by Kesia Lupo
‘We’ve stationed three guards,’ Captain Trudan said, offering her a hand down the last two steps of the staircase, which were particularly steep, ‘but I don’t know what he’s capable of. He’s been drugged for much of the time, as commanded. But if we continue for much longer, his life—’
‘I understand,’ she snapped, cutting him short. His life might be in danger. If he died, he’d never stand trial for his crimes. She didn’t care: this man had killed her father, in her eyes he was already condemned. But she had to appear to care.
The captain kindled another lamp, leaving his own on a hook beside the staircase. She had tucked her cane under her arm, unlit. ‘If I could have asked someone else, I would have, my lady.’ His broad, stubbled face was concerned in the flickering firelight. ‘It seems wrong to ask you, so soon after the Duke’s Descent.’
As if I need shielding from unpleasantness, like some delicate flower. ‘I am sure I shall manage, Captain,’ she said a little sharply. ‘Lead the way.’
The smell of damp and rotting flesh assaulted Constance’s nose even more strongly as they walked down the corridor. A few other prisoners raised their heads at the light – the black-clad men of the Justice’s personal guard, their faces twisted in hatred as they caught sight of the visitor. Captain Trudan held his lantern high, examining the upturned faces, until they found the cell at the very end – the darkest and filthiest – which contained the physician. Dr Thorn was indistinguishable at first. Like the others, his shirt was torn and bloodstained, and a ragged wooden blanket was wrapped tightly around his shoulders against the cold. But unlike the rest, he had buried his head in his arms, and did not raise it for the visitors.
‘You can leave me now, Captain. I’ll follow you out once the spell is finished.’ Constance didn’t care to be watched while she practised magic: it was something she had always preferred to do in solitude. Do not reveal your craft if you can avoid it, the masked priestesses had taught. It is your greatest weapon – hold it close, and keep your strength a secret. It is an advantage to be underestimated.
The captain hung his lantern on the hook next to the cell. ‘Are you sure, my—’
‘Captain, please. What do you expect to happen? All these wicked men are behind strong iron bars. Now let me do my work.’
‘My lady,’ the captain demurred, bowing, ‘I’ll wait in the guard room upstairs.’ And he left her in the gloom of the flickering lamp.
Dr Thorn was still leaning against the wall, silent, and Constance had no wish to acknowledge his existence. She laid her hands on the metal of the gate. Magic flowed through her blood and out through her fingertips in threads of shining purple – a process so natural to her now that she hardly noticed the motions. She whispered the words, wove a spell partly learned and partly of her own invention, knotted and complex, to guard the metal against a magical attack. Once she had threaded it into the bars, she removed her hands and the purple light glowed white before extinguishing.
‘Very good,’ said Dr Thorn, looking up at her. ‘I couldn’t have done it more gracefully myself.’
Constance shot him a dark glance. ‘I don’t want your approval, traitor.’
‘I hate the Justice too, you know,’ he said, as she turned to leave.
She hesitated. Rage sparked in her belly as she spun to face the physician. ‘You hate the Justice? So why torment and kill my father at his command?’
‘I will tell you if you permit me.’
The calmness of his voice wore down her anger. Constance had to admit she was curious. She stepped closer to the bars.
‘This had better be good,’ she whispered.
‘It started when I was a soldier in the King’s army, training as a military physician. I was young and foolish and one night I killed a fellow soldier in a drunken brawl. The punishment for such a crime can be as severe as death, at the discretion of the commanding officer.’ He paused, as if gathering the strength to continue.
Constance sighed. ‘How exactly is this related? I don’t have all day.’
Dr Thorn ignored the comment. ‘The man known as the Justice was my commanding officer – I was the only mage assigned to his contingent. He’d already had me whipped viciously for my other minor disobediences. He hated mages and so he hated me. I knew he wouldn’t spare my life. Perhaps I should have stayed and faced my fate … I almost wish I’d had the courage now. But instead I fled here – to the remotest part of the world I could imagine – and changed my name, my very identity,’ he said, pausing to swallow. His voice was husky and low. ‘I did not know the Justice himself was from Duke’s Forest.’
