The Queen of the Tearling (11 page)

“But this is a trading road. How does anyone get a caravan through?”

“It's not always so crowded, Lady.”

They rode past sunset and well into the night, long after most other travelers had made camp. For a while, fires dotted the sides of the road, and Kelsea could hear talking and singing as they passed, but soon the fires began to go out. From time to time, Kelsea thought she heard hooves far behind them, but she could never be sure, and when she turned around there was only darkness. As they rode, she asked Mace various questions about the current state of her government. He answered each one, but Kelsea sensed that he was being very circumspect, each answer heavily edited. Still, the little information she got was grim.

Most of the Tear population was hungry. The agriculture that Kelsea had seen spread out across the Almont Plain was subsistence farming at best; all extra food went to the landowner, who then sold the produce on for profit, either in the markets of New London or, via the black market, to Mortmesne. There was little justice to be found for the poor. The judicial system had largely broken down under the weight of corruption, and most of the honest judges had been conscripted into other government jobs. Kelsea felt her own poor preparation, almost a physical weight now upon her shoulders. These were problems that needed to be fixed, and quickly, but she didn't know how to do it. Carlin had taught her so much history, but not enough politics. Kelsea had no idea how to wrangle anyone to do her will.

“You said we were fey, Lazarus. I don't know that word; what does it mean?”

“My ancestors were pre-Crossing Scottish. ‘Fey' means seeing your own death and exulting in it.”

“That doesn't sound like me.”

“Perhaps it's only something in your eyes, Lady.”

As they rounded another bend, Kelsea thought she heard hooves again. It wasn't her imagination; Mace halted his horse abruptly and twisted around to stare behind them.

“Someone's back there. Several riders.”

Kelsea couldn't see anything. There was only a hint of moon in the sky, and she'd never had very good night vision; Barty could run rings around her in the dark. “How far?”

“Maybe a mile.” Mace tapped his fingers on his saddle for a moment, debating. “There isn't enough foliage here to provide good cover, and it's safer for us to travel most of the night and then rest in the morning. We'll go on, but if they begin to close the distance, we'll leave the road and take our chances. Let's speed up a bit.”

He started forward again, and Kelsea followed. “Couldn't we leave the road now and let them pass by?”

“Risky, Lady, if they're tracking us. But I doubt they're Caden or even Mort. I've seen no hawks, and I think our trail is cold. Your rescuer, whoever he was, did the job admirably.”

Mention of the Fetch jolted Kelsea, and she realized, not without some self-satisfaction, that she hadn't thought of him in at least a few hours. Her wish for more information about him warred with the desire to keep his identity a secret for her alone, a brief battle before she crushed the second impulse, furious at herself. “He told me he was called the Fetch.”

Mace chuckled. “I had my suspicions, even blindfolded.”

“Is he such a great thief as he claimed?”

“Greater, Lady. Tear history boasts plenty of outlaws, but none like the Fetch. He's stolen more goods from your uncle than I've owned in my lifetime.”

“He said there was a high price on his head.”

“Fifty thousand pounds, at last count.”

“But who is he?”

“No one knows, Lady. He first appeared some twenty years ago, mask and all.”

“Twenty years?”

“Aye, Lady. Twenty years precisely. I remember it well, because he stole one of your uncle's favorite women when she went shopping in the city. Then, several months later, your mother announced her pregnancy.” Mace chuckled. “Probably the worst year of your uncle's life.”

Kelsea mulled this information over. The Fetch must be far older than he appeared. “Why hasn't he been caught, Lazarus? Even if he has the luck of the devil, that sort of flamboyance should have brought him down long ago.”

“Well, he's a hero to the common people, Lady. Anytime someone manages to rob the Regent, or one of the nobles, the world assumes it's the Fetch. Every piece of rich man's fortune lost endears him to the poor.”

“Does he distribute the money to the poor?”

“No, Lady.”

Kelsea settled back into her saddle, disappointed. “Has he stolen a great amount?”

“Hundreds of thousands of pounds worth.”

“Then what does he do with that money? For certain, I saw none of it in that camp. They were living in tents, and their clothing had seen better days. I'm not even sure they—”

Mace clamped a hand on her arm, silencing her midsentence. “You
saw
?”

“What?”

“You weren't blindfolded.”

