Beneath the Keep

by Erika Johansen

  With some reluctance—Niya could see that reluctance, though she wasn’t sure anyone else in the room would have been able to—the dark-haired man released Elston. He held his hands up, a gesture of harmlessness, then retreated across the practice floor and waited.

  “Bloody hell,” Mhurn muttered at the far edge of the floor.

  “Carroll!” Givens called; he had moved up to stand beside old Vincent. “Over here now! And you, the new lad—Mace, is it?—you come too!”

  Mace went, following Carroll. Several of the other guards moved in to help Elston up; Elston shot Mace a look of pure venom that would have petrified another man, but Mace seemed not even to mark it.

  “Nerves of steel,” Elyssa remarked quietly, and Barty grunted agreement.

  “I am Captain Givens,” Givens told Mace. “Head of the Queen’s Guard. Who are you? Where are you from?”

  “My name is Mace Wyler, sir. I’m of the Almont.”

  “No shame in that, lad,” old Vincent muttered, inspecting Mace with a gleam in his eye. “Plenty of farm boys here; Kibby and Mhurn—”

  “Where are you from?” Givens demanded again.

  “The northern plain, sir,” Mace replied. “A village called Grey’s Close.”

  “Barty?” Givens called.

  “Aye, I know Grey’s Close,” Barty replied, stepping forward. “Who’s your lord?”

  “Lord Wells, sir.”

  “And what do you grow?”

  “Cattle, sir. Forty-two head on my family’s acreage.”

  Barty nodded to Givens, but the Captain clearly wasn’t convinced.

  “Carroll! Where did you find this man?”

  Carroll began to answer, but Mace cut him off.

  “I came to New London to try my hand at boxing, sir. Carroll saw me in an amateur bout in the Gut.”

  He’s lying, Niya thought, and for the first time all day, the problem of Arlen Thorne retreated a bit from her mind. He was a very good liar, this Mace, and Niya wasn’t sure that anyone not trained by the Fetch would be able to see it, but she knew instinctively.

  “Is this true, Carroll?” Givens demanded.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You’ve no taste for blood sports, boy. What were you doing in the Gut?”

  “I went there on my last day off. I’ve—” Carroll’s voice faltered, and he looked a little shamefaced. “I’ve met a girl.”

  Barty snorted. The rest of the guards snickered, and Dyer rubbed Carroll’s head gleefully before Carroll batted him away. But Niya didn’t laugh. She was watching Mace, trying to push past the layers of deception she sensed here . . . not only from Mace himself but from Carroll as well. They were telling a lie, and telling it together.

  Is he a spy? she wondered. An assassin?

  She turned to Elyssa, to see what the Princess made of the new man, but Elyssa was looking at the ceiling, her eyes glazed, as though she were bored.

  “I want him,” old Vincent announced abruptly.

  “What for?” Givens demanded. “He may be a decent enough boxer . . . though what we’ve seen here was closer to wrestling. But his swordcraft is atrocious.”

  “Swordcraft is easy. Footwork isn’t,” old Vincent replied. “You can’t teach reflex. I’ve spent my life training fighters, and believe me, this is good material. I can teach him to wield a sword.”

  “Well, I don’t want him on the Queen’s detail. Barty would have to be willing to take him.”

  They both turned and looked at Barty, who stood silent for a minute.

  “Why are you here, lad?” he finally asked Mace. “Why do you want to be a Queen’s Guard?”

  Niya turned to the newcomer and saw an interesting thing: he was warring with himself. There was something he was meant to say, but he did not want to say it. After a long moment, he shrugged and replied, with an odd dignity, “I’m not sure I do, sir. But I’m tired of fighting for no reason. If I raise my hand to another man again, I would like to have some purpose behind it.”

  Some truth there, Niya thought. Barty considered Mace for another long moment, then said, “I’ll take him. But he’s your responsibility, Carroll. You teach him the ropes and rules.”

  Carroll nodded, flashing a brief smile at Mace. Mace didn’t smile back.

  “But he’d damned well better learn quick with that sword,” Barty muttered. “You, Mace! Come on over here!”

