She put her journal away and turned out the light, but sleep eluded her despite her nightly routine. Finally she sat up in bed and amused herself by igniting tiny fires no bigger around than a ten-guilder piece on her palms, then closing her hands over them to extinguish them.
When she was young, when her magic had only just manifested, she’d tried to pretend she didn’t have it. She’d resisted the urge to ignite fires, or touch existing ones, believing that might make it go away. But the urge to make fire only grew stronger, until the first night she’d ignited one in her sleep. No one had been hurt, though she’d been in a lot of trouble for “playing with matches” in her bed, but she’d realized that ignoring her magic gave her less control, not more. Now she indulged it as often as she dared, and spent her nights praying her efforts gave her the control she needed.
She played with the fire for nearly an hour while her body relaxed, then curled up under the blankets and listened to the wind rattling the window until she finally fell asleep.
The storm arrived early the next morning, waking Fiona briefly with the lashings of rain on her window. When the sky outside finally lightened and she left her room, the rain had faded to a persistent drizzle that seeped through the seams of her cloak and left her damp and uncomfortable. She huddled next to Mittens in the stable yard, under the scant shelter of the eaves, breathing in the smell of fresh hot bread from the nearby kitchen and wishing she’d eaten more heartily. Sebastian, checking his horse’s tack, raised an eyebrow at her.
“You look sour this morning,” he said. “I hope it’s not the company.”
“Just the weather.”
“We’ll be out of it soon.”
“You’re far too optimistic.”
Holt, wearing a waterproof rain cape, came splashing toward them across the yard with a bundle in his arms. He handed Fiona a cape matching his and extended the other to Sebastian. “The rain is getting worse, sir,” he said.
“Then we’d better get moving,” Sebastian said, ignoring the irritated look Fiona sent his way.
The rain did worsen, but not by much, and the new cape kept Fiona mostly dry. Mittens tossed her head, shaking rain away from her face, and Fiona touched her wet, coarse mane and wished she could promise the animal a dry, warm bed soon.
It was hard not to look out over the rain-washed plains and wish for a dry, warm bed for herself. Dark clouds massed overhead, grayer to the east behind them, and ahead, to the west, they filled the sky until they seemed to touch the horizon, which was banded with purple and green. Fiona didn’t know where the border was, but that horizon was certainly Veribold. She adjusted her cape and stroked Mittens’ mane again, soaking her hand. Haizea was another two days’ journey from the border. They would need to hurry if they meant to make it to the festival.
“Miss Cooper,” Sebastian said, slowing to ride beside her, “when we reach customs, I’ll do the talking if they’ll let me. If they insist on talking with you directly, you’re my sister Sharon and you’re on your way to the Irantzen Festival. It’s better not to complicate a lie.”
You have no idea how well I know that. “There’s no need. I have my own papers.”
“That’s right. You were planning to travel. Let me hold them, then. It took some doing, these last two weeks, but with Holt’s help I’ve gathered every piece of paperwork the Veriboldans demand foreigners submit. Fortunately for us, everything for the Irantzen Festival isn’t made out in an attendee’s name until the border crossing.”
“The Veriboldans can be fickle. You’re sure you have everything?”
“Very sure. The international travelers’ office in Ravensholm is thorough. And faster than the embassy in Aurilien.”
Fiona, remembering her dealings with Veriboldan government officials on her previous journeys, said nothing. If Sebastian was wrong, they’d find out soon enough.
6
Around mid-morning, the rain let up, leaving behind not the fresh scent of wet grass, but a cooler, darker smell of old earth and mud. Fiona shook the rain off her cape and pushed her hood back. In the distance, she could see buildings, some dark, some pale. The twin cities of Westholm and Mai-nien, facing each other across the Veriboldan border like a couple of wrestlers waiting for the other to flinch.
