Page 10 of Kydona

Chapter 9

  The hangings were draped and the mattress was thick, but neither quite managed to muffle the noise: the panting, the moans, the squeaking of the bed frame, each of its protests accentuated by the slap of skin on skin. Summer refused to die; the stifling heat, doubled by exertion, sent trickles of sweat running down Marcus’s back and between his buttocks—but that was just fine, because the sight of Jacquelyn’s bare glistening back was enticing to say the least.

  Her hands were splayed on the headboard, her head bowed between her shoulders as she watched him take her from her presented behind. “There! Yes,” she said between high-pitched breaths. “Don’t stop…” He was more than happy to oblige. He grasped the fronts of her thighs and kept going.

  With each stroke, pleasure streaked through his loins—and hers, because she was spreading her legs wider and wider, as if willing him deeper inside her. It felt cold, she was so wet—

  —and the pleasure overcame them both in a crashing wave. Jacquelyn collapsed onto her side and curled in a ball, her legs quivering as her tickled nerves unleashed their burden. Marcus sat back on his heels. He reared his head up at the bed awning, chest heaving.

  “My God,” she whimpered. “Why can’t it always be that good?”

  He laughed, soon as he’d caught his breath. “Maybe we don’t practice often enough.”

  She giggled. “Come here.” He did, and she peppered her face with kisses. Sighing, she slithered out from beneath him and stepped over to the dresser with her naked behind wiggling. Marcus watched her, hungry again despite his spent condition, and she smiled regretfully.

  “I wish it wasn’t midmorning,” she cooed.

  Marcus didn’t. The nightmares had been getting worse. Last night, he had been drowning in a raging red sea while Kaelyn laughed and Jacquelyn wept on a faraway shore. The taste of blood had been so real—and when he jolted awake, he found he had been gnawing on his tongue. Sleep had taken him again, only to plunge him back into a terrible dreamland—this time he and Jaspar alone in a sandpit, blades in hand. But each blow he struck was feeble, and Jaspar had laid open his flesh to the bone, and he had bellowed in pain and rage—

  —only to wake up once again with the sun on his face, and Jacquelyn’s sleepy voice reassuring him that it had been a nightmare after all… perhaps there was a way she could make him feel better?

  “You ought to tell your mother to wait ‘til tomorrow,” he told her.

  “I know, I wish I could, but I promised her already…”

  He breathed a mock sigh. “Well I’d make it worth your while, but alright.” He watched her, admiring her nudity as she used the wash basin and did her hair. Then she hid her skin from him beneath cruel layers of fabric and had the nerve to ask him, “How do I look?”

  “Lovely.” The praise was instinct at this point in their dalliance, even if it was true. It satisfied her enough that she smiled and came over for another kiss. That done, she inquired, “What are you going to do today?”

  “Play with my sword, I suppose.”

  “Mmm,” she said, biting her lip and rolling her eyes naughtily. “Well, have fun. I’ll see you tonight!”

  “Wait a minute.” He rolled out of bed, went over to her dresser, and dug out a small coin purse. He pulled out her hand and dropped it into her palm. “There. Buy something I’ll like you in.”

  She smirked as she kissed him again, this time with heart. “I will, I promise. Thank you!” Smiling still, she waved as she slipped out of the door.

  Marcus flopped back on the mattress as the latch clicked shut. He rubbed his brows, not sure if he was ready for what he had really planned for the day. He had been thinking on Evgeny’s words for three days, and he still hadn’t reached anything that resembled a conclusion. The Kydonian had shed some light on his mission, but not much—certainly not enough to make an informed decision.

  Especially if the wrong one could get him killed. He hadn’t forgotten the assassin—who hadn’t been an assassin at all, just a warning.

  Luckily, the rains had let up for the past two days, and now on the third day of sunny weather, the roads would be passable at last.

  Fort Arlimont awaited his inspection.

  †††

  The fort was nestled in a crook of the Anora river, some ten miles from the capital. Though few now cared to admit it, invading armies from the north had thrice broken into the heart of Elessia. Three times they had come, and each time, they had dashed to pieces on the walls of Fort Arlimont.

  The river was wide and swift at all other points, lacking any natural fords—but here at its largest bend, the currents were gentler and the banks closer together. Before Ancellon could be put under siege, the Anora had to be crossed. Here was the only place to do it. Arlimont had been built to deny that opportunity, and had dutifully done so ever since.

  Looking at the old stronghold, Marcus could well understand why taking it was such a daunting task. The fort’s back was to the river, relying on its deep water and fast currents to guard its flanks and rear. The granite walls were fifteen feet at the thickest point, dressed to a uniform height of four stories. Every hundred yards, a great fortress tower jutted from the main battlements—riddled with narrow slits that were home to ubiquitous longbows and lethal ballistae alike.

  Marcus had spent a whole season at Fort Arlimont, and had visited countless times before—but even now, he found himself appreciating its battle-worn grey stone, rising defiantly above the winding river.

  The warm sun outlined the crenellated walls. A strong breeze tugged at the red and blue pennants flying from the towers. The sentries saw Marcus and his column of ten men-at-arms approaching, recognized the broken sword of the Pilars coat-of-arms, and called for the gate to be opened.

  The gatehouse was quick to heed them. The drawbridge lowered, closing the gap in the stone bridge crossing the river, and the thick portcullis ground upward with the shrieking of chains. Marcus gazed up as he passed under the gatehouse. Black murder-holes stared back down at him. He imagined himself an unfortunate barbarian bludgeoning a ram against the gate, only for those murder-holes to shit out rocks, arrows, boiling water, or worst of all, hot pitch—which would quickly be followed by lit torch, dooming all below to an agonizing death by immolation.

  He shivered.

  The inside of the fort was cheerier, which really didn’t take much. Though the bastion commanded the place, there was plenty of room besides, and all the available space had been utilized. There were two-story stone barracks for the permanent garrison, and squat wooden ones that had recently housed the Novitiates. There were two large wells on opposing sides of the space, which gave a constant supply of fresh water from the river. A company stood in formation on the parade ground—likely having been hurried over only to wait around for half an hour, Marcus thought wryly—while a battle line marched along one of the well-kept paths that linked every building, field, and tower in the fort. When the wind blew right, he could hear swords clashing on the drilling grounds. Bowstrings twanged as archers fired from the battlements at targets across the river.

  Marcus inhaled deep, smelled sweat, toil and suffering, and grinned to himself. It smelled like home.

  “Arli welcomes you, your highness.”

  He opened his eyes. Garrison Commander Lyle Durand approached him in his spotless uniform. He didn’t wear any medals or commendations, Marcus noticed—not like the officers around him. He thought they were shifty-looking bastards—pudgy, pink-skinned, their uniforms so starched that they fairly crackled. These were the second-born noble sons whose families had paid for their commissions—yearning for the front lines that would never suffer their incompetence, consigned instead to desks and paperwork.

  They looked daggers at Marcus—but Durand took no notice of the mutual dislike. He offered a salute, a gesture which his officers yielded with too much dignity to be genuine.

  Marcus returned the salute. He dismounted, passing Breggo’s reins along to a stable boy. The stallio
n snorted indignantly but allowed himself to be led away, expecting a salt lick—a luxury Fort Arlimont surely lacked.

  “And I embrace her in return, commander,” Marcus beamed. “She took a good amount of sweat and blood from me in my Novitiate, and I don’t begrudge her any of it.”

  Durand’s smile was small, but present nonetheless. “What pleases you pleases me, your highness. Now, shall I show you the defenses?”

  He’d seen them many times before—cursing as he jogged along their length, stumbling over the heels of the lad in front while the one behind tramped on his in turn—but it was a convention, and he would be unwise to dispense with it. He nodded. “Of course. Lead the way.”

  Durand dismissed his underlings with a flick of his chin; they sulked and tramped off for their offices. Then he started off in the direction of the north gatehouse, whose twin towers were even more formidable than the ones Marcus had just passed beneath. “I trust that our enterprising smith has kept you updated?” the commander inquired.

  “He has,” confirmed Marcus. “The new prototype—the one you requested—is well on its way, but he’s informed me that his black powder is a tad…”

  “Volatile?”

  “As you say. I’ve asked a favor of a friend, one Lord Smelding of Livet. He’ll help Master Smithson perfect the formula.”

  “Very good, your highness. You are the perfect partner in crime.”

  Marcus nodded, concealing his intrigue at Durand’s choice of words.

  Soon, they arrived at the north gatehouse. A sentry stood at attention as they filed past him into one of the towers. They climbed a staircase—built wide for so the fort’s defenders could relocate swiftly in a siege—and after a five-story climb, they emerged onto the crosswalk directly over the gate. Marcus stepped around a huge iron pitch-pot and leaned between the crenellations to look down.

  If the space before the north wall was a killing ground, this space below was a graveyard. The gatehouse was recessed behind the walls to either side, creating an artificial chokepoint that the enemy would have to pass through in order to reach the gate itself. There were four towers enclosing the “corpse garden”, as the garrison lovingly named it—each topped with two ballistae. Together with arrows, stones, and burning pitch, no attacker could dent the gate without paying an unbearably-high cost.

  “Lovely,” Marcus commented.

