by Hilari Bell
He’d watched Pettibone playing that game long enough to know the rules. And if Holis was strong enough to stand up to him in public, Edoran would make it crystal clear to every shareholder who was part of those negotiations that if Weasel died they would die too, on the day of his twenty-second birthday. They’d have to believe that he meant it, because it was true.
The trick would be to find the Falcon, to make contact with her, without getting captured himself. If she had Edoran in her hands, she’d have no reason to care about Weasel’s fate—and he wasn’t crazy enough to want another homicidal regent, either. But that was a problem for the future.
In order to negotiate with the Falcon, or to have any influence when someone else did, Edoran had to be there, physically on the spot. Ready to convince people that he would one day have the power, and the will, to hang them if they let him down.
It was good that they hadn’t brought his horses. If he’d tried to ride out the gates, the guards might have stopped him. As it was… Weasel himself had shown both Arisa and Edoran the places where you could climb over the palace wall. It felt right to use them.
Prince Edoran picked up his satchel and walked across the lawns, into the trees of the park.
CHAPTER 2
The Five of Fires: the thief. Sudden loss of wealth from any cause. May indicate blighted crops or a poor harvest.
He found the place where the stones were crumbling with little difficulty, and climbed it with only a little more. He’d already done it several times at night, and it proved easier in the daylight.
Peering over the top, waiting for a moment when the street was clear of carts and pedestrians, Edoran remembered that his father had written about this wall in his journal. What had he said? A joke even to keep burglars out, much less an army. His father had been interested in fortifications. He’d been looking into the possibility of building a wall between Deorthas and the Isolian Duchies, which sometimes looked toward Deorthas with conquest in mind, but the king had died before the engineers at the university had even started to study the project.
Edoran sometimes wondered if he’d be able to read at all if it wasn’t for his father’s journals. The tutors Pettibone hired had been paid to keep the prince from learning anything that might someday make him dangerous—or even look like less of an idiot.
But once he’d realized that some part of his father lived on in those journals, Edoran had to read them. So he’d taught himself, sounding out the words, sneaking into the schoolroom to use the big dictionary when his tutors were gone.
He’d sometimes felt that his father was trying to teach him the things he’d need in order to survive and become king—though as he grew older, Edoran knew that had to be wishful thinking. Still, he could see this wall through his father’s eyes as the pitiful structure it was—even if the drop to the cobbles jarred his bones when the traffic finally cleared.
He’d walked six blocks, being jostled by servants and craftsmen on their way to work, before he realized that he didn’t even know what direction the Falcon had gone when she’d taken Weasel and fled.
This stopped him in his tracks for several seconds, but the city only had three main gates. Even if the guards there didn’t remember her departure, they’d certainly have noticed the troop that Diccon had sent in pursuit.
But which gate? There was no way to know, but the palace was closer to the west gate, so he decided to try it first.
He set off again at a brisk walk, and if he didn’t enjoy being jostled by all and sundry, he did enjoy the fact that no one paid any attention to him.
Back at the palace they’d probably assume he’d gone into the park to sulk. It would be hours before anyone went to look for him, and still more hours, maybe a full day, before they realized he’d left the palace grounds.
If the Falcon, or her men, were going to kill Weasel when they first discovered the switch, there was no way anyone could reach them in time to prevent it. There was no reason for Edoran to feel like he ought to be running through the crowded streets. He did look back once or twice, but no one was pursuing him. He even took a moment, when he found himself growing warm despite the cool morning, to wrap his cloak into a bundle and strap it to the bottom of his satchel. It was heavier to carry than he’d thought.
By the time he reached the west gate, he’d begun to believe he’d actually escaped. And the less he stood out in anyone’s memory, the longer it would take Justice Holis and the general to find his trail. Would simply asking the gate guard if a troop had passed through fix Edoran in their memory?
Weasel, no doubt, would engage them in casual conversation and coax them around to the topic so skillfully that they’d answer his question without even realizing that was what he wanted. But how did one go about that?
Edoran slowed his pace, studying the guards. There were two of them, one Edoran could see through the window of the tower where the records were kept, and another standing outside the gate tower with his back against the wall, keeping an eye on the passersby. He had no duty to interfere with people going in and out of the city, unless for some reason they seemed to pose a threat. For all they wore the green and white uniform of the city guard, they carried neither pistol nor sword. Their job was more that of accountants, recording the contents of the carts that went in and out for Deorthas’ tax officials, than of real guards.
An accountant wasn’t going to be as suspicious as a real guard. Right?
Edoran strolled up to the tower, trying to make his approach look casual. “Good morning. I hear you had some excitement here last night.”
The guard who stood by the tower wall was a thin man with a frowning face. “What are you talking about?”
“I heard a big troop went through last night, chasing after someone. Or something.”
“Where’d you hear that?” the guard demanded. Quite rudely, Edoran thought. How much knowledge would a common citizen have? Surely if troops went galloping through the city they might gossip about it.
“It’s just being talked about.” He gestured vaguely to the shops lining the street behind him. “Around.”
“And why do you want to know?” the thin guard asked.
