The High King's Tomb (19 page)

In any case, Birch kept Timas Mirwell bent to her will, and she did not interfere with the day-to-day management of the province. Travelers were kept out of the hills with rumors of outlaws preying on the unwary, which was not exactly untrue. The captain had to provide for his men somehow. To Grandmother’s mind, it all worked out satisfactorily.

“And you caught this woman eavesdropping?” Grandmother asked. She nudged the slack body with her toe.

“Yes.”

“Why didn’t you kill her?”

“The king expects occasional contact with her. If she totally vanished, he’d grow suspicious.”

“But she
has
vanished,” Grandmother countered. “She’s vanished to
here.
”

The captain scratched around his eye socket beneath the patch. “We could force her to write a message or something, so it appeared all was well.”

Grandmother sighed in exasperation. The spy would be too clever, manipulating any message they coerced her to write into revealing her predicament and Second Empire. It was clear to Grandmother that the captain had another agenda when it came to the spy, a personal agenda of retribution that overrode common sense. If she judged the situation right, the spy’s first affront had been becoming the former Lord Mirwell’s
closest
aide, dearer to him than Captain Immerez. Her second affront had been betraying the old schemer.

“Birch has been sending her out on maneuvers to keep her out of the way,” the captain said. “I suppose he can use that excuse if anyone comes looking for her.”

“Very well,” Grandmother said. The woman stirred with a little cry, then fell unconscious again. The captain had told her that the spy was actually a Green Rider, and it was known to Grandmother that Green Riders, at least historically speaking, had minor abilities with the art. “You know, since we do have this one, there is something I believe I’d like to try.”

“Try?” Captain Immerez asked in surprise.

“I’d like to see what I can learn about the Green Riders and their abilities.”

The captain rubbed the curve of his hook against his chin. “An interrogation would be challenging. She’s a master interrogator herself, and would know how to resist any questioning.”

Grandmother smiled. “It’s not really an interrogation I have in mind, more of a notion of an experiment I’d like to try. Gold chains…” Before she could lose herself in envisioning the procedure, the captain cleared his throat. “Yes?”

“I have something for you, carried all the way from Sacor City.” He withdrew a document case from beneath his cloak and proffered it to her with a low bow.

Grandmother clapped in delight. “Wonderful. You and your men have served me well.” She eagerly opened the case. Within lay a fragile, parchment document, scrawled with faint ink. She held it up, the lantern that hung from the center pole of the tent illuminating it with a deep golden glow. She frowned.

“What is it?” the captain asked. “What’s wrong?”

Grandmother sighed and closed the parchment in the case, and handed it back to him. “I can’t read it,” she said.

“You can’t read it?” He opened the case and looked at the parchment.

“Can you?” she asked him.

“N–no. It’s in a different language.”

“That would be ancient Sacoridian,” she told him. “I cannot read it, nor could any of my people here. If Weldon Spurlock were still alive, he might be able to, but he’s very much gone. I need a translation.”

“I–I see.”

“Do you? The parchment is worthless without it. How will you rectify the situation, Captain?”

“I’ll—I’ll find a way.”

“I would not wish for you to fail,” Grandmother said. “I am nearly done with the pouch, but I dare not use it until I have this parchment translated.” She pointed to the pouch, about the size of a finger, lying atop the skeins of yarn in her basket. She had knit all her different colors into it, the red, brown, indigo, and sky blue.

Immerez hooked his thumb into his swordbelt. “I do not understand why—”

“This parchment contains instructions for reading the book of Theanduris Silverwood. Books of magic sometimes require very specific instructions for their handling and reading. I would hate the book to destroy itself before it can be read because it was improperly handled.”

“I see,” the captain said. “I think I know where to find you that translation. It may take a while, though.” Without another word, he turned on his heel and left the tent.

“Don’t take too long,” she called out after him.