  The walls themselves were not quite as tall or as thick, but as he walked them, he reminded himself that were no less formidable. Wooden palisades topped the battlements, providing an able shield from enemy missiles. Pitch pots had been placed at intervals to combat ladders. A wide river-fed moat ran the length of the fort, and just in case the enemy managed to fill it in, loose gravel was piled around the base of the walls, preventing siege towers from maneuvering close enough to drop their assault ramps. As if this were not enough, half a dozen trebuchets lined the inside of the walls, ready to hurl stones over them to smash enemy stone-throwers in turn.

  He wondered how many Glat corpses had been fished out of that river-fed moat, where their armor’s weight had dragged them below the surface. How many siege towers had been thwarted when the defenders had diverted the river, turning the narrow field into a swamp? How many had been riddled through with arrows before the walls, or thrown from them after a long, lonely, futile climb up a siege ladder?

  “You’ve done outstanding work, commander. The enemy wouldn’t have a chance in hell.” He shook his head, laughing in his throat as he surveyed the killing field. He imagined it packed with fresh corpses, the river to either side tinged red by streams of blood. “It’s almost unfair.”

  “Your highness, it is unfair. My fear, though, is this: with these defenses, I may best any of our present foes, but what of our future foes?”

  “You mean the firelance.”

  “I do. Once that weapon is perfected, this—” he thumped a fist on the battlements, “—will become obsolete. War is a battle of wit as well as brawn, your highness, though many hold the latter in higher esteem. Men like my subordinates—they refuse to see that our enemies are learning. The Glats now know that to outfight the Watch is to outmaneuver it, as they did in the king’s unfortunate campaign. They have at last gained some mastery of the composite bow, which they now use to great effect against our slow-moving dragoons. And on the seas, those cursed pirates from the Broken Isles—they’ve rediscovered the ancient formula for ever-burning fire. Our warships are faced with fire that no amount of water can douse. They are helpless against it. One day soon, both our great enemies will discover this black powder for themselves. If we allow them to make good on this advantage before we do, it will be a dark day for Elessia.”

  Marcus crossed his arms. “Commander, I may be an auxiliary, but I do sit in Parliament. I’ve heard the briefs—from the fleet admirals, watch commanders like you… I know this already. You’re preaching to the converted.”

  Durand shook his head with grim eyes. “Geneva’s son, you hear my words yet do not heed the lesson.” He sighed, glanced up at the sun. “It is past midday. Would you take your meal with me before you are on your way?”

  “Of course,” agreed Marcus, mystified despite the indignity of being lectured like a child. He followed Durand to the bastion, a miniature fort all on its on that stood in the center of the Arlimont’s grounds. Its walls were ideally-angled for archers to rain arrows on any who somehow managed to breach either gate. Assaulting it would be every bit as daunting as assailing the outer wall—perhaps more so, since the defenders would retreat there in the event of a breach, condensing the resistance into a steel-solid core.

  Durand led him through the open gates, into the antechamber, up two flights of stairs, and into his office. Marcus stopped in the doorway, surprised. He had never been into the garrison commander’s chamber before, but this was something new. It was a surprisingly small space, mostly occupied by a large conference table just inside the door, empty except for a pair of rolled scrolls. On the far side of the chamber sat Durand’s desk, a chaotic affair to say the least. It was piled with paperwork—orders, waivers, vouchers, requests, memorandums. They all served to remind Marcus that behind every war, every campaign, and every muster, there lay a frustratingly-complex bureaucracy that helped only slightly more than it hindered—a fact most people were unaware of, and one even he had forgotten until now.

  “You’ve been busy,” he remarked, looking over the empty pigeonholes and bookshelves that lined the walls. Durand’s office, much like his uniform, lacked the pompous decoration of most military offices—the plaques, commendations, certificates. If there was one thing that told Marcus about the commander, it was that he was a man of business rather than flair. He could certainly respect that, after a lifetime surrounded by the latter.

  Durand nodded. “Always. Cawley!” A mild-looking young aide promptly appeared from a side door. “Some lunch, for the prince and I. Some sausage and cheese for myself, and a finger of rum. As for his highness…” He raised his eyebrows at Marcus.

  “The same.”

  Bowing, the aide hurried off. Durand meanwhile pulled a chair up to the conference table and held it out for Marcus, who seated himself. Durand took one opposite him. He drummed his fingers on the table, musing.

  “Well, your highness, I do hope the fortifications have pleased you.”

  “They have,” Marcus said. He corrected, “For the time being, as you’ve said.”

  “Indeed.” Cawley reappeared with frightening quickness and deposited two trays in front of them. Hefting his goblet, Durand said, “To the king.”

  “To the king,” echoed Marcus, and drank shallowly. The rum burned all the way down and fizzled in his stomach. His cheeks warmed and his eyes watered.

  Durand smiled as he put his drink down. “It’s not to everyone’s liking, I know. Go out on campaign, though, and you wind up spending a good deal of time with the stuff. You acquire a certain fondness for it.”

  “I surely believe you.” Marc
us lost his breath on the last word and coughed, bile souring his tongue. “I look forward to the day.”

  The commander did an admirably good job pretending to ignore his prince’s discomfort. He busied himself slicing up a sausage, spearing a piece on his knife along with a potato, and meticulously chewing both. His bearded throat wobbled as it worked the food down.

  Marcus helped himself. After a few minutes of silence, he could contain himself no longer. “Do we have privacy?”

  “Cawley!” The aide peeked through the door. “Go for a walk.”

  “Moving, sir!”

  “Good lad.” Soon as the footsteps faded, Durand nodded at Marcus. “Now we have it.”

  Marcus took another sip of rum and immediately regretted it. He fought down a wince and said, “I asked you last time we met and I’ll ask again: how did you know my mother?”

  “I was one of her men-at-arms,” he said with remarkable quickness, as if he had been waiting for the question all along. “Long before you were born.”

  “Tell me,” prompted Marcus.

  Durand made the last cube of cheese disappear and washed it down with rum. His set down his knife, piercing Marcus with his grey eyes. Finally, he began, “Your mother was a noble woman. The Blessed Lady herself would have smiled on her deeds. But it was not always so.

  “Naturally you recall the blind beggar—how she let him touch her face, as no other noblewoman ever would. In her youth, though, she would have baulked at such a thing. I suppose she was like any noble girl. She was preoccupied with her looks—she was always a great beauty, you know. She was not vain—not quite—but she was certainly willful. I imagine that is why she requested me as one of her men-at-arms. I was a lad, even younger than you, and I distinguished myself enough that I was awarded a place in the ranks of the palace guard—but certainly I was not experienced enough to safeguard the princess herself. So you can imagine my surprise at her request.” His beard twitched. “Years later, she confessed that she thought I was comely. She could not resist having me.

  “I would not have imagined it at the time, though. I thought she simply wanted to torment me, because that is what she did. Oh, she mocked me like no one ever had before. She loved to call me ‘little one’; I was the youngest son of an impoverished noble house, you see, and that is no far cry from disgrace. My parents could not even afford to buy me a commission; she often teased me about that, as well. She tried to temper her cruelty with kindness, because in truth she was fond of me. Sometimes she would ask me to dine with her, and she was friendly then, yes, but in front of the other men-at-arms and in front of her peers, she treated me little better than a dog.

  “She was just a girl; she didn’t know how to tell me what she really wanted to. I forgave her later—but at the time I hated her. With passion. So I conspired to teach her a lesson. One spring, she decided she wanted to picnic with a lad. He’d been wooing her for some time. Of course, this only compounded my hatred with jealousy, but it was a perfect opportunity. I put myself in charge of procuring a carriage. I made sure the driver was inexperienced—impressionable, I suppose the word would be. The next day, when we rode out of the city, I saw to it that he had the wrong route in mind.

  “She was supposed to picnic at Old Granite—but thanks to me, she wound up in a leper colony.” He smirked, savoring and regretting the old triumph both at once. “She was beyond terrified. I remember them crowding around the carriage and her trying to scream, only her fright wouldn’t let her. I kept myself under enough control that I did not laugh—only barely, though. I helped the other men-at-arms beat the lepers off. They kept touching the carriage with those fingerless hands of theirs; they thought the princess had come to save them. I started to feel some shame when I realized that, but the deed was done. But then…”

  His expression turned proud. “Then she came out. You could see she was scared, but she had her wits still. She told us to keep off them—that Elessa would have willed the same. Her voice shook but she told the poor wretches she grieved their plight. She promised to send bread, surgeons, priests, even, so they could live in as much comfort as she could grant. I admired her, then.

  “That is, until she called me into her chambers that evening. She told me she knew what I had done. She was alone, but I was just as terrified then as she had been that day. I knelt before her. I begged her forgiveness. But she did something I hadn’t expected at all: she thanked me. She told me… she was glad of me, because I had opened her eyes. She said no one deserved to suffer as those poor lepers did, not when others had the means to help them. She told me she wanted my help… and…”

  Durand dropped his eyes from the ceiling to look at Marcus, his eyes smiling for him. “Well. The rest is for me.”

  Marcus faked a chuckle. He had tried to imagine his kind mother as the cruel young woman Durand described, and found he could not. He believed the man, though. And he was glad he didn’t have to hear the rest. The thought of his mother as a girl, subject to the same urges that tugged him to and fro today… that was a matter better left undisclosed.

  “What about after?” he asked.