The other guard came to the window, his curious gaze on Edoran.
“What goes in and out of this gate is Prince Edoran’s business,” the thin guard finished, “and his alone.”
“Exactly. I mean, that’s a very proper attitude, but I’m sure the prince wouldn’t care if you just confirmed that a troop had passed. Or not. We heard… My father heard that they were chasing after some of those pirates who’ve been raiding the coastal villages. He’s got some cargo he wants to ship, and he was hoping it would soon be safe to do so. If they’re about to catch the pirates, I mean,” he finished with some relief.
It sounded plausible to Edoran, but the guard’s frown deepened. The guard inside the tower looked interested.
“There was nothing about a troop in the night shift’s records,” he told the prince. “You say they found some of those pirates? Here in the city?”
“That’s what my father heard,” said Edoran. “But you know how gossip is. He was hoping your records might confirm it. Or at least that a troop had passed.”
“The records of the city guard are confidential,” the first guard snapped, speaking to both Edoran and his colleague. “And you should know better than to reveal them to every passing scamp! He might—”
“Why not?” the guard in the tower demanded. “If a troop had passed, half the street would know about it, and there’s no harm in confirming something everyone already knows, now is there?”
Edoran crept away under cover of their argument. These guards would certainly remember him if anyone asked—but it wouldn’t be hard for Holis to deduce that he’d gone after Weasel, anyway. He’d learned what he needed to know—the Falcon’s men hadn’t set out to the west.
He spent the walk to the north gate preparing his story. His father was a spice merchant, a cargo pirates p
articularly liked to seize because it was both small and valuable. He needed to ship it soon, and he’d rather send it by sea if he could be certain it would be safe. Edoran was the youngest of three sons.
He marched up to the next gate tower with some confidence, even though both guards were sitting on a bench outside, holding mugs of something that steamed in the crisp air.
“I heard a rumor that a big troop went through this gate last night. Chasing some of those pirates that have been raiding ashore.” He was probably starting that rumor himself, Edoran realized. He hoped no harm would come of it.
One of the guards raised his brows. “Not that I know of,” he said. “Night shift say anything to you about a troop, Jas?”
“There wasn’t nothing in the notes,” Jas said. “And they’d have mentioned it.”
The first guard turned back to Edoran. “Sorry, lad. They didn’t pass through here.”
“Thank you,” said Edoran. He waited a moment, in case they wanted to ask some question that would let him use the story he’d prepared, but the guard only nodded in dismissal, so he left.
It felt odd to be turned away so casually. They hadn’t even risen to their feet to address him. Of course, there was no reason they should. It just felt… odd.
Approaching the third gate, Edoran thought he was ready for anything.
“Pirates, you say?” This guard was standing in the shade of the wall, warming his hands over a brazier. “Well, I pray to the One God they get ’em.”
“They went out this gate?” Edoran asked, hardly daring to believe it.
“Right around midnight, according to what the night shift said. And better them than us,” the guard added. “Galloping around in the dark is just asking for a broken neck. Though if they could catch some of those murdering scum, it might be worth the risk.”
He spat onto the cobbles, and Edoran stepped back a pace, though the spittle had come nowhere near his boots. “I thank you.”
He walked through the east gate without further ado. He was on Weasel’s trail! Well, he was on the trail of the men who were on Weasel’s trail, but that should amount to the same thing. And it would be far easier to follow a mounted troop through the countryside than a group of brigands who were trying to avoid people’s attention. Unless the troop lost its quarry, this was surely the wiser choice.
It proved easy enough throughout that morning, for both the farmer who was raking up some brown viney things, and the girl selling hot pastries to coach passengers in the first village Edoran went through, confirmed that the troop had passed that way. Indeed, the girl had been awakened when they galloped down the village’s main street in the middle of the night, and she would have told Edoran about it at length if a coach hadn’t pulled up and distracted her.
It passed Edoran on the road a few minutes later, and he barely leaped aside in time to keep from being splattered by the mud from its wheels.
The footpath beside the road was mostly dry, but the road wasn’t. Still, the day was bright despite the chill. Birds chirped and twittered in the patches of scrub between the plowed fields, and hopped about looking for seeds in the open places. And Edoran thought he was doing very well, for someone who had never left the city without an escort.
His weather sense was warning him that a medium-heavy rain would start shortly after darkness fell and continue for about two hours before tapering off. Edoran remembered how the first pirate raid had felt: the black sickness in his gut; the slices of cold through his lungs that he somehow knew for steel swords and the thick flow of blood… without having any idea who was dying by those swords, or where, or why. What use was that to anyone?
At least his awareness of the storm that was currently spilling its rain into the sea held no pain or death—and was useful besides, for he knew he’d have all day to get to the shelter of some inn.
And speaking of an inn, he was getting hungry! But it took another full hour of walking before he reached the next village—this one almost large enough to be considered a small town. Edoran had a vague memory of stopping here for a luncheon once, when he’d been out with a party of riders…. Yes, there it was. The Hunting Hound wasn’t large, only a single taproom with no private parlors, but its diamond-paned windows glowed with cleanliness. Its walls were of brick and its roof of stone, not the thatch that poorer inns still sometimes used in the country. If he remembered correctly, the food had been good.
