The Amber Legacy

by Tony Shillitoe

  The number of travellers steadily increased as the Group rode through the city’s outskirts. Inns and taverns appeared with monotonous regularity, with men and women in the lantern-lit doorways watching the troop of archers pass. Outside one tavern, under the sign Two Dogs and a Bear, men hurled abuse. ‘Queen’s fucken scum!’ one man yelled, and he threw a bottle at Westridge. The Leader ducked the poorly aimed missile and motioned to two riders, who reined in and loaded their bows. The antagonists fled into the tavern.

  ‘Ride,’ Westridge calmly ordered, and the troop moved on.

  The buildings began reaching two and three storeys. Most were dark, but some had lights in their windows, and Meg spotted the occasional person looking down from the upper storeys. Raggedly dressed children waited at one corner, hands open, begging to the riders who ignored their pleas. Meg wished she had some pennies or shillings to offer, but what she had was meagre and packed away on her horse. Sunfire trotted to the children and they patted him before he rejoined the procession.

  At another tavern, a brawl spilled into the street, involving twenty or more men, so the archers halted. Westridge sat beside Meg, watching. ‘Is the city always like this?’ she asked, horrified by the bloody brutality of the fight.

  ‘Every night in this quarter,’ Westridge replied. ‘Worse in the Foundry Quarter to the south. It’s an ugly place. These people have no morals. They just work, eat, drink, take euphoria and have kids—worse than feral cats.’

  ‘What’s euphoria?’

  ‘A drug. Very cheap, and very common. It messes up their minds.’

  ‘Doesn’t Queen Sunset do anything about this?’ she asked.

  Westridge snorted contemptuously. ‘Oh, Her Majesty has tried over the years. There is a City Guard. They’re supposed to prevent this sort of thing happening, but there’s too few of them, and half of them aren’t any better than the people they’re supposed to police, so nothing much changes.’ He stopped his explanation to call Longarm. ‘We can’t wait here. Break this up,’ he ordered. Longarm transferred the order to a rider, who loaded his bow, drew aim and felled a combatant with an arrow in the thigh. The brawling crowd scattered, leaving the wounded man lying in the middle of the street, clutching the arrow. The troop moved on, to a chorus of abuse from the tavern patrons. The city was a horrible place, Meg decided, looking down at the wounded man as she rode by. It was brutal, dirty and demeaning.

  The street filled with lamp and lantern lights, of different hues, and more people lingered in a variety of shopfronts. ‘This is the King’s Way,’ Westridge explained. ‘It’s the main thoroughfare in and out of the city, and this area is the business precinct for the commoners.’ Women loitered outside buildings, scantily clad despite the cold air, talking to men, and reminding her of the two women in Broadfields. People stared suspiciously at the passing troop, and the mood of the entire street made Meg feel less and less welcome. A structure of stone and wood appeared in their path, brightly lit by lanterns, and she recognised the royal serpent insignia on the armoured breastplates of soldiers on guard. ‘King’s Bridge,’ Westridge announced. The horse’s hooves clattered on the wooden bridge that spanned the River of Kings and Meg’s mood improved when she saw the lights glittering in the water. Beyond the bridge, an old stone wall rose at least twenty lengths above the surrounding buildings, and the Group rode between the remnants of what had once been gate towers, into a city quarter containing older but grander buildings. There were fewer people about and the area was tidier. She saw soldiers talking on street corners. The company of riders veered left, and then stopped at a large iron gate embedded in stone walls that were higher and in better condition than the first set. Westridge spoke to a pair of halberd-bearing guards at the gate. The guards bowed, and one waved an arm, and chains clanked into operation as they lifted the heavy, creaking gate.

  The Group rode into a vast, cobbled courtyard, lit by more lanterns and broken by fountains and gardens, where more soldiers stood on guard, their breastplates shining in the flickering light. They headed towards a four-storey building with a plain white facade pocked by long, narrow windows, and balconies the width of each level. Twenty white steps, wide enough for ten men to walk abreast, led to a huge double iron door at the centre of the building at ground-floor level. A guard stood on each step, and lamps glittered on the flanking balustrade. The riders drew up at the base of the steps.

