“Want to pay a visit to Arundel?” I ask.
She laughs, low and muted. “Soon. Once we have Siri. I half-hoped she’d be stowed in some merchant’s cellar. But I have a feeling…”
Emeree trails off as we emerge from a tiny side street into the largest square yet. A bailey, actually. A grassy oval common takes up most of the space.
“Damn,” she finishes.
The square’s west end is walled and gated, blocking the castle’s long sloped road.
These fortifications are smaller than the gate house’s, but far more intimidating. Guards line the walls and grounds, their armor immaculate, shining, and they lack the lazy demeanor of the others.
They stride atop the wall, pikes piercing the sky, and bright torchlight flows along their armor like liquid gold. The wall is draped with a pair of tapestries big as a pavilion cloth. Crimson silk and a gold lion.
At the gate are no fewer than a score of guards, standing at attention before wrought iron bars that are closed to the milling public. People stand in little groups in the square, some orbiting an ornate carriage.
“Probably nobles, waiting for an audience,” Emeree says, drawing Falnir’s reins around a hitching post. “Some will wait out here for days while their servants fetch food or a change of clothes, in hopes they’ll be favored by the duke.”
“Sounds pointless.”
She huffs a laugh. “See? This is why I like you. But, unfortunately this isn’t specific to Carven, or Minster Lowe. This is the way of patronage for the wealthy in every large city.”
So why are we here? “Siri.”
Emeree sighs. “In there. I’m sure of it.”
“We can’t wait around like they do.”
“They’d never let us in,” she agrees. “Not like we are now.”
So close, yet so far.
“Let’s scout the square; see what we can learn.”
The green, the largest portion of the space, is cordoned off. Slender, rickety wooden signs pierce its edges at long intervals. They all read the same:
KEEP OFF
PUN. BY BODILY HRM
Bodily harm.
I glance over the people assembled. It’s night, and there are dozens. How many must come during daylight hours? By making the green off limits, Arundel has pushed everyone into the square edges and corners. He hasn’t committed the outrage of trespassing them, but they sure as hell are mostly out of sight.
Our first encounter is a handful of Sisters, huddled over candle stumps in the vee of two grand townhouses at the square’s corner. Their veils hang in sad curtains, sheltering their light. Heads bent, they murmur prayers in gentle unison.
“Sisters?”
All five or six startle at my voice. I don’t think they’re used to being noticed or spoken to.
“What troubles you tonight?”
They exchange the same mournfully serene looks as the tongueless mother and father we met on the road. And fear; I smell a hint of resigned fear, too.
This is just the way things are.
“We’ve come to petition the taxes on the school, poorhouse, and orphanage.”
“You pay taxes on those?” Emeree shakes her head.
“All pay taxes,” says the eldest Sister. The soft folds of her face tighten into creases. “Until the cannot.”
“And then?” I ask.
“The orphanage burial plot is full,” says another.
My mouth parches and I swallow down a sour taste.
“It’s the magus,” hisses a younger Sister who reminds me of Briet, at least in temper. “That castle is filled with wickedness.”
“Don’t gossip, Sister Pella,” chides another woman. “Your soul is never in danger if you stick to the truth.”
“No one goes in and no one comes out since the magus arrived. That is the truth,” snaps Pella.
This is more than I can get involved with. Briet and Kel grow further away each hour; I don’t have time for civil unrest and politics.
But we need Siri, so I also have no choice.
My mother would say we should be most giving and compassionate in the moments where our suffering is greatest.
“Here,” I offer the eldest Sister my two copper pence. “It’s not much, but maybe it’ll accomplish something.”
She stretches up and rests her fingers on my forehead. “Father guide your path.”
I’m probably heathen enough to light her on fire. I keep this to myself and say, “Thank you.”
Along the green we pass a small mob of guildsmen in their distinct tunics. Among the westmen are two dwarves and a goblin. I’ve never seen either before, even though the dwarves hold great cities in the north where they squabble with the dray, and goblins are the most famous Southern Seas privateers.