  “She changed. Well, perhaps she became herself. She gave freely to the poor, served the weak, spoke her support to the soldiery. I was her confidante, her helper. I had grown up in poverty with only my family name to sustain me, and I will tell you, it was not much to go on. I knew what the problems were, and how to alleviate them. She was clever enough that no one saw my hand in her efforts—but the nobility grew concerned. They began to talk and say she was forgetting her place. They said she was a princess, not a priestess—or handmaiden, things of the like. In truth, I think those in high places knew what Geneva would discover. She did, ultimately—but not before they connived King Basil into wedding her to a promising young general, a man of good birth and good standing. Your father, Audric.”

  The old soldier’s face was hard. His eyes focused on someplace over Marcus’s shoulder, a bitter place that existed only in his memory. Marcus had seen that expression before.

  He thought of Kaelyn.

  Durand cleared his throat, banishing the memory. “Well, war was brewing by then. The traders came out of the mountains yelling about gold and jewels and such, the harvest failed, the treasury went empty—all that at once, and suffice to say, the blame fell on Kydona. Everyone was so preoccupied with the affairs in the east, they forgot to worry about Geneva. She and I continued our work. The more we helped, the more we learned. Eventually… eventually, we learned enough that we began to see through the farce. We didn’t believe it at first, but we kept digging. As things turn out, the matter went deeper than either of us could have ever fathomed.

  “When the border villages burned, we were wise enough to be suspicious. As much as Geneva knew, though, she was—in her heart—a trusting soul. She put too much stock in people’s goodness. When we’d gathered enough evidence, she went to the Council of Highest—despite my misgivings. They acted precisely as I had predicted: they accused her of sedition. They correctly assumed that she had not acted alone; they exiled her servants, de-robed her tutors… they broke up her men-at-arms, sent us all straight to the front under separate units.” He shook his head with anger and sadness in equal measure. “We were lucky they did not kill us all. I warrant they did not because they could not without harming her, as well.”

  Marcus swallowed uneasily—yet he hungered for more. “What then? What happened after?”

  He had never heard Durand laugh before, but the sound he made then lacked any trace of humor. “Well I suppose you would not know the rest, few speak of it these days. Rumors spread, despicable rumors. Each morning, there was talk about someone else the princess had cuckolded her husband with. They said she whored herself to commoners on the streets, or gave herself to any noble son who would have her, or she spread her legs on Elessa’s altars and such nonsense. They said anything that might discredit her. Everyone knew it was false, but hear something enough…

  “The king g
ot his share, too. They said he was in league with the tsar. They said he was going to divorce his daughter from Audric and marry her off to one of the tsar’s sons and create some bastard nation. Even commoners started saying he was withholding grain so he could profit by the famine. When he had the good fortune of getting killed, it was a precious few who truly mourned him. The poison was strong, indeed.”

  They watched each other for a while, both embittered by the revelation. Such rumors had never reached Marcus’s ears. Perhaps they had died off out of respect for the dead. Regardless, he was disgusted that such odious lies had ever existed at all. His grandfather had been a kind ruler, and his mother a gentle soul—and their reputations had been marred simply because she, Geneva, had gotten some decidedly inconvenient ideas.

  “What did you learn? Why would the high lords respond so drastically?”

  Durand upended his goblet, downing the last of the rum. He grimaced, having either drunk too much or remembered too much at one time. Sighing, he folded his hands on the table and looked very soberly at Marcus, his grey eyes heavy-lidded with emotional wear. “We learned nothing incriminating, only parts of a whole. However, we had a more-than-vague notion of what was truly happening in our country.” He stroked his beard, musing—wondering how best to tear Marcus’s world apart. Eventually, he said, “What did she tell you, at the end?”

  Marcus furrowed his brow, trying to recall her exact words. “She said to watch everyone around me. She said watch the common, the nobles, my father. That it was all a lie. She said she’d been protecting me and she couldn’t anymore.”

  The commander nodded without looking away. “It was true, and sound advice. Have you heeded it?”

  “I have.”

  Durand leaned forward, his hands folded. “You have been told things all your life. Before now, you have never had reason to suspect these things untrue. But my words alone will not convince you, so I will not speak them—not yet. You must see the evidence for yourself, just as I and your mother did. Here is what you must do: go to the royal archives. You will find that the Watch is scrupulous in its record-keeping. Find the gaps. Fill them in. Come to me. Do you understand?”

  Why was it that whenever people asked him that, he never understood at all? He let the thought show as a frown. “Where exactly do I look?”

  Again, Durand massaged his beard. “There’s a certain regiment, the 16th. Start by finding it. For a clever lad like yourself, more will quickly follow.”

  “16th Regiment,” Marcus echoed. He memorized it. Across from him, Durand was on his feet. The meeting was over. The prince stood as well—more like lurched upright. Scholars loved to say that knowledge was a burden, but before today, he had never quite felt it. But now his head was filled to bursting with thoughts of his mother as a reckless youth, forced to confront the reality of the world around her—just as he was now.

  He was still ruminating as he left the bastion and accepted his horse back from the stable lad. Preoccupied, he mounted badly.

  “You alright, your highness?” Gail asked in a low voice, seeing his expression. Kelly nodded his concern behind him while Blaxley gave him a bland look.

  “Fine,” Marcus said. “Let’s go home.”

  Marcus and his ten men-at-arms galloped off—through the south gate, under the murder-holes, across the moat… and into territory deadlier than any fortress’s corpse garden.

  “Sixteenth… sixteenth…” he muttered to himself, turning what seemed to be the thousandth page of the ledger. Parchment rustled, and the candles lighting the table flickered with the shifting air.

  It was a lonely place, the royal archives—tucked deep into the lower levels of the Keep where no parchment-destroying fire or sunlight could reach. There was an unintended consequence: most people couldn’t be bothered to reach the place, either. They hired clerks to do that for them—and since sifting through centuries’ worth of ill-sorted documents was such a specialized task, it often became a lifelong career.

  The clerks were his only company, and bad company at that. They were pallid creatures, rake-thin from too many meals skipped, half-blind from squinting at faded script by candlelight for far too long, and almost completely mad from the solitude of their livelihood.

  “Rats!” cried one, fluttering a badly-chewed parchment. “A pox upon all vermin! Except squirrels,” he added thoughtfully. “Charming creatures, squirrels. It’s been ages since I last saw one… have you chanced upon a squirrel lately, your highness?”

  “Past season, Clerk,” Marcus said absently. At least memorizing their names had been easy. They were all named Clerk, because they’d been passed the job from their fathers. The same was true for most any occupation—including king.

  “What are?”

  “Squirrels,” reminded Marcus.

  “Oh. Pity. Charming creatures, squirrels. It’s been ages…”

  The prince rubbed his aching eyes. He almost wanted to laugh at the ridiculousness of his situation. He’d been here since morning. For all he knew, the sun was already down, but the lack of sunlight had obliterated his sense of time. Age-old dust caked his hands. It clogged his nose, too, so that his breath came in wheezes. And still, he had found all but nothing on Durand’s 16th Regiment.

  He shifted a nearby candle and retrieved the little he had gotten thus far. In his left hand, he held Fort Arlimont’s mustering record, which indicated that the regiment had reported two months prior to the Battle of Slain Kings. In his right hand were two more parchments pinned together. The first were orders bearing the Lord marshal’s seal, commanding the regiment to march to the Phor Gap. But the second parchment rescinded the order by authority of the king, Marcus’s grandfather.

  Beyond that, nothing.

  “Clerk, have you found anything more?”

  There came a chorus of replies, all in the negative.

  Marcus knit his brows and glanced between the parchments once more, trying to make sense of them. Try as he might, he couldn’t fathom it. He had checked and rechecked, and now he was certain of only one fact: the 16th Regiment had halted on the march, but it had not returned to Fort Arlimont. Yet there was no further mention of the regiment in any records Marcus could find. How could two thousand veteran chevaliers simply disappear?

  It was a quandary, to be sure, and it had Marcus grinding his teeth. He reached for his wineskin but thought better of it. Right now, he needed a clear mind. Besides, he’d been drinking far too much lately. He was getting the distinct impression that he was beginning to rely on the stuff—and bad habits were something he couldn’t abide by, not in the slightest.

  He watched a moth darting around the candle’s flame, empathizing with its frustrated sense of purpose.

  “Water, your highness?”

  He took the waterskin, surprised by the clerk’s sudden burst of sanity. “Thank you,” he said, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand.

  “But of course, your highness.” The man may have been twenty years old—or fifty, in the half-hearted candlelight. He bowed. When he righted himself, his face was twitching again, as if it was trying to adopt an expression it couldn’t quite remember. It settled into a maniacal grimace-smile-pout, which honestly befuddled Marcus to no end. “I do miss the sight of squirrels,” the clerk whispered.

  “Uh…”

  “Fascinating little creatures, squirrels, I always did love to watch them as a lad, I did, indeed. Always so energetic, so busy with their rummaging about for nuts and such.” The insane clerk bobbed with glee, though whether it stemmed from the fond memory of squirrels or the rare chance for conversation, Marcus could not have guessed. “Why, did you know—when squirrels prepare for winter, they bury whatever they cannot eat? The only trouble is, their memory is not so good as ours, so they must bury caches of nuts everywhere, in the hopes that they will manage to accidentally dig one up, come spring. Fresh reserves, if you will.” His mouth tried to worm its way into another forgotten expression, and this time failed.

&nbs
p; But Marcus was gaping up at him. “What’s that you said?”

  “Squirrels?”

  “Damn you, man, can you keep sane for more than a few instants at a time?”