They were doing a brisk business, Edoran noted as he opened the door. Possibly because of the roasting ham, the scent of which was strong enough to make his mouth water. He went in and seated himself at one of the few empty tables, stashing his cloak and satchel beneath it, and waited for the serving girl to bustle over to him.
She didn’t. Of course, like the tower guards that morning, she didn’t know he was the prince. There was no reason, as far as she knew, why she shouldn’t first serve the red-faced man in the puce coat. And then the thin man with ink-stained fingers. But when she brought more tea for an older woman in a threadbare gown, Edoran began to fume. And it didn’t appease him that she hustled over to his table next—he was hungry!
“Good day, young goodman,” she said cheerfully, as if she hadn’t kept him waiting. “We’ve a mushroom-and-potato soup in the pot, and—”
“I’ll have some of that ham,” Edoran told her, having made up his mind while he waited. “And beans amandine, and rolls with honey butter. And an apple… no, apricot tarts for dessert. If you please,” he added politely, since she had no way of knowing he was the prince.
The girl’s mouth opened, then closed. She looked Edoran over, paying particular attention to his clothing and boots, though why she’d care about them he had no idea.
“We’ve none of that made up, young sir,” she told him. “Not even the ham, for it’s on the spit for dinner and won’t be done till then.”
“You could cut a piece off the outside and cook it quickly, couldn’t you?” Edoran asked. “And prepare the other things quickly as well?” Whatever he asked for appeared from the palace kitchen in very short order.
“We could make it up,” the girl admitted. “All but the apricot tarts, for we’ve no apricot preserves. But if we rushed it, an apple tart might be ready close to the end of your meal. Thing is—”
“Then the apple tart will be fine,” Edoran told her graciously.
“The thing is, young sir, making all that up will cost you extra. A lot extra.” The girl’s gaze returned to his muddy boots, and her wary voice grew firmer. “Excuse me if it seems rude, but you’ve not been here before. I’ll have to see that you can pay before I take your order to the kitchen.”
Pay? He hadn’t thought… He’d taken the purse that he used for tipping strange servants and put it in his pocket, as he always did when he planned to leave the palace, but he had no idea how much was in it. His old valet had kept it stocked with small coins, but Edoran didn’t know if the new man had refilled it. He also had no idea how much the meal he’d just ordered would cost. The girl’s foot was beginning to tap impatiently, though she held the polite expression on her face. And there was only one way to find out.
Edoran pulled out his purse and tipped the contents onto the table. There were fewer coins than usual, so the new man probably hadn’t refilled it; nothing but a few copper flames, brass droplets, and mostly tin nothings—as were appropriate for tipping servants for small errands. Like bringing food. So perhaps…
“Is this enough for my meal?” Edoran asked hopefully.
“Not even close.” The girl’s polite expression had vanished. “Not even enough for soup and bread, which is the cheapest meal the Hunting Hound serves. The Black Pig might have something you could afford, but if you don’t mind, we need this table for customers who can pay.”
Edoran’s face was hot, and he knew he was blushing furiously as he gathered up his cloak and satchel and departed. Curse the girl, she didn’t have to sneer like that. How could he have known he couldn’t afford a meal? He’d n
ever had to pay for one before. On the rare occasions he’d traveled, his servants had taken care of things like that.
And more important than his embarrassment, he was still hungry! He continued down the street to the Black Pig, but one look at its dilapidated thatch and peeling paint warned him, and one whiff of the stale stench drifting from the taproom told Edoran that he couldn’t eat there.
He finally managed to purchase a day-old loaf from a baker and some cheese from a village goodwife the baker had recommended. This took slightly more than half of his small stock of coins, but it wasn’t too bad a meal. An apple would have improved it, but the goodwife had told him what an apple would cost, out of season now, as all fruits were, and he couldn’t afford it. He couldn’t really afford the dented tin water flask the goodwife had sold him, but that was something he had to have.
At least the remainder of the bread and cheese would serve for his dinner, Edoran reflected as he tramped on down the road. And perhaps a bit of breakfast tomorrow. He would soon have to work for his meals and a place to sleep, just as Weasel and Arisa had done on their adventures. He’d never worked before, but everyone did it—how hard could it be?
The misunderstanding at the inn had been humiliating, but no harm had come from it. He could still rescue Weasel. But his cheerful mood had been broken, and things that hadn’t bothered him in the morning, such as the puddles he was forced to skirt, annoyed him now.
There was more traffic on the road in the afternoon, some of it moving fast enough that Edoran had to leap aside to avoid the splashing mud, and his growing awareness of the storm reminded him of the need for shelter.
Unfortunately, by the time dusk began to gather he was still some distance from the nearest town, or even any villages, as far as he could tell. He had several more hours before the rain would start, but real cold was arriving as the sun set, and he’d hardly slept at all last night. Even if he donned his cloak, navigating the rough path in the darkness held no appeal.