Constance shrugged – but she was interested, despite herself. ‘What then?’
‘I set up as an apothecary in the lower town, where I stayed hidden for several years. I married a local girl. My business thrived. I thought I had escaped him forever.’ And then his voice grew lower, darker. ‘But a few years ago there was a knock on my door at night. The Justice stood on the doorstep. He told me I would work for him again or he would destroy me.’ He hesitated, sighing heavily. ‘I tried to threaten him. I am a mage, after all, and he isn’t. But then his men surrounded my house. They didn’t make a sound – but I could see them, blades and eyes glinting in the starlight. The Justice told me that I might be strong, but my wife wasn’t. I couldn’t watch her all the time. He could take her whenever he wanted. Kill her … or worse.’ He swallowed, the sound thick in the silence. ‘I had to keep her safe.’
Constance felt her lip curl. So that was it? He was a fool if he’d expected her to be moved by his tale of woe. ‘Why should I believe a word you say? Even if it is true, I will not release you. You made your choice. You helped him destroy my father. You fought against me in the courtyard. You had choices and you made the wrong ones.’
The doctor seemed about to argue, but then something else, some determination flitted over his face. ‘I don’t want to defend myself. I’m just trying to warn you. The Justice may not be a mage, but he has tricks of his own. Not just his informants throughout the city, but other things … During his army days, he would sometimes take delivery of certain … devices.’
Constance blinked. ‘What do you mean?’
‘I don’t know exactly,’ Dr Thorn said, the frustration evident in his voice. ‘He wouldn’t let anyone see them. But I’m sure they were weapons. Weapons powered by magic, but which ordinary people are able to use.’ He shook his head. ‘He hated magic. And yet he desired its power. Perhaps his hatred was born of envy.’
But Constance was only half-listening now. Devices … magical weapons … This stinks of Lord Chatham. If the Justice was capable of turning a mage to his purpose, despite his hatred of magic, it was also entirely possible that he had been involved in testing some of Chatham’s more controversial inventions. And that meant it was possible he had commissioned or acquired one of his own prior to his appointment in Duke’s Forest.
‘You think he is using one of these devices now?’ Constance asked.
‘Using it or planning to,’ Thorn replied, ‘I cannot tell.’
‘And you have no idea what this device might be?’
Dr Thorn shook his head again. ‘No. I just wanted to warn you. He might not be as devoid of magic as he appears.’ He shut his eyes, as if suddenly overcome by tiredness. ‘Now that it’s all over,’ he whispered, ‘I mean to do everything I can to bring the Justice down with me.’
Constance stared at him for a few moments. ‘I’ll see what I can do,’ she said coldly.
* * *
The castle was dark and quiet, and Constance was curled in her covers, sleep clinging to the corners of her mind: dreams of her father, of the funeral, of forgotten corridors below the earth that drifted into lost halls of stone. Dreams of a spell’s heart somewhere, hidden in the depths.
The fire in her grate had faded to cold ashes.
Slowly she started to awaken, although she’d barely slept. Her mother’s book lay on her pillow, the pages ruffled and
stuck to her cheek. She’d been searching for clues.
Her eyelids flickered then snapped open. Had she dropped off again for a moment?
Distantly, she heard a high-pitched wail: the creak of a hinge, perhaps, or an owl’s screech … But no – the owls had long fled the diseased air of Duke’s Forest. Yet again the sound rang into the night, and Constance sat bolt upright in bed. She knew what it was: a scream.
She snapped the book closed and hurried to the window, but it was black as coal outside, the courtyard and battlements obscured by the usual banks of grey cloud. She opened the casement and stood still, listening, shivering in the biting, damp cold. Another shout – a man’s this time – broke the silence, and more, and more. Yellow lights flickered in the cloud, ghostly and fragile, like fireflies. She stepped into the dress she’d discarded a few hours previously, pulled on her boots and grabbed her cane. Before she left, she slipped the book in the hidden compartment of the window seat. It was unlikely anyone would search her room, but she couldn’t be too careful.