Westholm looked dark and sullen, its buildings made mostly of local brick, dark brown and flaking. Fiona was grateful for the rain that swept away the stink of its gutters. It was an old city, with poor sewer systems, and although a few newfangled sanitation Devices roamed the streets, they weren’t enough for the task of keeping Westholm clean.
A few passersby glanced at the riders incuriously, just three more strangers passing through. Fiona judged that about a quarter of the people she saw were travelers, based on their dress and the way their horses and wagons were laden. That seemed like a lot, given the weather, and she wished Sebastian would move faster so they could outrun all of them to the customs office and be on their way.
After half an hour, they left Westholm, which came to an abrupt stop as if someone had drawn a furrow in the brown earth and all Westholm’s little brown buildings had been forced to stop and line up along it. Just past this invisible line was the Tremontanan customs office. It was squat and square, with a pyramidal roof of brown shingles, and lights burned behind its windows. It looked warm, for all it was ugly, and Fiona wished for a moment they were going there.
Beyond the customs office was a strip of bare land no more than twenty-five feet wide, marking another invisible line. The border. It always struck Fiona as slightly ludicrous that two countries could decide on a place where one ended and the other began, and then cling to that illusion to the point of going to war over a violation of the invisible line. There ought to be something more tangible to indicate something so important.
She remembered, years ago, crossing the Veriboldan border for the first time with Roderick. That had been a clear, sunny day, but she’d been nervous, having heard so many rumors about the complex Veriboldan bureaucracy and its draconian punishments for foreigners caught breaking its laws. Roderick had laughed at her nervousness and told her there was nothing to fear, teasing her that she was unlikely to meet anyone who might want her imprisoned.
“Veriboldans are more interested in their own politics than the doings of other lands,” he’d said.
“I heard they choose their King or Queen by lottery,” Fiona had replied. “How stable can that possibly be, politically?”
“The Veriboldan landholders choose their ruler by a series of incredibly complex contests,” Roderick had said, “and they rule for seven years, after which time they award themselves a government job they’ll hold for life. It works for them. Might be stronger, in the long run, than having a hereditary monarch who’s weak or venal and can’t be gotten rid of short of assassination. Don’t worry. It’s not like you’ll ever have contact with royalty, of whatever country.”
Looking back on that memory, she realized that even then Roderick had been disdainful of her, of her ignorance of things he knew well, as if she were somehow inherently flawed just because she didn’t have his education. She discovered her jaw was clenched in anger and made herself relax. Roderick wasn’t in a position to disdain her, not anymore, and she’d defied him by becoming more knowledgeable about Veriboldan laws than he was. She hadn’t realized until that moment what an act of defiance it had been.
Just past the border lay a delicate, pearly-gray two-story structure that gleamed with the rain still slicking its surface. It had an elegant tiered roof tiled in blue with the same pearly sheen as its walls, and small windows piercing its side winked at them as figures within the building passed between the windows and the lights illuminating them. A sheltered porch with a long rail extended out to the left, and a few horses were tied there. Sebastian led the way to the porch, dismounted, and tied his horse to the rail. “Time to see what my money’s bought me,” he murmured.
The front door opened on a small entry whose floor was fil
thy with muddy footprints and traces of rain. Fiona wiped her feet pointlessly on a square of sodden carpet just inside the door and took a few more steps, out of the way of Holt coming in behind her. The white walls of the entry made the room feel even colder than it was, though there were warm drafts coming from behind a few of the doors lining the walls. Each door was labeled with a sign written in Tremontanese and Veriboldan. Sebastian made for one that said ENTRANCE—HAVE PAPERS READY. He carried a large leather portfolio under one arm. Fiona and Holt followed him.
The second room was warm, too warm, from all the bodies crowded into it. A man wearing a silver-white bodysuit and a cloud of purple gauze robe, the universal uniform of Veriboldan officials, approached them. He held a box in one hand that he dipped into with the other. “Your number will be called,” he said, handing Sebastian a flat oval token with a number burned into it. It read 41. Just then, another man virtually the twin of the first called out, “16,” and a woman carrying a crying baby crossed the room and exited by a second door.