He was a clever man and she had confidence in him. He would find a way for her to translate the instructions. She put it out of her mind for now, gazing down at the spy, who lay at her feet, helpless and hurt. She could go back to her own fire and work on the pouch, which she could easily finish tonight, or make those booties for Amala’s baby that was due in a few weeks. But, when it came down to it, the project that intrigued her most concerned their captive and gold chains.

When she perceived someone watching her, she glanced at the tent flaps and saw light glinting in a pair of eyes. “Come, girl,” she told her granddaughter. “You can help me figure this out.”

Lala stepped into the tent, gazed down at the spy, then up at her grandmother. Yes, they would figure it out together.

O
ver the days that followed, Karigan’s usual strength returned. She sat in her room and wrote numerous versions of an angry letter to her father, all of which she wadded up and tossed into the fire. There just wasn’t any easy way to address his “association” with the Golden Rudder in letter form that did not make her sound insufferable, especially considering the subject matter. No, she’d have to discuss this with him in person. She was sorely tempted to sail down the Grandgent to Corsa while Fergal continued his recovery, but she dared not leave him unchaperoned for too long in the hands of the ladies of the Golden Rudder.

Besides, she was on king’s business, not her own, and she couldn’t afford the time a detour to Corsa would take. She sighed and crumpled up her latest and last version of the letter and fed it to the flames. She would have to see her father another time, or find another way to write her letter when her words were less fueled by anger.

Everyone seemed to sense her fury and stayed clear of her, even though it wasn’t really Silva or the inhabitants of the brothel that angered her. And while she was certainly upset with her father, she directed the worst of her rage at herself for having been so bloody naïve.

Her father had loved Kariny. She knew it with both her head and heart, but she’d been foolish to believe that their love had the power to trap him in time; to believe that memory was enough for him, that it quelled any need he might have for affection and physical release, even after so many years.

How stupid she’d been to expect her father to lead such an ascetic life.

But why, she wondered, did he have to
buy
affection? Why sully himself in such a way? Why disrespect what he had with her mother?

Karigan wasn’t sure if it was possible to understand. All she knew now was that she would never look at her father the same way again, and that he had shown her that her own ideals of love were little more than childish fantasies.

The strokes of the town bell drew her from her introspection. It was time for midmorning tea, which Rona made sure Karigan and Fergal enjoyed every day. Karigan left her room and strolled along the corridor, which was quite empty, and no surprise at that due to the nocturnal employment of those who lived here.

Downstairs she found the parlor, too, was empty, though a teapot, breads, cakes, and scones awaited her. She took a seat in a plush red velvet chair with an ornate cherrywood frame. Heavy drapes were tied back from the windows to reveal the dim autumn light on the street outside, and a fire crackled in the fireplace.

All the materials of the parlor were very fine, from the rich carpeting to the porcelain tea service. Karigan couldn’t help but check the maker’s mark on the bottom of a cup, only to discover it was made by Barden House, one of the finest producers of porcelain in L’Petrie Province, if not all of Sacoridia. There was even Barden porcelain in the king’s castle. She had looked.

Fine works of art adorned the walls, including a massive oil over the fireplace of the Grandgent in spring, lupine bursting with color along its banks and a fleet of sailing vessels on its waters. The artist was renowned across the provinces.

Karigan poured herself tea, and when Fergal hesitantly entered the room, she poured a second. For a change he was dressed in his uniform, and not the gentleman’s robe Silva had supplied him with. This was a good sign.

Karigan handed him his tea after he sat down. “How are you doing today?” she asked.

“Better.”

“Better enough to leave tomorrow?”

He nodded, and blew on his tea.

“Good.” Karigan exhaled with relief. The sooner they were away from the Golden Rudder, the better.

They sat in silence for a while, sipping tea and eating the sugary treats laid out before them. Finally Karigan decided to ask him about the incident.

“Fergal,” she said, “what do you remember about falling in the river? How did it happen?”

He stared morosely at his knees, a half-eaten scone in his hand.

