by M C Dwyer
“What is it?” he asked.
“I need to talk to you,” Alric said hurriedly, “but not here.”
Worried, Nepenthe followed him inside and down a dimly lit hall where no one was in sight.
“Those two beasts are the princess’ guards, aren’t they?” Alric asked.
Nepenthe nodded, wondering where he was going with this.
“They’re up to no good,” he said fiercely.
Nepenthe’s first response was skepticism, as he remembered Alric’s story about the goose girl. But Alric, though a lover of mischief, was not one to make idle accusations like this. “What did you see?”
“I didn’t see anything,” he said. “But I heard more than enough. I was working in one of the empty stalls when they walked by muttering to each other. One of them said, ‘This is more trouble than it’s worth.’ Then the other one said real quietly, ‘We’ll be paid well enough when she’s dead.’ And then they both sort of chuckled and kept going.”
Nepenthe frowned. “Did they know you were there? Where was the wheelbarrow?”
Alric might have flushed; in the dim light of the hall it was difficult to tell. “Well, I say I was working…”
“You were resting your eyes, I take it?” Nepenthe said drily.
“Just a bit! Grandad’s been after me something fierce lately. I just needed a little break,” Alric said defensively. “And I know what I heard.”
Biting his lip, Nepenthe considered. “I agree it sounds bad, but I don’t know that it’s enough to go on. I mean, I’ll tell Drinian, but without knowing what they plan, it’ll be hard to defend against them. Are they assassins? Are they supposed to look the other way when assassins appear?” He chewed on his lip a moment longer. “I’m going to go get Drinian. Stay here, so you can tell him what you told me.”
Alric nodded, and Nepenthe ducked back out to the courtyard. Drinian was easy to spot, but a little harder to corner. He was deep in conversation with several of the nobles who were still hanging around court. Nepenthe approached and then hovered at his elbow until he reached one of those inevitable conversational pauses.
“Yes?” he said, turning around.
“I need to speak with you,” Nepenthe said, not managing more than a whisper.
“Sure,” he responded, his brow furrowed in inquiry. He followed Nepenthe into the hallway, and then said, “Ah! The stableboy. What can I help you with?”
At Nepenthe’s nudge, Alric recounted what he’d told Nepenthe.
Drinian pursed his lips and tapped them thoughtfully with a finger. “Have you told anyone else about this?”
He shook his head. “Just Nepenthe. I didn’t know who else to tell.”
Nodding, Drinian said, “It could be nothing. But it doesn’t sound like nothing, and it’s better to play it safe. Still, without proof—”
“I could spy for you,” Alric said, his eyes alight.
“Absolutely not,” Drinian said firmly. “If they are planning something, then they’re dangerous men, and you should not get involved.”
Alric looked crestfallen and slightly mutinous.
“If you happen to overhear something, tell me, but on no account are you to seek them out,” Drinian said, shaking a finger in Alric’s face.
“Fine,” he said, gracelessly. “What about Nepenthe?”
“Nepenthe can be useful,” Drinian said, and Nepenthe’s eyes widened in alarm. “You’re already in close contact with the princess. I’ll have more Ailerons on patrol whenever she’s out and about, but you’re already on the inside there. Keep your eyes and ears open and if you hear anything, anything, you come find me immediately, or send a servant.”
Nodding uncertainly, Nepenthe asked, “Should we tell the princess? And what about the ambassador?”
It was Drinian’s turn to hesitate. “I don’t know. I’ll discuss it with the king, and he’ll have to make the final decision. But you’ve spoken to the princess; how do you think she’d take it?”
“I think she is very young,” Nepenthe said slowly. “She’s been very well-schooled on how to act, but she’s still a child. I know I wouldn’t want to find out that my guards were trying to kill me.” He thought for a moment. “It probably depends on whether or not Marid is in on the plot. If she is, we’re in trouble. If not, she’d be an ally.”
“Alright,” Drinian said. “I’ll pass that on to the king. That will help. As for the ambassador, well, the king will have to decide there, too.”
