“I was visiting the house of a retired captain who was an ally of my father’s,” Archer said. “By the name of Hart. A rich man, and a great friend to the crown. His young wife sent the invitation. Hart himself was not home.”
Fire rubbed her temples harder. “You do Brocker’s ally great honor,” she said dryly.
“Well, but listen to this. She’s quite a drinker, Hart’s wife, and do you know what we were drinking?”
“I’ve no energy for riddles.”
He was smiling now. “A rare Pikkian wine made from the juice of frozen grapes,” he said. “They’ve a whole case of it hidden at the back of their wine cellar. She didn’t know where it came from—she only just discovered it while I was there. She seemed to find it odd, that her husband should’ve hidden it away, but I think it was a wise thing for a known ally of the king to do, don’t you?”
NASH FELT CAPTAIN Hart’s treachery very personally. For indeed, it took little more than a week of redirected questioning, and of watching Hart while seeming not to watch him, to learn that Lord Mydogg on occasion made a present of his favorite wine; and to learn that the messengers Hart sent south to deal with his speculations in the gold mines met with interesting and obscure fellows along the way, at inns, or over drinking games, who were then seen to strike out in a northerly direction that was the straightest path to Mydogg.
It was enough for Garan and Clara to decide Hart must be questioned. The matter on the table next was how.
ON A MOONLIT night in mid-November, Captain Hart set south along the cliff road that led to his second home—a pleasant seaside cottage to which he retreated on occasion to find respite from his wife, who drank far more than was good for the health of her marriage. He rode in his very fine carriage and was attended, as usual, not only by his drivers and footmen but by a guard of ten men on horseback. It was how a wise man traveled the cliff road in the dark, so that he could defend himself from all but the largest company of bandits.
Unfortunately, the company of bandits that hid behind the rocks on that particular night was quite large indeed; and led by a man who, if shaved, and dressed at the height of fashion, and seen in daylight engaged in some highly correct activity, might bear a resemblance to the king’s steward Welkley.
The bandits set upon the traveling party with great, banditlike howls. While the majority of the ne’er-do-wells roughed up the members of Hart’s entourage, went through their pockets, bound them with ropes, and collected Hart’s very fine horses, Welkley and several others entered the carriage. Inside, an irate Captain Hart was waiting for them, brandishing sword and dagger. Welkley, with a highly athletic dodge to left and right that many at court would have found quite surprising, stabbed the captain in the leg with a dart tipped with sleeping poison.
One of Welkley’s fellows, Toddin, was a man whose shape, size, and bearing were quite similar to Hart’s. After a patch of speedy undressing and dressing inside the carriage, Toddin was wearing Hart’s hat, coat, muffler, and yellow monster-skin boots, whereas Hart was wearing much less than he had been before, and lying insensible in a pile of Toddin’s clothing. Toddin now grabbed Hart’s sword and rolled with Welkley out of the carriage. Cursing and grunting, they set to sword fighting very near the cliff, in full view of Hart’s bound servants, who watched with horror as the man who appeared to be Hart fell to the ground, clutching his side. A trio of bandits picked him up and hurled him into the sea.
The company of bandits now fled, with their plunder of miscellaneous coinage, fourteen horses, one carriage, and one captain inside the carriage sleeping like the dead. Closer to the city Hart was slipped into a sack and passed to a delivery man who would bring him into the palace with the night’s grain. The rest of the booty was rushed away, to be sold on the black market. And finally the bandits returned to their homes, transformed themselves into milkmen, storekeepers, farmers, gentlemen; and threw themselves down for a short night’s sleep.
In the morning Hart’s men were found by the road, bound and shivering, much ashamed of the story they had to tell. When the news reached the palace, Nash sent a convoy to investigate the incident. Welkley arranged a bouquet of flowers to be sent to Hart’s widow.
And everyone was relieved that afternoon, when word finally came from Toddin’s wife that Toddin was in good health. He was a phenomenal ocean swimmer with a great tolerance for cold, but the night had clouded over, and the boat sent to pick him up had taken a long time to find him. Naturally, everyone had worried.
