The Hollow Queen (4 page)

“Talquist must die.” The Bolg king opened one last scroll.

“Understood. How do you plan to bring that about? Especially since you've already acknowledged that it would be a mistake for our armies to attack Sorbold?”

Achmed spread the scroll out and weighted it down at the edges. “I said nothing about armies. I'm going alone.”

Gwydion swallowed the bile that had risen in the back of his throat. It took him a moment to form calm words.

“While I have no doubt that you know what you are doing, it would be highly enlightening to hear how you intend to do so.”

“Do you see this?” The Bolg king displayed what Gwydion saw was a detailed map of the terrain surrounding Jierna Tal, the towering palace in which the emperors of Sorbold had reigned for centuries uncounted, and pointed to the mountainous surroundings that served as natural defenses to the city of Jierna'sid, Sorbold's capital seat.

Gwydion nodded.

“What exactly do you see?”

“A place designed by the All-God to be unassailable,” Gwydion said.

Achmed snorted softly. “If you say so.” He ran his leather-gloved finger across a particularly savage-looking part of the mountain range, where jagged peaks ringed a vast chasm that had been carved by an ancient river in a long-forgotten age, separating the inner part of the highlands from the guardian ridge at the edge of the Krevensfield Plain with a seven-league-wide gulf two thousand feet deep.

At the top of the inner ridge of that gulf stood the palace of Jierna Tal, its fabled thousand-foot-high tower facing the southwestern vista.

“Truly brilliant planning,” Achmed said. “Position a tower on the edge of an interior chasm two thousand feet deep, the tower itself a thousand feet high, the only place in the land that needs no human guard, because the terrain is so forbidding. Inexpensive to guard, but a vast view if one is needed.”

He smirked at the blank look on Gwydion's face.

“Send me your best leathermaker, a tanner with an eye for color.”

When Gwydion's expression turned quizzical, Achmed handed him a sheet of parchment on which the strata and geologic compositions of the Sorbold mountain range had been carefully annotated.

“Have you studied the rock formations of the Teeth?”

“Modestly,” said Gwydion. “Why?”

“The bedrock of those mountains is sedimentary—limestone, dolomite, and silica.”

Gwydion nodded. “Pyrite and metallic copper as well,” he said. “Some of Sorbold's greatest treasures are the minerals that slaves are mining at this very moment. Anborn and I saw great ships full of them being off-loaded in the Nonaligned States, in Windswere and the like, ships and wagons containing entire cities full of people.”

“Indeed. Back now to the rocks. In the fireborn strata of those mountains, feldspar and mica are plentiful. Granite, slate, and serpentine bands make up the Inner Teeth. Are you familiar with the colors of these rocks?”

“Many of them—the metallics mostly.”

“Good. Wake up that tanner and tell him to bring me color samples of everything he has available in the colors of the stones.”

Gwydion nodded again, rose, and left the room for a moment, returning forthwith.

“A deliveryman will be here shortly with the samples, sire.”

Achmed went to the coatrack where his cloak hung, and pulled it from the hook with a sweep. He crossed the room quickly and laid the garment in Gwydion's arms.

“This tanner—I assume he has an assistant? Staff?”

The young duke nodded. “Actually, the tanner is a woman, and extraordinarily gifted. She has a full staff of cutters, assemblymen, beamers, embroidery men, swabbers, buffers, and bucktailors. While my knowledge of geology is minimal, my father saw to it that I understood leathermaking from an early age, as it is one of the major industries of my province.”

“Good. Then please identify the most trustworthy of them, and command them to prepare for an evening shift stretching into night. Take the cloak and have them pattern it to one and a half times its current size. Hooded, with an internally seamed tie.”

“Should I send for more food, then?” Gwydion asked humorously, trying to compensate for his sweating hands. “It sounds like you are looking to double your size.”

“Clearly not, or I would have asked that the pattern be twice the current cloak, not half again. It is very important that the leather also be as water-resistant as it is possible to make it. The workmanship should be judged by its solidity, not its appearance, except for its color. I'm not looking for pretty work, just strong—and in the right colors. As soon as the samples get here, I'll make selections and they can get started at once. I will need two cloaks, to be finished no later than two hours past midnight. And be certain, once again, that you choose only those workmen whose silence can be trusted.”

“It will be done.”

Achmed nodded, satisfied. “Thank you. And while that is being undertaken, because even the best-laid plans sometimes go awry, I will tell you the story of MacQuieth's Wings. Just in case.”

“Just in case what?”

“Do you have any more of that brandy?”

“Absolutely. I'll ring for the chamberlain.”

“Leave him to bed. He is a dolt, a poor replacement for Gerald Owen. What happened to him, by the way?”

“Gerald?” Gwydion asked. “He died in his sleep, actually, while I was in battle north of Sepulvarta. His heart gave out, I imagine, though it was so big and strong it's hard to believe. He was an elderly man, of course, having devoted so much of his life to three generations of our family. I miss him terribly. I am grateful that Melly is not here; he was the one constant in her life. I'm glad to be able to spare her the pain of his loss for a short time, anyway.”

“Hmmm,” the Bolg king said noncommittally. “I hope that was the case.”

“You've reason to doubt that it was?” The young duke went suddenly cold.

“I always doubt that convenient natural death is natural. There's nothing you can do about it now, so if I were you I would not spend too much time contemplating that possibility. Now, if you would kindly attend to what I've asked of you with the leather mistress—”

Gwydion was already on his way out the door.