Nepenthe felt the weight of responsibility settling onto his shoulders. His actions could quite possible save a life—or help end it.
Drinian put a hand on each of their shoulders. “Alric, stay in the stables. Don’t go looking for trouble, but if trouble finds you, let me know. Nepenthe, stick as close to the princess as possible. I’ll work on it from our end, but you’re our best chance to find out what’s happening inside. I’ll talk to the king and let you know what will happen next.”
Alric and Nepenthe agreed, both reluctant in their designated roles, but unable to exchange them.
Drinian left them, then, and they stared at each other in silence for several minutes.
“Well,” Alric said, “be careful.”
“You, too,” Nepenthe said. “Don’t go looking for trouble.”
Alric grinned a roguish grin. “You know me; I never do. It just seems to find me.”
“This is different,” he insisted. “Promise you’ll be careful?”
“Yes, mother,” he said, rolling his eyes. “I won’t go looking for trouble. But,” he added, “if it finds me, I can’t promise to stay away.”
Nepenthe shook his head and turned away.
Chapter 18
While there was an increased Aileron presence in the hallways of the guest wing, Nepenthe did not see any other immediate effects of his relay of information. As promised, he stayed near the princess, eyeing the guards with suspicion that was as veiled as he could manage. It would do no good to tip the guards off at this point. He kept his eyes and ears open, but saw nothing worth reporting.
His days grew harder, not because the princess demanded a lot, but because she spent much of her time out of her quarters and—presumably—with the king. Whenever she went with the king, she disposed of Nepenthe’s presence, and he was left kicking his heels in her quarters, unable to leave because he had no way of knowing when she would return.
The other downside to this arrangement was that only one of the guards stayed behind at these times, so Nepenthe could neither relax nor use the time profitably by eavesdropping on their plotting. He could only hope that Drinian and King Edmun were working on a plan.
He was even hesitant to discuss it with Tad, as he did not know whether he was in on it, or if it was a secret. As it turned out though, it wasn’t an issue, as he did not appear. Nepenthe was in the training yard early one morning, running through his left-handed forms, when Tad made his first appearance in over a week.
Nepenthe’s heart leapt when he saw him in the entrance. “Tad! I can do all twenty forms left handed!”
Tad smiled, though it did not quite banish the weariness in his eyes. “Good!” he said. He retrieved a couple of wooden blades of his own and took up a stance in front of Nepenthe.
He recognized it and matched it, and then they moved through the forms in sync. Nepenthe was still a little clumsy, but made it through his form without error.
“Well done!” Tad said, saluting him and lowering his blade. “The next step will be to begin some free sparring, but I’m afraid it’ll have to wait until the princess leaves.” He glanced around the empty training yard and lowered his voice. “Do you have anything to report?”
“You mean about our guest?” Nepenthe returned cautiously.
Tad nodded.
“No,” Nepenthe sighed. “The guards are rarely together, and when they are, someone is always around—usually me,” he finished ruefully.
“That’s what we figured would happen,” Tad admitted,
causing Nepenthe to glower.
“You mean I’ve been stressing needlessly about my spy mission?”
Tad reached out a hand and tousled Nepenthe’s hair, causing him to stare in open-mouthed shock. “You’ve been hanging out with two potential killers. I don’t think any stress you’ve felt is needless.”
Combing his hair back down and scowling, Nepenthe said, “Is there another plan, then?”
“Yes,” Tad said, twirling his practice daggers with an ease that made Nepenthe turn green with envy, “we’re going to provide an opportunity for the guards to be together and plot where they can be overheard. The princess and some of the nobles are going to go boating on the lake that’s in the central park. The guards will go along but won’t be on the boats. Someone will be nearby to listen for any plotting.”
“Not me, I hope?” Nepenthe said in sudden alarm.
“No, Shadow,” Tad laughed, “not you. Though you’d be perfect for the job. No one ever seems to see you.”
“You see me,” Nepenthe said, and wasn’t entirely sure if he meant it as a complaint or a compliment.