Emeree and I don’t have to ask the guildsmen’s outrage; they’re shouting at each other at a volume that doesn’t keep secrets. Their anger bears out some of what Sister Pella said; crafters and green grocers bring wares to the castle gates, no admittance. Their goods are collected, ledgers are updated, and that’s it. No payment made by the Duke’s purser.
“An army,” sneers the goblin, skin fading from viridian to putrid yellow. “I’ll have an army here by month’s end!”
This elicits a murmur that’s more like a boo.
“That’s not the way!” shouts one dwarf, rubbing the stout bald egg of his head as though he can keep out the goblin’s words. “Who’d trade with any of our houses again, if we brought war against a Corvarin city?”
“Aye. We must go to the king.”
“That will take months!” shouts one of the men. “My debts will have me in the Coldfields in a fortnight!”
“No one’s going to the Coldfields,” assures a grey-haired man wearing the guild tunic under a short green shoulder cape. Some sort of leader or alderman, I suppose. “Arundel will no’ put one of us, honest men all, in debtor’s prison.”
“I wonder if he’s a betting man,” Emeree says.
I rest a hand on Emeree’s back and urge her on. “After what happened back in the low quarter, I’m not sure I’d risk it.”
We round the green; we’ve reached the iron fence. It sections off a small strip of weeds and shrubs between the square and the castle wall proper.
For a wealthy class part of the city, the fence is filthy. Amputated stumps of parchment and foolscap cling to the spokes, held by string or paste. Whatever the papers said, they’ve obviously been ripped down, but not cleaned up. Feels about right.
“I wonder what these were,” says Emeree, leaned back to examine the fence.
My gaze travels up to the parapet, where size pairs of hot eyes watch our every move.
“I think we’ll have to ponder that somewhere else.”
Emeree catches the direction of my glances and nods.
We’ve come almost full circle now, reaching the crowd of nobles and the fine carriage we saw earlier.
Based on what Emeree said, I expect drinking, laughter. Idle nobles waiting for a meaningless encounter. It makes perfect sense these people are on the opposite side from the Sisters and guildsmen.
There’s no laughter. No drinking.
Sleek bearded lords stand with their matron wives, both decked in silk and fur. But it’s not celebratory finery. I don’t understand it, but I know; it’s the way my mother and father would dress for a burial. Their best, but a different kind of best than Midsummer feast.
Among them stand men my age, handsome, tall, and groomed. They wear embossed leather doublets and rapiers at their hips. Their faces just look important, educated. Taking them in, I understand what it means to say nobility is in someone’s blood.
Some of the men and women, the youth, hold their own pasteboard signs. Some have servants to do it, concentrating all their efforts on piercing Castle Lowe with a steady gaze of hatred.
Sister.
Daughter.
Katharyn.
Sister.
Delphina.
&nb
sp; Ward.
Each board has a name or relationship like a headstone, painted in bold dark ink.
We stand apart from them, warned off by looks that say trespassers aren’t welcome among their crowd.
“These aren’t the low quarter peasants,” I murmur to Emeree. “Not the refugees outside the walls.”
“Look at the carriage crest,” she says, nudging me. “Stowell is one of Arundel’s earls. These are his fellow nobles.” Her breath hitches. “This city is about to ignite.”
Part of me wants to say, So what? Let Arundel sleep in the bed he’s made. But taking in the battlements, the wall of guards, I know that isn’t the way. These parents; the woman with her dead child; the Sisters. It won’t be Arundel who suffers most when violence erupts.
One of the boys – not a man, but a boy Keldan’s age, breaks the tension. “Parlay!” he shouts in a clear strong voice. “Parlay with us! Come out here and make an answer!”
Guards stare and bristle, laden with so many weapons they collectively look like a thresher. A war machine.
“Bastards,” the boy spits, rubbing the back of a woman beside him. She’s dressed in the sorts of fabrics Briet used to mention dreamily, and she holds her own pasteboard sign. Her slender arms tremble, and her shoulders, but she won’t give the sign to her son, or put it down.