Constance pulled on a warm fur cloak and opened the door in time to hear frantic footsteps approaching up the stairs of the tower, a young city guardsman stopping, breathless, as he caught sight of her. Under his peaked helmet, she recognised him as one of the guards who had first greeted her upon arrival: the younger one, who’d known her face.
‘What’s wrong? I heard screaming.’
‘The lower town, my lady,’ he sputtered, gasping. ‘Your presence requested.’
She shut the door to her apartments and followed the young guard downstairs. He grabbed a lantern from a hook on the door frame and led her out into the courtyard.
‘What’s happening?’ She slipped the mask from her cloak pocket as they stepped into the storm cloud, fastening it over her face to filter out the effects of the spell.
‘It doesn’t make sense,’ said the guard, his light bobbing in the gloom. ‘The townsfolk are running out of their houses into the streets, terrified. They’re ignoring the storm cloud, leaving their eyes unprotected.’ He shook his head. ‘They’re saying …’
Constance saw that his face was ashen, green-tinged. She could tell he was as disconcerted by the mask as by his story. ‘What is it?’
‘They’re saying it’s the Ancestors.’ He stopped, his voice sinking to a whisper. ‘They can hear the Ancestors moving below … knocking on the floors.’
So the final stage has begun at last.
The contractions are starting.
The dead are rising.
Constance felt no shock, but heavy resignation settled on her lungs, nearly stopped her breathing. She’d expected this. She’d known the spell was close to maturity. But this was no comfort.
‘What’s the situation now?’ she asked. ‘What are the townsfolk doing?’
‘They’re angry – some of the men … they overpowered Captain Trudan and another guard on patrol. They tied them up – I ran to the castle as soon as I saw. A big group was heading towards an old public house, the Hanged Thief.’
They’d reached the gates. Constance’s orders to relieve the pressure on the townsfolk had clearly been too little, too late. Four guards watched over the battlements, mere shadows in the gloom.
‘I fear they’re going to get violent, my lady. The ale is flowing. Tempers are high.’
Constance took a deep breath. ‘What’s your name?’ she asked the young guard.
He seemed taken aback by the question. ‘Aron.’
‘Aron, we can’t waste any time, but we can’t alarm the people of the castle either. Let’s keep this quiet, take two further guards from the gate and head to the lower town. We have to speak to these people.’
Aron looked uncertain but nodded. ‘Yes, my lady,’ he said. He hesitated.
‘What is it?’
He cleared his throat. ‘Should we inform Lord Irvine? I mean, if something goes wrong …’
She shook her head. ‘I am the Protector – and tomorrow I’ll be Duchess. I have to deal with this myself. Brief the guards on the battlements. They can pass on the message at dawn if we’re not back.’
Aron hurried up to the battlements and returned a few minutes later with two older men, both grim-faced, their knee-length green cloaks wrapped tight around their torsos. All three guards slipped on shield-eyes.
‘Do you need any, my lady?’ Aron offered Constance a pair.
‘I’m fine, Aron.’ She tapped her brass mask.
He nodded uncertainly.
Although the guards carried lanterns, their lights appeared horribly insubstantial against the darkness and the storm. Glancing from one to the other, she realised she had nothing to lose: everyone knew now. Everyone had probably sus-pected anyway, on some level. She tapped her cane against the cobblestones, a bright purple light springing from its pommel. Apart from squinting at the sudden glare, the guards remained professionally composed.
‘Ready?’ She smiled slightly beneath her mask. ‘Let’s go.’ At Constance’s nod, the small group set off down the narrow path, deeper into the storm cloud.
The Hanged Thief had been shut and boarded for two years – ever since the quarantine had cut off the majority of its business. But as they arrived, yellow light chinked between the roughshod planks nailed across the windows, and the sound of raised voices poured on to the road. The sign over the doors was lit up too: a picture of a man with a bulging purse at his belt, golden coins spinning from his pockets, hanging by his neck from a naked tree.