Fiona and Sebastian exchanged glances. I wish I’d brought a book, Fiona thought, and settled in to wait.
They waited for nearly an hour, long enough for Fiona to become truly bored and begin inventing histories for the men and women waiting in the room with them. The woman with the narrow face like a well-bred pony was secretly the heir to a Veriboldan fortune, returning to Veribold in disguise. The man and boy, probably father and son, dressed in overalls and farmer’s boots, were taking the boy to an apprenticeship in Veribold where he’d learn to make watches using mechanics rather than Devisery. The woman with half a dozen crying children intended to find the father of her brood and force him to pay for their upkeep, currently in arrears. She wondered what stories the others made up for her.
When the Veriboldan called their number, they exited the room into a much chillier one. This one had a tall desk with a trapezoidal top and a tall stool with a seat like a basin, in which sat a woman, cross-legged, in bodysuit and gauzy blue over-robe. “Papers,” she said in Tremontanese with a strong Veriboldan accent.
Sebastian opened his portfolio and began taking out papers, sorting them into three piles. The Veriboldan scrutinized the contents of each stack of paper, reading the contents of each page slowly. Fiona stilled her left leg, which wanted to fidget. Government officials could get testy if you implied you resented them delaying you.
The woman glanced up from a paper and stared at Fiona as if trying to see beneath her skin. If the woman decided they were lying to her, what would she do? Kick them out, probably, but would she want them arrested? It had been too long since Fiona had had dealings with Veribold over border violations. She mentally went over what she did remember, hoping she wouldn’t need it.
The woman dropped the page back onto its pile and squared the stack neatly. “You are missing the aperte,” she said. “You will need that to be allowed to enter the Irantzen Temple.”
“What?” Sebastian said. “But I was told I have everything in order. The papers—”
“The aperte is approval from the Proxy of Veribold,” the woman said. “All foreigners must have it who attend the festival.”
“The Proxy’s in Aurilien. We’ll miss the festival if we have to go all the way back.”
“Then you should be better prepared.” The Veriboldan woman uncrossed her legs and stood.
Fiona’s heart was beating too rapidly. When did this start to matter to me? There had to be something—she remembered, vaguely, some part of treaty law…damn, it had been most of seven years, but there was something about the number fifteen…
“Article Fifteen of the Selkirk-Axante Treaty,” she said.
Everyone turned to look at her, even Holt, whose face remained impassive. “What treaty?” the Veriboldan said.
“The Selkirk-Axante Treaty governs international relations between Veribold and Tremontane,” Fiona said. “Article Fifteen, clause 17-b. Citizens wishing to enter either country who lack one of the documents on a given list may post a bond redeemable when they return with said document, duly signed and witnessed by a representative of the host government.”
Sebastian’s mouth hung open. The Veriboldan looked like Fiona had stood up and barked instead of speaking. “It’s mutually binding,” Fiona continued. “You can look it up. In fact, you probably should, because the amount of the bond is listed for each document. I’m sure the aperte is on it.”
The woman nodded, slowly. “I…will see,” she said, and left the room.
Fiona nodded at her companions. “It’s probably going to be a stiff fee,” she said. “I’m afraid I don’t know the exact amount. I’ve never heard of the aperte.”
Sebastian shut his mouth. “Sweet heaven,” he said. “Miss Cooper, if you just made all that up, we should probably run now.”
“It’s all true.”
“Sweet heaven,” he repeated, running a hand over his face. “How did you know that? The customs official didn’t even know that!”
“My husband and I used to travel to Veribold twice a year,” Fiona said. “Trading journeys. I—” She didn’t want to say I resented him treating me like a useless hanger-on, it sounded so bitter. “I became familiar with the laws governing trade interactions between Tremontane and Veribold.” And then Veriboldan law in general. It had been too fascinating to ignore.
