The Thief Queen's Daughter

  Ida managed to put aside her serious dislike of bones, which the box was full of, and piece the lid of the box back together so we could bury it to end the haunting. So whenever she takes my things, I try to remember that she’s been of great help, she’s very talented, and like Char, she’s an orphan with no idea even what her real name is.

  Or at least I think she is. I really know very little about her. She keeps pretty much to herself and has no close friends.

  That prevents me from stomping on her.

  But believe me, I’m tempted on a daily basis.

  * * *

  “Well, that was piggish, Ida—I saw you scarf down at least a dozen of your own,” Char said indignantly. He turned to Ven, who was crestfallen. “There’s a little leftover porridge in the kitchen still. It’s cold, but it’s only a little bit lumpy.”

  “Great,” Ven muttered.

  Mrs. Trudy Snodgrass, the innkeeper, appeared at the top landing of the stairs. She was a small, roundish woman with red hair that was just beginning to turn gray around the temples. Char and all the other sailors on her husband’s ships were terrified of her.

  “Well, lookee here, Sleeping Beauty wakes,” she said. “Glad you’re finally up, Ven. I have some hinges that need fixin’. Get your tools when you’re done with breakfast.”

  “I’m done now, Mrs. Snodgrass.” Ven glared at Ida. “I’ll go to the shed and get them.”

  Outside the inn, a loud rumbling sound could be heard. It seemed to be growing closer, gaining volume, the rattling of wood and the clopping of horses’ hooves shattering the peace of the morning.

  “What’s all that racket about, now?” Mrs. Snodgrass demanded. The displeasure in her voice made Char shiver.

  He ran to one of the front windows and peered out.

  “Blimey, Ven, your day is just gettin’ better by the moment,” he said nervously. “I think you’re ’bout to get arrested again.”

  2

  A Royal Invitation

  VEN RAN TO THE WINDOW. HE PUSHED CHAR OUT OF THE WAY AND peered outside.

  Standing in the crossroads beyond the inn was an enormous carriage. Its walls were painted a glossy black, with golden carvings above the door and on the wheel spokes. It was flying the standard of the king, a pale blue flag on which a silver star was emblazoned. The team of eight identical black horses pulling it was just coming to a stop, their harnesses trimmed with bells. Two soldiers stood on the boards at the back, with two more up front next to the driver. Behind the carriage were four more soldiers on horseback.

  “Blimey,” Char whispered again. “They must think you done something really dangerous this time.”

  Mrs. Snodgrass bustled down the stairs. She grabbed a soup ladle from Felitza, the kitchen girl who was standing there in shock, then hurried to the door and pulled it open.

  The soldier standing on the porch froze, his hand in a fist at the height of her face, ready to knock.

  “What in the name of all that is good is going on here?” the innkeeper demanded.

  “Good morning,” the soldier said. “We’re here for Ven Polypheme.”

  “Oh you are, are you now?” said Mrs. Snodgrass, standing on her tiptoes to stare the soldier down. Char ducked behind Felitza at the sight of her face. “I thought the constable was finished harassing Ven. I’ll not have you bothering my guests with trumped-up charges. You’ll have to go through me if you’re going to arrest him again.” She waved the soup ladle at the soldier menacingly.

  The soldier smiled awkwardly. “We’re not here to arrest anyone, ma’am,” he said. “We’ve come with a personal invitation from the king. He wishes to see Ven at the palace at once.”

  Mrs. Snodgrass’s face softened, and the terrifying expression left. “Well, that’s different, then.” She handed the ladle back to Felitza and turned to Ven. “Seems the king wants to see you.”

  Ven nodded, trying to contain his excitement.

  “All right then,” said Mrs. Snodgrass. “But when you get back, you still need to tend to those hinges.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Ven said quickly. He turned to Char. “You want to come with me?”

  Char shook his head. “You’re the Royal Reporter. Not me.”

  “No, he’s just the Royal Pain,” called Ida from the back of the inn.

  The soldier shook his head as well. “The invitation’s for you alone, Master Polypheme. We’ll be waiting at the carriage whenever you’re ready.” He backed out of the inn carefully, his eye still on the soup ladle, and closed the door behind him.

  “Brush your hair,” Mrs. Snodgrass said as she made her way to the kitchen. “And go put on a clean shirt. It isn’t every day that one is summoned to the palace. Brush your teeth, too.”

  “Don’t need to,” Ven muttered as he headed past Ida to the back door. “Didn’t have any breakfast.”

  Ida snickered and went back to scraping her boots.

  * * *

  One of my greatest blessings—and curses—is my curiosity. It has run like fire through my veins ever since I can remember. Almost everything intrigues me to the point that I can’t resist thinking about it. And when I’m feeling curious, my head itches or my skin tingles so that I look like I’m scratching fleas. It’s quite annoying, but it’s part of who I am.

  As I ran back to Hare Warren, my head felt like it would explode off my neck. The king had said he would have assignments for me as his Royal Reporter, interesting places or people or things he would want me to investigate and write about in my journal.

  But I had no idea it would happen so fast.