“Yes, well, at any rate, it means you get the day off,” Tad said. “They’re heading out after breakfast. I suggest you go visit Orin and convince him to rest. He’s going to work himself into an early grave.”
“Not so very early,” Nepenthe returned teasingly. “He’s too old for that.”
When Nepenthe reached the library, however, he felt less like teasing. Orin was pale and coughed constantly, despite a steady diet of honey lozenges.
“Orin!” Nepenthe scolded. “Why are you still on your feet? How are you still on your feet?”
Orin suffered himself to be helped to a chair. “Sheer stubbornness,” he wheezed.
“Well, today you’re going to rest. King’s orders,” he declared, interpreting Tad’s words liberally. He led the weakly protesting scribe from the library, closing and locking the door behind him with Orin’s key, and then helped him back to his quarters.
Orin’s chambers were small but cozy, with a simple bed and small fireplace that contained nothing but ash. Nepenthe helped Orin sit down on the bed then built up a small blaze. As it warmed the room, Orin’s cough seemed to ease somewhat.
“Thank you, child,” he managed.
“Lie down, and I’ll go see what the apothecary will give me for your cough,” Nepenthe said, shaking his finger at Orin.
With a chuckle, Orin obeyed, and Nepenthe tucked his threadbare blanket up around him and ducked out of the room.
He left at a jog, worry speeding his feet. He went first in search of Drinian, but did not really expect to find him. The castle physician would have been his second choice, but a notice posted on his door said he was out on rounds until the next day. Nepenthe had to be content with merely describing Orin’s symptoms to the apothecary and accepting the syrup he offered. The apothecary did promise to send the physician as soon as he returned but could do little else.
Nepenthe carried the syrup back to Orin. It looked a bit like the medicine Drinian had given him last winter when he was sick, so he wasn’t surprised when Orin coughed and choked slightly after taking a mouthful.
“That’s quite strong,” he rasped, his eyes tearing up.
“I know,” Nepenthe grinned. “But you’ll be asleep in no time at all.”
Orin drifted off soon after, though he continued to cough in his sleep.
Nepenthe left him to his rest, but when he pulled the door shut behind him he was frowning. Orin needed someone to look after him, not just for today, but for the next several days. While Nepenthe would have gladly passed off the burden of the care of the princess, he’d grown to like her—or at least respect her—over the past weeks, and felt some responsibility for what happened to her. He had no good answer, though he put on a cheerful front when he took a tray of chicken broth and hot lemon, honey, and ginger water to Orin for a noon meal.
He was still fretting over it that evening as he sat on the balcony under a gentle spring shower. The rain ran down his face, plastering his curls to his forehead, and he licked his lips with a faint smile. It tasted of spring and growing things, a stark contrast to his day spent taking care of Orin. Orin was weak and ailing, like autumn drawing towards winter. This was troubling. His smile faded as he looked up at the dripping sky. The rain shower ended as abruptly as it had begun, and the moon finally broke through the clouds to glisten on every drop.
Nepenthe sighed.
“Crazy child,” a voice said behind him, and then a towel dropped on his head. “If you catch a chill again I won’t forgive you.”
“How will I ever survive,” Nepenthe returned from under the towel. “Maybe I like being wet.” He pulled the towel off and folded it, placing it on the bench beside him. “How did your spy mission go?”
Tad sat down on the bench with a sigh of his own. “Good and bad. They’re definitely planning something, but we don’t know much beyond a basic timeline. The princess’ visit is supposed to be over next week; whatever it is will happen before then.”
“So, not very helpful then.”
“No,” Tad agreed. “How was your day?”
“I got Orin to go to bed and took him some cold medicine, but the physician won’t return until tomorrow. He should have someone to look after him, though. I’d do it, but—”
“But you have a princess to attend,” finished Tad. “I’ll take care of it.”
Nepenthe looked up at him, noticing the lines around his eyes that hadn’t been there a few weeks ago. “You’ll take care of it? Or you’ll find someone to take care of it?”
Tad grinned and put an arm around Nepenthe’s neck, pulling him down. “I’ll find someone to take care of it, worrywart.”