“That’s far more than familiarity,” Sebastian said. “You sounded like a native just then.” He let out a long breath. “Miss Cooper—”
The door opened. The Veriboldan woman returned with another woman and a man. The man held a tattered leather-bound book open to a page about a third of the way from the front. “It is so,” he said. “The bond is five hundred fifty naxhit, or seven hundred Tremontanan guilders. Each.”
Fiona thought Sebastian went a little pale, but he opened his money belt and brought out a handful of notes, which he gave to the first woman.
The second woman said, in Veriboldan, “She is no Veriboldan.” Fiona kept her face very still. No sense letting them know she spoke the language, and causing them to become more circumspect. “Is she a Tremontanan government official?”
“Her name on her papers is Fiona Cooper, and she lists her occupation as ‘trader’,” the man said in the same language. “Should we detain her?”
“On what grounds? That she knows obscure parts of the law too well?” the first woman said. “Send a message ahead that she should be watched. It’s probably nothing, but I’d rather pass this problem on to someone else.”
Fiona made herself relax. So they’d be watching her? That was probably all to the good, if it kept their attention off Sebastian and Holt. Even so, the idea irritated her.
The second woman removed some stamps and a shallow dish of ink from inside the desk and stamped a couple of the sheets of paper. “These are your receipts for the bond. Show these other papers to the officials at the Jaixante and they will allow you entry,” she said. “Welcome to Veribold.”
“Thank you,” Sebastian said. He gathered up their papers, and the three were escorted back to their horses. Once there, Sebastian stood with his face pressed against the bay’s neck, heedless of how damp it still was. “Miss Cooper,” he said. “I think you may have saved this quest. I’m sure Lucille wouldn’t have had your secret knowledge.”
“Well, I want to protect my investment,” Fiona said lightly, mounting Mittens and giving her a pat. She ignored the part of her that whispered It’s your quest now, too.
“Yes, about that,” Sebastian said, lifting his head. “I’m afraid paying the bonds has made it impossible for me to pay you when we reach the Jaixante. Will you wait until we return?”
“I suppose I have to.”
“That’s a relief. Though I admit I’m not unhappy to have to share your company on the road a while longer.” He grinned at her, and mounted. “Two more days, and the real work begins.”
“We should move on, sir, if we wish to reach Poe-nien before dark,” Holt said.
> “Wise words. Miss Cooper, if you’ll ride with me, we can talk about the Irantzen Festival and what will be expected of you. I don’t know much, but it’s better than nothing.”
Fiona nodded. “I’d like that,” she said.
7
Fiona had forgotten how green the Kepa Valley was. Once they were past the high wastes and near-desert of the flatlands, the road to Haizea wound between low hills, verdant with winter’s crops—if you could call it winter when the air was so balmy and snow and rain were a thing of Tremontane’s uplands. In six months, the rains would come, and then the river would swell and the entire country would take to its boats, but for now, the weather was perfect. Mittens liked the way food grew at every turn, and Fiona had to strongly encourage her to keep moving when what she wanted was to stop every few yards to tear up another mouthful of rich, tender grass.
She smelled the tanginess coming from one of the little roadside stands, out of sight at the moment, that sold food to travelers, pan-fried vegetables coated lightly with a dark sauce that tasted of garlic, ginger, and fish. They’d had it for their dinner that day, and the day before, and Fiona wasn’t tired of it yet. It brought back so many memories of the good times, before everything had fallen apart, that she was having trouble remembering why they were there now. The previous night, Sebastian had bid her good night with, “We have to reach Haizea before sunset tomorrow, so we’ll make an early start,” and the reminder that they had a deadline had been startling.
“Not worried, are you, Miss Cooper?” Sebastian said, coming up beside her.
“I wish I knew more of what they expect. But I can’t be the only woman whose first time at the Irantzen Festival this is.”
Ally of the Crown Page 5