Beneath the Keep

by Erika Johansen

  “I heard about it, sir. Last week on leave. There’s a rumor making the rounds in the city: some old woman has prophesied the coming of the True Queen.” Kibb paused, almost shyly, then added, “They—the people—think it means the Princess.”

  “Christ,” Barty muttered. “All we need.”

  “Perhaps it will help, sir,” Coryn suggested. “If the common people think—”

  “It’s not the common people we have to worry about,” Barty growled. “Saviors are only useful to people who need saving. People who are fat and happy don’t want anyone meddling with the status quo.”

  “But, sir, don’t you think—”

  Elyssa listened to them bicker, only half hearing. True Queen. That was an old legend, much older than the Tearling; it went all the way back to pre-Crossing Anglia, to Arthur . . . the True King, the ruler who restored peace to the land and saved them all. No doubt someone had revived the old tale, to give people hope. They surely needed hope from somewhere; with a pulse of misgiving, Elyssa recalled what Lord March had said about the Crithe River, already drying up. Prolonged drought had brought down greater nations than the Tearling.

  The True Queen, she thought again . . . the idea not detached now, but threaded with longing. If only I could do that, be that for them! If only I really could save them all!

  Then she told herself to stop thinking like a child. She was well past nineteen, the Tear age of ascension, but her mother was not yet fifty, and healthy as a horse to boot. The Tear throne would be Elyssa’s one day, yes, but that day was as distant as dreams.

  At the door of her chamber Elyssa dismissed Niya and went inside, relieved to have a few minutes to herself. She fell on her bed, curling her hands beneath her pillow, meaning to nap, to gather her strength for the inevitable moment when her mother’s summons came. But she found she could not rest. She kept seeing Gareth’s mottled skin, the ragged red wounds where his fingernails had been. Elyssa admired the Blue Horizon, for they wanted the same things she had always wanted: everyone taken care of, and justice for the low as well as the great. William Tear’s dream had failed, but it still lived, and Elyssa wanted it for her kingdom, wanted it with all her heart.

  At times such as these, she missed Lady Glynn. Lady Glynn had a blessedly practical ability to get to the heart of the problem, and she had a knack for finding solutions in history books. Since her disappearance, there was no one for Elyssa to talk to about these things, about the broader vision she saw for her kingdom. Barty would listen, but his mind had too narrow a focus on Elyssa’s safety; he tended to dismiss all ideas, all courses of action, that would open her to greater danger. Her other guards were too young and, with the possible exception of Carroll, not serious-minded enough. Niya would listen; she always did. But she would not engage. Whatever Niya’s opinions of the future of the kingdom, she guarded them like a miser with his hoard. “I see it all the time,” Gareth had said, and Elyssa envied him. She wanted a better world too, but she could not envision it. After a few fruitless minutes spent trying to sleep, she got up and opened the door.

  Niya was still waiting in the hall, talking with Elyssa’s Guard. Niya was not required to wait; technically, after being dismissed, she was free to go to her own room down the hall. But she always waited. As Elyssa emerged into the hallway, the maid and guards stopped gossiping and stood at attention.

  “Highness?” Niya asked. “Did you need something?”

  “Where have they put that man? Gareth?”

  “In the infirmary, Highness.”

  “Come on.”

  The pack of guards followed them down the hall to the infirmary, a large room near the guard quarters. Elyssa had been quartered in there when she broke her leg riding, and Thomas had once been quarantined for pneumonia when he was little, but most of the time the room catered exclusively to the Queen’s Guard, and it showed. There was a pile of dirty laundry in the near corner. The far wall was clearly being used for overflow from the arms room; it was lined with fletches full of arrows, and several swords covered with nicks and scars leaned there, waiting for the armorer.

  “Highness.”

  Beale, her mother’s senior medic, bowed before her, and the other two followed. Coryn didn’t bow, but that was only because Elyssa had ordered her own guards not to.

  “How is he?”