  I was so excited I don’t even remember what I did to get ready, though I’m pretty sure I stopped in the privy. All I know is that a few moments later I was back inside the inn, standing in front of Mrs. Snodgrass.

  She was holding two packets of ginger cookies wrapped in waxed parchment.

  * * *

  “If you’re going to see the king, you’ll be crossing over the bridge at the Great River,” Mrs. Snodgrass said. She handed him the cookies. “You’ll want to stop before you go across and leave these at the riverbank for the trolls.”

  “Trolls?” Ven asked.

  The small lady pulled herself up straight.

  “Of course,” she said indignantly. “Every self-respecting bridge has a troll or two living underneath it. Didn’t your mother tell you anything?”

  “Trolls like cookies?” Ven asked, amused.

  Mrs. Snodgrass shrugged. “Seem to,” she said. “I’ve never heard of anyone getting eaten or disappearing who remembered to leave them some.”

  Otis, the bald barkeeper, looked up from washing glasses and cleared his throat.

  “Superstition,” he muttered as he dried off the bar with a clean towel. “Myth. Legend. Horsefeathers. Nonsense.”

  “Is it just superstition, Mrs. Snodgrass?” Ven asked. “It sounds a little far-fetched.”

  “Well, perhaps it is at that, young sir. Perhaps it is just myth and legend,” Mrs. Snodgrass answered darkly. “But do you want to take the chance?”

  Otis snorted in disgust. “Been traveling that road for fifty years, boy. Cross the bridge daily. Never seen any trolls.”

  Mrs. Snodgrass raised an eyebrow.

  “Pfft! That’s probably because they seen you first,” she said. “Even the fiercest, ugliest, nastiest troll would be frightened off by that mug o’ yours. Now get back to work.”

  “Hmmph,” said the barkeeper. He returned to washing the glasses.

  Mrs. Snodgrass waved the cookies again. “Well? Do you want ’em or not?”

  Ven took the waxed parchment packages. “They certainly can’t hurt,” he said. “Thank you, Mrs. Snodgrass.”

  “One package for each time you cross. Don’t get hungry and eat them on the way back.”

  “I won’t,” Ven said. I’m already starving, he thought miserably.

  Mrs. Snodgrass took hold of his chin and turned his face from side to side, examining it.

  *
* *

  Exactly the way my mother used to.

  * * *

  She ran a finger over the one whisker on his chin, looked behind his ears, then nodded as if satisfied. Ven turned red with embarrassment. That whisker was the first sign that his beard had finally arrived. But the fact that it was alone on his face only served as a reminder that he was far behind where other boys his age would be. It was almost unheard of among the Nain not to have a full beard by the time a lad turned fifty.

  “All right then, off you go,” she said, releasing his face. “Mind your manners with the king.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Ven turned to Char, whose eyes were as round as saucers. “I’ll tell you all about it when I get back. After I get my chores done, that is.”

  “Be careful, mate,” Char cautioned.

  “I will,” Ven promised. “See you later.”

  He hurried out of the inn where the carriage was waiting, a footman holding the door open. He climbed inside, set the cookies down on the seat, and sat down himself as the footman closed the door.

  * * *

  The last time I had been put in a coach and taken to the palace I was under arrest. That coach was nothing like this carriage. The walls inside this one were painted with a silvery coating that made it very bright inside. In addition, next to the door on both sides were two lanterns, unlit because it was daylight still. The seats were padded with thick blue cushions and the floor with a twisted rope rug.

  I felt a little bit like a king myself.

  * * *

  “Yah!” the coachman shouted.

  The carriage shuddered, and started to roll forward.

  Ven sat back against the cushioned seats and watched out the window as the inn grew smaller and the green fields all around grew wider.

  He continued to watch the scenery as the sun rose higher in the sky, burning off the last of the dew. The royal carriage rumbled past other travelers, people in carts and on horseback, who all moved out of the way as the team of eight horses clattered down the road.

  Finally, after what seemed like forever to Ven, they came to the Great River. Ven could hear the noise of it from a good distance away. He stood up and leaned out the window.

  “Excuse me,” he called to the coachman and the soldiers sitting above him. “Could you stop for a moment, please?”

  One of the soldiers turned, then nodded, and the carriage rolled to a stop.

  Feeling foolish, Ven picked up one of the packets of cookies and opened the door. He climbed out of the carriage and hurried down to the banks of the rushing river.

  * * *

  The last time I was here, the constable had told me that the Great River divided Serendair into two parts, Westland, where the inn and Kingston are, and the lands beyond it to the east. Up the river to the north were great mill towns, where the harvest of grain is ground into flour and meal. He said that the mill towns were exciting places I should see, assuming I ever got out of jail.

  I was curious to see what was up the river. I was curious to see what was beyond it on the other side as well. My skin was itching like I was covered in ants.

  * * *

  The river was very wide. The water moved fast, rushing in frothy currents under the bridge, where it pooled for a moment, then hurried by.

  Carefully Ven climbed down the riverbank, trying to keep from slipping. He made his way to the foot of the bridge, but saw nothing that could be a sign of trolls, or anything else, living under it. He quickly placed the cookies on the riverbank next to the bridge, then hurried up the gravelly bank to the carriage again.

