The Blue Horizon has given you your life.
Christian looked up, seeing anew the slaughter in the large room beyond the doors. Dead men lay everywhere, and the entire chamber had been painted in blood. Looking down, Christian found that he still had his mace raised in one fist; he had forgotten about it, ceased to feel it, as though it were just an extension of his hand. Arliss had given him the mace, and he had said something else too.
Do not waste it.
Turning, Christian looked back at the group of tiny children huddled around Maura, their hands clutching her skirts. Several of them were crying.
I only did half the job, Christian realized. He had gotten revenge for the children, but revenge would not help them now. They needed care . . . not Maura’s twisted-spoon, morphia-drenched variety but care, the sort that no child in the Creche ever got. This business had been Christian’s private war, and he had truly thought that he could keep it secret. But he saw now that he could not. He blinked, slowly and wearily, then lowered the mace.
“Keep them here,” he told Maura. “Don’t let them go into the other room; they shouldn’t see it. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
Maura nodded. Her eyes flicked left, toward the small plume of smoke that rose from the crucible, and in that moment Christian came within an inch of ending her life. He closed his eyes, opened them again, breathing slowly.
“Stay off the poppy,” he told Maura. “Try to remember who you once were. You can do what you like as soon as we get the children out of here, but until they’re safe, you keep a clear head. Do you understand me?”
Maura nodded again, swallowing. With a last glance at the group of huddled children, Christian turned and strode out of the room.
The way down was much faster than the way up, perhaps because Christian knew where he was going now. He climbed down the ladder, lit his candle, and headed back toward the staircase. It seemed very important not to think about Maura, and so he would not allow himself to. The children in the room, they were what mattered . . . and in that moment Christian felt the small boy on the auction block fall away forever, all loyalty to the past disappearing in smoke. He and Maura had been children, yes, but Christian suddenly understood, in a way he never had before, that the world was full of children.
We were not special, he thought, feeling a sting in the corners of his eyes. We were only two threads in the tapestry.
He reached the ninth floor, the tunnels that backed the Queen’s Wing, and shambled through them, nearly breaking his leg in his haste. When he reached the hidden door that accessed the guard quarters, he opened it and found Coryn, Dyer, Elston, and Kibb. All four were off duty, sitting down at poker, and they stared at him in silence, taking in his red-spattered appearance with wide eyes.
“Help me,” Christian pleaded, holding out his hands in a bloody appeal. He had meant to keep his life, his true life, separate from these topside men. He had meant to keep himself apart, but the children upstairs outweighed pride, solitude . . . even contempt.
“I need help,” Christian repeated.
The four guards stared at him for another long moment, then put down their cards.
Chapter 28
THE LESSON OF LADY GLYNN
The Almont rebellion might have died quickly, but serendipity saved it. The Blue Horizon had already made significant inroads in the Almont, and volunteers sprung up in every village. The rebels took castles in good proximity to the Mort Road, and as they headed west, toward New London, more and more nobles began to withdraw before them, pulling their retainers and taking flight for city residences. These nobles left behind significant provisions, which sustained the rebels through the worst months of winter, allowing them to survive the starvation that plagued the rest of the Almont. But Aislinn Martin was not content with survival; she wanted equality and redress. Thus did rebellion roll steadily onward, toward revolution.
—Out of Famine: The Almont Uprising, Alla Benedict
Have you thought of what you will say?” the Fetch asked.
“Say?” Aislinn returned absently. She was looking over an inventory of Lord Marshall’s stores, but it was a painstaking process; she was not a good reader. They had taken the Marshall manse more than a week before, but there were not enough hours in the day to sort everything out. Lord Marshall’s stores were significantly depleted; he had been far less stingy with his tenants than had Lady Andrews. Aislinn felt a brief pang of regret; if she had only known, she might have let Marshall go. But it was too late now, for his head was already on its way to the Keep. Marshall’s hoarded supplies would barely be enough to see Aislinn’s people to New London; they would have to keep a tight belt. The Fetch’s voice broke in again, annoying her.
“Have you thought of what happens when you stand before Elyssa, alone, without your people behind you?”
“I will demand justice.”
“And what does justice look like?” he asked. “Distribution of the stores?”
“That, certainly. But the Crown’s food will only hold us for a single winter. We need something more sustainable. We need land. Land of our very own, with no quotas or bailiffs. Our work should belong to us.”
The Fetch laughed, and Aislinn looked up at him, annoyed. She was the leader here, the Fetch but a guest, but one would never know it from his attitude. His mask, a dreadful mixture of harlequin and devil, no longer frightened her, but it still seemed to mock.
“The Blue Horizon has been agitating for the same thing since before you were born,” he told her. “We’ve gotten nowhere. The power of coin is too strong.”
“You don’t have enough people.”
“You are very young, Aislinn. You see only your half of things, how wonderful it would be to own what you farm. Have you ever heard of a noblewoman named Lady Glynn?”
Aislinn thought for a moment. The name was distantly familiar, but she could not put her finger on it. She shook her head.
“She was Queen Arla’s closest friend. A lifelong friend, so trusted that Arla even brought her in to tutor Elyssa when she was young. But Lady Glynn was no noble. She was one of us.”
