“An excellent story,” Effrax said airily. “A tale full of adventure and danger. It’s almost as good as the story about how you stole a crate of voltcrystals from the Zulrothi port. Lifted them off a group of smugglers, didn’t you? What was the captain’s name again? He had an awful temper, if I recall.”
Grov consented to let them stay at the inn shortly thereafter.
So it was that Fletcher found himself in his old attic room. It was as musty as ever, but now it was also cold and drafty. Effrax went out that evening to work on his plan to get them into the Imperial Palace, leaving Fletcher and Roxanne with nothing to do but hide and freeze. Fletcher almost wished Grov would put them to work in the kitchens—the hot steam and the ovens would be enough to warm his bones.
Two nights passed, and Effrax returned with a small wooden box and a sheaf of papers. They gathered in his room to review his scheme.
“This is your moment to shine, Little Lordling,” he told Fletcher, opening the box to reveal a strange assortment of items. “You get to go into the Imperial Palace.”
“Me?” Fletcher gasped.
“Your wanted picture looks the least like you, and I got you a disguise.” Effrax produced a pair of glass lenses connected by gold wire, and something that looked like a dead cat. “Glasses and a wig. Try them on.”
Fletcher perched the glasses on the bridge of his nose and was surprised to find they enhanced his eyesight. With his improved vision, he glanced dubiously at the wig. “That’s not someone’s real hair, is it?”
“Don’t worry about it.” Effrax fitted the wig on Fletcher’s head. It made his scalp itch.
“This seems like a bad plan,” he said, catching a glimpse of himself in the mirror over Effrax’s washstand. He looked like Fletcher Earengale with a bad haircut.
“It’s better than magical concealment. My fence tried to sell me an amulet with a spell that would alter your appearance, but the palace has built-in protection against enchantments like that. Once we get you a fake beard, you’ll be unrecognizable.”
Fletcher looked at Roxanne for input. She stood with arms folded and lips pursed, but made no objections.
“I’ve arranged for you to meet tomorrow with my contact at the Imperial Alliance Institute,” Effrax continued. “It’s not just anyone who can get an audience with a member of the Council of Nine, so here are some fake credentials.”
He handed Fletcher a sheaf of papers. Fletcher couldn’t read the writing, but he opened a thin, leather-bound booklet and saw a printed picture of someone who looked eerily similar to him. The biggest difference was the man on the page was older and his face was fuller. He had heaps of dark hair, along with a beard and glasses.
“Who is this?” breathed Fletcher, scrunching his nose and squinting at the page. He didn’t need to squint, because the glasses sharpened every detail of the image and the foreign runes beneath it, but it had become habit.
“Maevran Thornfallow,” said Effrax. “Your new identity.”
“Where’d you get this? Is this a real person?”
“Relax,” said Effrax, avoiding the questions. “My contact will have your paperwork ready when you arrive, and you can take it straight to the palace from there. Someone from the Imperial Services Administration will receive you and process your request. If all goes well, you’ll be meeting Taeleia Alenciae within an hour.”
If all goes well. Fletcher shuddered at the thought of strolling into the palace with nothing between him and the Imperial Guards but some fake hair and glasses. “What should I say when I meet Taeleia?”
“Tell her Thorion is infected with darksalm, we’re working to find a cure, and we need her help. If she believes you, give her this.” Effrax placed a sealed envelope on top of Fletcher’s papers.
“And if she doesn’t believe me?”
“Then you’ll be arrested and thrown in the dungeons.”
“Effrax,” Roxanne growled, “this isn’t a laughing matter.”
“She’ll believe him,” Effrax assured the Aerians. “Trust me.”
Fletcher did trust Effrax, though Roxanne refused to. The person he trusted least in this plan was himself. He’d say the wrong thing and reveal his identity, he would ruin the plan, and Taeleia would never know Thorion needed her help.
He voiced his concerns to his friends the next morning as they bundled him into a fancy winter overcoat and pasted fake whiskers on his face.
“You’ll do fine,” Effrax told him.