After a moment’s hesitation, Constance slipped off her mask, tapped off the light on her cane and stepped boldly towards the door. It swung wide under her touch, the old hinges protesting. The three green-cloaked guards stood close at her back.
A thick trail of fog slid through the opening like a creature of flesh and blood. Aron quickly shut the door, closing the small group inside, and the cloud dispersed. The room was filled with people – at first, nobody seemed to notice their entrance. Men clustered around the bar, a handful of women and children huddled in the corners, nursing steaming cups and drooping sleepily over the tables.
Constance absorbed the details as she tucked a stray wisp of hair behind her ear: the hushed adult voices, the plaintive children, the wail of a baby, the nightgowns poking out from under women’s thick coats and shawls, the dark circles around men’s eyes. The thin wrists and hollow cheeks – the brass shield-eyes hanging at every collarbone. The smell of ale overlying the subtle scent of fear.
Captain Trudan and another guard were tied up in chairs at the far end of the room. The captain was either out cold or dead, blood congealing in a wound on his head, his body sagging under the ropes. The other guard was gagged, his eyes wide and angry under his peaked helmet.
Gradually, the men at the bar noticed the new arrivals, their low, urgent voices sinking into silence.
‘What’s this?’ demanded a burly man in his mid-forties with hands like slabs of beef.
Constance met his eyes. ‘I’ve come from the castle,’ she said, keeping her voice calm. ‘Will someone tell me what’s happened here?’
‘Some fine lady from the castle’s come to tell us to go home, just like the captain here,’ the large man interpreted, clenching his fists. ‘P’raps she wants to join him, eh?’ An older man, grey-haired but straight-backed, laid a hand on his shoulder and stepped in front.
‘My name’s Redwold. I was a scribe here once,’ he said. ‘I apologise for my blacksmith friend, but we’re all on edge tonight. If you ask me what’s going on, I say the Ancestors are angry – angry at us for sitting on our arses while Duke’s Forest is destroyed around us. Here’s what happened, and let’s see if you can explain it any better.’ He took a few paces forward and looked Constance in the eyes. ‘We woke to the sound of knocking on our floors – some of the doors to the crypts lifted, as if pushed from below. As if the Ancestors were trying to get out … to tell us something, or warn us, or worse.’
As the image flashed through her mind, Constance
felt her skin crawl, the hair on the back of her neck standing on end.
‘And when we tried to run, your captain tried to stop us, told us to be calm.’ He shook his head. ‘Be calm! The Ancestors are rising and they tell us to be calm! So we came here to decide what’s to be done. To decide how to take back control.’ He shot a glance at the two injured guards in the corner, then returned his gaze to Constance. ‘So who are you, and why are you here?’
‘I am Constance Rathbone, Lady Protector and Duchess in waiting.’
The room erupted into murmurs. ‘She’s a mage,’ said a woman with a small baby clutched to her breast. ‘We cannot trust her.’
‘I heard she killed her father,’ another voice called.
‘She’s the one raising the Ancestors from their graves.’
‘She’s planning on burning the Ancestors and forcing us to bow to the gods,’ said the blacksmith. ‘That’s what they’re saying.’
A few others rose from their seats, the hostility palpable. Somebody spat at her, the glob of liquid nearly reaching the hem of her gown. From the corner of her eye, Constance spotted Aron’s hand creeping to the hilt of his sword. She touched the guard’s arm, interrupting the movement.
‘I’m sure those are things that people are saying,’ she said, staring at the glob of spit before raising her eyes. She drew back her shoulders, pulled her spine tall. ‘But perhaps you’d care for something that’s definitely true. Perhaps you’d care to know what I’m going to do about this recent unrest.’
Redwold nodded for her to continue.
‘The Lord Justice and the physician Jonas Thorn have been placed under arrest on suspicion of conspiracy. Tomorrow is the day of my confirmation, and once I am Duchess, as soon as I am able, I shall open the gates, ride for the City of Kings and insist our good monarch put the Justice on trial for his crimes against the people of this town.’