I’m not used to being laughed at, she realized, and rearranged her mouth into something that felt almost like a smile. “What did I say?”
“Not a book publisher, Lady. A bookmaker. A bookie.”
“A bookie?” Kelsea asked, forgetting her embarrassment. “You want me to hand the treasury keys to a professional gambler?”
“You have a better idea?”
“There must be someone else.”
“No one else as good with money, I can tell you that. In fact, I had to give Arliss the hard sell to get him in here, so you should be nice to him. He has a pre-Crossing calculator in his head, and he positively loathes your uncle. I thought that was a good place to start.”
“How can you be sure he’ll be honest?”
“I won’t,” croaked a hoarse voice, and around the corner came a wizened old man, his frame shrunken and hunched. His left leg must have been lame, for he moved his right side first and then dragged the left to match. But even so, he moved so fast that Kibb, behind him, had to hurry to keep up. Arliss’s left arm appeared to be lame as well; despite the fact that a sheaf of papers was clamped in his armpit, he held the forearm cupped in against his rib cage like a child. What was left of his white hair sprouted up in tufted patches over his ears (and, Kelsea noticed as he got closer, from inside his ears as well). His old eyes were yellowed, the lower lids drooping to show flesh that wasn’t even red anymore; age seemed to have leached it of all but the barest pink. He was the ugliest creature Kelsea had ever seen in her life.
Finally, she thought, regretting her own unkindness even as it crossed her mind, someone who makes me look beautiful.
The old man held out his good hand for her to shake, and Kelsea did so gently. His hand felt like paper: smooth, cool, and lifeless. He smelled terrible, a thick, acrid smell that Kelsea took for the scent of old age.
“I’m not honest,” the old man wheezed. Kelsea didn’t recognize his accent, which wasn’t pure Tear; it managed to be both broad and nasal at the same time. “But I can be trusted.”
“Contradictory statements,” Kelsea replied.
Arliss’s eyes gleamed at her. “Still and all, here I am.”
“Arliss can be trusted, Lady,” Mace told her. “And I think—”
“First things first,” Arliss interrupted. “Who’s your father, Queenie?”
“I don’t know.”
“Crap. The Mace here won’t tell me, and I’m going to clean up when that comes out.” Arliss leaned forward, staring at her chest. “Marvelous.”
Kelsea reared back indignantly, but then she realized that he was inspecting her sapphire, eyeing it with a greedy collector’s eye. “I take it it’s real?”
“Real enough, Majesty. Pure emerald-cut sapphire, no flaws, absolutely beautiful. The setting’s not bad, either, but the jewel . . . I could fetch you a hell of a price.”
Kelsea leaned forward, her exhaustion suddenly forgotten. “Do you know anything about where it came from?”
“Just rumors, Queenie. No way to know what’s true. They say William Tear made the king’s necklace just after the Crossing. But Jonathan Tear wasn’t content with that, and he had his people create the Heir’s Jewel as well. Much good it did him; poor bastard was assassinated only a couple years later.”
“Where did they get the jewels from?”
“Cadare, most likely. No jewels that fine in the Tear or Mortmesne. Maybe that’s why she wants ’em so badly.”
“Who?”
“The Red Queen, Lady. My sources say she wants your jewels just as badly as she wants you.”
“Surely she can get all the jewels she wants in tribute from Cadare.”
“Maybe.” Arliss gave her a sideways glance from beneath his bushy eyebrows. “These sapphires were rumored to be magic, a long time ago.”
“Unlikely,” Mace rumbled. “They never did anything for Queen Elyssa.”
“Where’s the other one at?”
“Weren’t we talking about the treasury, Arliss?”
“Ah, yes.” Arliss changed gears immediately, pulling the sheaf of papers from his left armpit. He performed a neat trick, holding the papers with his teeth, riffling through them until he found the page he wanted and jerked it from the pile. “I’ve inventoried your uncle’s possessions, Queenie. I know good places to sell the expensive, and good fools to pawn the worthless. You can clean up at least fifty thousand on all the shit your uncle thought was art, and the whores’ jewelry is worth twice that on the open market—”
“Watch your language, Arliss.”