On the board is drawn a haunting, lifelike face. She could be the boy’s twin, slender jaw and wide eyes.
LOST. TWELVE AUTUMN. PLEASE SEND HER HOME.
Emeree swipes away a tear. I swallow hard so I don’t have to follow suit.
The bigger kick is, all of this agitation and rage will make it even harder to get inside the castle. From the guard captain to the groom, I expect every person inside those walls to be wary.
“Come on,” I say, turning back toward the horses. “We need a plan. But first, I need a drink.”
Emeree slips her arm around my waist. “I might know just the place.”
11
I stare up at a clapboard sign swinging in the breeze and shake my head.
“Why –”
I’m not ready to ask.
Emeree folds her hands and waits.
He’s as real a rooster as I’ve ever seen, even rendered in paint; plumed black tail, leg feathers like fancy boots. His comb is grand, thin sleek head feathers like a warrior’s mane.
His eyes bulge like a strangling victim.
All of this makes my question harder to enunciate.
I know what; the name of the tavern has told me this.
It’s the why I can’t grasp.
“Why...is the rooster wearing a corset?” A lurid red one, at that, zipped tight as can be.
“Oh!” Emeree waves this off as both obvious and a ridiculous question. “It’s not a rooster. It’s a cock.”
“Um.” I don’t want to fire back with my undoubtedly superior animal knowledge but…
“It’s a cockerel unless there are hens about. Then it’s a rooster,” she explains.
Well, damn me to the Hells.
“That’s the joke. See?” She points up at the sign. “He is the hen, so he’s also still a cock. I think. He’s a philosophical statement.”
“He’s something.”
The bird clutches a pint under one wing and a chicken leg under the other. This seems excessively morbid. “Maybe he’s eating the hen who owned the corset,” I mutter.
“You’re looking too far into this.”
“Well, yeah. They obviously didn’t look far enough, and now I have questions.”
“Inside, hero.” She grins, face bathed in the warm glow of the open double doors. “Best place in town. Or at least, it used to be.”
The crowd roars at something, cheers drowning out all sounds of the city for a moment.
A stable boy dashes to us, his rough mop of straw hair flapping like a bird’s wing. His clothes are disheveled, one strap of his thick overalls unfastened, and he’s wiping grease from his chin. I realize we’ve interrupted his dinner and feel bad; they probably don’t get many travelers needing to be put up this late.
He squints startling blue eyes. “Staying?”
“Yes.” Emeree flips him our last coin.
He snags it from the air, and it disappears like magic into his apron. He bows. “Peter, lady. If you need anything. I’ll take your horses.”
“Please.” I give him my reins. “A good rub, if you would. They’ve been through a lot this week.” I pat Glaer’s flank, earning a puff of moist spittle on my neck.
“Absolutely, sir. I’ve got fresh hay, and I’ll check their hooves and brush ‘em down before I tuck in for the night.” He rests his hand on Falnir’s muzzle and murmurs into his ear. Falnir takes to the boy immediately, and I feel my first relief in days.
“Who owns the tavern?” Emeree asks, pulling her pack from her horse.
“Oranna Stonetree, lady. But she doesn’t come around here much.”
“I imagine not. Could you bring her here?”
He quails at her request.
“Baroness Stonetree and I are acquainted.”
He starts at this. “I’ll tell the master.”
Thank you,” she says, face unreadable.
“What’s all this?” I ask when Peter disappears into the alley.
“Best if the world doesn’t know a Siren’s returned, signs and portents aside. It’s been sixty years. Most everyone I knew is long gone.” Emeree pauses like this hasn’t fully dawned on her before. “But Oranna…” She squints, remembering, then holds a hand above the ground at her waist. “She was five or so last time I was here. Already a handful. Her father was a baron and gods did she show it. The rest of the inn tried to pretend we weren’t there, that night. We didn’t mind. You get used to it when you have the reputation we did. But Oranna…” She smiles, wistful. “Walked right up to me, demanding sweets and coins. Asked to hold Siri’s axe!”