  The hulking man approached, and as he did so, Niya finally got a good look at his eyes: deep and dark, without warmth, the eyes of a wounded animal. As he moved to stand before Elyssa, Niya tensed, her fingertips resting lightly on the handle of the dagger in her pocket.

  “Your Highness,” Mace said, without inflection. At Elyssa’s nod, he knelt before her, though he was clearly uncomfortable in doing so. No courtier, this one. Elyssa smiled, but again Niya was struck by how ill she looked, her skin pale and clammy, her eyes circled dark. She wondered whether the Princess had caught something, whether she should drop a word to the medics, have them look Elyssa over. But Elyssa’s smile, though tired, was genuine enough.

  “Are you true, Mace Wyler?” she asked the kneeling man.

  “I am, Your Highness.”

  “And do you swear to guard me against all danger, though it may cost you your own life?”

  “I do, Your Highness.”

  “Then kneel no longer. Welcome to my Guard.”

  Elyssa extended a hand, and Niya, who had seen this ceremony four times already since coming to the Keep, found herself inexplicably moved by the bewilderment on Mace’s face. He eyed Elyssa’s hand as one would a new and possibly dangerous creature. After a long moment, he allowed Elyssa to pull him to his feet, and the rest of the Guard gave a cheer . . . even Elston, whose neck had already broken out in deep purple bruising.

  “Come, boy,” Barty said. “Carroll will get you to the armorer. Highness? Your orders?”

  “Where is my mother today?” Elyssa asked.

  “Downstairs, Highness. In the private throne room.”

  “We’ll go down there.”

  Elyssa preceded them all to the door, Niya following a step behind. She kept her eyes on Elyssa’s back, but she was acutely conscious of the tall man behind her. He had the size and strength for farming, certainly, but the muscles were all wrong, concentrated not in his arms and hands but in his shoulders and chest. And although his hands were covered with scars, as most tenants’ were by the time they reached adulthood, the scars were wrong too, stretched and distended. Farmers took their wounds from harrows and scythes, tools only wielded in early adolescence or later. Mace’s scars had been inflicted in childhood.

  Not a farmer, Niya thought. But what?

  They emerged into the great chamber to an unpleasant sight: the white witch, Brenna, dealing her damnable tarot cards at the dining table. The entire Guard gave a collective shiver of dislike, and the puzzle that had briefly left Niya’s mind now returned with a vengeance. What was the witch doing here?

  Elyssa passed the seer without a glance, but the new man, Mace, came to an abrupt halt just past the threshold, breath hissing inward as he saw her. At the sound, Brenna looked up, her mouth stretching in a ghastly smile . . . but the smile went jagged as she saw Mace. She shot up from the table, snarling, and the tarot deck convulsed in her fingers, spraying cards all over the table and floor.

  “The Seven of Swords,” she snarled, never taking her eyes from Mace. “The reaper of death. But I have never seen—”

  “Don’t let her bother you, lad,” Barty broke in, and the forced jocularity in his tone made Niya wince. “I know she looks like the ass end of hell, but she’s just one of the Queen’s frauds.”

  “I see,” Mace replied, his eyes never leaving the witch. Niya sensed something curious passing between the two of them . . . recognition? Memory? The guards feared Brenna—were
right to fear her, Niya thought—but Mace didn’t. The witch clearly knew it and wanted no part of him, for she gathered her tarot cards into an untidy stack and hurried down the hallway, muttering to herself.

  “Well, Brenna doesn’t like you,” Dyer remarked, clapping Mace on the shoulder. “That’s good enough for me.”

  The Guard chuckled, but Niya saw Mace withdraw, almost flinching away from Dyer’s hand on his shoulder. Dyer must have sensed it as well, for he left off, his friendly face puzzled. Niya checked her watch again and found that it was nearly five.

  “Highness,” she whispered to Elyssa, as though in sudden distress. “I feel unwell. May I return to my room?”

  “Of course!” Elyssa said, looking concerned. Well she might be; Niya was never ill. “Do you need a medic, or—”

  “No; just to lie down. A brief nap, and I’m sure I’ll feel fine. I will begin work on the matter of your mother’s dress.”