“Sorry, sorry.” Arliss waved away the reprimand as though it didn’t matter, and Kelsea found that it didn’t. She liked his profanity; it suited him. “I ain’t been through the vault yet; believe it or not, I’m still trying to find someone who actually has a key. But I’ve a pretty good idea of what I’ll find there. By the way, you’ll need new vault-keepers.”
“Apparently,” Kelsea replied. Her shoulder was screeching now, but she ignored it, slightly overwhelmed by the old man’s enormous energy.
“After the Census chews off its piece of graft, the Tear takes in about fifty thousand in taxes. Your uncle’s spent well over a million pounds since your mother died. I’m going to guess, and I ain’t usually wrong about these things, that there’s a hundred thousand sitting in the treasury, no more. In other words, you’re broke.”
“Wonderful.”
“Now,” Arliss continued with a gleam in his eye, “I’ve some good ideas on how to increase revenue.”
“What ideas?”
“Depends, Majesty. Am I hired? I don’t do nothing for free.”
Kelsea looked a mute appeal at Mace, but he merely raised his eyebrows in an expressive gesture that dared her to say no. “You’re not honest, but you can be trusted?”
“That’s right.”
“I think you’re more than a bookmaker.”
Arliss grinned, his pointy hair sticking straight up over his head as though he’d taken a bolt of lightning. “I might be.”
“Why do you want to work for me? I assume that whatever we might pay you, it’s not what you make at night.”
Arliss chuckled, a tiny wheeze like a deflated accordion. “Matter of fact, Queenie, I’m probably richer than you are.”
“So why do you want this job?”
The little man’s face sobered, and he gave Kelsea an evaluating look. “They’re singing about you in the streets, you know that? Absolutely petrified of invasion, the entire city, but still they’re making songs about you. Calling you the True Queen.”
Kelsea gave Mace a questioning glance, and he nodded.
“I don’t know whether it’s true, but I hedge my bets,” Arliss continued. “Always good to be on the winning side.”
“What if I’m not what they say?”
“Then I’ve got enough money to buy myself out of trouble.”
“What do you want to be paid?”
“The Mace and I already dealt with the details. You can afford me, Queenie. You just have to say yes.”
“Would you expect me to turn a blind eye to your other dealings?”
“We can deal with that as it comes up.”
Slippery, Kelsea thought. She appealed to Mace again. “Lazarus?”
“You won’t find a better money man in the Tear, Lady, and that’s not the least of his skills. It’s going to take a lot of work to repair your uncle’s damage. This is the man I’d choose for the job. Although,” he growled, bending a hard gaze toward Arliss, “he’ll have to learn to speak to you with some respect.”
Arliss grinned, showing a mouthful of crooked yellow teeth.
Kelsea sighed, feeling a mantle of inevitability settle over her, understanding that this would be the first of many compromises. It was an uneasy feeling, like getting into a boat on a wild river with no possibility of portage. “Fine, you’re hired. Prepare me some sort of accounting, if you would.
The old man bowed and began to walk-dra
g himself backward from the armchair. “We’ll talk again, Queenie, at your leisure. Meanwhile, do I have your permission to inspect the vault?”
Kelsea smiled, feeling a sickly film of sweat on her forehead. “I doubt you need my permission, Arliss. But yes, you have it.”
She leaned back against the armchair, but her shoulder rebelled, making her jerk forward again. “Lazarus, I need to rest now.”
Mace nodded and gestured for Arliss to go. The Treasurer did his odd crab-walk back toward the hallway, and Mace and Andalie each got an arm beneath Kelsea and physically hauled her from the armchair, then lifted and dragged her back into her chamber.
“Will Arliss live here with us?” Kelsea asked.
“I don’t know,” Mace replied. “He’s been in the Keep for a couple of days now, but that’s only to inspect all of your uncle’s things. He has bolt-holes all over the city. I’m guessing he’ll come and go as he pleases.”