  The clerk somehow managed to look chastened. “Forgive me, your highness.”

  He waved an impatient hand, banishing his unfortunate companion. As the clerk retreated, Marcus tossed the paperwork aside and dove back into the ledger he had been studying before. “Fresh reserves…” His mind raced. He tried to keep his excitement tentative, but he couldn’t help himself. For the first time today, he was on to something.

  There—the mustering records for the March 882, near to the 16th Regiment’s report date. It had not been the only unit to muster. Six more regiments had rendezvoused at Arlimont for the march to the Phor Gap, destined to confront the balance of the tsar’s army before autumn.

  He flipped the pages, reading and rereading copies of the units’ orders. To his dismay, all of the regiments reached their destination unhindered.

  At that, he slumped back in his chair, his head hung with dejection. So close, yet so far from the truth—it was enough to drive him as mad as the poor clerks who worked here. This time, he didn’t fight the urge to swig his wine. He took a healthy draught of the sweet nectar, shut his eyes as the warmth spread from his belly to his extremities. Sighing, he corked the wineskin and turned back to the table.

  And before his eyes, a parchment page turned on its own.

  He yelped out loud and very nearly toppled out of his chair.

  “Your highness?”

  The far door hurtled open and slammed against the wall. Gail stood framed in the light, his sword drawn and his eyes wild. “The fuck was that?” he roared. Spittle flew.

  “It’s nothing,” Marcus assured him, though he was clutching at his heart so tightly that he could feel his nails through his tunic. “I was falling asleep.”

  Gail lowered his sword. The other two guards, close on his heels, sheathed their own blades and walked off, grumbling. Gail shook his head and shut the door, muttering something about skittishness and retirement.

  With the men-at-arms’ offending presence gone, one of the clerks hurried over—the squirrel fellow, maybe, but they all looked more or less the same to Marcus. “Are you sure you’re alright, your highness?”

  “Do you get sudden drafts down here?”

  “Er… sometimes? Do you require a blanket?”

  “No I don’t require a bloody—!” He stopped and collected himself. “No, thank you nonetheless. Go keep searching. Any mention of the sixteenth, come to me.”

  Nodding subserviently, the clerk made his retreat.

  Marcus gave the ledger a black look. “The fuck,” he hissed in consternation. He gingerly lifted one page corner. Even without the full weight of the page, the parchment was thick and heavy. Nothing short of a gust would have turned it—but turn it had, and brazenly enough for him to see.

  Another moment went by before he gathered his courage. Then, with a deep breath, he scooted his chair close to the desk and leaned over to read the newly-opened page.

  He hadn’t been praying, but if he had, what he read there would have been God’s answer. It was the mustering record for the next month of that year—April—when another five regiments had reported. All had set out for the Phor Gap, but only four had made it. The last one had been waylaid by orders before vanishing—at least from the records.

  Suspicious now, Marcus began to browse all the mustering records throughout the spring and early summer, and not just from Arlimont. He scrutinized all the Royal Watch’s great forts: Ligny, Trescott, and Ingold. Each yielded the same pattern: units mustered and sent off toward impending war with Kydona, only to arrive less one, sometimes two regiments. Each of these regiments halted under orders from King Basil himself. Then, they vanished completely. They sent no further reports, requested no more orders, asked for no new supplies. If he were to take the records literally, Marcus would have arrived at the conclusion that the ten whole regiments—over twenty thousand soldiers—had simply stopped marching and deserted all at once.

  Only he didn’t. Instead, he arrived at an inescapable conclusion: his grandfather had been purposefully, secretly siphoning off men from his own army. Yet again, new knowledge bred even more questions, more uncertainty. Why would King Basil have weakened his forces, knowing that the battle would be desperate even with his army’s full strength? Where had his regiments disappeared to? And, with Basil fallen in battle, who had so exactingly purged all meaningful record of this phantom army’s existence?

  He sensed that he had learned all he could here. He marked each suspect page and parchment, bundled them together, and called over a clerk. “Here,” he said, passing him the thick bundle. The man visibly strained to hold it up. Quieting his voice, he ordered, “I want each marked item copied in full—twice. Deliver the copies to my chambers. Do not label the parcel.”

  “As you will, your highness,” the clerk whispered back with a bow and an eye’s twitch.

  Marcus started to turn away, but a thought occurred to him. “One more thing, Clerk. You’ve worked here a long time, have you?”

  “All my life,” he said in what might have been pride, had he remembered the tone.

  “In that time, how many have accessed these records? The ones in your hands?”

  He glanced them over. “All of these? To my recollection, just one, your highness.”

  “Who?”

  “Why, the Lady Roslene de Beauvais.”

  †††

  If there was one thing Marcus hated to be involved in, it was intrigue. Even in happier days, getting caught up in court drama had never failed to become a God-awful mess. Ever since he had been old enough to understand such matters, he had done his utmost to avoid being ensnared by them—who this married lord was fucking, which nephew would inherit from his childless uncle, which family was close to bankrupt and would soon ask a loan from the banking house…

  Those were simple affairs on their own. But where nobility was concerned, someone always stood to profit. A cuckolded wife of good standing could have her husband censured, divorce him, and win back her dowry and a quarter of his holdings. A distant relative who suddenly stood to inherit could count on more than one other family contacting him, seeking alliance through marriage or investment. A family could drive its rival further into bankruptcy with a respectable bribe to a receptive bank official. And of course, of course there were measures that the parties in question could take in their own turn…

  In those days, Marcus Audric de Pilars had still been a popular name. He had lost count of the number of times people had approached him, begging his favor in some affair or another. But where royalty was concerned, such matters could easily evolve from dangerous to deadly.

  This matter was worse.

  It may have been the second month of fall, but the gardens were lovely as ever. The groundskeepers had honed their yearly routine down to a science. The gardens now lacked the orchids’ exotic hues, but in their place were bulbous cardunculae, violet cosmos, white hydrangeas and bunched goat’s rue, their beds artfully placed to create splashes of color among the dull green leaves of autumn. They had scattered around bundles of wheat, and palisades for climbing ivy—which would have been delightfully quaint, if Marcus had a taste for tackiness.

  The weather didn’t improve his mood. The sun only occasionally made its presence known through cracks in the clouds, and the chill breeze promised more rain by afternoon.

  Anticipating it, he did up one more button on his coat. He debated in his head whether he wanted to meet her at all. This was a terrible idea. But still—what choice did he have? Desperate times call for desperate measures, as the saying went. Whoever had spawned the phrase, Marcus very much doubted that they had been in a situation quite as nasty has this.

  “Your highness.”

  He rose from the bench with a set jaw. “Lady,” he greeted in the monotone.

  Kaelyn
smiled the kind of smile a killer makes before twisting the knife. “What sort of joyous business are we meeting to discuss?”

  He had never seen someone manage to dress modestly and provocatively at the same time, but Kaelyn had managed it beautifully. The only skin she displayed was her face, neck, and forearms, but her scarlet dress fit her form so closely that despite the fur cloak on one shoulder, she might have been wearing nothing at all. Either that, or Marcus had seen her naked one time too many.

  “I’m amazed you decided to show up.” He didn’t know why he was making conversation, he really didn’t.

  “Well. The prince’s summons is no small matter. Particularly when it gets touched by every pair of hands in the salon.” She cocked her head, her blue-green eyes narrowing. “But you arranged it that way.”

  “Of course,” Marcus said. A letter within an envelope within a parcel within a package, each with a different address of a different courtesan in the same salon. Crude and complicated, but it had gotten the job done.

  “So.” Her tone was amiable, though Marcus knew the girl speaking it was anything but. “What business?”

  “Would you sit?”

  She did, and he took the seat beside her—as far away on the bench as courtesy would allow. Her scarlet eyebrows shot up, but she said nothing. She let him hang awkwardly, waiting to react to his first move.

  “I need your help.” Saying the words was agonizing, but he managed.

  Kaelyn sputtered with laughter. “You? My help? And I thought pride was your greatest vice, Marcus.”

  “Not today it isn’t. This is too important. You know I wouldn’t ask you if it wasn’t.”

  She nodded slowly. That predatory smile was back. “You’ve given me the upper hand already, you bloody fool.” She sat back and crossed her legs toward him, feigning approachability. “I’m listening. Go on.”

  “It’s something you’d fancy. Intrigue.”

  “Obviously.”

  He thought very carefully about what he wanted to say next. “First, I want your oath of secrecy.”

  “An oath?” She laughed. “From a courtesan? We don’t swear oaths, Marcus, you can’t buy something sacred. You know how us whores work.” Her voice was deceptively offhand. “What you can do is pay me for my silence. Then we can draw up a contract with the Guy—my salon’s chamberlain—which will say something to this effect: I shall be obligated to notify you if someone’s offered me a better sum to divulge your secret than you offered me to keep it. If you make me a better offer in turn, my mouth stays closed. If not, your secret is mine to do with as I please. You see?”

  Marcus wanted to say he knew damned well how information brokerage worked, only he had to stay on her good side. Instead, he nodded. “I see. What’s your price?”

  She smiled and named an exceedingly-exorbitant amount of gold.

  “Done.”

  Surprise slackened her features, but she quickly schooled her face back into impassivity. “No haggling? This is important,” she said, bemused. “Well, that’s verbal contract. My lips are sealed. Give me the details.”