“It’s all right,” Karigan reassured him, “we’ve all had accidents, done silly things. There’s no need to feel embarrassed about it. I could tell you a few stories myself.” She smiled, hoping her words would make him more comfortable.

“It didn’t rescue me.”

“What?”

“My Rider magic.”

“No,” she said, “it didn’t. Riders often have accidents and their special abilities don’t save them. It depends on the type of accident and the nature of their ability. Dale’s ability to find water, for instance, wouldn’t help her in a shipwreck.” She stopped then, hoping that what she was beginning to suspect was not true. He hadn’t jumped into the river on purpose, had he? Surely he wasn’t
that
stupid. Surely not. But judging by some of his other antics earlier on this journey…

“It wasn’t an accident, was it?”

He shook his head.

“You were hoping to force your ability to emerge by attempting to drown yourself.”

He nodded, still staring at his knees.

“You endangered your life and mine to do this.” Her voice was calm, but as cold as the river itself. “Your behavior also delayed king’s business and landed us in a brothel, which, if word ever gets out, will make the messenger service look foolish.” Then she laughed harshly. “I guess I’m the fool. I should have taken you back to Sacor City when I had the chance.”

Her teacup clattered into its saucer and she stood and strode out, not caring to see or hear Fergal’s reaction. She remembered how eager he had been for his ability to reveal itself. Becoming a Green Rider had started a whole new life for him, far from his father and the knacker’s shop, and it must have seemed to him he was not a full Rider without his ability. She applauded his desire to serve, but purposely throwing oneself into mortal danger and endangering others—namely herself—was inexcusable. She would not, could not, afford to be forgiving on this. There was plenty of danger in this line of work without inviting it.

She crossed the foyer and cut through the kitchen, brushing past a startled Rona, and headed for the inn’s stable and Condor’s stall. There she slipped on his bridle and mounted him bareback. She rode throughout the day, away from the brothel, away from Fergal, away from everything. She allayed her anger with exertion, riding hard up hill and down, weaving in and out of trees along woods trails, fording streams, following the river, riding till the sun began to set and her mind cleared like the sky after a storm.

W
hen she returned to the Golden Rudder’s stable yard, she found Fergal leading a fully tacked Sunny out onto the street.

Karigan halted Condor. “Where are you going?”

Fergal’s face paled when he saw her. “I’m going back. To Sacor City.”

“Oh?”

“You want to be rid of me, don’t you?”

“What I want seems irrelevant to you,” Karigan said. “What I’d like is for you to start acting like a Green Rider.” She swung her leg forward over Condor’s withers and slipped to the ground.

“I heard you didn’t even want to be a Green Rider,” Fergal said with heat in his voice. “You don’t even care about the messenger service. You tried to leave. I at least want to be one.”

She considered him long and hard, the darkness of his eyes, the rings beneath them no doubt from the exhaustion of trying to drown himself and fretting over her reaction. “It’s true,” she said. “I did not plan to be a Green Rider. Most who end up in the messenger service don’t. I grew up expecting to follow in my father’s footsteps as a merchant, and that’s all I wanted to be, but I hadn’t counted on the Rider call. What is untrue is that I don’t care about the messenger service. I care about serving the king and doing the best job I can. I care about how Riders are perceived in the world, and most important, I care about the people who serve with me. I have seen far too many of them die.”

Silence fell between them as Fergal sorted out her words. “I thought going back to Sacor City would be for the best.”

“Maybe for me, but not for you.” When he frowned, she continued, “Look, running away doesn’t help anything, and I should know—I’ve done enough of it myself. If you’re going to be a Rider, you need to face up to your mistakes and learn from them. Otherwise, you might as well surrender that brooch you’re wearing and forget about being a Green Rider. Believe me when I say there are far worse things out there to deal with than me, and if you can’t deal with me?” She shrugged.

“I want to be a Rider,” he said, fingering his brooch.