  Westridge dismounted and stood beside Meg’s horse. ‘Allow me to help you down, my lady,’ he offered. Overcome by the majesty of the place, Meg self-consciously accepted Westridge’s formal offer. ‘I’ll leave the Group in your command, Longarm,’ Westridge said. ‘I’ll join you at the barracks. Make sure everyone is well fed and receives their pay.’ He gestured for Meg to follow him up the steps.

  ‘What about Sunfire?’ she asked, looking back at her dingo.

  ‘We’ll look after him,’ Westridge replied. ‘He wouldn’t be allowed in the palace.’

  She nearly asked about Whisper, who was curled asleep inside her favourite vest, but she decided not to mention the rat, and she hoped Westridge wouldn’t broach the matter.

  Two men in heavily brocaded black coats, white trousers and knee-length black boots met them at the entrance door. ‘Leader Westridge returning with the lady Megen Farmer, as ordered by Her Majesty,’ Westridge announced. One doorman bowed his head and opened the door. Westridge led Meg through.

  The entrance hall was as wide as the steps, filled with light from hundreds of lamps suspended in clusters from the ceiling high overhead and more lamps fixed to the apricot-coloured walls. Huge paintings adorned the hall, each reaching from the floor to the ceiling and at least five lengths wide, and between each painting was a door. At the far end, a set of pink marble stairs rose to the next level. ‘We are required to wait here, my lady,’ Westridge informed Meg.

  ‘Stop calling me that name,’ she protested.

  His eyebrow rose, and he said, ‘My lady, in the palace and at court there are protocols that, as a soldier, I have to obey.’

  ‘You are talking very strangely,’ she said. ‘My name is Meg.’

  ‘I know, my lady, but here I can only call you “my lady”.’

  ‘How long do we have to wait here?’

  ‘I don’t know, my lady.’

  She gave him a caustic glare, but he merely shrugged and smiled. Annoyed with his changed manner, she approached the first painting on the right. It was the portrait of a rugged man, with unkempt, thick black hair and an equally thick black beard, and a kangaroo skin draped over his left shoulder. His eyes were narrow and fierce. In the background, heads were spiked upon poles against the impression of a smouldering battlefield. A brass plate screwed to the bottom of the painting’s frame carried an inscription. Meg deciphered the letters, as Emma had taught her, and read, ‘King Bigaxe: founder of the Royal dynasty’. The painting opposite portrayed another fierce man, also dark-haired and heavily bearded, with piercing blue eyes that stared through the viewer. A golden sword hilt, moulded in the shape of a serpent, leaned against the man’s bare shoulder. Behind him was the relief of a large map showing rivers and names of villages, and a long strip of water down the left side. His plate read: ‘King Slayer Royal: grandson of Bigaxe’.

  ‘It’s a very proud and strong family history.’ A tall man stood at the foot of the pink stairs, dressed in black from cap to boots, with the gold serpent motif embroidered along his left tunic sleeve. ‘Allow me to introduce myself,’ he said, approaching along the hall. ‘I am the Queen’s Intermediary, Follower Servant. And I take it you are the Lady Meg Farmer?’ He didn’t wait for her reply, but continued by addressing Westridge. ‘Her Majesty thanks Leader Westridge for his prompt return, and for sending riders ahead to let Her Majesty know that your arrival would be at this time of the evening. Her Majesty has retired for the night, but she has expressly ordered me to see to the wellbeing of Lady Farmer. You may go about your business, Leader. Her Majesty is very pleased with you.’
>
  Open-mouthed at the formality, Meg watched Leader Westridge bow to the Queen’s Intermediary, and to her, before he exited the hall. The Intermediary lifted his left arm, saying, ‘If you would be so kind, my lady?’ She stared at him, bewildered by his action. The Intermediary raised an eyebrow at her response, but then grinned. ‘It’s customary in the palace that, when a man offers a woman his arm, she accepts it.’

  ‘What do I want with your arm?’ she asked.

  His grin faded. ‘As your ladyship wishes,’ he said perfunctorily. ‘If you would follow me, I’ll conduct you to your chamber.’

  She followed him along the hall and up the stairs, noting that her chaperone was slim and healthy, and well groomed in every aspect. He even had a sweet scent, like the tang of fresh wattle, which she found odd. He was taller than anyone she’d met, and vaguely handsome, his chiselled features reminding her of Treasure’s face.