  He told her about the job. He gave no indication of the motivation behind it—only that it needed doing, and he needed her help.

  Kaelyn nodded along, her lips pursed with thought. Once he finished speaking, she sat forward and twirled a ring on her finger—a nervous habit, one only he and perhaps Roslene knew. It was the first sign of vulnerability he had seen from her in a long time, which was reassuring. “That’s all?” she asked after a long time.

  “That’s all,” Marcus said grimly.

  “And why would I help you with this? I don’t know if you’ve thought on it, but one of the parties in question here is my mother.”

  “Because she won’t come to harm over any of this. That’s my oath to you.” He added, “And, I’m paying you a lot of money.” And, I see that look in your eye when it turns my way. You’re not as careless as you pretend.

  He remembered Estelle, the way Jaspar had dragged her around like a pup on a leash, and felt like the vilest shit on earth.

  Kaelyn regarded him. A ray of sunlight bounced off her hair, turning it a lovely shade of orange. He abruptly shook the mental praise away, but the damage was done. She was beautiful, he had known her nearly all his life… and much as he tried to deny it, their mutual attraction was not easily done away with.

  “Alright,” she said. “I’ll do it.”

  “What’s your price for the job itself?” he asked suspiciously.

  The corners of her lips turned upward ever so slightly. “Not so much. Just a kiss.”

  He hated it when he was right, he really did.

  She dangled her ringed hand in front of his eyes. “Do we have a contract?”

  “What if I offer you more gold?”

  “A kiss.”

  “Three hundred strikes.” A veritable fortune.

  “A. Kiss,” she repeated with amused finality.

  What choice did he have? He took Kaelyn’s hand and kissed it, as had every man and woman who had ever negotiated a contract with her. Her pale skin was sweet with perfume.

  With the deal set, she withdrew her hand. Marcus eased over to her side of the bench, leaned in with his lips unwillingly parted—

  —but she ignored him and rose smoothly. “Oh, no, no. I didn’t say when…” The smugness in her voice was clear.

  Marcus had no doubt that when the time came for him to honor his end of the bargain, it would be decidedly inconvenient for him.

  “I shall have Guy put this to writing. You’ll have your own copy by tonight. Farewell, your highness.” She walked off without looking back, her wide hips wagging confidently.

  He watched her go, wondering what sort of price he had just paid for his own little piece of court intrigue.

  †††

  The feast was perfect—which was to be expected, of course, because the king and his guests deserved no less. Cloth-draped tables lined three sides of the Atrium. The head table was reserved for King Audric and his household: Marcus at his left hand, Kaelyn alongside, Roslene at his right. Flanking them were the high lords, with their first-born sons or stewards seated beside them. That left the side tables, which the high lords’ wives and latter children occupied. Clear across the Atrium at the far end of the tables, Marcus could just make out the faces of a few guildmasters and noted dukes who had managed to secure invitations.

  During the campaign, this chamber had only occasionally hosted feasts, but now that the king was back, it was obvious that the palace had not lost its touch for hospitality. The table drapes were silk imported from the Lyrian islands. The silver candlesticks and ebony-handled goblets were complementary gifts, free for the guests to carry off at the end of the night. Minstrels’ music echoed gently around the chamber, meant to promote conversation rather than drown it.

  And talk they did. “This goose is impeccable! I must have the recipe for my cook, or I’ll surely perish for want of it!”

  “Have it you shall, my good lord,” Roslene said, leaning over the table and smiling at Lord de Morent’s whale of a son, though it was probably the fourth recipe he’d demanded tonight.

  Martha had earned the praise; she’d outdone herself tonight. Sprinkled across the tables were pewter trays piled high with strips of boar and slabs of venison, dishes of milk-boiled oysters, bowls of quail-egg salads and chestnut soup, among delicacies beyond Marcus’s ability to count.

  He prodded at his roast dove, nudged aside a few capers, and began to slice the bird up.

  “You seem a bit wary of your food there, son.” His father was looking over at him with a warm smile, which utterly belied the conclusion of their most recent talk.

  That was just fine by Marcus; it would make his task easier. “A bit,” he admitted. “I never had much of a problem with doves. But since it’s already dead…” He took a bite, chewed, and decided it was delicious.

  Audric nodded his understanding. “While we’re on the subject
of dead things—I understand you’ve been keeping up with your bladework.”

  “It’s practically all I do, father.”

  “As the fieldmaster informs me,” the king said, dissecting a mutton chop. “Perhaps we can spar, sometime soon.”

  “I wouldn’t want you to take time off your schedule.” Which was a true statement, but politeness wasn’t the motive.

  His father, taken in by Marcus’s false mildness, waved his fork and said dismissively, “A king can make time for his son. I’m eager to see how your swordsmanship’s progressed.”

  Might even put a mark on you, old man, his son thought, hazarding a bite of saffron-dyed potato. “I’ll do my best to impress you, father.”

  “I’ll give you a run for it,” Audric grinned. “These damned politics will be the death of me one day soon, but my arm’s got some strength in it yet!”

  Privately, Marcus reminded himself that his father’s political life was about to grow quite a bit more complicated. For the time being, however, he would play along with the father-son-re-bonding routine. “What sort of politics?” he asked, feigning concern.

  “Ah, well. Nothing that ought to concern you,” reassured Audric. But he was a career soldier, and a mediocre liar—at least to an accomplished one like Marcus.

  “I’m to be king one day, aren’t I? Everything concerns me.”

  Patting his shoulder, his father said proudly, “As it well should.” He leaned in close and murmured, “Matters of taxes and such. The high lords are saying they’re overburdened, they say I need to draw down the regional tax collection to promote growth and such nonsense. The moment I cut their taxes is the moment they raise the taxes on their own peasants, I know that for certain, but I must pretend to entertain their wishes, else they’ll underreport their collections to cut their losses.”

  “That’s tax evasion,” Marcus whispered back, irate, “halfway to stealing!”

  Audric shrugged helplessly. “That’s been the game for years, son. Everyone gets rich at everyone else’s expense. Even the king is no exception.” He touched Marcus’s shoulder again. “Don’t fret over any of it. We’ll battle for a month before they cave, but cave they shall.”

  Marcus went to say something else, but Roslene had been tapped Audric’s shoulder, and the king turned away. Fuming, he drained his wineglass and settled deeper into his chair.

  Under the table, Kaelyn’s foot nudged his knee. “I wager you’re as bored as I am,” she said with a foxy smile.

  “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

  “Hmm, we’re in a sour mood tonight, aren’t we?”

  Better to brush thighs with her than Lord de Martine, who he would have been sitting next to if not for her presence—but it wasn’t better by much. “It’s hard not to be,” he said, smiling in case of watching eyes.

  Kaelyn lifted her petite shoulders, left bare by her dress. “Well I have no intention of watching you pretend to be a loving son all night. How’s Jacquelyn?”

  “With her parents for the night,” he answered, which was no answer at all.

  “Lovely girl. I’d heard she was unspoiled, is that so?” Her smile was sideways. “Is that still so?”

  That was a question Marcus refused to answer.

  “She’s got quite the figure—you know, so lithe and shapely at the same time, that’s rare. You must fair throw her around the room.”

  “Are you finished?”

  She tossed her hair. “No.”

  “You ought to be soon. It won’t be long.”

  The courtesan grew abruptly serious. Her eyes surreptitiously wandered over her mother, then past her so quickly that she might have been envying the tablecloth instead. Marcus did the same, only he scanned the reflection of a conveniently-placed glass. Roslene and Audric were deep in conversation, their foreheads touching as they smiled into each other’s eyes.

  Excellent. Good cheer was easily spoiled, and difficult to feign.

  But it rarely hurt to be safe. For the next hour and more, Kaelyn and Marcus plied their parents with wine. With Audric, the task was easy; with each challenge from Marcus, questioning his father’s drinking ability, another glass disappeared. Roslene, a more cautious personality, was more complicated—but Kaelyn succeeded in talking so much that her mother could scarcely get a word in and sipped her wine instead, and Marcus proposed a never-ending series of toasts, obliging her to drink still more out of courtesy. Soon, the king and his consort sported rosy cheeks and lazy smiles.

  Encouraged by their king’s good mood, the guests were getting rowdy. Drinks and conversation passed freely. Wives left their secluded seats to chatter with each other in the center of the floor while their sons flirted shamelessly with their daughters. Courtesans leaned over tables toward lone men, enchanting them with wiles and abundant cleavage. The musicians raised a lively tune to compete with the commotion echoing around the chamber—talk, laughter.

  Unbeknownst to everyone, there were two sober souls left among them, though no one would have imagined it. Kaelyn was perched on Marcus’s lap, speaking meaningless words into his ear, just to keep up pretenses. They drank heavily from their glasses—but the wine was practically water, just as it had been all night. Even if they had been drunk, he doubted much would have been different between them. He gazed into her eyes, saw loathing and helpless attraction both at once—and saw the same look in his reflection.

  Finally, after what seemed hours of false revelry, the moment of truth arrived.

  It came in dull form: a maid, slipping in from a side passage. She had a purple pillow balanced on her forearms, bearing an envelope sealed with ribbon and wax. Only a noble of very high standing could deliver a missive in such a way, but none of the guests—not even the high lords—took any notice of the maid. She hurried behind the head table, whisked past Marcus and Kaelyn, and stooped to offer the king the pillow.