“I’ll keep an eye on you,” Roxanne muttered in a dark voice.
Effrax clapped him heartily on the shoulder when his disguise was on. “There’s a carriage waiting. Have everything? Beard’s in place? Very good; off you go.”
Fletcher descended the stairs and crossed the common room, feeling like he wanted to vomit. Sure enough, when he exited onto the cobblestone street, blinking against the brightness, a carriage awaited him. The driver silently opened the door and shut it when Fletcher was seated. Then they lurched off down the road.
To Fletcher’s shock, the first leg of his journey went smoothly. The driver stopped before a colonnaded building and ushered Fletcher up the steps. Once inside, Fletcher was greeted by a bubbly young woman who asked if he was Master Qualspark’s nine-thirty appointment.
“Um,” said Fletcher, fiddling with his new glasses.
“He’s expecting you,” she said without waiting for an answer. “He told me to bring you in when you arrived.”
The woman showed Fletcher to a waiting room. As soon as she left, an office door opened and a harassed-looking Fironian poked his head out.
“Nameless sent you, did he?” he said, his dark eyes darting around in suspicion.
“Y-yes, I’m Maevran Tho—”
“Don’t care.” Master Qualspark disappeared briefly before reemerging. He shoved a thick envelope at Fletcher. “That’s your paperwork. If they ask, say you don’t know who approved you. Not a word of this to anyone!”
All in all, it could have gone much worse. Fletcher thanked the young woman at the door, who was confused by his abrupt departure, and returned to the street. His carriage was still waiting for him. What had Effrax done to procure it?
I don’t want to know, Fletcher decided as he clambered in. He gazed through the window and saw a pair of rats watching him from a nearby alley. Their beady gazes were a little too shrewd and direct. Roxanne’s friends, no doubt.
The carriage turned a corner and the central stretch of Broad Street swam into view. Skyscrapers pierced the pale sky on either side of the thoroughfare. Looming to the north was the stone archway that separated the city streets from the palace courtyard. Squads of Imperial Guards lined the road leading up to it.
Fletcher shrank into his seat cushions and tugged nervously at his wig. He half expected something terrible to happen, but the carriage passed safely beneath the arch. Beyond, the palace was as beautiful as ever, undiminished by the pallor of winter. Sparkling walls of creamy marble rose high into the air, narrowing into cylindrical towers topped with golden onion domes. Fletcher’s carriage trundled across the sprawling courtyard and came to a halt at the bottom of the wide stone steps.
Fletcher stepped out and stuffed his hands into the pockets of his coat. One hand clutched his identification papers, the other held the envelope he was supposed to give to Taeleia if she believed him. If she didn’t . . .
“Don’t think about that,” he muttered. He’d gotten this far, hadn’t he? If he could willingly reveal the deepest secret about who he was, then he could certainly hand a bunch of papers to a servant and ask to see the elf.
Roxanne had told him he could be himself in Allentria—and though her words had been offered in a different context, Fletcher decided he wanted to be brave like his friends. So he straightened his back, doing his best impersonation of a puffed-up nobleman, and climbed the steps.
/> More guards stood on either side of the vaulted doorway that opened into the entrance gallery. They didn’t acknowledge Fletcher as he ascended. He crossed the palace threshold and the cold vanished at once. A tingling warmth spread through him, and for a split-second he relaxed. His worry returned in full force when a servant materialized at his side.
“Welcome to the Imperial Palace. May I be of assistance?”
“Yes,” Fletcher said hesitantly. “I’m Maevran Thornfallow, and I’d like to speak with a representative from the Imperial Services Administration. I need to arrange a meeting with Taeleia Alenciae. I have identification if you need to see it, as well as papers from the Imperial Alliance Institute.”
The servant frowned, and ice filled Fletcher’s stomach. He’d said too much—or perhaps not enough?—he’d been too hasty in presenting himself and demanding a meeting, he’d forgotten to do something important, his beard was coming undone—
“I’m sorry, Master Thornfallow,” the servant said with an apologetic bow, “but Lady Taeleia isn’t here.”