  At the top of the stairs was a junction. One hall continued straight ahead, but two walkways went left and right. Two guards in black armour bowed to the Intermediary. The Intermediary turned left, and led her along a darker hallway, lit by strategically placed lanterns. At a door, one of several, waited a short, slender girl with black hair, dressed in black like the Intermediary, who bowed at their arrival. ‘This is Spring,’ the Intermediary explained. ‘She will show you your chambers and she will do whatever bidding you demand of her, my lady. I will adjourn for the evening, but no doubt I will see you again in the morning. Her Majesty has asked for an audience at midmorning in her Counsel Chamber. I will come to fetch you. Do you have any questions, my lady?’

  ‘No,’ Meg replied, unsure of what questions she could possibly ask in a place she didn’t understand.

  ‘Good, then. I shall leave you in Spring’s competent hands, and come for you tomorrow morning.’ The Intermediary bowed politely, spun on his heel and retraced his steps along the hall.

  ‘If you would, my lady,’ said Spring, opening the chamber door.

  Meg entered a chamber that was deep and wide—a single room with areas identified by the placement of furnishings. Each area had a lantern burning, as if to show it off, and the room was luxuriantly warm. Directly ahead, at the tall and narrow window, were a desk, several armchairs and a bookcase crammed with books. The only books Meg had seen were the decrepit tomes in Emma’s cottage from which Emma had taught her to read. In this room were shelves upon shelves, stretching beyond reach to the ceiling. Long black curtains framed the window, and the exterior palace lighting spilled across the tiled floor and the hide rugs. To the right was a huge bed, capable of sleeping four people, with four thick posts and a canopy of pink gossamer drapes. The bedcover was black with a gold serpent motif, and luxurious pillows—red, yellow, pink, green, orange—were scattered across its expanse. A dark ten-drawer dresser stood to one side and a small bedside cabinet sat on the other. Nearby was a strange copper vessel, like a gigantic, distorted pot. To the left was a fireplace, with a fire burning, fronted by a lounge and armchairs covered in emerald green padding. A black woollen rug was strewn across the tiles. A six-seater dining table, with high-back chairs and crockery and shining cutlery, was set, as if awaiting guests. ‘I have a bath ready for you, my lady,’ said Spring, gesturing towards the copper vessel.

  For the first time, Meg noticed steam rising from it. ‘Bath?’ she queried.

  ‘To wash, my lady.’

  ‘I don’t have spare clothes,’ said Meg, realising that her sack of personal belongings was still with the Queen’s Mounted Archers.

  ‘They will be brought up shortly. I have arranged for—’ and Spring screamed, jumping back from Meg.

  Startled, Meg looked at Spring’s distraught expression and down at Whisper’s black head sticking out from her vest. ‘Oh, this is Whisper,’ she said. ‘She’s harmless.’ Spring didn’t appear convinced, her hands at her cheeks. Meg retrieved the bush rat and put her on the floor. ‘She doesn’t make a mess inside. She goes everywhere I go.’ When she saw that Spring was still in shock, she said, ‘Honest. Whisper is very good.’ Whisper scampered across the wooden floor to the hearthrug and promptly curled up.

  The door opened and two guards entered, their swords drawn. ‘Is everything all right?’ one asked. Both men were very young and clean-shaven.

  ‘It’s—all fine,’ Spring stammered, regaining her composure. ‘I was just surprised by—by something.’ She glanced towards the fireplace, where Whisper blended into the black woollen rug. The soldiers withdrew. ‘I’m sorry, my lady. I didn’t expect a—rat. I’m sure the animal is what you say it is.’

  ‘My mother doesn’t like her either,’ Meg explained.

  ‘If my lady is ready now, I can bathe you,’ said Spring.

  ‘Bathe me?’ Meg asked. ‘It’s all right. I can wash myself. I presume I’m meant to climb into that copper thing. And please call me Meg.’

  ‘Yes, my lady Meg. You get into the bath.’

  ‘No. Just Meg, please. No “my lady” required.’

  ‘Yes, my—Meg,’ Spring answered uncomfortably. ‘I’ll have your dirty clothes washed and mended. I’ll also prepare a nightshirt for you, and in the morning I will have fresh clothes ready for your meeting with Her Majesty.’

  Meg thanked Spring, feeling both excited and uneasy at having a complete stranger wait on her—in the Queen’s palace. She hadn’t dreamed of anything like this. She stripped off her travelling clothes and tested the water temperature.