  He stared for a moment in drunken consternation before taking the envelope. As the maid retreated, Marcus acted as if he hadn’t noticed any of this happening. He reached around Kaelyn’s waist, fork in hand, and picked awkwardly at his cake—something he reckoned a drunk Marcus would have done. He brought the cake to his mouth, squeezing her waist and making her laugh.

  But they were both watching.

  Audric inspected the seal—blank. Frowning in consternation, broke the wax and opened the envelope. He reached inside and pulled out a sheaf of parchments. He flipped them right-side-up, his eyes darting from side to side as they tore through the text there.

  All at once, his face drained of color. The parchments shook—almost beyond perception—in his hands.

  “What is it, my love?” inquired Roslene. The pet name made Marcus just as sick now as it had the first time he’d heard it. Audric’s consort accepted the envelope and read.

  Marcus had to give her some credit: she was an artisan of her craft. She offered no reaction whatsoever. The pattern of her blinks did not change. Her color—red like the wine she’d been drinking—neither rose nor fell. She methodically read through each page with infuriating aplomb before passing it back to her lover. She whispered something as she did.

  He saw all this distorted in his wine glass. “What’re you looking at?” he asked Kaelyn, in order to cover her. She’d been playing the part of curious onlooker.

  “Oh. Your father, I think he’s gotten some bad news,” she whispered, and no louder than she normally would have—an actress through and through.

  “Father?”

  He acknowledged Marcus with a harried glance. “Yes?”

  “Is everything alright?”

  “No trouble.” But Audric was scanning the tables with narrowed eyes. He paid particular attention to the high lords. “Politics as usual.”

  Good—he didn’t suspect him. But Roslene, just like before, was a much trickier prospect. She finished her dessert—almond pound cake with blackberry curd and mint, absolutely delectable—and sat quite comfortably afterward, even joining in conver
sation with all her usual verve. It was another half hour before she moved at all.

  “Well, Audric, Marcus, my daughter.” She levitated to her feet, wiped her already-spotless fingers, and set down her inexplicably-folded napkin on her plate. “It has been a wonderful evening, but I am afraid I must retire.”

  “So soon, mother?” Kaelyn asked, finally rolling off Marcus’s lap. It stung in sympathy, all pins and needles.

  Roslene smiled. “I wish I was still young like you, when midnight wasn’t nearly as daunting. Good evening.”

  The three of them said their farewells. Marcus watched her steadily making her way toward the keep, toward his father’s chambers, and couldn’t help but feel a wave of disappointment. He had hoped she would react less favorably to the missive, but her instinct for self-preservation was far too strong. Back still turned, she disappeared through a passage to the royal suites—and out of the corner of his eye, Marcus saw Kaelyn motioning toward some nearby columns with one finger. A previously-unseen servant detached from his hiding place to follow Roslene at a discreet distance, a picture of demureness.

  A few minutes later, Audric got up to leave as well, though his good cheer had faded entirely. He scarcely paused to wish them a good evening. Marcus cursed himself, wishing he had been as clever as Kaelyn—but once again, a servant emerged at her signal and took up the king’s scent.

  He almost cheered.

  With the lord and lady of the household gone, the guests were quickly on their way. The high lords collected their ladies and departed without a backward glance. The guildmasters and young nobles took their leave as well—some with courtesans hanging onto their arms, some not. That left Marcus and Kaelyn in the Atrium, surrounded only by silent guards and invisible servants. In the palace, both were known for their loyalty and trustworthiness—but after seeing Kaelyn’s hired cronies chasing after the king and his consort under their own roof, Marcus wasn’t in a very trusting mood.

  He jerked his head toward the gardens, and she dutifully followed him out.

  “Well?” he asked.

  “Well what?” She’d been more than pleasant throughout the night, but every trace of that had abruptly disappeared.

  “What did you observe? When they read the missive, what did you see?”

  She pouted as she called on her memory. “Your father was obvious. Whatever you put in that missive, he’d seen it before. By the look on his face, I’d imagine he hadn’t counted on seeing it again. And didn’t want to.”

  “And… Roslene?”

  Kaelyn stared at him disdainfully. “You mean my mother? That was difficult. But yes. She’d seen it before, too.”

  “And you know this even though she had no tell, none whatsoever.”

  “That’s how I knew,” the courtesan explained, as if that were obvious. “My mother has no tell. The ones you think you see—those are fake. People always say, oh, she shifts to her left hip when she’s bluffing—more fool them. She’s been at this far too long.”

  Marcus couldn’t help but smile at that. He’d hired the right girl, even if he was sorry that girl had to be Kaelyn. “Why the tails? I didn’t pay you for that.”

  “No, you didn’t. Those are my tails. They’re getting my information. If you want to hear what they learn, it’s going to cost you.”

  He cursed inwardly at his own lack of foresight. But really, there was no such thing as a safe deal with courtesans. They were endlessly cunning, and altogether ruthless.

  Especially Kaelyn, and especially with him.

  “Alright,” he nodded, trying to salvage some pride. “Tomorrow we’ll negotiate—if they even learn anything.”

  She laughed. “You think those were ordinary servants? They’ll learn something. I guarantee it. As for me—” She pulled in close, pecked him on the cheek, and whispered in his ear, “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  He awoke the next day to a growling stomach and an exceedingly-bright sun glaring through his windows. Still half-asleep, he reached over to scratch Jacquelyn’s back, only to realize he hadn’t spent the night with her. He sighed. After Kaelyn’s antics last night, some morning companionship would have been refreshing.

  A few lazy minutes later, he willed himself out of bed, calling for breakfast as he did. A servant appeared not two minutes later with boiled eggs, bread, and strawberry preserves—a humble morning meal, but enough to stave off hunger for a handful of hours. He wolfed it down as he donned his white sparring outfit. After last night’s overabundant intrigue, he was feeling a keen urge for some simple, honest bladework. Cinching on his sword belt, he stepped out of his chamber door, an anticipatory smile adorning his face.

  He greeted his men-at-arms as he swaggered down the statue-lined hall. A half-remembered tune from last night found its way into his mind, and he hummed it cheerfully as he went. It was nice, being in a good mood. With the last few days’ events, he had almost forgotten what that felt like.

  Deciding not to spoil the mood with a trip through the Atrium, he swung into one of the Keep’s side passages, which helpfully led to the gardens where the practice fields lay.

  He hadn’t gone more than a few yards when the pounding of armored boots sounded from behind him. It was a group of palace guards, swords drawn and faces lined with concern. “Your highness,” said their leader, who wore a red helmet plume and silver throat gorget, “My name is Sergeant Ronold. You must come with us. At once.”

  Marcus’s heart froze in his chest. His father was cleverer than he had credited. He had gone too far last night, after all.

  Gail stepped forward, his face set. “What for?”

  “There’s a fire in the cellars,” the sergeant quickly explained. “We’re organizing a bucket detail now but we must get you out of the palace, your highness.” He added, “It’s a precaution.”

  Relief flooded through him. “As you say, sergeant. Lead the way.” He was struck by a sense of irony—that he would rather see his home burned down than have his espionage discovered.

  With a nod, the sergeant hurried off in the other direction, with Marcus and the rest behind him. He guided them not toward the Atrium, but into another side passage, down a flight of winding stairs, and into the kitchens. Servants and maids hurried about the place like so many flustered chickens. A pair of guards chased after them, plucking some and shoving them off toward the stairs so they could join the bucket detail. Ignoring the mayhem, Ronold found a pantry door and promptly kicked it in. Wood splintered; maids squealed in fright.

  “In here, your highness,” he said urgently. Gail, ever suspicious, insisted on being the first inside. As he stepped through the shattered door frame, it occurred to Marcus that the alternate route, the drawn swords, and Gail’s wariness were not mere precautions. His guards were anticipating danger beyond mere fire.

  He found himself in a seemingly-ordinary pantry, its shelves stocked with jars of pickled vegetables and fruit preserves. Sergeant Ronold nodded to Gail, who stepped forward, drawing a string necklace from the confines of his tunic. A plain key dangled on the end. Meanwhile, the sergeant brusquely swept the jars from a chest-height shelf, shattering them on the floor and spattering his boots with artichoke petals. He yanked a false panel out from the rear of the shelf, revealing a hidden keyhole. Gail deftly inserted his key, twisted, and together with the sergeant pried the whole shelf open on a swinging hinge.

  There it was—a narrow stone tunnel stretching into the darkness. Marcus had heard stories of secret tunnels in the Keep—tunnels that had provided Elessia’s rulers an escape from assassination, riots, and plague—but he had never imagined the stories could be true. Now he was about to become part of one, himself.

  “Let’s go, your highness.”

  The passage was so narrow that they practically sidestepped down its length. Evidently people had been shorter when the Keep was built, because even stooped, Marcus’s head scraped the ceiling. He swatted cobwebs aside, imaginary spiders crawling on his skin. Gail’s torch guttered in th
e stale air, barely illuminating the cramped space. Marcus navigated more by touch than sight, running his fingertips along the walls. Luckily, the floor was smooth and arrow-straight, with a slope so gradual that he barely noticed at all.

  After an indeterminate length of time, they found the end. Another door stood in their way, this time made of stone, not wood.

  “Remember how to open it?” Marcus asked with a hint of humor.

  “It isn’t hard,” Gail said grumpily. He bent and undid a thick iron bolt in the floor. Bracing a foot against the wall beside the door, he pulled, arms quivering, and the door gradually yielded with the sound of grinding stone. Huffing, the veteran gestured Marcus through.

