Winterkeep

by Kristin Cashore

  “None,” said Giddon, whose mind was still consumed with Arni’s outrageous offer. “How much do you think he knows about the Council? I’m not surprised he’s heard of it, but don’t you think he implied greater knowledge? Is it a bluff?”

  “I’m sure Winterkeep has spies on the Royal Continent. Do you see the teeny little doors set into the big doors of the Keep? Do you think foxes can go wherever they want?”

  “What if Trina’s the one who told the Keepish importers about Monsea’s zilfium in the first place?” said Giddon. “And the Council is how she got into Monsea—what if she’s told the Keepish about the Council too? Secrets like that leave Monsea vulnerable. And it sounds like she has a price.”

  Hava started up the steps.

  “Hava!” said Giddon, the name bursting out of his mouth for the fourth time today.

  “Oh, who cares?” she cried out, spinning back to him. “Who cares anymore if Estill declares war on Monsea?”

  “Bitterblue would care, deeply!”

  “Bitterblue is dead!”

  “She would want us to care about her people!”

  “Well, I don’t care about them. I care about her.”

  “I don’t believe you don’t care,” said Giddon stubbornly.

  “Well, good for you, for being so big and noble and sanctimonious,” she said, throwing the words like daggers. Turning back, she ran up the stairs.

  Sanctimonious? thought Giddon, following her.

  Chapter Twelve

  Bitterblue woke to a shriek that frightened her, then resolved into wind.

  She also woke to a strange thought: It would be best not to tell anyone about the fox.

  “What?” she said blearily, fighting against confusion, trying to figure out why so many things were happening. It was still daytime; the small rectangle of blue in the window had grown brighter. Paper crinkled under her. The paper with the drawing of Bitterblue City with Estillan and Keepish flags that she’d carried back to the bed.

  Someone declares war on Monsea and you fall asleep? she said to herself. Well done.

  Across the room, near the baseboards, gold eyes flashed. Bitterblue yelped. Then a small, dark fox took shape, pressing itself into a corner.

  Right, Bitterblue thought, remembering. Winterkeep has telepathic foxes. Her mind reached for the details she’d read in the reports Mikka had sent home. They’re called blue foxes, though only the kits are blue. It could be bonded to someone to whom it can talk telepathically. It might even be talking to that person now.

  “Are you my guard?” she asked the fox, with a hard stare. “My jailer?”

  There was no response, of course.

  “I know how to close my mind, you know,” she added hotly. “I have more practice than you can possibly imagine.”

  She realized then that she was talking to this tiny, quivering animal as if it were her father, the monster king, who’d ruined a kingdom with the power of his mind. She relented, slightly. From what she remembered, blue foxes only read minds if they were bonded to a person, and once bonded, they were friendly and obedient. This fox might be guarding her on behalf of someone powerful and cruel, but the fox itself was probably not much of a villain.

  Still, she knew how to close her mind—she’d had a lot of practice with Gracelings—and she did so now. It was a force of habit.

  Ignoring the fox—ignoring too the pain in her hands and feet, and the new, more frightening pain of hunger in her abdomen, the swollen dryness of her mouth and tongue—Bitterblue set herself to thinking about war.

  It was something she’d thought about more and more recently. Monsea had the natural protection of treacherous mountains to the north, east, and west, and a sea border to the south. Nonetheless, with an eye to her warlike neighbors, Bitterblue had increased the size of her army in the last few years. With the guidance and example of her uncle, King Ror of Lienid, whose navy was the finest in the world, she’d transformed her small, disorganized fleet of ships into a still small, but competent and focused, navy. She’d also fostered a relationship with the Dells, her neighbor to the east, which had the world’s largest and most powerful army. Every nation knew that Monsea, though weakened by its own recent history, was not necessarily alone. Monsea had soldiers with swords and bows, Monsea had ships, and Monsea had friends.