“What exactly is his business?”
“Black marketeering.”
“Be more specific, Lazarus.”
“Let’s just say procurement of exotic items, Lady, and leave it at that.”
“People?”
“Absolutely not, Lady. I knew you wouldn’t accept that.” Mace turned away so that Andalie could help Kelsea undress, and walked around the room extinguishing torches. “What did you think of Venner and Fell?”
Who? Kelsea thought, and then she remembered the two arms masters. “They’ll train me to fight, or I’ll make them regret it.”
“They’re good men. Be patient with them. Your mother didn’t even like the sight of weapons.”
Kelsea grimaced, thinking again of Carlin, of that day with the dresses. “My mother was a vain fool.”
“And yet her legacy lies all around you here,” Andalie murmured unexpectedly, pulling pins from Kelsea’s hair. Once Andalie had finally completed the messy business of getting the dress off without aggravating Kelsea’s wound, Kelsea climbed into bed, so tired that she barely registered the cool softness of clean sheets.
How did they change my sheets so fast? she wondered sleepily. Somehow, this seemed more magical than anything else so far. She turned her head to say good night to Mace and Andalie and found that they’d already disappeared and shut the door.
Kelsea couldn’t lie on her back; she shifted slowly in the bed, trying to find a comfortable position. Finally she relaxed on her side, facing the empty bookshelves, exhausted. There was so much to be done.
You’ve done plenty already, Barty’s voice whispered in her mind.
A panoply of images poured from Kelsea’s memory. The cages burning. Marguerite, tied before her uncle’s throne. The old woman in the crowd who’d wept on the ground. Andalie, shrieking in front of the cage. The row of children seated in the nursery. Kelsea shifted beneath the sheets, trying to feel comforted, but she couldn’t. She sensed her kingdom around her, beneath her, stretching for miles in all directions, its people in extraordinary danger from the Mort cloud on the horizon, and she knew that her first feeling was true.
It’s not enough, she thought bleakly. Not nearly enough.
Chapter 9
The Jewel
So many forces were at work against the Glynn Queen that she might have been a rock outcropping in God’s Ocean, worn down by the inexorable tide. Instead, as history shows, she shaped herself.
—The Glynn Queen: A Portrait, KARN HOPLEY
Faster, Lady! Move faster!” Venner barked.
Kelsea danced backward, trying to remember the careful footwork Venner had taught her.
“Keep the sword up!”
Kelsea raised the sword, feeling her shoulder protest. The thing was incredibly heavy.
“You need to move quicker,” Venner told her. “Your feet must be faster than your opponent’s. Even a clumsy swordsman could outmaneuver you at this point.”
Kelsea nodded, blushing slightly, and readjusted her grip. Being quick with a knife was very different from being quick with a sword. The width of her body, combined with the unwieldy appendage of the sword itself, was a hindrance. When Kelsea twisted around, she found her own limbs blocking her passage. Venner refused to let her work against anyone but himself until she moved faster, and Kelsea knew he was right.
“Again.”
Kelsea readied herself, cursing inside. They hadn’t even gotten to what she was supposed to do with the sword; her job right now was to keep it raised in front of her. Between her shoulder wound, her lack of muscle tone, and Pen’s heavy armor, holding the weapon was a daunting task in itself, and remembering the intricate footwork at the same time was nearly impossible. But Venner was a demanding teacher, and he wanted his full hour. He would doubtless keep her working for the remaining fifteen minutes. She raised the sword, sweat running down her cheeks.
“Dance, Lady, dance!”
She stepped backward, then forward, anticipating an imaginary opponent. She didn’t stumble this time, an improvement, but she could tell from Venner’s sigh that she’d moved no faster. She turned to him, panting, and raised the sword helplessly. “Well, what more am I to do?”
Venner shifted from one foot to another.
“What?”
“You require conditioning, Lady. You’ll never be as lithe as a dancer, but you’d move faster if you carried less weight.”