  “Where’s my father?” He didn’t bother asking after Roslene; she could burn for all he cared.

  “Safe, I’m sure.” Gail gave him an odd look. “What, did you think this is the only tunnel out of the Keep?”

  “Not at all.” In fact, it would have made less sense if there wasn’t an escape passage from the king’s chambers. Its presence was likely part of the reason the royal family still dwelled in the Keep, despite the drafty winters and oppressive summers.

  He glanced around. “Where are we, then?”

  “Just outside the royal compound’s walls, your highness,” Ronold replied. “We went under the gardens.”

  Marcus nodded. “Under” was right; by the looks of it, they were in a basement of some sort, one that had evidently gone unused for many years. Darkness made the place nondescript—which he guessed made it the ideal place for a secret tunnel, especially considering that the now-closed door’s edges would have been obvious under decent lighting. Fortunately, there was no way of opening it from the outside—save a sledgehammer and lot of patience.

  The sergeant spent a minute wrestling with a rusted lock before he got the door open, revealing a set of stairs holed by dry rot. They climbed the rickety steps with extreme care, keeping as far to the edges as possible. Miraculously, Marcus and the troop of guards got to the top without anyone falling straight through.

  Like the cellar, the house above was abandoned. It might once have belonged to someone of status, but now, the dust settled thick on the sagging furniture, termite holes pocked the floorboards, and a once-spectacular chandelier had crashed to the floor in a heap of broken crystal.

  “Charming,” Gail muttered. “I might retire here in a few seasons.”

  Kelly gave him a prod, grinning. “Was that a joke, old man?”

  “Give me a share of your wages and I’ll make it a retirement plan.”

  A truly unnecessary number of boards had been nailed up over the front door—that and the windows—but the back door was merely bolted and padlocked. It took some persuasion to make them work past the rust, but eventually, they got out of the decrepit old townhouse—quite a relief, because Marcus’s nostrils had been starting to burn.

  They squeezed through the back alley and out onto a busy street, wedged tight against the wall of the royal compound—just as Sergeant Ronold had said. Commoners stared curiously at the group, whose garb made them a near-comical sight outside the confines of the palace—the guards’ plumed helmets and burnished plate, the men-at-arms’ chainmail and leather, and Marcus’s white sparring outfit, every inch of it marred by cobwebs and grey dust.

  Marcus glanced around. A tavern sat a few doors down from the abandoned house. “The Red Heron,” he mouthed, knowing that if he ever had to find this house again, he needed only to ask a local for directions. People didn’t always know shops or streets, but they never failed to recall their taverns.

  He, Gail, and Ronold briefly conferred and decided on finding a stable, just in case the commotion at the palace had indeed been a fire and not something more sinister. It didn’t take long to locate one. There, they requisitioned a horse for one of the guards, who rode off to ascertain the situation at the palace. Marcus and the rest waited, talking in low voices and doing their best to ignore the stablemaster, who was so ecstatic at the prospect of selling to the prince that he wouldn’t leave them the hell alone.

  Luckily, the young guard reappeared in good time. “All’s well, your highness,” he reported. “The fire’s out. We can safely return.” Better yet, he had been mindful enough to bring along a quartet of horses for Marcus and his three guardsmen—at which the stablemaster’s face fell. Tossing him a silver halve, Marcus hauled himself onto the saddle and galloped off toward the palace, eager for news.

  Before long, he was riding through the equestrian tunnel beside the palace steps, which brought him to the royal stables. Leaving the borrowed horse in a groom’s care, he near-dashed up the steps to the Atrium.

  There’s an odd thing about bad news: it travels much faster than good news. Even stranger is that people never tire of hearing it. Courtiers took this maxim to new heights. The rumbling crowd rivaled that of the Falltide in size. They eagerly swapped rumors of what had happened—and true to form, none of them were good.

  “The whole thing, up in flames!” said one woman, her voice shrill and loud in a competing bid for people’s attention.

  But others had more tantalizing tidbits. “I spoke to a guard who was there—you should have seen the soot on his face!—but he said the fire spread so swiftly, none of the clerks had time to get out. Burned to a crisp, every last one of them!”

  Marcus almost stumbled. God, what’ve I done? He prayed it wasn’t true, but the gossip surrounding him quickly made his prayers into wishful thinking.

  A young man said to a friend, “The archives, completely gone, they’re saying. No one’s certain how the fire even started.”

  “I’d wager it was one of those clerks. He got clumsy a candle or something.”

  “Well we’ll never know now, will we? They’re too dead to tell us what happened.”

  Marcus quickened his pace to a stride, leaving the courtiers’ cruel laughter behind him. Everyone was saying the same thing, but he couldn’t bring himself to believe them. If it were true, there was no doubt in his mind that the fire had been no accident. Yet he couldn’t believe that Roslene could be cruel enough—evil enough—to burn those men alive, destroying centuries of vital records in the process.

  She wouldn’t do that. Not over a few slips of parchment, bearing the names of a few forgotten regiments.

  Would she, though?

  The doors of the Keep stood barred before him. “Open them,” he ordered a guard.

  “The Council of Highest is in session. I cannot—”

  “Open them,” he snarled, “or so help me, I’ll have you scraping barnacles off the fleet’s hulls for the rest of your life, and you’ll thank me on your knees for not doing what I could do, now open the God-damned doors!”

  “Of-of course, your highness,” the guard stammered. He signaled to the other guards, and four of them hauled the doors open just wide enough for Marcus to fit through.

  He strode across the octagonal foyer to stand before the doors of the Sanctum. This time, the guards offered no hint of resistance. Great hinges squealed, and Marcus plunged into the breach like some dauntless hero of old.

  Unlike them, however, he was faced not with hordes of bloodthirsty Glats or rock-worshipping pagans, but merely sour old men. Gathered around the table in the center of the chamber, they glared at the intruder with intense loathing. The king sat very still at the head of the table—and at his side was Roslene, fixing Marcus with a look that managed to be cool and piercing at the same time.

  “So good of you to join us, my lord prince,” said Lord de Martine as Marcus drew up to the table.

  He paid the arrogant bastard no mind. “Is it true, father? Are the archives gone?”

  Audric sat in his great chair at the end of the table. His grim expression drew new lines down his cheeks, underscoring his age. He looked at Marcus with wearied impatience. “Yes, Marcus, it is true.”

  “In fact,” chimed in Roslene, “we were just discussing the cause.” She said it neutrally, almost innocen
tly—but she was Roslene de Beauvais, queen of whores, mistress of deceit, and Marcus didn’t trust her worth a damn.

  He got right to the point. “What about foul play?”

  Roslene cut off through all other dialogue with, “Oh? Have you some reason for suspicion?”

  He did, but he couldn’t exactly come out and say it. Not when he was face to face with the guilty party. Not when she was scrutinizing him as well, searching for any sign that he knew her secret—whatever it was. So he made a reason up, if only to cover himself. “It seems awfully convenient that the whole archive would go up in flames all at once.”

  “Parchment burns,” Lord Isnell said in his blubber-filled voice.

  “Every clerk who worked there is dead.”

  Isnell’s meaty shoulders jiggled with his shrug. “Parchment burns quickly. It seems perfectly reasonable to assume that one of the clerks mishandled a lit candle. Certainly, even a small fire started by accident would spread quickly in such a place. There was no lack of parchment to feed it.”

  Marcus balled his fists. “Well isn’t this convenient? There’s no need to look further, we have dead men we can blame. Those clerks worked in that place all their lives, my lord. It strikes me as odd that one’s judgment would suddenly lapse, and lapse enough to cost them all their lives.”

  Isnell shifted his bulk in his seat, harrumphing. “In such matters, we must deal with evidence and not speculation—as you have surely learned through your duties as a hearer, my lord prince.” His tone smoldered with derision.

  “I don’t acknowledge your right to lecture me, Lord de Isnell,” Marcus snapped, all traces of diplomacy falling away. “Foul play can be disguised. You know that as well as I do.”

  “My lords, please.” Roslene held up her hands, playing the voice of reason, and playing it well. “Lord prince, your passion is commendable, but Lord de Isnell is correct. Given the testimony of the guards present, we have no evidence of foul play. The door was barred from the inside, and the men inside gave no alarm prior to the fire.”

  “Who were the guards posted outside the archive? Are they in custody?”

  “They are not, but we have noted their names,” the consort assured him with aggravating calmness. “They will be available for questioning in good time.”

  Marcus shook his head, scarcely able to believe that these people were willing to let the matter rest so easily. “Questioning by whom? Parliament, I hope. Surely this warrants a special session.”

  Roslene had an answer for that, too. “Parliament will be called to session, indeed. The king merely thought it prudent to discuss the matter with this council first.”

  A thought had been hanging in Marcus’s mind ever since he had stepped into the Atrium—since he had read through the archives, even—but now that quiet thought became a warning shout in his mind.

  It wasn’t just his father and Roslene. The whole Council of Highest was involved. Everyone in this room had something to hide. Yes, there were military rosters, census forms, and other records that could be replaced only through years of painstaking labor—but among the burned documents were tax records, marital contracts, death wills… all gone. The high lords suddenly had a clean slate, one they could rewrite to their advantage. They could marry their daughters into new families without need for divorce, claim annulment of all their standing debts, collect inheritance from even the most distant relatives. There was money to be made here, and plenty of it.

