by Wendy Palmer
Trick got up, bumped into Faustus and slit his purse to save arguments. Faustus had enough to buy them all a good breakfast and that was it. He would have to rob more than his cousin. That wouldn't be hard here.
On the way out, he decided, and joined the queue.
'Do you think Dalton has actually found the heir?’ Trick glanced at the speaker, a burly Livanian in front of him.
His friend snorted. ‘Where's she been for three years, then?'
'Hiding from Mikcul—wouldn't you be?'
So the rumour of the heir had reared its ugly head again. Or Dalton was clever enough to exploit the Livanian need for a fairytale. No wonder Kitira buzzed.
Trick turned to check on Mizzle and Faustus. As he did so, a dark-haired man, Bourchian, and a small and pretty Livanian girl crossed the room and went behind the partition next to their own table. He saw the man glance quickly around the room. He looked familiar. Trick craned his neck and saw them join an elderly Livanian man.
He paid and took breakfast back to the table, handed bowls of thick porridge across, along with a tray of bread and jam.
'Is it safe to meet here?’ asked the elderly man from the other side of the partition.
'Who would expect it?’ said the other man in Bourchian. ‘And speak Bourchian, we'll have less chance of being overheard and she can't understand it either.'
Trick blinked. He knew the voice. Filipe, leader of the Company of Thieves, taking part in some Livanian conspiracy. Plainly he had not seen Faustus and Mizzle sitting at their screened table, and had not spotted Trick with his rapid scout of the room. They had only ever met once before, at a Company meeting ended by a Cult raid, so perhaps Filipe had seen him and simply did not recognise him.
Faustus and Mizzle were eating. If they kept quiet, Filipe need never know he had sat down to discuss his secret plans in Bourchian next to Bourchians.
'So,’ said the other man. ‘I have recalled my army and Mikcul marches north. Will you give me something to fight for?'
'Here's what you're fighting for.’ Filipe meant the girl.
The rumoured heir was always female. So Filipe had found a pretty little thing of suitable look and age to dangle in front of Dalton. The Company would want Mikcul off the Livanian throne and have little hope of achieving it otherwise.
He wished he wasn't overhearing this conversation. He wished harder not to be caught and watched his companions closely in case they looked like they wanted to speak. Faustus gave no sign of hearing the conversation but Mizzle set her bowl down and tilted her head towards the table.
'An Empress needs a husband,’ said Dalton.
Ah. At least Filipe hesitated a long moment before saying, ‘She does, that's true.'
Trick slid forward a little, angling himself until he could see the girl perched at her table. She looked up, brilliant green eyes. He smiled, struck by her. She could not hope to touch his heart, not with Mizzle sitting at his side and the pure memory of Linnet wrapping arms around him, but she was pretty nonetheless, with a spill of white gold hair about her shoulders and her frank green eyes. She smiled back, but her gaze dropped back to the table before the two men could notice.
She may not have understood Bourchian, but her eyes told him she knew what was being discussed over her head. Had he thought she couldn't touch him?
'Poor girl,’ he said, under his breath and not meaning to be heard. He could not wish Filipe's plan to fail, not if it meant the fall of Mikcul, but he spared a moment to pity her anyway.
Faustus said, ‘What?’ in clear and loud Bourchian.
Mizzle stood. Trick was up too by the time Filipe came round his side of the partition and looked them over.
'Lord Dalton, call your soldiers in here,’ he said in Livanian.
The room went quiet. Lord Dalton signalled to a man by the door, who slipped out.
'Are you spying on us for Mikcul?’ asked Filipe. His gaze lingered on Mizzle, blindfolded and head bowed.
'He has a DarkElf working for him,’ whispered Dalton, and Trick was glad Mizzle did not yet understand Livanian.
The girl came and peered around the partition at Mizzle. ‘A DarkElf,’ she said, on a breath, curiosity and no fear.
'Sit down, Lithia,’ said Filipe, without looking at her.
'Where'd you find her, Filipe?’ asked Trick, in Bourchian for Mizzle's benefit. ‘Did you convince her she's the heir, or is she just stupid enough to be paid to pretend?'
It had the desired effect. Dalton turned a narrow-eyed look on Filipe and Filipe looked away from Mizzle and straight at Trick.