WHEN THEY FIRST dragged Captain Hart before Fire, his mind was a closed box and his eyes were screwed shut. For days Fire could get nowhere with him. “I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised that an old friend and colleague of Lord Brocker’s should be so strong,” she said to Musa, Mila, and Neel in the questioning room, after yet another session during which Captain Hart hadn’t looked at her once.
“Indeed, Lady,” Musa said. “A man who accomplished all that Commander Brocker accomplished in his time would have chosen strong captains.”
Fire had been thinking more of what Brocker had endured personally than what he had accomplished militarily—King Nax’s mad punishment for Brocker’s mysterious crime. Fire watched her three guards absently as they brought out a quick meal of bread and cheese. Mila handed Fire a plate, avoiding her eyes.
This was Mila’s way now. In the last few weeks, since Archer had ended things, she’d shrunk somehow—gone silent and contrite around her lady. Fire, in turn, had been trying to be extra kind, careful not to subject Mila to Archer’s presence any more than was necessary. Not a word had passed between the two women on the subject, but both of them knew that the other knew.
Ravenous, Fire tore off a piece of bread and bit into it; and noticed Mila sitting mutely, staring at her own food but not eating it. I could flay Archer, Fire thought. Sighing, she pushed her attention back to the matter of Captain Hart.
He was a man who had achieved much wealth after retiring from the army, gradually accustoming himself to comfort. Might comfort soften him now?
Over the next couple of days, Fire arranged for Hart’s cell in the dungeons to be cleaned and improved. He was given fine bedding and carpets, and books, and lighting, and good food and wine, and warm water to wash whenever he asked for it; and rat traps, which were perhaps the greatest luxury of all. One day with her hair swirling around her shoulders, and wearing a dress perhaps a bit more low-cut than was her usual style, she wandered down to his underground lair to visit.
When her guard opened the door for her, he looked up from his book to see who was there. His face slackened. “I know what you’re doing,” he said. And perhaps he did. But it wasn’t enough to stop him staring, and Fire knew she’d found her way in.
She imagined a man in prison might be lonely, especially if he had a pretty wife at home who preferred wine and young men to her husband. She sat next to him on his bed during her visits. She ate whatever food he offered her, and accepted cushions for her back. Her nearness loosened him, and a battle began that was far from easy. At his weakest, Hart was still strong.
CLARA, GARAN, AND Nash soaked up what Fire learned like the sand of Cellar Harbor during a rainstorm.
“I still can’t get him to say anything useful about Mydogg,” Fire said. “But truly, we’re in luck, for he happens to know a great deal about Gentian, and he’s less unwilling to spill Gentian’s secrets.”
“He’s Mydogg’s ally,” Clara said. “Why should we trust what he thinks he knows about Gentian? Couldn’t Gentian be sending out false messengers for Mydogg to catch, just as he does with us?”
“He could,” Fire said, “but I can’t quite explain it—the certainty with which Hart speaks. The confidence in his assertions. He knows the tricks Mydogg and Gentian have been playing on us. He’s quite positive his knowledge of Gentian is not of that ilk. He won’t tell me his sources, but I’m inclined to believe his information.”
“All right,” Clara said. “Tell us what you’ve learned,
and we’ll use whatever means we can to confirm it.”
“He says Gentian and his son, Gunner, are coming north to attend the palace gala that happens in January,” Fire said.
“That’s nervy,” Clara said. “I’m impressed.”
Garan snorted. “Now that we know about his indigestion, we can torture him with cake.”
“Gentian will pretend to apologize to the court for his rebel activities,” Fire said. “He’ll talk of renewed friendship with the crown. But in the meantime his army will move northeast from his estate and hide in the tunnels of the Great Grays near Fort Flood. Sometime in the days after the gala, Gentian intends to assassinate both Nash and Brigan. Then he’ll ride like blazes to the location of his army, and attack Fort Flood.”
The twins’ eyes were wide. “Not nervy after all,” Garan said. “Stupid. What kind of commander starts a war in the middle of winter?”