“Then,” Karigan said, “put Sunny back in her stall and go have some dinner. I want you at full strength tomorrow morning for travel. Then when you’re finished, go back to your room and look in your mirror, and perhaps you’ll see a Rider staring back at you. If you do, we’ll leave together. If not, you can return to Sacor City and explain yourself to Captain Mapstone.” When Fergal did not move, she added, “That’s an order, Rider, and if you ever attempt to drown yourself again, or anything as remotely idiotic, I shall see you removed from the messenger service so fast you’ll be on your way to your father’s knackery the day before yesterday.” With that, she led Condor into the stable.

These encounters were emotionally fatiguing and she wondered how the captain dealt with so many under her command, guiding their impulses, punishing their mistakes, and handling their personalities. She hated to lie to him about taking away his brooch and returning him to his father, but she knew of no other way of convincing him to behave.

Inside the stable she rubbed Condor down, noting most of the stalls were full, which they had not been when she left. Carriage horses and saddle horses, all of fine lines and breeding, munched on hay or watched her and Condor. The Golden Rudder looked to be busy this evening.

Fergal finally returned with Sunny, to Karigan’s relief, and started to untack her.

Good,
she thought.
He took time to think things over.
She patted Condor, and without a word to Fergal, left the stable for the inn.

Stepping up into the kitchen she found “busy” to be an understatement. She had to dodge cooks wielding dripping ladles and servants bearing platters of roast beef and boats of gravy, flagons of wine, and boards of cheese. She ducked and danced and back-hopped her way out of the kitchen and into the foyer.

“Whew,” she murmured, wiping her hand across her brow. She would see about getting her dinner later when the chaos died down. For now she’d retreat to her room. She paused to listen a moment to the talking, laughter, and clinking of tableware coming from the great hall and thought it could be a party at any grand house, but it was not, for this was a house of a different sort.

The bell jangled at the door and Rona hurried to answer it. Karigan bounded up the stairs two at a time, hoping to avoid being seen. She did not wish it to be generally known that Green Riders were staying at the Golden Rudder, though she suspected it was likewise true for most patrons of any brothel. Her father had kept
his
secret well enough.

When she reached the landing, she careened into the arms of a man who reeked of whiskey.

“Well, my lovely!” he said. “Come to entertain me instead of Loni?”

Karigan tried to extract herself from his embrace, but he only tightened it. “I’m not your lovely,” she protested.

He puckered his lips to smooch her, but she twisted her face away. “I
don’t
work here.”

“I won’t tell anyone if you don’t,” the man said.

Karigan was ready to put into use some of the defensive moves she learned from Drent, but Trudy appeared just in time, striding down the corridor at a great clip, skirts swishing and arms swinging at her sides.

“Master Welles!” she chided. “You must release Karigan this instant—she’s a guest.”

“But I like her,” the man said.

Karigan grimaced as his whiskey-laden breath flowed into her face.

“If you don’t release her right now,” Trudy declared, hands on her hips, “you know Silva will cast you out and you won’t be invited back.”

“Aw, all right, all right,” he said, but he did not release Karigan without planting a wet smooch right on her lips.

“Master Welles!” Trudy cried.

“Bleah,” Karigan said.

The man giggled like a schoolboy, while Karigan scowled in disgust and wiped the residue of whiskey off her mouth with the back of her hand.

Master Welles staggered and put his hand out to the wall to hold himself up. Trudy rolled her eyes.

“Would you help me?” she asked Karigan, taking one of the man’s arms. “I want him in room thirteen.”

“Um, all right.”

Karigan took Master Welles’ other arm and the two of them guided the unsteady man down the hall.

“Didya know I’m the harbor master?” he asked Karigan.

“No,” she replied.

“Well, I am.” He sounded very proud, as he should. The harbor master was a significant position in any port town. And, Karigan supposed, the harbor master was exactly the kind of important gentleman the Golden Rudder catered to. She wondered what his fellow citizens would think if they saw him now.