The door slammed open. He felt Mizzle jump beside him and things went all to blur. She had hold of Lithia when it settled, had hold of her without a weapon in sight.
Filipe and Dalton both were appalled. Trick could not be less so, but soldiers blocked the door.
'Clear them out the way,’ he said. ‘We're going through, we've got nothing to do with this.'
They all stood frozen—Mizzle holding Lithia, Filipe and Dalton in front of her, Trick beside her, and Faustus sitting at the table. Soldiers in the doorway held still and people all round the tables and at the bar turned to watch.
'She will kill her,’ said Trick. His wish was for her not to.
Dalton waved his soldiers out of the way. Trick pulled Faustus up by his sleeve and slipped behind Mizzle with his sword out. Mizzle backed up, dragging Lithia who was yet to cry out or struggle but did insist on being dragged.
Faustus got his own sword out at Mizzle's side. Mizzle took a hand off Lithia and reached behind her.
Trick took hold of that presumptuous hand, having to both lead her and watch the people around them, too close at every table, staring as they took the Livanian heir hostage. Filipe and Dalton went step for step after them.
They could not fail to miss the significance of the blindfold, of Mizzle's reach for his hand.
They made the door.
He went out first backwards and found soldiers on every side, Dalton's personal guard with crossbows out.
'Back away,’ he said. ‘Don't startle a DarkElf or her hand will slip.'
Mizzle's hand stayed at Lithia's throat. It would kill as effectively as a sword would.
She went with Trick down the steps, Faustus ever with her, Lithia looking up at Filipe and Dalton. Filipe's fingers formed—calm—in the sign language of the Company and Trick did not appreciate the advice.
'Mouse,’ he shouted.
Please, Fortune, the soldiers had not thought to block off the horses. And Mouse came, leading the three horses, letting Bet bull through the ring of soldiers around them.
Trick stopped. Mizzle pressed against him. Lithia stared up at him. She had not been frightened by a DarkElf before. She was terrified now.
They came to an impasse, with loaded crossbows on every side and Mouse holding the horses’ reins out to him. They needed Lithia as shield but if they tried to ride away with her Filipe would have no choice but to let Dalton's men fire at them and the horses. He could not look at Lithia's wide green eyes and want to take her any further.
He looked at Mizzle. Behind the blindfold she was frowning. She had already been off-centre with the crowd and now she held Lithia around the waist and throat with trembling arms and a look about her mouth that did not bode well.
'Don't kill her, Mizzle,’ he said. ‘We have no chance if you do.'
He had not meant to be heard by anyone but Mizzle. Dalton said, ‘You have no chance anyway, boy.'
Filipe put a restraining hand to Dalton. ‘Trick,’ he said. ‘It's Trick, isn't it?'
Trick had watched him come down the steps after them, trying to remember his name. He didn't answer.
'She's blind,’ shouted Dalton to his soldiers. ‘She can't see the bolts coming, you fire at my command.'
Mizzle's head turned towards Dalton, tracking him by his angry spitting voice. She shoved Lithia away, Trick and Faustus both startled into catching at her, and whirled away. She snatched
a crossbow from the hands of the nearest soldier and shot Dalton through the heart.
All went still. Dalton toppled into the mud. Mizzle dropped her stolen crossbow to the ground and turned to the horses. Every sound was magnified in Trick's ears, the thud of the body hitting the ground, the clatter of the crossbow.
Other sounds flowed back in. Some of the soldiers had run to their fallen lord's side, while others still trained crossbows on Mizzle, bereft of orders and most likely scared of firing and missing. The crowd gathering to watch turned like the tide, pushing away in panic. Filipe stood on the steps looking down at the body. He had his hand to his forehead.
Mizzle took hold of Skye's reins. She brushed against Lithia.
'Let her go,’ she said. She had done what every instinct had told her to do, struck down the commanding officer. No regret touched her voice, as he had imagined with San. At least it hadn't been Lithia, frightened little girl.
Trick took Lithia's hand and pulled her away, sending her back towards Filipe.
Filipe took her hand. ‘Well done, Trick,’ he said in Bourchian. ‘You might as well have been working for Mikcul.'