  And as for King Audric and his beloved consort, their secret was back in safe territory. Marcus still had his own copies of the half-incriminating documents, wedged between the pages of the least-read tomes in his study—but if he produced them as evidence, Roslene could now claim Marcus had forged them in hopes of making an early bid for the throne. The original, sanctioned copies were nothing but ash. And the only other people who had known of their existence were now dead—burned alive in their own workplace, after being locked in, likely as not.

  This whole episode reeked of foul play—but the fire had consumed any proof of it.

  Audric and Roslene had played their hand, and won.

  Marcus took a step back from the table. With a painful gulp, he swallowed his pride. “Discuss it, then,” he said with defiance that he no longer felt. This was a deadly game, one he was completely unprepared to dabble in. “I will take my leave. Good day, my lords. My lady.” With a solemn bow, he abandoned the chamber. Murmurs followed him out as Elessia’s rulers resumed their business, free at last of their prince’s meddling. As the doors shut behind him, it occurred to Marcus that his father’s voice was not among them.

  They sat on a bench beneath an ivy-hung arbor, thighs touching, looking for all the world like a pair of star-crossed lovers taking shelter in darkness. But appearances were ever deceiving. Their hissed conversation made the scene an illusion, created to deceive prying eyes.

  “You’re playing a dangerous game, Marcus.” In better lighting, Kaelyn’s expression might have been livid. Her tone was evidence enough though, sheathed as it was in anger—and behind it, well-concealed worry.

  He appreciated neither sentiment. “I know that,” he shot back. “But they’re hiding something. They proved it when they burned the archives.”

  “That should be the least of your concerns. They know you know. You want to know what you’re called at court right now? You’re the Boor Princeling. You’re arrogant, you’re self-righteous, you’re meddling. You are taking it much too far.”

  “Meddling?” Marcus demanded between his teeth. “A constable has more power than I do.”

  Kaelyn massaged her temples. “Yes, Marcus, but you have influence. The people love you. Everyone in the nobility knows it. That’s the reason they despise you so much. You’re a threat to them.”

  “Pleased to hear it.”

  “You shouldn’t be! They’ll fucking kill you, don’t you understand that? The archives, that’s nothing. You—”

  “Men are dead, Kaelyn! They were innocent!”

  “Yes, and you’re the only one who gives a damn!”

  There was little Marcus could say to a statement like that. He clamped his mouth shut and looked out over the orchards, doing his best not to sulk and failing miserably. He hated it, but the courtesan was right. “I have to follow this. I have to. It goes deeper than either of us knows. Those documents—”

  “I don’t want to know,” Kaelyn said flatly.

  He gnawed his tongue. “Fine.” For a few moments, it was quiet between them. Crickets and frogs chirped, competing with the crash of water cascading down the artificial falls. A cold wind blew, prompting Kaelyn to pull her thin shawl tighter around her. It was a decorative article, meant to please the eye before it was easily cast onto the floor. No good whatsoever for any practical purpose, save bringing her a step closer to fucking. “How’d the assignation fare?”

  “Short. Mercifully,” she said without looking at him. Marcus imagined that whatever the job had entailed, a good deal of sin had been involved.

  He frowned but chose not to comment. He wasn’t sure what to make of his sudden upwelling of regret. Was it for his sake, or hers? Even he didn’t know anymore. “What did those spy servants of yours ever find out, anyway?”

  A lock of crimson hair—turned black by the night—obscured her face. “I don’t know.” She inhaled deeply and sighed, “They’re dead.”

  Marcus felt a chill that had nothing to do with the wind. All of a sudden, the wisdom of her advice seemed much keener. “What happened?”

  “They got caught. I don’t know how. They used poison on themselves.” Concealed in a false tooth, Marcus warranted, or in vials lining their gums. “I was a fool to think my mother wouldn’t be on guard.”

  “I suppose we both should have known. She didn’t get to where she is today by being idle.”

  Kaelyn stared. “You need to let it go. Prince or not, they will kill you.”

  “They can try,” scoffed Marcus.

  She shook h
er head, accepting defeat. With another mighty sigh, she eased herself standing. “I’m exhausted. I need sleep.” She thought. “And a glass of wine.”

  Marcus chuckled despite himself and stood as well. He walked to the Atrium with her, between the columns, and into the vast space—all but empty, now that it was past midnight. Servants were scrubbing the floor of a day’s worth of dirt, and a few nocturnal courtiers still threw dice at the gaming tables. Jacquelyn was there too, curled and sleeping on the couch where he’d left her half an hour ago.

  He gently shook her awake. She stirred, grunted, and looked up at him with bloodshot eyes. “Is it morning?” she mumbled.

  “No,” he laughed. “Come on, get up. We’ll go.” He helped the girl up. She yawned behind her hand and straightened her dress, then her hair.

  He had thought Kaelyn was gone, but her voice said behind him, “Good night, your highness.”

  He turned—and her face was abruptly up against his, her fingers vice-like on his cheeks. Her tongue slithered into his mouth, and she moaned within hers, purely theatrical. Aghast, he broke away, but the damage was already done. The courtesan had claimed his end of the bargain, just as she had promised. “Done,” she purred. With a content smile, she turned and walked away.

  Marcus watched her leave, stricken and furious, reminded once again that while she played the part of a concerned friend, she was a woman first—envious and spiteful to the very last centime.

  “Goodbye, Marcus.” Jacquelyn brushed past him and strode off, following in Kaelyn’s wake, fists clenched at her side.

  Shit.

  He hurriedly followed, anticipating disaster. “Jacquelyn, wait. For God’s sake, stop.”

  She wouldn’t listen, of course, deafened to his pleas by rage. Even after months of knowing her, he hadn’t reckoned her capable of it—and now he was being proven a fool yet again, stuck in a quagmire of his own making. “Just a kiss,” he muttered, cursing his idiocy for what seemed the thousandth time in the past few months. “One fucking kiss…”

  Jacquelyn moved fast. He’d admired her shapely legs countless times, and now he was forcibly reminded that shapely meant strong as they quickly propelled her away, widening the gap between them with long strides. He quickened to a jog, racing after her with his heels clicking on the checkered marble tiles, passing column after identical column.

  She passed the entrance and veered left, toward the stairs leading to the stables. Marcus redoubled his speed—but by the time he’d caught up, Jacquelyn and Kaelyn were literally face to face.

  “You are a fucking cunt!” Jacquelyn screeched, jabbing a finger into the courtesan’s sternum. “You’re a whore past a whore!”

  Kaelyn impetuous smirk belied the frenzy in her eyes. “Oh, I’ve never heard that one before,” she taunted. “You think he’s yours? He’s had a hundred girls before you and guess what, they were better-looking and better-born, wench.”

  “And you’re better than me how?” Jacquelyn said with absolute scorn. “You spread your legs for coin! Just look at the way you waddle, both your fuckholes are wide as fists, you loose little harlot!”

  Marcus couldn’t help but gape. The horse grooms were spectating as well, peering out from the stables and the room windows just above. He sprang forward and pushed the two women apart—but even holding them at arm’s length couldn’t stop them from shouting.

  “Look how jealous you are,” sneered Kaelyn, her blood red hair a-fly. “Just because you know I’ve let him into me, you can’t stand me. Grow some bloody dignity.”

  “Says the whore!” Jacquelyn yelled right back.

  “How about your mother?”

  “That’s enough!” roared Marcus, so loud that it stunned the pair into fuming silence. “What in the hell is wrong with the both of you?” he demanded, much more quietly.

  They glared at him with mutual hatred. “You,” they said at once, though when they looked at each other, the utter contempt between them was undiminished.

  Without another word, Kaelyn whirled and took off, her skirts billowing behind her. She climbed into a waiting carriage, which promptly lurched forward and disappeared through the equestrian tunnel.

  Marcus looked at Jacquelyn, whose chest still heaved angrily beneath his palm. “Are you alright?” he asked nonetheless.

  Her jaw muscles clenched. “Get your hand off me.”

  He let it fall, reflecting on the oddity that he could face down all the lords of Elessia at his mother’s funeral, save a man from execution to the delight of a baying crowd, declare the king a lecher directly to his face—and still baulk before this one young woman. Words left him. He could only watch her.

  “I hate you,” she whispered. It sounded very much like she meant it. “If I ever want to talk to you again, I’ll tell you.”

  “Jacquelyn…”

  She dashed his hand away before it reached her. Then, without looking at him again, she strode off to the stables. She stood alone under the thatched roof, silhouetted by the lamplight within, hugging herself. A groom murmured something to her. She nodded, and the men quickly set to horsing a carriage for her.

  Marcus just watched, letting sorrow and guilt enfold him. He could still hear the two women in his life screaming venom, could still see the hatred burning in their eyes as they turned on him.

  “Your highness,” Gail said softly behind him. He had seen the whole thing, him and the other men-at-arms, but they had been wise enough to hang back. “We should leave.”

  He nodded soberly. “Kelly.” The veteran appeared beside him, the cleft in his scalp deepened by shadow. The prince dug a few coins from his purse, passed them to him. “Pay her fare. Make sure she gets home safe.”

  “No problem, your highness.”

  Marcus cast one final look at Jacquelyn. Before he turned away and began his lonesome walk to a cold night in his bed, he thought he saw tears glistening on her cheeks.