  Beale shook his head, his mouth pinching in disapproval. He might be her mother’s man, but he was still a medic, and none of the medics cared much for Welwyn Culp’s work.

  “He has been badly beaten, Highness, and not just with fists. I have found two broken ribs. A broken arm. Three fingernails torn out. He has burn marks on his forearms, and both kneecaps are badly swollen. I have not yet determined whether any of his internal organs are seriously damaged. We will have to watch his digestion.”

  Elyssa moved up to the side of the bed, nudging in as Coryn made room for her. Seen up close, Gareth wasn’t so old as Elyssa had first thought; he might even have been close to her own age. He appeared to be sweating, though his face was so swollen that it was difficult to tell. Thinking of the wooden board, the manacles, Elyssa felt anger well inside her, not only for what went on in the dungeons but for all of it: her mother’s heavy-handed reign, her reliance on force. Elyssa placed a light hand on Gareth’s brow, then jumped as his eyes opened. They were light grey, and they seemed overly bright, almost feverish, as he stared up at her.

  “The True Queen,” he said weakly. “Are you her?”

  Elyssa stared down at his bruised face, thinking of her mother taking delicate sips of tea. Of Welwyn Culp’s watery eyes. Of well-fed nobles laughing in the throne room. Of the tenants facing starvation in the Almont. Last and most of all, of Lady Glynn’s histories: tales of good, but much more of evil, of humanity’s vast suffering, a suffering that could have been averted at so many turns if only there had been someone of true heart, of good intent. . . . If only that person had stepped forward at the right moment. . . .

  “Yes,” she replied. “I am.”

  Chapter 3

  TAPESTRY

  To call the Creche merely a series of tunnels is to call the wide world a simple sphere.

  —James Benedict, Lord Evans the Ninth

  Most visitors to Whore’s Alley gained entry via a set of stairs that led directly down into the Creche from the center of the Gut. These stairs had been specially built more than twenty years before by a loose confederation of bookmakers and pimps who had been smart enough to recognize the mutual interdependence of their wares. Win or lose, the culls wanted to fuck afterward, and the staircase had been a good investment.

  Christian had never needed to use the stairs. When he was seven, he had discovered a small opening at the east end of the Alley, a tunnel that ran steadily downhill all the way to the third level of the Creche. The tunnel was mercifully dry, but so low that now he was forced to crawl through on his hands and knees. An uncomfortable journey, but he was Lazarus, the best fighter in the Creche. He didn’t like having his comings and goings observed, and he had a vague idea that the fewer people who knew he visited Maura, the better. This particular tunnel had the added benefit of emerging just outside Mrs. Evans’s stables, close enough to provide him with some measure of privacy.

  The Alley was a broad tunnel, perhaps fifteen feet across, which bisected the southern section of the Creche. The tunnel’s walls were broken by many doorways, entrances to the various stables. As Christian passed the Sessions stable, he saw a jumble of letters painted in blue on the wall, and beneath them a crude drawing of a sun rising on the ocean. Like most denizens of the Creche, Christian had never learned to read, but he knew what the letters said: “The Better World.” The drawing of the sun was the calling card of the Blue Horizon, the revolutionary group. They would post themselves in the tunnels, babbling about the better world to anyone who would listen. Preaching in the Creche was a good way to get killed, but th
e Blue Horizon were nothing like the frocks from the Arvath; they came armed and armored, and they knew how to fight. Even the enforcers were no match for them. But Christian still didn’t understand what the fools were doing down here, preaching love, kindness, and, most laughably, an admonition to take care of each other. Whenever Christian saw the symbol of the Blue Horizon, or heard one of them blathering on about William Tear, he wanted to grab the whole bloody movement and shake them by the shoulders. Didn’t they know where they were?