“The kind that’s trying to catch his enemy by surprise,” Clara said.
“In addition to which,” Garan continued, “he should send someone anonymous and expendable to do his assassinating. What’ll happen to his clever plan when he gets himself killed?”
“Well,” Clara said, “it’s no news Gentian’s stupid. And thank the Dells for Brigan’s foresight. The Second is already at Fort Flood, and he’s taking the First quite near there as we speak.”
“What of the Third and the Fourth?” Fire asked.
“They’re in the north,” Clara said, “patrolling, but in readiness to fly wherever they’re needed. You must tell us where they’re needed.”
“I’ve no idea,” Fire said. “I cannot get him to tell me Mydogg’s plans. He says Mydogg intends to do nothing—sit back while Gentian and the king reduce each other’s numbers—but I know he’s lying. He also says Mydogg’s sending his sister, Murgda, south to the gala, which is true; but he won’t tell me why.”
“Lady Murgda to the gala as well!” Clara exclaimed. “What’s gotten into everyone?”
“What else?” Garan said. “You must give us more.”
“I’ve nothing more,” Fire said. “I’ve told you everything. Apparently Gentian’s plans have been in place for some time.”
Nash was clutching his forehead. “This is very grim. Gentian has a force of some ten thousand, supposedly, and we’ve ten thousand at Fort Flood to meet him. But in the north we’ve ten thousand scattered far and wide—”
“Fifteen thousand,” Fire said. “We can call on the auxiliaries.”
“All right then, we’ve fifteen thousand scattered far and wide, and Mydogg has what? Do we even know? Twenty thousand? Twenty-one thousand? To attack wherever takes his fancy—my mother’s fortress, or Fort Middle, Fort Flood if he wishes, the city itself—with days, possibly weeks, before our troops can organize to meet him.”
“He can’t hide twenty thousand soldiers,” Clara said, “not if we’re looking for them. Even in the Little Grays, he can’t hide them, and he could never get all the way to the city without being seen.”
“I need Brigan,” Nash said. “I want Brigan here, now.”
“He’ll come when he can, Nash,” Garan said, “and we’re keeping him informed.”
Fire found herself stretching out with the feelers of her mind to soothe a king who was frightened. Nash perceived what she was doing. He reached for her hand. With thanks, and with something else he couldn’t help, he kissed her fingers.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
IT WAS A curious matter of Dellian politics, the yearly gala at court to which everyone of any significance was invited. The seven courtyards were converted to ballrooms, and loyalists and traitors came together to dance, to sip from goblets of wine while pretending to be friends. Almost everyone capable of travel attended, though Mydogg and Gentian generally didn’t dare, a pretense of friendship on their parts being a mite too incredible; and for a week or so the palace was bursting with the servants and guards and pets, and the endless requirements of guests. The stables were too crowded, and the horses fidgety.
Brocker had explained to Fire once that the gala was always held in January to celebrate the lengthening of days. December was a month of preparation. On every level of the palace, Fire saw workmen engaged in repairs. Window washers hung from the courtyard ceilings and wall washers from the balconies, polishing glass and stone.
Garan, Clara, Nash, and Fire were also preparing. If Gentian intended to kill Nash and Brigan in the days after the gala and then ride to Fort Flood to start a war, then Gentian and Gunner must be killed the day of the gala—and Lady Murgda might as well be disposed of, too, as long as she was around. Then Brigan must fly to Fort Flood and start the war himself, surprising Gentian’s armies in their tunnels and caves.
“Tunnel fighting,” Garan said, “and in January. I don’t envy them.”
“What’ll we do about the north?” Nash kept asking.
“Maybe we can learn something about Mydogg’s plan from Lady Murgda at the gala,” Garan said, “before we kill her.”
“And how exactly are we going to pull off these assassinations?” Nash said, pacing, wild-eyed. “They’ll be constantly guarded, they’ll let no one near them, and we can’t start a war in the court. I can’t think of a worse time or place to have to murder three people in secret!”