  “All right,” Elyssa replied, her face still troubled. “Let Fina know if you need anything.”

  “I should be fine to dress you for dinner.”

  “Fina can dress me. You’re relieved. Go and sleep.”

  Niya smiled. Elyssa always behaved so to servants, with a kindness unheard of in the noble class, and no matter how many times Niya saw it, she was always moved. She bowed, then retreated, heading back down the corridor, checking her watch again. Five minutes to five, all the time they needed. She only regretted that Gareth could not be with them—but this thought, too, brought up a thread of disquiet. Where was Gareth? The story of his flight from the Keep was now a favorite; the singers were even making ballads of it down in the Gut. Gareth went where he would, and often disappeared for long periods of time. But six full weeks had now passed since he had left the Keep. He had never been away so long before. Even the Fetch was worried.

  Never mind, Niya thought. He’ll show up.

  She darted into her chamber, changing into a red dress utterly unlike her usual wardrobe, and donned a long cloak she had chosen specially, one with a hood so full that it draped low over her face. She pinned her hair up, then tucked a rag in her pocket. At two minutes to five, she stood before the Prince’s door. With a quick glance up and down the empty hallway, she put on her mask, tucked a few rebellious strands of hair inside the nape, and knocked.

  “Come!” Thomas called.

  Niya entered the room. She had mentally prepared herself for whatever she might find there—had been preparing for days, in truth—but still she had to restrain a gasp when she saw the girl, Mary, lying naked on the bed, her hands and feet bound to the four posters. The servants said that the Prince had simply purchased the girl, like a calf at market, from a family with too little income and too many mouths, and that the Queen herself had countenanced the arrangement. But it was one thing to hear tell, another to see.

  She’s so young, Niya thought, staring at the child. The girl did not even twitch under her scrutiny, only stared at the ceiling, her eyes dull and lost. Niya wondered whether she was drugged.

  “Ah, just on time!” Thomas announced, turning away from his desk. He had been reading, Niya saw with some surprise . . . and then she realized that the document spread out before him was hand-printed foolscrap; one of the scandal sheets that circulated New London like a plague. As he approached, Thomas gave her figure an appreciative once-over, and Niya fought to keep still. Glancing at her watch again, she saw that it was one minute to five. She pulled the door closed behind her, her thumb softly sliding the deadbolt home.

  “Well, pretty, take off the cloak. Show us the goods.”

  Niya nodded, curtsying, and opened her cloak. Behind Thomas, a crack appeared in the stone wall. Niya glanced again at the girl on the bed, willing her to keep quiet. But Mary didn’t even seem to notice the widening crack, the door that was slowly opening beside the hearth.

  “Oh, don’t worry about her,” Thomas said, misreading Niya’s glance. “She’s only a girl I bought in the filthiest part of the Gut . . . not quality at all. But you—”

  He reached out, clearly meaning to put a hand on her shoulder, but Niya could not allow it. She grabbed the hand before it reached its destination, twisting it mercilessly, whipping Thomas around and shoving his elbow up his back. At the same time she pulled the rag from her pocket and jammed it into the Prince’s mouth. A gasping, heaving sound came from him . . . but no real noise.

  The Fetch came through the hidden door. He surveyed the bed in one glance, shook his head, and then turned to Amelia, who stood behind him. Amelia was the only one of them not wearing a mask; Niya kept a hard pressure on the Prince’s elbow, so that he could not turn around and see her face.

  “Cut her loose and get her dressed,” the Fetch told Amelia.

  Amelia bent over the bed, murmuring to the girl in a soothing voice. She pulled a knife and began cutting her bonds, and the Fetch turned his attention to Thomas.

  “Well, well, Highness, this is a treat. I’ve heard so much about you.”

  Thomas hauled in another deep, gasping breath through the cloth, his eyes huge with fright. Niya had seen the Fetch’s mask so often that she had grown inured, but it never failed to frighten the new marks.

  “I’m sure you can explain yourself,” the Fetch went on, pulling off his leather gloves. “I’m sure you can tell us how Mummy never loved you, how abandoned you felt, how the grief was so great that all women everywhere owe you recompense. Did I leave anything out?”