  As he neared Mrs. Evans’s stable, a whore leaned out of one of the doors, leering at him. Christian ignored her. Several of the pimps in the Alley had already offered him free use of their girls; the great Lazarus would be a high-profile customer, and on some nights, when he couldn’t sleep and his cock stuck up like a steeple beneath his trousers, Christian could feel the great pull of such offers. But he distrusted sex almost as much as he did morphia, for he had already observed that both were dreadfully addictive. And as much as he didn’t—couldn’t—feel sorry for his opponents in the ring, he did have sympathy for the whores. They had all been shopped down here, none of them given a choice, and if the Creche was the lowest of vice districts, then it was also a tapestry, a vast weaving in which they were all joined by the tightest of threads. Christian fought because he must, but if he made use of the girls in the Alley, he would be no better than Wigan, or the dozens of hungry johns who swarmed the tunnels every night.

  Crofter was on the door today. He was a big, misshapen man, but he seemed to have a genuine concern for the girls in his care. He never bothered Maura for a free run, as some of the other enforcers did, and Christian had never caught him asleep at his post. All of Mrs. Evans’s enforcers knew about Christian’s friendship with Maura, but only Crofter seemed to understand that Christian intended no mischief with his visits. The rest were less flexible.

  “Go on, boy,” Crofter rumbled, his voice deep with phlegm. “She’s not engaged.”

  Christian darted past the front room and down the long hallway of private chambers. Not so private; the doorways here were covered only with flimsy sheets of brown wool, and Christian could hear the sounds of sex all around him, grunting and panting and an occasional high moan that made him shudder in revulsion.

  May I never sound such a fool.

  Maura’s chamber was the seventh on the left. Christian knocked on the wooden panel outside, feeling suddenly and absurdly guilty, as though he were a john himself, waiting eager and slobbering outside the door. The sickly-sweet smell of morphia made him wrinkle his nose. Several of the whores in Mrs. Evans’s stable were on the stuff, but Maura at least had the good sense to steer clear.

  “Come in!” Maura called, her voice not the seductive lisp she used with the johns, but a clear and friendly chirp.

  The bed was made, which was a mercy; Christian hated to come in and see the sheets disarranged. He turned to scan the rest of the room, and someone clapped a hand over his eyes.

  Christian’s reaction was both instantaneous and involuntary. He shoved backward, driving with his legs, and heard a crunch as something slammed into the set of shelves that held Maura’s clothing. He turned and found Maura, sprawled in a pile of clothes and shelving.

  “Ah God,” she moaned. “My head.”

  Christian scrambled to help her up. She should have known better than to sneak up behind him; they had discussed such things before.

  But you should learn to control yourself as well, his mind cautioned, and he felt suddenly ashamed. He had made his life in the fighting ring, but what good was that, if he could not leave his instincts behind when he needed to?

  “I’m sorry,” he said, pulling Maura to her feet. Only then did he see the tiny cake smashed on the floor beside her, a mess of sultanas and crumbs.

  “And a happy birthday to you, too,” Maura grumbled.

  “Birthday?” Christian asked, startled. He had forgotten.

  “If I’d known you planned to destroy your cake, I might have bought you a present instead.” She picked up a chunk of cake, then tossed it into the tiny basket beside the bed. “No, on second thought, I wouldn’t have.”

  “I’m sorry,” he repeated. It wasn’t his real birthday, of course—neither of them had the slightest idea of when they’d been born—but long before, Maura had picked two dates at random and deemed them birthdays. She insisted on celebrating, pretending that they were still family long after Wigan had sold her to the Alley. The year before she had made Christian a small raspberry scone, though God alone knew where she had gotten the raspberries; fresh fruit was as rare as sunlight down here.

  Christian had never gotten Maura any presents. It was a sore spot, but he didn’t have the money to buy her anything nice, and couldn’t imagine bringing her something cheap. He visited her as often as he thought was prudent and tried to bring her extra food whenever he could. This was vast altruism, at least by Creche lights, but each “birthday” stood as a stark reminder that it wasn’t enough.

  “Ah well, I’m not sure it was any good anyway,” Maura replied cheerfully, tossing the last of the cake into the basket. “Thing about birthday cake; you can’t taste it first and make sure it’s good.”

  “I’m sure it was good.”