  But it seemed that Estill also had friends. Why would Winterkeep, of all places, ally itself with Estill in a war? Unlike the Royal Continent, Torla was not a land of warlike nations. Its geography, with isthmuses, mountains, and ice separating its nations from each other, its difficult seas, made war costly and unproductive. Winterkeep didn’t have much of an army, nor much of a navy to transport that army across the Brumal Sea. Airships couldn’t cross an entire ocean. And even if they could, the Dells was positioned between Monsea and Winterkeep. There was no way for a Keepish soldier to reach Monsea without passing through the Dells. And Bitterblue highly doubted that old King Nash of the Dells would sit back and let an entire Keepish army through.

  Did Winterkeep have some capability Bitterblue didn’t know of?

  Also, what did they want? Monsea’s zilfium? Was this what Mikka had wanted to tell her? Was this why he’d died?

  More immediately—now that the Keepish had her, what were they planning to do with her? Ransom her? Hand her over to Estill as a political prisoner? Kill her? Keep her hidden, letting everyone think she’d died, and wait for Monsea to fall apart?

  Monsea would not fall apart. Before leaving for Winterkeep, Bitterblue had created small teams to handle each task in her absence. She’d made it plain that while each team might have a leader, no one person was to have more power than everyone else. No one was to become monarch in her stead. And if for any reason she didn’t return, her teams were to continue with the temporary power structure she’d created, and bring in the Council. The Council was to help the Monsean government make as smooth a transition as possible to an independently functioning republic.

  When her shocked advisers had begged her to keep this plan secret, she’d relented, because she’d understood the ways in which such an intention might advertise more political instability in Monsea than actually existed. But she’d put it in writing and sent copies to her uncle, the King of Lienid, and her friends in the Council. Bitterblue saw no use in pretending that Monsea’s monarchy, as it stood, wasn’t facing a crisis. Bitterblue’s mother’s family was Lienid royalty, not Monsean. Her father had had no known family and one of his early acts after stealing the throne had been to eradicate anyone who might have a claim to that throne. “The world is changing,” she’d said to her advisers, with a steel in her eyes so hard and sure that they’d finally relented, or at least pretended to. She guessed they wouldn’t have, had they known what was going to happen.

  Now her intentions would become public soon. How heartbroken Raffin, Bann, Katsa, Po, her aunt and uncle, her cousins, her advisers would be, and how overwhelmed. How sorry she was for going out to get some air.

  But still—There’s something wrong with my kidnappers’ plan, she thought. Even if I die—even if they ransom me—I can’t see what Winterkeep has to offer Estill in a war with Monsea. Nor do I see Estill winning that war, no matter their allies.

  With the unsettling feeling that there must be something she was missing, Bitterblue fell asleep once more.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The entrance hall of the Keep was unlike any building Giddon had ever seen.

  He and Hava passed through gigantic doors onto a broad marble floor, into a space so bright and tall that their eyes craned upward automatically. Some four or five stories up, a dome of glass made the room’s ceiling.

  The walls around were composed of stairways and balconies, full of moving people, all brown-skinned, dark-haired. Voices echoed. The floor displayed a disorienting pattern of dark stripes on white.

  “I hate this place,�
�� said Hava.

  A woman at a long desk near the entrance was staring at them with high eyebrows and a bored expression. “Hello,” said Giddon in Keepish, approaching her. “Would you be able to tell us where we can find Periwinkle, the Lienid envoy?”

  A few minutes later, they stood at a balcony that hung four stories above the Keep entrance hall. Behind them, an archway opened to a long corridor. A small, bronze placard on the wall said “Foreign Envoys” in Keepish.

  Hava leaned on the railing, peering down. “See the monster on the floor?” she said.

  Giddon glanced at the long drop below, thinking of how much Bitterblue would’ve hated their proximity to the railing. From this distance, he saw that the dark marble stripes on the floor formed tentacles, belonging to yet another representation of that sea monster from the Keepish fairy tales.

  “I think he’s called the Keeper,” Giddon said, saying the word in Keepish.

  “She,” said Hava, with a small scowl.

  “Okay, she. And this is the Keep, and the country is Winterkeep.”

  “Wow, Giddon,” said Hava. “It’s like you have an advanced degree in etymology.”