 

5

When the duke of Navarne returned sometime later, another glass of the cordial in his hand, Achmed had already returned each of the documents he had read to the shelves and drawers of Ashe's library and was sitting on one of the settees in front of the fire, lost in thought.

Silently, Gwydion handed him the drink.

“Do you remember the bay gelding I had delivered to you two years back?” The Bolg king's voice was full of memory.

“Of course.” Gwydion sat down on the other settee and glanced at the fire. It was burning low, almost to the stage of coals.

“Have you looked in on him as I asked of you?”

“Not recently,” Gwydion admitted. “I did so regularly before I went into battle.”

Achmed nodded. “And I assume he is still stabled separately from all but your elite bloods?”

“Yes, of course. Just as you asked. I admit his presence has always been strange to me; a horse of that caliber, groomed meticulously and exercised regularly, but never ridden formally or called in to any use.”

“He is one of MacQuieth's Wings,” the Bolg king said, still staring into the fire himself.

“MacQuieth's Wings?”

It took a long time for the Bolg king to speak again. When he did, his voice was dry and soft.

“In the old world, the hero named MacQuieth was known for many skills, but the one I was able to assess and figure out was his ability to fly.”

“Fly?”

“It was believed that he actually could, because he seemed to be able to pass through great distances in befuddlingly short amounts of time. It was really quite extraordinary; he could traverse the island of Serendair, which was almost half the size of the Middle Continent, in little more than three days.”

“Three days? That seems all but impossible. No wonder it was believed that he could fly.”

“At least some of his remarkable speed was due to a carefully built and maintained network of outstanding horseflesh, quartered in secret at various points across the island. MacQuieth knew the terrain of Serendair better than all but the most accomplished of foresters, and his brain was uniquely mathematical. He was able to synthesize the logistics of time and distance with an understanding of the lay of the land.

“He had determined a route of hubs that allowed him to travel not as the crow flies, obviously, but very close to it in terms of its efficiency and speed. I have to admit that, while
no one
would think to accuse me of being a fanciful man, I was secretly disappointed to discover the reality of MacQuieth's Wings. But that was a long time ago, long before I was named king and had a population to guard, a realm to protect. Now I am grateful for the knowledge of that ancient hero's system, which I've duplicated as best as I could in this new world. It took me less than a sennight to arrive here from Ylorc, in spite of the fact that the regular journey along the trade route is a fortnight and a half in good weather and conditions.”

“Remarkable.”

“Not really,” said Achmed. “It is merely good planning. Good planning usually pays off, though not always, of course. It is in those times when it doesn't that I am most aware of how vulnerable we all are in the world. The best you can do after the last plan is carefully laid is to lay your wager well, and be ready for the time your card doesn't come up when the deck is cut.”

He rose slowly and stretched his body meticulously, like a patient cat.

“Now, if you will be so kind, I would like to see that guest room you promised me for the night. Wake me the moment the cloaks are done.”

“I will,” said Gwydion. “I shall await their completion and bring them to you myself.” He stood and rang for the chamberlain.

“Thank you. Remember—no later than two hours past midnight. I need to be gone beyond the sight of anyone at Highmeadow before First-light.”

“Sleep well.” Gwydion hesitated, then blurted out the question he had pondered for hours.

“Er—Tristan Steward?”

Achmed turned and looked at him coolly. “Yes?”

“What—what should I tell Lady Madeleine? His wife?”

“I would leave that to your godfather when he gets back,” Achmed said. “He's a much better liar than you are. And if he doesn't come back and you judge intervention to be necessary, I would tell her that he died bravely serving the Alliance. All those Cyrmians wouldn't recognize the truth anyway.”

He turned again and followed the nervous Manus out the door.

OVER THE NORTHERN BORDER, STEPPES OF SORBOLD

Dranth was dreaming, something he could not remember having done in so long that it was as if it were the first time.

He was wrapped in a dark camp blanket beneath a brindleberry bush, his unconscious mind methodically making schematics and escape routes for a panopoly of situations that might occur within the palace of Jierna Tal. Had Dranth been conscious, he would have been undertaking the same chain of thought.

He had already determined that he was prepared to sacrifice Yabrith if worse came to worst, though that would be an unfortunate turn of events. Though no one in the Raven's Guild considered Yabrith to be a solo operator, he had the long-term memory of the organization at the edge of his consciousness, and he had been a favorite of Esten, the legendary guildmistress, when she was still alive.

It had never ceased to amaze Dranth that a man of such little repute as Yabrith would be welcome in the guildmistress's bed, but then, Esten had cravings for which even the most cold-blooded of men had reservations. At one time or another, virtually every member of the guild had serviced the guildmistress, often as a rite of initiation, and on many more than one occasion, a poor performance in that regard had led to a quick burial later in the night.

Apparently Yabrith had been satisfactory, at least.

The image of Esten's rotting head, worm-ridden eye sockets and beetles in her hair, stuffed summarily into a small packing crate and wrapped casually in paper, delivered to his doorstep, still haunted the guild scion. Because his dreams were rare, he was spared the thought of it at night. But during the day, when his mind had finished all the calculations and algorithms that kept him routinely alive, when his thoughts had free space, the memory of her face would return, staring at him blindly, hissing at him with a mouth where the tongue had rotted out.

Avenge me,
it whispered.

Dranth rolled over to free his shoulder of the rock that was bedeviling it on the cold, sandy ground and groaned in his sleep.

He had tried.

He had failed.

But until his last breath, he would continue to prosecute the blood oath.

Until his last breath.