  She straightened then, smiling, a tall girl of twenty-one who looked much younger. She was merely pretty, Christian supposed, but for her hair, long and blonde and ethereal, glowing almost white in the torchlight. He understood from Alley gossip—though he wished he did not—that Maura’s hair made her a very popular buy. Mrs. Evans certainly thought so, for she took scrupulous care of Maura’s hair, washing it often, buying the most expensive apothecary products to keep it straight and shining. Maura would have aged out of the Creche long ago, but for that hair and the fact that Mrs. Evans worked so hard to make her look young. Thank God Maura hadn’t shouted as she fell; the fact that it had been an accident would not weigh with Mrs. Evans. She would only see damage to an investment.

  “Well, then,” Maura said, “no cake, no presents, have a kiss instead. You’re twenty today.”

  She kissed him lightly on the cheek, and against his will, he smiled. The johns might have a lot more of Maura, but that kiss, small as it was, had been real. No one had paid her to do it.

  Maura turned back to the shelves, fitting them back into their grooves and picking up her fallen belongings. Christian sat down on the floor and began to fold the pile of clothing. This task was more difficult than it should have been; he had won on Saturday night, as he always did, but the opponent had gotten in one good blow that nearly dislocated his shoulder, and Christian’s arm hadn’t felt right since.

  “Is your head all right?” he asked her.

  “I’ll live. How’s the ring?”

  “Same as ever.” He handed her a neatly folded dress.

  “I heard you won again on Saturday.”

  “I always win,” Christian replied flatly. He didn’t want to talk about the fights, not here. But neither of them was eager to discuss Maura’s work.

  “Do you ever think about topside?” Maura asked abruptly.

  “No,” Christian replied, bewildered. “Why would I?”

  “Well, there are always stories, you know. Girls and boys who escaped the cribs and made something of themselves in the upper world. Probably lies, but I always liked those stories as a baby. Old Marie used to know a few of them.”

  Christian didn’t know who old Marie was, but he didn’t ask. The tone of Maura’s voice told him that the answer would only depress them both. The turn of the conversation was making Christian uneasy, giving him the feeling that something had jolted out of place. When he was young enough to daydream, he had thought often of topside, even hatching elaborate plans in which he and Maura would escape to the surface and live together, well fed and content. Those daydreams had been his original impetus to explore the vast labyrinth of the Creche, to map it i
n his head. But getting out of the tunnels was far more than a matter of geography. Maura was a crib baby. Last weekend, Christian had opened a man’s carotid and watched him bleed to death. He still believed in topside, yes . . . but what place could either of them have there?

  “What’s all this about topside?” he asked, more roughly than he meant to. “What’s happened?”

  “Nothing,” Maura said, with a casual air that did not quite deceive him.

  “Not nothing. Tell me.”

  “Well, I’ve been requested.”

  Christian absorbed this information quietly. Requested . . . it meant that Maura had been summoned for delivery, to service a client not down here in the Creche but topside, in the city. Every pigeon in the Creche aspired to be requested, for it meant not only a paid journey to the upper world but also the possibility of an arrangement with a client, one rich enough to import from the Creche. If Maura caught herself a rich client, she could expect all manner of better treatment from everyone in the stable, Mrs. Evans on down. Christian knew that being requested was a good thing for her, an important thing . . . and yet his stomach felt like lead.

  “Congratulations,” he said dully. “When?”

  “Tonight. I’ll have to start getting ready in a few minutes, so you’d better help me clean up this mess.”

  Christian could think of nothing further to say. He bent to grab another dress, then hissed as something deep in the pile of clothing jabbed his palm.

  “Christ!”

  “Are you all right?” But Maura’s question was perfunctory. She was already grabbing the clothing away from him, her blonde hair falling in a sheaf to hide her face.

  “I’m fine. What was that?”

  Maura did not answer, only turned away from him to dump the pile of clothing on the bed, and so Christian, who had always been one to know things without being told, understood that he had grabbed a syringe.