“Blue Horizon?”
“Yes. And though I cautioned her that we must work gradually, she would not wait. She did what you propose. Five years ago, she freed all her tenants, forgave all their debt, and then took the final, unforgivable step of divvying up her family acres among them. She dismantled her own seat.”
“A brave woman,” Aislinn remarked, though she sensed where this story was heading. “And then?”
“Queen Arla was so furious at Lady Glynn that she stripped her of her title and threw her out of court. The lady hasn’t been seen since. Lady Glynn’s neighbors took it as a clear signal that the Queen would not protect her allotment of the land, and so they rode in to take it back. The tenants could have fled, but they fought. In the end, all of them were slaughtered.”
“How many tenants?”
“Two hundred and ninety-eight souls.”
“Well, there you are! We have nearly five thousand now, and more coming in every day.”
“Numbers are not as important as you think they are, Aislinn. This kingdom has a vested interest in the tenancy system. Too many of the powerful profit from it, from the meanest lord all the way up to Elyssa herself. They cannot let it fail.”
“I thought Elyssa was your True Queen,” Aislinn replied acidly. “The one who saves us all.”
The Fetch was silent for a long moment.
“We were mistaken,” he said finally. “Elyssa has changed, become a greater tyrant than her mother ever was, and a viper sits on her shoulder. They will not be swayed by kindness and light.”
“I’m not a simpleton!” Aislinn snapped. “I know she won’t bend willingly.”
“Then what is the leverage to make her bend?”
Look at us! Aislinn wanted to shout at him
. Look how many people we have! But she didn’t, for his question had disturbed her. What would she really do if Elyssa said no . . . if she refused to open the storehouses, let alone redistribute the land? Aislinn knew nothing of what moved such people. She would not know how to wheedle the Princess Regent, or even what more to say.
“Do you counsel me to retreat, then?” she asked. “Tuck tail and run back into the deep Almont, where there’s no water and even less food?”
“Of course not. I do not counsel anything, for this is your rebellion. But if you are set on going to New London, you should go with your eyes open. You are true of heart, but heart will not win the Keep.”
“Why not?”
The Fetch paused, clearly surprised by the question. But he did not dismiss it, or answer with one of those smooth witticisms that irritated Aislinn no end.
“There is no ultimate hope in revolution, Aislinn. The power of money is too great. And even in the handful of historical moments when a revolution initially succeeded, the revolutionaries invariably cannibalized their great achievement by turning into what they had once despised.”
For a moment Aislinn could not reply, for his words had hit their mark, making her feel cold and hopeless. Then she thought of the full castle around her, and rallied. Their cause was different, for they were neither greedy nor corrupt. They wanted only what was just and right: each man owning his own land, his own efforts.
“I would have expected the leader of the Blue Horizon to be less of a cynic.”
“Who says I’m the leader of the Blue Horizon?”
Aislinn stared at him. “But you are! All the stories . . .”
“Ah yes, stories. Always true.” The derision in his voice made her flush. “As a matter of fact, I am not the leader of the Blue Horizon. Our leader is dead.”
Aislinn blinked. “Why do you tell me this?”
“Because I want you to understand just how ruthless this new Elyssa Raleigh can be. Not so long ago, our leader was her lover, perhaps even her beloved. But when the time came, that did not prevent her from cutting his throat.”
“I never heard of any such—”
“You did not, and you will not. This is one of the most tightly guarded secrets in Elyssa’s Keep.”
“Then how do you know it?”
“Because I can walk through walls.”
She stared at him, unsure whether he was joking. She had heard the rumors about the Fetch, as they all had: that he was a magician, able to vanish from New London and reappear in the Almont, able to slip free of a noose around his neck. In the few months Aislinn had known him, she had never seen the Fetch do any magic, but he was not wholly ordinary either. The entire kingdom knew that he had burned to death in the Gadds Fire that had decimated a large section of New London, but here he sat. And Aislinn could not deny that there was something odd about him, an impression that he came of another world . . . or perhaps another time. The Fetch was not moved by the events of each new day. If rebellion was a game to him—and Aislinn often thought it was—then it was a very long game indeed.
“We must go to the city,” she told him. “That’s where the food is.”
“Indeed you must. But do not think to find a warm welcome there.”
“The city folk are starving. Surely they will welcome us.”
“Likely they will. Can your people live on welcome?”
Aislinn scowled. No matter what argument she made, the devil always had an answer. She thought again of the castle around her, the people who had followed her from the deep Almont. Together, they had walked nearly a hundred miles and taken three castles. They had lost only sixty-seven people, and gained thousands more. How could they possibly stop?
“Sir.”
The Fetch looked up, Aislinn over her shoulder. It was one of his companions, the wide one called Morgan.
“What is it?”
“Word from New London. A massacre beneath one of the Crown storehouses. More than forty people are dead, and some two hundred have lost—”
Morgan stopped and swallowed.
“What?”
“Hands, sir. The Princess Regent’s orders, for thievery. She cut off their hands.”
The Fetch turned back to Aislinn.
“You are determined in this?” he asked her, his voice weary. “You are utterly certain?”