  Thomas shook his head frantically . . . not in agreement but in panic. Behind him, Amelia had cut Mary free and was helping her totter to the wardrobe. Even from here, Niya could see the marks on Mary’s wrists, the deep red welts on her ankles. The Blue Horizon had always meant to deal with Thomas at some point, but the purchase of the girl had forced their hand. At a signal from the Fetch, Niya shoved the Prince into a chair, with far more force than was necessary.

  “Thing is,” the Fetch continued, perching himself on Thomas’s desk, “I don’t really care about why. There is no excuse for men like you, Thomas. There never will be.”

  “No!” Mary wept in the corner. “Don’t touch me!”

  “I won’t touch you,” Amelia returned calmly. She was the best of them for situations like this, a former pro who had seen it all before. It was Amelia’s contacts in the Gut that had allowed them to intercept the girl Thomas had requested. “You can dress yourself, child. Here.”

  “Now, I could kill you,” the Fetch continued quietly, just as mindful as Niya of the dicey situation in the corner. “I would enjoy it enormously.”

  Thomas murmured inarticulately against the rag. Tears had begun to leak from the corners of his eyes.

  “But we are Blue Horizon. We mean to do better, and your death would serve nothing, for there are thousands more of you out there. I think it far more useful to let you live, to serve as a warning. What do you think?”

  Thomas nodded frantically.

  “Is she ready?” the Fetch asked.

  “Just about,” Amelia said, fastening the last of Mary’s buttons. That done, Amelia selected a wool cloak from several that hung in the wardrobe and draped it around the girl’s shoulders. The cloak was far too hot for this weather, but the tunnels were never warm, not at any time of year.

  “Ready,” Amelia said.

  “Go,” the Fetch replied, never taking his eyes from Thomas. “Take care of her.”

  Amelia nodded, then ushered Mary through the open door, murmuring in her ear. Mary did not look back. As the latch clicked, Niya moved up to stand beside the Fetch, both of them staring down at the gagged prince who sat in the chair.

  “And now, Highness,” the Fetch remarked, “you have our full attention.”

  Chapter 20

  LOST GIRL

  Second Witch: By the pricking of my thumbs,

  Something wicked this way comes.

&nbs
p; Open, locks,

  Whoever knocks!

  Macbeth: How now, you secret, black and midnight hags?

  What is’t you do?

  All: A deed without a name.

  —Macbeth, William Shakespeare (pre-Crossing Angl.)

  The sapphire was hurting her. It burned the skin between her breasts like a brand.

  Elyssa took the jewel in her hand, but that was no good; it burned her palm as well. She was forced to drop it. Her legs were tangled in the bedsheets; she kicked them off and rolled over, revealing a wet patch on the sheets. She had not slept in four days. Nothing seemed real anymore. Her limbs felt heavy and helpless. Moving through court was like swimming in sand, and the nights were even worse.

  Take it off.

  “No,” she whispered.

  The sapphire throbbed hotter, demanding it.

  “Leave me alone!” Elyssa begged, close to weeping. But the sapphire seared her flesh.

  Take it off. It belongs to me.

  “Fuck you!” Elyssa hissed. “I won’t!”

  She rolled again, leaving a new patch of sweat on the silken sheets. She tried pushing herself up, letting the chain dangle away from her breasts, the sapphire resting on the pillow. But that was no help. The burning was not physical.

  A rasping noise came from the corner, and now Elyssa did weep, not bothering to muffle the sounds. Two guards stood outside the door, she knew, but they might as well have been on the far side of the Dry Lands. No one could help her inside this room.

  What did she do to me? Elyssa wondered, for perhaps the thousandth time. What in God’s name did she do?

  She could not remember. She remembered entering the witch’s chamber, sitting down on the low chair that the witch had offered in silence. The witch had sat down as well, and then—

  Then, nothing, only the dreamlike blend of the last days: wandering the Queen’s Wing as though compelled, though she did not know what she was searching for, the sapphire growing heavier and heavier against her heart.