  “I’m ready,” he said to the soldier holding the door. “Thank you for stopping.”

  “Not a problem,” said the soldier. “When you’ve got to go, you’ve got to go.”

  “Er, no,” Ven began, but then he looked to the other side of the bridge where two more of the soldiers were coming back up the bank. He shook his head and climbed into the carriage again.

  The sun was high in the sky when at last they came to the tall rocky cliffs where the castle Elysian stood. More steps than Ven could count were carved into the crags, zigging, zagging, and winding all the way up to the gleaming white palace at the top.

  At the bottom of the rocky cliff, and growing up its face, stood an immense forest of trees, all reaching to great heights. Ven had seen these trees a few times before and was fascinated by them. They seemed different from normal trees, as if they had been carved from stone, except that they were green and purple and blue and brown, and hummed as if they were singing.

  Jutting from the front of the cliff was a giant irregular rock formation that seemed to be naturally formed in the shape of a man’s face, craggy and bearded. Ven knew this formation was called the Guardian of the Mountain. It had appeared in the rocky cliffs on the day the king had moved into the new palace. One of Serendair’s legends said that the face in the cliff wall was there to watch over the new king and keep him from harm.

  The carriage rolled to a stop to the sound of trumpets at the barracks of soldiers that stood guard at the base of the battlements leading up to the castle.

  The door swung open. The soldier who had come to the door of the inn stood in the doorway. “You ready for the big climb?” he asked.

  “Ready,” said Ven.

  He followed the guards up the mammoth stairway carved into the cliff, past the huge rocky outcropping that formed the face of the Guardian of the Mountain. He stopped every now and then to catch his breath and admire the view of the sea rolling in the distance, with the wide green fields and forests below.

  At last they came to the top and were admitted through the palace gates.

  Ven was led through the vast courtyard and into the gleaming palace, down long hallways lined with tapestries, to the throne room, where a dozen or more men and women were waiting, some examining the tapestries, others staring at the high ceilings, many of them looking bored.

  In the midst of the waiting people, a man was gesturing to him. Ven recognized him as Galliard, the king’s Vizier.

  Galliard made his way through the crowd to Ven. He was a tall, thin man with a hooked nose and a sour expression. He had dark eyes and long hair bound back with a tiny gold chain, and was dressed in midnight blue robes that were embroidered in all sorts of odd shapes. In his hand was a long staff of dark wood on top of which was carved an eye.

  “Good afternoon,” he said haughtily. There was no warmth in the greeting.

  * * *

  Everything Galliard says to me seems unpleasant. But then, so does everything Galliard says to everyone, including the king. That’s just his way.

  King Vandemere once told me that Galliard was of the race known as the Kith, people who are at home in the wind, and are therefore harsh the way the wind can sometimes be. Galliard is studying to be a Vizier, an advisor of sorts. He has the talents of hearing things the wind has heard, and seeing things that are far away, so he is a very valuable counselor to the king.

  Even if he is a sourpuss.

  * * *

  “Good afternoon, Galliard,” Ven said.

  “The king is running very far behind on his audiences today,” Galliard said. “Even I am waiting. It may be an hour or more until he is ready to see you. He left word that you should go out and amuse yourself in the gardens until you are summoned.”

  “Oh. All right,” Ven said. “Thank you for letting me know. How do I get to the gardens?”

  Galliard pointed down the hall. “Through the gates at the end.” Then he turned and went back through the crowd to be nearest to the throne room doors.

  Ven went down the hall to the gates leading into the gardens. He stepped through them, out of the cool shade of the building into the bright sunlight.

  Beyond the entrance was a vast outdoor patio that was surrounded by rolling green lawn. The gardens, like the palace itself, were new, and all around them were dozens of workers, dressed in dark trousers, white shirts, and wide hats, planting and weeding and hoei
ng the beds.

  Ven wandered down the path paved with stones of glorious colors. All along that path were baby evergreen bushes around which wire cages had been sculpted in the shapes of marvelous beasts, unicorns and dragons and sea serpents and lions with wings. The shoots of a few of the bushes growing outside the cages were being trimmed by the gardeners. Ven could tell that one day the cages would be taken away and the evergreens themselves would be in the same shape as the beasts.

  In front of him was a central garden, like many others in the wide lawn that led to a tall wall at the edge of the cliff. Off this central garden were five smaller ones, each dedicated to one of the elements. Ven stopped in the garden that was being planted in the colors of fire, admiring the red and orange plumes of the flowers, and the bushes with crimson and gold leaves.

  One of the many gardeners was shaking mulch around the flame-colored bushes.

  “Enjoying your day, sir?” the gardener asked.

  “Yes, thank you,” Ven replied.

  The man looked up from under his wide straw hat and smiled broadly. His blue eyes twinkled.

  It was the king.

  “Your—Majesty?” Ven asked, his voice choked.

  The king put his finger to his lips.

  “Come with me,” he said.

  Ven obeyed, following the disguised monarch through the gardens of earth, wind, water, and ether, and all the way back to the rear of the palace, where an enormous hedge maze stood.

  The king glanced around and, seeing no other workers nearby, motioned for Ven to follow him into the hedge.