“Oh, that’s alright. I’m not busy, I can wait,” said Fletcher, though he was weighing the merits of fleeing the palace right then and there.
“But sir,” said the servant, “she left to return to her people. She isn’t coming back.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
“Beware the underworld not for its danger, but for its lure.”
~ Roty Faisolle, Second Age
“I have a friend in Glasspath who confirmed it. She’s gone.”
It was well past midnight. Fletcher, Roxanne, and Effrax were the only ones awake in The Black Willow. Grov had long since retired, muttering that it was their problem if they wanted to sit in the common room and get themselves caught.
Fletcher was still in disguise. He picked at the fake beard and scratched at the itchy wig. He couldn’t wait to be rid of them, but he liked the glasses. He decided he would keep them, though they were probably stolen.
“Taeleia knows what’s coming,” Effrax continued, rubbing his eyes. “Leaving is the only safe move she can make. If she did anything else, people would assume the elves are taking someone’s side.”
“They should take someone’s side,” Roxanne said fiercely. “Our side! They should help us fight Necrovar.”
“I’m not talking about Necrovar,” Effrax told her. “The states are preoccupied with fighting each other at the moment. Tanthflame’s seen to that.”
“How did it fall apart so quickly?” Fletcher wondered, staring into the fire’s dying coals. “Everything was fine the last time we were in Noryk. That was less than a year ago.”
Effrax shook his head. “The empire has been falling apart for decades. It’s just our luck that we’re around to see it break.”
They lapsed into silence. Fletcher would never understand politics—and it seemed to him that politics were an excuse for people to fight with each other, so he wanted nothing to do with them. He forced the thought of an impending civil war from his head, for the bigger issue still loomed before them.
“Are there other elves in Noryk who could help us?” he asked.
“The elves aren’t known for their helpfulness,” Effrax said dryly. “Taeleia’s the only one who tolerates humans to any degree. As for other healers . . .”
“Who would help a bunch of war criminals?” Roxanne finished.
“But you do think Taeleia would have helped?” Fletcher pressed.
“If her departure from Noryk is any indicator, I’m sure of it,” said Effrax.
Fletcher nodded. “Then we should go after her.”
“Elvinthrane is far to the east, Lordling. It’ll take weeks to get there on foot, and buying transport would cost more derlei than I can scrounge up.”
“I don’t think those things should matter,” said Fletcher. “However long it takes, however expensive it is, we have to try for Thorion. You thought it was worth our while to come to Noryk, so it must be worth our while to go to Elvinthrane.”
“It does matter how long it takes,” Roxanne murmured, “because we don’t know how much time Thorion has.”
Fletcher sank lower in his seat and closed his eyes. “Our only other option is Valaan, but how is searching for a god any easier than searching for an elf? At least we know where Taeleia went.”
“You don’t search for a god, you invoke him,” Effrax explained. “We’d go to the Valaani Temple and try to summon him there. Holy mages have done it in the past; we’ll have to make do with the Tigress and her particular talent.”
“Then you should go summon him,” Fletcher said to Roxanne. “And I should go after Taeleia.”
He’d expected them to protest and call him crazy, but they didn’t. Roxanne’s face fell and she closed her eyes. Effrax frowned at the wooden tabletop for a long time, lost in thought.
At last, he sighed and looked at Fletcher. “Give me a week,” he said.
“A week for what?”
“To find you a ride.”
Whoever Effrax knew was very resourceful. That, or whoever Effrax was blackmailing was very rich. By the end of the week he had not only secured Fletcher a bloodbound carriage, he had also scrounged up quite a lot of derlei.
“Give the carriage a drop of your blood and it will open only to your touch,” he explained to Fletcher on the night of their departure. “It’s a good defense against brigands and anyone else who might mean you harm. You’ll want to keep that coat on, because it makes you look wealthy and a bloodbound isn’t cheap. Take this.” He offered Fletcher a bulging, clinking sack.