Trick kept his back turned, boosting Mouse into the saddle. By Fortune he did not like to be named as Mikcul's helper. But Filipe was not impulsive. He would not be so angry as to order them killed, to make himself Mizzle's next target.
'Do you know that man?’ whispered Faustus.
Trick shook his head, which Faustus could take as a denial or a refusal to answer as he pleased. A horse galloped through then, hard breathing and foamed. A soldier flung himself off and staggered to Filipe.
'Where's Lord Dalton?’ he gasped. ‘Mikcul's coming.'
Filipe pressed the palms of his hands into his eyes briefly, frustration and fear. ‘We have to retreat.'
Mizzle nudged Trick.
He said, ‘Mikcul's marching here because Dalton raised an army he shouldn't have. We have to get out.’ It galled him to leave Filipe's plans in disarray and flee.
'Perhaps you can explain to Mikcul how you had the Empress's champion killed. He'll welcome you with open arms.’ Filipe was unhappy with him and not bothering to hide it. ‘Meanwhile Kitira's going to burn.'
'Your Empress cannot command Dalton's men?’ asked Mizzle. She and Faustus both had mounted. They waited on Trick.
Filipe dropped his arms to his side and stared up at her. ‘What?'
'The chain of command is clear,’ said Mizzle. She started Skye walking. Trick swung up behind Mouse and sent Bet after her and Faustus.
'Trick, wait,’ shouted Filipe. He couldn't, because Mizzle wouldn't.
He heard Filipe call for horses and shout other commands to initiate the retreat. He had enough authority to hold them in orderly retreat but not enough to command a traitorous advance against Emperor Mikcul. A few minutes later he and Lithia, riding the same horse, caught up with them. Soldiers flanked them. He doubted they would make the gate.
'So you don't hate Mikcul after all,’ called Filipe, speaking Livanian now.
'Come on, Filipe,’ said Trick, finally goaded into speaking. It was what Filipe wanted, to get him into conversation and drag him into this, but he couldn't hold his tongue. ‘You went up against Mikcul with only one province behind you? I think not.’ The other northern provinces at the very least had to be in with Filipe or he never would have let Dalton gather his men so conspicuously.
'You see any other province represented here?'
'What do you want, Filipe?'
Filipe looked past him significantly at Mizzle. Trick followed his gaze. ‘And what do you think she can do for you?'
'What she just did for you would be useful.'
He got it. ‘Assassinate Mikcul.'
Filipe was a conniving bastard who San said hadn't done a thing to stop the Cult when it took down the Company in Livania, but then, you never could second-guess Filipe. Now he set an idea in front of Trick, who could kill Mikcul if Mizzle couldn't?
Finally he shook his head.
'She won't help you. Take her advice and set Lithia at the head of your army to keep it yours.'
'Ask her,’ said Filipe, speaking Livanian so Mizzle wouldn't understand him.
'All very well to say, Filipe.'
'You travel with her,’ said Lithia. ‘She is surely your ally.'
That cut straight to the heart of the matter. The girl was a natural. ‘I am hers,’ he told her. ‘She's not mine.'
'What do you speak of?’ asked Mizzle then. It must make her edgy, to have him converse with recent enemies in a language she did not understand.
'It's not important,’ he told her. To forestall Filipe from any little manipulation, he asked, still in Bourchian, ‘Where'd you find her, Filipe?'
'She's the true heir,’ said Filipe. ‘Look at her hair.'
He had already noticed her hair, so pale as to be almost white, a family trait in the Imperial family. Mikcul sported hair as black as his own soul.
'Attention to detail.'
'I tell you,’ Filipe said, ‘she is the heir.'
Fortune. Trick's Livanian side tried to believe Filipe. ‘Where's she been since Mikcul took power? How'd she escape?'
'She's a second cousin of the old Emperor. Her parents sent her away when the accidents started.'
Accidents. Even Filipe had fallen into the habit of calling them that. All knew they had been murders, but none dared say it with Mikcul sitting the throne. Lithia's parents must have been paranoid and died anyway, and now their daughter challenged Mikcul and his Imperial army with a handful of provincial soldiers, an army that had been disbanded for three years and now stood lordless.