  “Not nearly as advanced as your degree in sarcasm,” he said, pretending to be less piqued than he was.

  “Is that you, Giddon?” said a voice behind them.

  Spinning around, Giddon saw the Lienid envoy, dark-haired, gray-eyed, with pale brown skin like Bitterblue’s, eyes like Bitterblue’s. He flashed with Lienid gold. “Periwinkle,” said Giddon.

  “Call me Perry, please,” the man said, then gestured toward the archway. “Come visit.”

  He led them down the corridor to a small, lamplit office, where he sat them before a fire and pressed hot drinks into their hands. Giddon was beginning to wonder if this was the custom for all meetings in Winterkeep, always. Reaching into the breast pocket of his coat, Giddon pulled out a folded piece of paper. Opening it, he braced himself against Bitterblue’s small, dear handwriting.

  “Perry,” Giddon said, “we were hoping for your help identifying the people behind the company names on this list.”

  He handed the paper to Perry, who glanced at it briefly. “What is this for?”

  “It’s the Keepish importers who purchased rock detritus from Bitterblue’s silver mines at almost no cost,” said Giddon flatly, “tricking her out of her own zilfium.”

  “Ah,” said Perry, his expression clearing. “I understand.”

  “You do?” said Giddon. “You knew about that?”

  “In Ledra, you’d have to live under a rock not to know about that,” he said, his eyes narrowing on the paper. “Though this is the first time I’ve seen a list. It’s an interesting group of people. Balava Importing: That’s Ada Balava. Yes, that’s no surprise, since she has no conscience. Tima Importing is Mirni Tima, yes. Cavenda Shipping is Benni Cavenda, and naturally he would be on this list. I understand Benni’s been growing his shipping business too fast, even running it into the ground, and the Cavenda mine has run out of zilfium. His financial troubles were no doubt eased by cheating Queen Bitterblue out of some of hers. Oh, now, this one is interesting,” he said, glancing at Giddon over the paper. “Keepish Importers is a Varana company owned by Minta Varana. She imports precious metals used in airship production, but I didn’t know she’d joined the zilfium bandwagon.”

  “Minta Varana!” said Giddon. “Our host at dinner last night!”

  “And the sister of the cat lady we’re staying with,” said Hava, her face like ice. “Lovely.”

  “I ate her food,” said Giddon, almost spitting. “I thanked her for her hospitality.”

  “Yes,” said Perry, sounding regretful. “I’m afraid you did. What are you planning to do with these names? Are you hoping to sue them for dishonest business practices? You could, but it might be tricky. You would have to prove both that they knew the rock detritus contained zilfium and that they knew Queen Bitterblue didn’t know.”

  Giddon considered Hava, who looked back at him with an uncertain expression. How much should they trust this man? “It surprised us,” he said carefully, “when our men drowned in the Brumal Sea. Mikka and Brek. Maybe you knew them?”

  It was plain from Perry’s sudden bright eyes that he had. “They were my friends,” he said. “We foreigners get to know each other. In fact, we were together often. Mikka had an adventurous spirit; he’d talk Brek and me into overnight hikes, which I suffered through tolerably, I suppose. Then I would convince him to do something civilized, like try a new restaurant.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Giddon.

  “It has been a heartbreaking year for boat travel,” said Perry, touching his sleeve to his eyes. “But what do you mean? Surprised, how?”

  “Was there anything unusual about the shipwreck?”

  “Unusual?” said Perry. “The seas here aren’t like our seas at home. I understand ships often run into trouble. But”—and here he shifted in his seat, his confusion deepening—“do you mean foul play?”

  For a moment, Giddon was silent. Perry touched his sleeve again to his eyes, anxious and unhappy. He wore gold rings on every finger, like every Lienid Giddon had ever known. Giddon had a vision suddenly of Bitterblue’s hands, glimmering with gold, on the floor of the Brumal Sea.

  “Why would you think such a thing?” said Perry.

  “Because Katu Cavenda apparently thought it,” said Giddon. “Do you know Katu?”