Kelsea flushed and quickly turned away. She knew she was heavier than she should be, but there was a big difference between knowing something and hearing it spoken out loud. Venner was old enough to be her father, but she didn’t like hearing criticism from him. If Mace was in the room, she knew, he would never have let Venner get away with it. But she also knew that she invited impertinence by her casual manner, her refusal to punish anyone for speech.
“I’ll speak to Milla about it,” she replied after a long moment. “Maybe she can change my diet.”
“I meant no disrespect, Lady.”
Kelsea gestured him to silence, hearing a soft movement outside the door. “Lazarus, is that you?”
Mace entered with a perfunctory rap on the door frame. “Majesty.”
“Are you spying on my lessons?”
“Not spying, Lady. Merely protecting an interest.”
“So say all spies.” Kelsea took a small cloth from the bench and wiped the worst of the sweat from her face. “Venner, I believe we’re done.”
“We’ve ten more minutes to go.”
“We’re done.”
Venner put his sword back in its scabbard, his face disgruntled.
“Only three days till you can torment me further, arms master.”
“I torment you for your own good, Lady.”
“Tell Fell I’ll expect a report tomorrow on my armor.”
Venner nodded, visibly uncomfortable. “I apologize for the delay, Lady.”
“You may also tell Fell that if there’s been no demonstrable progress by tomorrow, I may have only one arms master from now on. A man who can’t procure a suit of armor after two weeks can hardly be trusted with anything else.”
“One man can’t adequately cover everything, Lady.”
“Then make him understand, and quickly. I’m tired of his delays.”
Venner departed, his face troubled. With Mace’s help, Kelsea began to remove Pen’s breastplate from her sweaty torso, breath hissing through her teeth as it came loose. Her breasts ached while she had the thing on, but they ached even worse when she took it off.
“He’s right, Majesty,” Mace told her, laying the breastplate on the bench. “You need two arms masters; that’s how it’s always been. One for training, one for procurement.”
“Well, neither of mine will be this slow.” Kelsea fiddled with the buckles that held armor to her calf. The things had clearly been made for men, men with short fingernails. Tugging against the thin leather, Kelsea felt the nail of her index finger bend back, and snarled under her breath.
“The Regent left the Keep this morning.”
“Re
ally? Before the deadline?”
“I believe he means to avoid pursuit.”
“Where will he go?”
“Mortmesne, perhaps. Though I doubt he’ll get the sort of welcome he expects.” Mace leaned back against the wall, inspecting Pen’s breastplate. “But really, who cares?”
“You came to talk to me about something else, Lazarus. Let’s hear it.”
The ghost of a smile crossed Mace’s face. “I need to change your guard, Lady.”
“Change it how?”
“In our present position, I can’t see to everything and be a shield to Your Majesty as well. You need an actual bodyguard, a protector constantly at your side.”
“Why is this only coming up now?”
“No reason.”
“Lazarus.”
Mace sighed, his face tightening. “Lady, I have been over and over what happened at your crowning. I’ve discussed it with the others. They were placed to guard you from every angle.”
“Someone shouted. I heard it right before the knife hit.”
“To create a distraction, Lady. But we’re all too well trained for that. A Queen’s Guard might turn his head, but he wouldn’t move.”
“Someone in the crowd, then? Arlen Thorne?”
“Possible, Lady, but I don’t think so. You were covered from a straight assault. The knife could have come from the gallery above us, but . . .”
“What?”
Mace shook his head. “Nothing, Majesty. I’m still uncertain, that’s the point. You need a close guard, one whose loyalty is beyond question. Then I can be free to investigate this matter, to do other things.”
“What things?”
“Things Your Majesty doesn’t wish to know about.”
Kelsea looked sharply at him. “What does that mean?”
“You don’t need to know every detail of how we defend your life.”
“I don’t want my own Ducarte.”
Mace looked surprised, and Kelsea felt a small glow of triumph; she rarely surprised Mace in anything.
“Who told you about Ducarte?”
“Carlin told me he was the Mort chief of police, but he really has an umbrella license for torture and murder. Carlin says everything done by a chief of police reflects on the ruler he serves.”