Aislinn shot a glance at Liam, who sat silent to her left. He rarely offered his opinion, and never in the company of others, but if there was ever a time for him to gainsay her, it was now. But Liam said nothing, and Aislinn turned back to the Fetch.
“We will have the food, the land. We have earned it.”
“Then we must help you, for we are the Blue Horizon.” The Fetch smiled, but his eyes were sorrowful. “We take care of each other. We will gather our people and meet you before the New London Bridge.”
Aislinn stood as well, and shook his hand. She did not like him, nor the fool’s talk of his movement. But she had just added the entire Blue Horizon to the force she would bring before the Keep. They now had the numbers, if not the steel, to challenge the Tear army itself, and what was more, they had right on their side.
We can’t lose, she thought.
Chapter 29
PROPHECY
Where did the Creche children come from? Some were unwanted, some runaways, some bastards sold outright. A few Creche nests even maintained breeding programs—for newborns themselves fetched a good price from childless nobility desperate for heirs—and the remaindered children were often sold back into the maelstrom. One way or another, the tunnels got the fodder they needed, and so the Creche continued from generation to generation, the Tear’s great unexpiated sin.
—Valor and Vice: The Troubled Reign of Amanda Raleigh, Emma Meadows
Thorne strode swiftly down the corridor, his feet rapping on the stone. His face was as immobile as ever, hiding his fury as a high hedge might conceal a house, but beneath his stoic’s expression, a tempest raged. It was not enough that the rebels had defeated and humiliated two battalions of the Tear army. It was not even enough that they had now taken three castles and burned two more. The note in Thorne’s hand had been delivered by a disheveled army major, beaten and starved, who claimed that the rebels had released him with orders to deliver it. Thorne had ordered the man thrown into the dungeons, but that had not assuaged his anger. The note was written in straggling, imperfect letters; only two sentences, but its meaning was plain.
We are coming to New London. We want the food.
The note was signed with an indecipherable scrawl, but the first letter was a large and decisive A. Thorne knew that signature by now—this was not the first such note he’d received—but this time, there had been a gift as well: Lord Marshall’s severed head, stuffed without ceremony into a picnic hamper. Deep in his mind, Thorne showered Aislinn Martin with every curse he knew.
He rapped on the Queen’s door, and Galen answered, giving him a long, cool look.
“The Queen is sleeping, Thorne.”
“I only want to speak to Brenna,” Thorne pleaded, swallowing his rage and making his voice as meek as possible. “I will be as quiet as a mouse.”
Galen let him in, wrinkling his nose as Thorne went past. They hated him, the Guard, and they thought that such small gestures allowed them to keep their dignity. They thought that Thorne would care about being outcast . . . as though he had ever been anything else.
Still, he counted himself thankful that it was not Lazarus on the Queen’s door today. The two of them seemed to have made a tacit arrangement not to speak of each other’s origins, and that was just fine with Thorne, but it was not enough to allay his anxiety. Lazarus had been one of the most feared figures in the Creche, but that onetime brawling boy had now grown into something even more dangerous: the Mace, who had somehow found the Devil’s Club and slaughtered nine nobles
, four of them longtime clients of Thorne’s. The entire kingdom was in uproar over the missing nobles, but neither the army nor the Caden had found any trace of them. Thorne could not reveal the Mace as a murderer, for to show anyone the hidden rooms would be to reveal Thorne’s own complicity. And Thorne could not have done so anyway, for when he had made his own excursion to the eleventh floor, he had found the hidden entrance bricked and mortared.
Brenna had found the children easily, down on the lower floors of the castle, in the care of three masseuses who were barely more than whores. Thorne had no need to kill the children; none of his purchases had ever seen his face nor heard his voice. But the loss of the nobles was a blow, for he had been counting on their support. The Mace and the Guard, all of them had done this to him. Now he would have to start all over again, and he would have to be careful . . . so damnably careful. The Mace was always watching, and that should not have troubled a man like Thorne, who operated most comfortably in the dark.
But the Mace did not sleep.
Brenna was kneeling at the Queen’s bedside. Above her, Elston loomed, watching her every move, but Brenna did not touch the Queen, only stared at her. Her face was frozen in an expression of utter concentration, but Thorne knew this was only for effect; Brenna could perform this particular trick in her sleep. He could feel the power in the room, a low line of voltage running between Brenna and the Queen, and thought it strange that the Guard could not.
“Five minutes only, Thorne,” Galen told him. “Then you will have to—”
Galen stopped suddenly, his mouth rounding. Thorne watched with interest as both guards’ faces slackened, becoming weak and malleable. Much of Thorne’s early coin, the basis of the small fortune that he had now amassed, had come from people who were willing to pay heavy for even an hour of the forgetfulness that Brenna could provide. Thorne himself was no dealer, but he had had plenty of truck with narcotics in his time; every pimp did, and seeing Brenna at work never failed to rouse an odd wish that he could somehow capture her talent, sell it in dose. With enough bottles, Thorne could rule the kingdom from an armchair, and he wouldn’t need Elyssa or any of her feckless people to do it.
Beneath the Keep Page 30