  “I do. But Katu has gone traveling,” said Perry, a tone of protest in his voice, as if Katu’s absence could make the rest of it untrue.

  “Do you know where he went?” said Giddon.

  “Only rumors,” said Perry. “Kamassar, Borza.”

  “We’re worried about Katu as well.”

  “For what reason?” said Perry, in a voice of growing alarm. “Giddon, what are you saying? What’s going on?”

  When Giddon glanced at Hava again, she shrugged, then said, “We may as well tell him. He’ll connect the dots himself even if we don’t.” She turned to Perry. “We think someone drowned Mikka and Brek,” she said. “Because they’d found out that Monsea had zilfium and that people were cheating Bitterblue out of it. We think they were silenced so the queen would never know.”

  “Oh, no,” said Perry, straightening in his chair, speaking with certainty. “They would never have been killed for that.”

  “We had word that before they died, there was something they wanted to tell Bitterblue about zilfium,” said Hava.

  “And that may very well be the news they wanted to tell her,” said Perry, “but I assure you, they would not have died for that information. Everyone here knew that certain families were taking advantage of the queen’s ignorance to import Monsea’s zilfium at shocking prices. Mikka and Brek wouldn’t have been killed to prevent them telling her. It was no secret. Everyone knew the queen would figure it out eventually.”

  Giddon couldn’t breathe around his indignation. “And why didn’t anyone else write to her? Did everyone here find her ignorance so entertaining? Why didn’t you write to her?”

  “I did tell Mikka. Look, I understand your feelings,” Perry said quietly. “I share them. But I do think it was less that people were actively upholding the deception and more that people were busy, and forgot about it, and failed to care. There’s an attitude here that all’s fair in business.”

  “That’s disgusting,” said Hava flatly.

  “I agree,” said Perry. “But I assure you that it does not extend to murdering people to prevent them communicating information that everyone knows.”

  Then why were they murdered? thought Giddon, suddenly, impossibly frustrated. Maybe they weren’t? Could Katu have been wrong? No. Katu was no fool; if he’d believed there was something suspicious about the drowning of the Seashell, believed it enough to start diving for the wreck, he was probably right. And his s
ubsequent disappearance supported the theory.

  But if the deaths of Mikka and Brek had nothing to do with zilfium or the zilfium importers, where did that put Giddon and Hava? Exactly nowhere, for the importers had been their best lead. Their only lead, really.

  Giddon was suddenly afraid he was going to start crying in Perry’s office.

  “Perry,” said Hava, “how did everyone in Winterkeep learn that Monsea had zilfium?”

  “A woman from Monsea,” Perry said. “A Graceling named Trina. I understand she’s one of your Estillan refugees?”

  And now Giddon had a new person to kill. We helped her. “She showed the Keepish how to trick the Monsean queen,” he said quietly, “and she’s talked openly about escaping Estill to Monsea?”

  “She has a price,” said Perry, “and a reputation. In fact, her reputation has largely ruined her own business here, if the rumors are true. People want her help, but they don’t want to work with her.”

  “Is that because she’s unethical,” said Hava, “or simply because she’s a Graceling?”

  Perry seemed startled, then unhappy, deflated. “It’s probably both. Was the queen aware of the size of her zilfium stores?”

  “No,” said Giddon. “She began a survey before we left, but there wasn’t much time.”

  Perry’s eyes widened. “Perhaps I should tell you that Winterkeep believes Monsea’s zilfium stores to be truly massive,” he said. “More massive than any known Torlan source. The queen is sitting on a fortune that Torla can’t match.”

  Before Giddon could respond to this, a knock sounded on the door. Flustered, Perry called, “Come in,” then remembered himself and repeated the words in Keepish.

  The man who entered had pale skin and reddish hair and was dressed in the plain style of home, no scarves, no bold colors. He was also familiar; Giddon thought he’d been at dinner last night, though at the other end of the table.

  “Ah,” cried Perry, jumping up. “Come in, Cobal. You know Giddon from dinner, and this is Hava, also from the Monsean delegation. Hava, this is Cobal, the envoy from Estill.”