  ‘Is it warm enough, or too hot?’ Spring asked, gathering Meg’s discarded clothes.

  ‘It’s perfect. It smells like—I don’t know.’

  ‘Lavender blossom. I always put a little lavender blossom essence in my bath. Do you like it, my la—Meg?’

  ‘Yes,’ Meg replied. She climbed into the deep bath, sinking gratefully into the soothing water. She’d bathed in the river, and washed in the basin on the farm, but she’d never been in a bath, and although the Archers had a small tin bath in their inn for travellers, Meg hadn’t experienced such luxury. She heard the door open and close as Spring carried away her clothes. She scrubbed the dirt from her arms and legs and body, and her face, feeling clean for the first time since leaving home, and she relaxed into the warmth. The chamber door opened and closed again, and Spring placed fresh clothing on the bed. She approached the bath and stood behind Meg, saying, ‘I’ll wash your hair for you.’

  Later, snuggled into the soft sheets and warm, heavy blankets of the huge bed, Meg was so relaxed from the bath and exhausted from the journey that she hardly heard Spring drawing the curtains or her parting goodnight. She wrapped herself in the luxurious comfort of her fresh, clean black nightdress and fell asleep.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  Wake up! It was a strange dream, she thought, to imagine feelings in her head, but not to see anything. Wake up! She opened her eyes carefully. Apart from red embers in the fireplace, everything was black. Where was she? Then she remembered. The palace. Run! There was a weight at the end of her bed, by her feet. She heard a soft footfall. Someone cried, ‘Ow!’ and swore. Run! The feeling was overwhelming. Meg threw aside the blankets, but as she swung her legs out a weight smashed against her. She was subsumed by the strong stench of humanity—sweat and pungent warmth—and a body on top of her. ‘Got the bitch!’ a man harshly whispered. A sharp punch stunned her with a burst of pain across her left cheek and lips. Her assailant’s body jerked, his knee digging into her leg, and he swore profusely as he writhed and rolled off.

  ‘What the fuck?’ a second voice demanded.

  ‘Get this fucking thing off me!’ yelled the man on the floor. ‘Get it off!’

  Free, Meg scrambled to her feet and ran towards the glowing embers. Where could she run? She wrenched a brass poker from its hanging place and wheeled to face her attackers. There were guards at her door. ‘Help!’ she screamed. ‘Help!’

  ‘Shut the bitch up!’ ordered a man in the darkness.

  ‘Help me!’ she screamed frantically.
Where were the guards? Out of the darkness came a man, the dull red glow catching his dagger’s keen edge. Meg desperately adopted the fighting stance Blade had taught her, holding the poker like a sword, but when she saw the man’s face in the glow, her heart sank. He was one of the young soldiers meant to be guarding her. Behind him, she saw another shape approaching.

  ‘Give it up, lady,’ the soldier said. ‘No one is coming to save you.’

  She crouched, summoning all of her flagging courage. ‘I know how to fight.’

  The soldier grinned grimly. ‘Of course you do,’ he said cynically, and moved closer, rolling his dagger in his hand. In the red glow, his face looked cruel. There was a blur of black across his face and he yelled and fell backwards. ‘Get it off!’ he shouted, as he thrashed around. His companion lunged to the floor to wrestle with the screaming soldier, but he also started thrashing and screaming.

  The first soldier staggered to his feet, clutching his throat, dark liquid oozing between his fingers. Horrified, rooted to the spot, Meg watched the man stumble towards her. As he reached out with bloodied hands, she swung the poker with all her strength and struck him viciously across the face. He staggered back, and she hit him again and again, until he collapsed onto his back. Dropping the poker with a clatter onto the floor, she kicked the outstretched arm of the second man as he attempted to grab her, and fled through the dark chamber. Opening the door, she ran into the semidark hall screaming, ‘Help!’ and headed for the junction at the top of the stairs, expecting to find guards on duty. When she discovered that none were, she descended the marble stairs and sprinted along the entrance hall, past the towering paintings of the ancestors of the Royal line. As she reached the end, a door opened to her left and yellow light spilled across the floor. In the doorway, holding a small lantern, was the Intermediary, still in his black uniform. ‘By Jarudha’s Word, my lady, what is wrong?’ he asked, his face screwed up in alarm.