose. What do you think?”
“Moving the pieces that Marcus doesn’t have time to? Hmm.” Simon put his arms behind his back and stared at the black marble ceiling. He muttered something to himself and scratched his chest before returning his gaze to her. “Your own league of spies—all in red-hooded cloaks?”
Richelle nodded, folding her arms.
“I assume that if you’re asking me, you haven’t spoken to Marcus or Abeland about this.” He paused, studying her expression. “Hmm. Moreover—you don’t intend to talk to Marcus about it, do you?”
She narrowed her eyes and bit her lip as she pondered her response, wondering what he knew. She considered dropping the matter, perhaps simply waving it off as a joke and walking away. That wouldn’t seem completely out of character for her, though she’d never treated Simon that way before. The problem was that her ambition wouldn’t let her. She wanted him to know, wanted him to be impressed with her plans. She wanted him to know the cards she would soon wield in the grand game. Raising her chin, she answered, “I will inform him… when everything is in place, and I have something to show for my efforts.”
Simon nodded pensively. He touched his clean-shaven face again as he glanced about, processing what she’d just put forward. “I believe this is… a good idea. Should anything happen to Marcus… No one that I’m aware of knows all the details of what he has going on. I can see in your eyes that you know this to be true. There are some secrets the old man keeps entirely to himself. Should we lose our visionary, we can’t afford to lose the vision. I think what you suggest is in all of our best interests. The time has come for such an idea.”
She couldn’t remember the last time Simon had been so supportive of something that wasn’t his own idea. Despite his words and expression seeming genuine, Richelle sensed something was off.
“If you need any assistance with getting this started, you have an ally in me,” he said with a smile. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, there’s something else I must attend to before we reconvene for the rest of this brutal planning session.”
Richelle nodded as Simon walked away. As she stood there in thought, she played with her earlobe—a tell that Abeland would have recognized immediately as indicating that she wasn’t sure whether she’d done the right thing.
CHAPTER THREE
A Hooded Past
Snapping twigs alerted Richelle that the enemy approached. Sneaking a peek, she caught sight of three riflemen, a man with shock-gloves and someone wearing a red hood.
A Red Hood, here? she wondered. Did I walk into my own ambush? She’d heard about one of her lieutenants doing exactly that a few months ago. Her gut twisted as she became certain that the Red Hood wasn’t one of hers. There had been reports for months about Red Hoods acting out of character, but she’d thought it was just noise, simply a part of the overall confusion going on, but now it made sense. Someone’s using my Order of the Red Hoods as a cover! She placed her hand over her mouth in a moment of horror as she realized all the powers and access she’d given to anyone wearing a red-hooded cloak. Had she been blinded by her own ego?
A bullet bounced off her hood, making the special fabric slap her in the face and wake her up. She tucked the hair that had escaped her ponytail behind her ears and pulled her oversized pistol from its thigh holster. She turned the air-tank dial on her back down as far as it could go, and then pointed the pistol at the ground. Mentally crossing her fingers and watching the grass intently, she pulled the trigger. Nothing happened. “Yig, it’s broken,” she cursed, wiping the nervous sweat from her brow.
She quickly dropped the pistol and slid the slim compressed air-tank off her back. The problem was immediately clear: a puncture in the tank, likely from when the coach had been hit. Taking the knife from the back of her belt, she cut the tubing connecting the pistol and tank. Sliding the knife back in place, Richelle stared at the pieces, trying to come up with a plan. Shaking her head, she dismissed the desperate idea of trying to bluff the enemy with it. She was certain that if she came around the golden oak with a pistol in hand, they’d shoot her immediately.