“Will she remember you?”
“I have no idea. She’d be...seventy?”
I reach up, tuck the silver lock of her hair behind her ear, and let my hand linger on her cheek before pulling away. “You’re pretty memorable.”
“To you,” she teases, darting in for a quick kiss that leaves me breathless. “Let’s have a pint and wait for all this to settle down. See if Oranna shows up.”
The taproom is a madhouse and its patrons are the lunatics. Tankards clink and fists pound weathered wood in a tavern song. A one-eyed man at the back corner shouts profanity to a tattooed lad about my age who stands not far from me. The younger man returns fire, but they don’t close in or threaten blows. It takes a second to realize fighting isn’t the point; they’re content to go on slandering one another.
A lithe woman covered in a thin fuzz of tawny hair hangs by her legs from a ceiling beam, perilously close to a hanging brazier. Short dark hair almost obscures her feline ears. A man equally hairy but definitely human kisses hazelnuts into her mouth. They stand at the relative center of at least a score of tables, hardly enough seats for the crowd.
The walls are covered in weapons, braids of hair, and assorted small clothes in bright silks tacked almost to the ceiling.
And the paintings. More roosters in states of...dress. Undress? It’s complicated. It’s uncomfortable.
Maids flow through the crush balancing trays of tankards at perilous angles above the chaos, immune to pinching fingers. One oiled-up, leather skinned server shifts her burden to a single hand, rounds a kick to her harasser’s shin and catches the load in one motion.
I glance at Emeree. She grins and shoves me forward into the breach. The roar doesn’t dull at our arrival; we’re not that noteworthy by comparison. The few swiveling heads are male and they’re not curious about me.
Boots stomping well-worn wood, flagons slamming, cards shuffling; the uproar is unending, almost disorienting. Something wafts from the door from the kitchen as we pass. My mouth waters.
Pork, I think. I don’t care. “I need a plate of whateve
r that is.”
“That makes two of us,” Emeree says, eyes locked on the kitchen door.
The bar, a long, polished slab that looks cut from a single tree, spans the entire left side of the room, close at hand. We pass the one-elbow crowd and take a small table at the back, where our profanity-bellowing friend now crouches by the fireplace feeding crumbs to a rat. I don’t think it’s his.
A bar maid passes by and sets down two flagons of filmy blue-green glass. One is dark and frothy, the other a pale effervescent wheat. She didn’t ask for coin, but she will; a dagger-wearing beast seated near the doors makes sure no one skips their tab.
“We can’t pay for these,” I murmur to Emeree.
“If Oranna shows we won’t have to.”
And if she doesn’t? “I’d hate to find out how they make you work off a debt here.” I doubt it involved scrubbing the pots.
“Drink your ale, warm your feet, and have some patience,” she chides between sips. “If there’s a single friendly place left in this city, we’re in –”
A gust of night air whips across the taproom, stinging my neck.
“Where is the woman who claims to be the Witch of Bellagorg?”
The tavern falls silent for the first time at her words. Everyone freezes, beholden to the low rich command of her voice. She’s tall; even seated I can see her. Her hair reminds me of Emeree’s, black and silver but less luxuriant. Even brushed it resembles the coat of a wild thing. Her face is sharply beautiful and her clear eyes wicked with fury.
Emeree doesn’t hesitate. She stands at the question. “I did.”
The woman takes a long breath. It shudders the black gauze and silk of her robes, draws in the basin of bone between her breasts until her bodice is concave. When she exhales, I expect flames.
Instead she floats between the still-frozen patrons on long strides. “You,” she mutters an arms-length from Emeree, “are not the Witch of Bellagorg.”
Emeree’s chin raises. “How do you know?”
The woman has to bend to meet Emeree’s eyes and she puts them nose to nose in the process. “I am the witch. That’s how.”
“Oops.” Emeree thumps down in her chair.
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