“Sit down, brother,” Clara said. “Calm down. We’ve time yet to sort it out. We’ll think of something.”
BRIGAN PROMISED TO return to court by the end of December. He wrote, from wherever he was, that he had sent a force north to collect Lord Brocker and bring him south, for apparently the old commander had offered his assistance to the younger in the event of actual war. Fire was stunned. She had never known Brocker to travel farther than the neighboring town.
At night with her guard on the roof, and missing Brigan’s company, she stared at the city before her, trying to comprehend what was coming.
In the north, troops of the king’s soldiers searched the mountains and tunnels and all of Mydogg’s usual stomping grounds for his army. Spies searched Pikkia and the south and west. All to no avail: Either Mydogg was hiding his men very well or he’d vanished them with magic. Brigan sent reserves to fortify Roen’s fortress, Fort Middle, and the southern gold mines. The number of soldiers stationed in the city rose noticeably.
For her part, Fire had taken to grilling Captain Hart about the animal trader Cutter and his young fog maker with mismatched eyes. But Hart claimed to know nothing of it, and finally Fire had to believe him. After all, the boy didn’t seem to fit in to the war plans, and neither did the poacher or stranger in her woods up north, or the archer who’d wanted a look at her view. As to where they did fit in, Fire was alone in her speculations.
“I’m sorry, Fire,” Clara said flatly. “I’m sure it’s as creepy as you say, but I’ve no time for it if it’s nothing to do with the war or the gala. We’ll focus on it afterward.”
The only person who cared was Archer, who was little help, for true to his nature, he only assumed that at the base of the matter was someone’s intention to steal Fire from him.
AS IT TURNED out, Clara’s preoccupation did extend beyond the war and the gala, on one point. She was pregnant.
The princess brought Fire to Cellar Harbor to tell her, so that the roar of the falls would keep everyone, even Fire’s guard, from overhearing the conversation. Clara was dry-eyed and straight about it. And once Fire had adjusted to the news, she found that she was not particularly surprised.
“I was careless,” Clara said. “I’ve never liked those herbs; they nauseate me. And I’ve never gotten pregnant before. I suppose I convinced myself I couldn’t. And now I’m paying for my stupidity, for everything nauseates me.”
She hadn’t seemed nauseated to Fire; in recent weeks she’d seemed nothing but calm and well. She was a fine actress, Fire knew this, and probably the best woman for this accident to befall. She was not lacking in money or support, and she would do her work up to the very day the child was born, and star
t again right after, and she would be a strong mother, and practical.
“Archer is the father,” Clara said.
Fire nodded. She’d assumed this. “He’ll be generous once you tell him. I know he will.”
“I don’t care about that. What I care about is your feeling. Whether I’ve hurt you, by jumping into his bed, and then being stupid enough for this to happen.”
Fire was startled by this, and touched. “You’ve certainly not hurt me,” she said firmly. “I have no hold on Archer, and no jealousy where he’s concerned. You mustn’t worry on my account.”
Clara’s eyebrows rose. “You’re very strange.”
Fire shrugged. “Archer has always had enough jealousy of his own to turn me off to the feeling of it.”
Clara looked into Fire’s face, into her eyes, and Fire looked back, quiet and matter-of-fact, determined that Clara should see that she meant it. Finally Clara nodded. “This is a great relief to me. Please don’t tell my brothers,” she added, sounding anxious for the first time. “They’ll all rise up determined to hack him to pieces, and I’ll be furious with them. We’ve too much else to be thinking about. This couldn’t have been more ill-timed.” She paused for a moment, then spoke plainly. “And besides, I don’t want any harm to come to him. Perhaps he didn’t give me everything I hoped he would. But I can’t help thinking that what he did give me is rather marvelous.”
IT WAS NOT the type of gift everyone could welcome in such a way.
Fire’s guard Margo slept in Fire’s bedchamber, and Musa and Mila did too on alternating nights. One dawn Fire woke to the feeling of someone out of place, and perceived that Mila was vomiting in the bathing room.