Pushing Tad away and trying to reclaim his dignity, Nepenthe sat up straight. “Good,” he said, pretending he hadn’t squawked just a moment ago. He fixed his hair and tried to ignore Tad who was laughing at him silently. “Will you be at training tomorrow?”
“Most likely not,” Tad said, sobering. “I have things I need to do.”
“You need to rest, too,” Nepenthe said. “Don’t kill yourself for the princess.”
Tad’s lips twisted wryly. “I’m not planning on it. Don’t you die, either. If you hear anything, anything at all—”
“I’ll come tell you,” Nepenthe said, rolling his eyes. “Who’s being the mother hen now?”
“Fair enough,” Tad said, smiling once more. “Neither of us is allowed to die.”
Chapter 19
The next few days were quiet, though Nepenthe was aware of a heightened tension around him. Even the princess was not immune; she snapped at Marid over trifles and drove Nepenthe to the edge of patience with her whims.
This time she wanted chocolate. Not hot chocolate, which the palace kitchens had at least heard of, but iced chocolate milk tea. Nepenthe had never heard of the combination, and the cook had thrown her hands up in the air and stalked away when Nepenthe described it.
Not willing to be defeated by such a silly thing, Nepenthe was brewing a cup of milk tea himself. He made it strong, as he was planning to pour it over ice when he was finished. In the meantime, he was chopping a block of chocolate the chef had been persuaded to provide and wondering at which point he should add it to the tea. Before it was finished steeping? Immediately after? Or should he melt it first and then add it?
Fairly convinced that he was going to do it wrong however he chose, he dumped the whole pile in with the tea basket and swilled the pot around until the chocolate melted. The color looked dark enough, so he pulled the tea out and set it aside. One of the kitchen helpers had brought a chunk of ice and placed it near his elbow, thoughtfully leaving the pick with it. Nepenthe chiseled off several large chunks and dropped them in a mug, and then, the moment of truth, poured the tea-chocolate mess over the ice. It melted almost instantly, but the tea cooled as well. Nepenthe sipped it, then coughed. Bitter. He dropped in two spoonsful of sugar and stirred it
, then sipped it again. Still strange, but definitely better. He placed it on a tray with a plate of small biscuits and, with a parting eye roll at the sympathetic cook, carried it back to the princess’ quarters.
He tapped lightly on the door then entered with the strong feeling of having interrupted an argument. Marid was tight-lipped and Ingrid was looking mutinous, but her face brightened when she saw Nepenthe.
“Finally,” she said, and Nepenthe stifled another eye roll. She picked up the mug and sniffed it cautiously, then tried a small sip. “Too sweet,” she said, making a face. Nepenthe bowed in apology and reached for the cup, but she pulled it away. “I’ll drink it.” She picked up a biscuit and dipped it in her tea and looked pointedly at Marid.
Marid looked angry but curtsied and left the room. Nepenthe stared after her in confusion.
“Did I miss something?” he murmured to the princess.
“Nothing important,” Ingrid said. “Marid thinks I’m making poor decisions.”
Nepenthe glanced at the silent forms of her guards standing in the corners of the room. “Can I ask what about?”
Ingrid followed Nepenthe’s glance and stood abruptly. “I’m going for a walk.” The guards started forward and she glared at them. “I won’t leave the palace; you have my word, so stay here.”
The two guards exchanged a glance that was heavy with meaning and subsided again.
“Come, boy,” the princess said, and gesturing imperiously at Nepenthe, headed for the door.
Nepenthe hurried to be there first and held it open for her to pass through. In the hallway, he paused. “Where would you like to go?”
She sighed and her shoulders drooped. “It doesn’t matter. I’m trapped here, anyway; a prison is a prison whichever cell you’re stuck in.”
This melodramatic speech was accompanied by a hand pressed to her brow, and Nepenthe nodded. “Very nice. But you need to work on your delivery just a bit more. And the hand was a bit much, I think.”
The princess scowled. “I was going to allow you to help me, but now I don’t think I want to.”