“Thanks,” whispered Fletcher, opening the drawstrings to see a pile of gleaming coins within.
“And this.” Effrax handed him something small and oblong wrapped in an oilcloth. Fletcher pulled back a corner of the fabric to reveal a dark red gemstone. “It’s a gleed. Blow on it to activate it—not now!” he snapped when Fletcher puffed up his cheeks. “Put it in a pile of kindling and it will start a fire.”
“I don’t like this,” Roxanne muttered.
Fletcher smiled sadly. “You have your part to play, and now I have mine. If there’s the smallest chance that Taeleia can help Thorion, then I must try to find her.”
Roxanne turned to Effrax. “I don’t suppose you got us anything useful for the road, did you?”
He flashed her a crooked smile. “You don’t need gleeds when you’re traveling with me, Tigress.”
“But a bloodbound carriage sounds nice.”
“A bloodbound would draw too much attention to us, I’m afraid. As infamous war criminals, we must keep a low profile.”
Downstairs, the old grandfather clock in the common room chimed twice. Effrax slipped a folded piece of parchment out of his pocket. “Ready?”
“Ready as we’ll ever be,” said Fletcher, squaring his shoulders.
They tiptoed down the stairs and entered the kitchens, which were dark and quiet. The lingering smell of dinner hung in the air and Fletcher sighed. He’d gotten used to eating well at the inn. On the road, he’d have no way of knowing when his next meal would come.
A blast of cold hit them when Roxanne opened the back door. They gathered in the alleyway behind the inn and Effrax unfolded his parchment. It was a map of Noryk, Fletcher could tell that much—but it looked like someone had ruined it with doodles. There were squiggly green lines crisscrossing the streets and buildings.
“This way,” Effrax whispered.
They passed the stable where they’d left Emyr and came to a narrow street between two skyscrapers. Effrax stooped and pulled on an iron grate set between the uneven cobblestones. The grate slid aside with a rusty squeak, revealing a hole wide enough for a man. Fletcher caught the faint glint of a metal ladder leading into the darkness.
“We can’t take the main exits,” said Effrax. “We were lucky to get into Noryk; I doubt
we’ll be so lucky again if we try to get out. After you,” he added, offering Roxanne a bow. She crouched and descended without complaint. “You next, Lordling.”
Fletcher swallowed his misgivings and followed Roxanne. Down he went, climbing for what felt like an impossibly long time. There hadn’t been much light on the street, and there was less in the hole. In fact, Fletcher thought as he lowered himself, his gloved hands slipping on the slimy ladder, he might well have gone blind.
“Roxanne?” he said shakily.
“Here,” came a soft voice. “You’re almost done.”
Fletcher lowered his foot to the next rung of the ladder and met with nothing but air. Adrenaline pulsed through him, but he fell and landed with a splash on solid ground. Wetness seeped through his boots.
Another splash announced Effrax’s arrival. Fire flared in midair to Fletcher’s right, illuminating their surroundings. They were in a large, circular tunnel made of stone. Slick algae coated the walls and a shallow layer of brown, foul-smelling water carpeted the floor.
“Not even Tanthflame will think to police the sewers,” Effrax told them with a self-satisfied grin, motioning for Fletcher and Roxanne to follow him.
No sooner did they round a bend than they ran into a sour-faced Imperial Guard. Effrax stopped short at the sight of him. The guard froze, his mouth ajar in an expression of disbelief.
“Nice night for a stroll,” Effrax tried feebly. The soldier held his lantern aloft. Fletcher saw comprehension creeping across his dull features.
“Can’t stay to chat, I’m afraid!” Effrax grabbed Fletcher and Roxanne and yanked them in the opposite direction, his sphere of flame bobbing after them like a fey sprite.
A sharp blast of air hit Fletcher, knocking him face-down. He skidded along the rounded floor and heard Roxanne and Effrax tumbling beside him. The thick water, filled with globs of the unspeakable, clung to him like glue.
“To me! To me in Passageway Five,” cried the guard.
Dragon Child Page 18