Oh, he could feel sorry for her and for Filipe and still not be moved to request assassination from a DarkElf standing on a precipice and fighting that side of herself.
'The Company hid her,’ said Filipe. His dark eyes were watching him intently. ‘After her guardians went the way of other loyalists.'
Trick's hands went tight on the reins. Mouse jumped and Bet jerked her head. The Cult was under Mikcul's control. Could their persecution of the Livanian arm of the Company be a coincidence?
Linnet had died for this girl.
Almost he went for his sword—to do what, he did not know.
Mizzle leant across to him, reaching out a hand blindly. Without eyes, could she sense the rage in him, DarkElvish in its black intensity?
Her touch quietened him. And he understood why Filipe risked telling him, knowing what had happened, receiving the lists of the dead all through Livania. Filipe had to think he would not let Linnet die for nothing by letting Lithia be taken by Mikcul now.
Filipe thought wrong. He spurred Bet forward, away from Filipe and Mizzle. A press of people stopped him before he reached the gate, and the others came up beside him.
Behind them marched footsoldiers led by mounted officers, following their own retreat north and leaving Kitira to Mikcul. The gate was clogged with townspeople who recognised the signs and were trying to get out. But more soldiers were trying to get into the town and nothing was moving.
'Coming in,’ said Filipe. His voice was bleak.
'Siege,’ said Mizzle. ‘Mikcul is too close.'
Filipe looked over his shoulder at Dalton's men, and turned forward again. ‘We have time to get out, with horses. Lithia has to get out.’ He kneed his horse forward through the deadlocked crowd.
Mizzle went with him, so they all did.
Filipe wrote off his Livanian allies with a single glance and a shrug. The Company's interest was in removing Mikcul and for that they needed Lithia above all else.
'Filipe,’ Trick said. ‘You'll never get another province to her banner if you leave Dalton's men to be slaughtered.'
'They can surrender,’ said Filipe, ‘which they couldn't do if Lithia was still in the town.'
'You know Mikcul will kill them either way. Give them something to fight for. Give the town someone to rally to.'
He did not know why he c
ouldn't just take the escape, except that he had been a soldier for a spell and could not stomach such a decision. And a part of him, that dark, edge-driven part, said that Lithia should stop running and face what others had taken the brunt of.
Mizzle said, ‘We go out.'
'Your mother taught you to be sensible, did she, Miz?’ he asked. It was a Livanian insult, allusion to the Bourchian practicality over bravery, and he did not expect her to know it. He knew Filipe did and hoped he blushed.
She said, ‘Among other things.'
The gates were swinging shut in front of them. ‘Hold the gates,’ shouted Filipe. Confusion reigned and the gates hung open.
Trick could hear Mikcul's army now, well-trained, well-paid, chanting the Imperial battle challenge and raising dust where Dalton's men had lately camped.
Their horses were almost to the gates when Lithia sat straighter. ‘No.'
'Hush, Lithia,’ said Filipe. ‘We're almost out.'
Most of their conversation had been in Bourchian. Lithia had not heard them desert Dalton's men. Now she could not hold any other conclusion while they raced the closing gates and left behind the footsoldiers.
'I won't leave these people to die for me,’ she said. ‘I can't do that.'
'You have to,’ said Filipe.
Filipe was used to being obeyed by Lithia, Trick saw that. Lithia had been under his protection for three years and more, since even before Mikcul had taken the throne, since the Imperial family had become accident-prone. The Company might be angling for more than just the unseating of Mikcul, if Filipe held such control of the heir.
And Lithia surprised him and Filipe. She slid off the horse, ducking under Filipe's arm, and ran back through the crowd.
'Damn Livanian idealism,’ said Filipe. He turned his horse around on a tight rein. Mizzle went forward, Faustus with her, pushing for the gate, trampling people she couldn't see.
Trick held where he was. He had wanted Lithia to stay in the bed he and Filipe had made for her. And Mizzle's mother had taught her to be sensible because she was not going to be shut into a town under siege.
'Trick,’ called Faustus, over his shoulder, not slowing.
Mouse stirred behind him. He had been so quiet Trick had almost forgotten him. He could not, at the last, lead a child into this when illusive safety was so close.