“I'm not such a fearsome warrior as you are.”

“Did you see his face? The Fetch?”

“I'm not blind, Lazarus.”

“You misunderstand, Lady. They didn't blindfold me for the ferocity of my reputation. The Regent can't catch the Fetch because he's never been able to procure a likeness of him, nor any of his men. The Fetch has nearly killed the Regent twice in my memory, but even he couldn't get a glimpse of the Fetch's face. No one knows what the man looks like, unless it's those who wouldn't betray him for any number of pounds.”

Kelsea looked up at the stars, bright points blanketing the sky over her head. They gave her no answers. She'd been growing sleepy, swaying in her saddle, but now she found herself wide-awake again. She should create a likeness of the Fetch at the earliest opportunity, or describe him to someone who could truly draw. And yet she knew that she would do neither of these things.

“Lady?”

Kelsea took a deep breath. “
I
wouldn't betray him for any number of pounds.”

“Ah, Christ.” Mace halted his horse in the middle of the road and simply sat there for a moment. Kelsea could feel his disapproval; it was like being in the corner of Carlin's library, where Kelsea used to curl up and try to hunch into as small a ball as possible when she didn't know the answer. How Carlin would react to this latest development? Kelsea decided not to imagine it.

“I'm not proud of it,” she muttered defensively. “But I see no gain in pretending it's not so.”

“Do you know what a fetch is, Lady?

“A retrieval.”

“No. A fetch is a creature of ancient myth, a harbinger of death. The Fetch is an extraordinary thief, but many of his other deeds won't bear close scrutiny.”

“I have no wish to hear about the Fetch's other deeds at this time, Lazarus.” Suddenly
all
she wanted to hear about was his other deeds. “I told you only because we should have an understanding about this.”

“Well,” Mace replied after a moment, his voice resigned, “the man is a disruptive influence. Perhaps we shouldn't speak of him again.”

“Agreed.” Kelsea tugged lightly on the reins, guiding her horse forward. She cast around for some other topic besides the Fetch. “My uncle has no wife, Carlin told me. What's this about one of his women?”

With some reluctance, Mace explained that the Regent had set himself up in the manner of the Cadarese rulers, with a harem culled from young women sold to the palace by poor families. On top of the fact that her kingdom was now steeped in corruption, Kelsea had inherited a brothel into the bargain. She asked Mace to teach her some foul words such as soldiers used, but he refused, so she could find no language bad enough to vent her rage. Women bought and sold! That particular evil was supposed to have been eradicated in the Crossing.

“All of my uncle's actions as Regent reflect on my throne. It's as though I sanctioned this traffic myself.”

“Perhaps not, Lady. No one really likes your uncle.”

This didn't help Kelsea's anger at all. But beneath her anger, there was also a deep sense of unease. From Mace's description, this practice had been going on since before Kelsea was born. Why had her mother done nothing? She began to ask Mace, then stopped. Of course he wouldn't answer.

“I will have to get rid of the Regent,” she said decisively.

“He's your uncle, Lady.”

“I don't care. The minute I'm on the throne, I'll throw him out of the Keep.”

“Your uncle is high in the favor of the Red Queen, Lady. If you simply kick him out of power, it could destabilize relations with Mortmesne.”

“Destabilize? I thought we had a treaty.”

“We do, Lady.” Mace cleared his throat. “But peace with Mortmesne is always fragile. Open hostility could be disastrous.”

“Why?”

“This kingdom hasn't the trained fighting men to deal with any army, let alone that of Mortmesne. And we don't have the steel.”

“So we need weapons and a real army.”

“No army will challenge Mortmesne, Lady. I'm not a superstitious man, but I believe the rumors about the Red Queen. I chanced to actually see her some years ago—”

“How?”

“The Regent sent a full diplomatic embassy to Demesne. I was in the guard. The Red Queen has held her kingdom for well over a century now, but I swear to you, Lady, she looked no more than your mother's age when you were born.”

“And yet she's only one woman, ageless though she may be.” Kelsea's voice was steady, but she was unnerved all the same. Discussions of a witch queen were a poor idea on a deserted road in the deep of night. The campfires that had dotted the sides of the road had disappeared entirely, and now it felt as though she and Mace were truly alone in the dark. A sickly-sweet stench of rot had begun to overtake the road; there must be a marsh nearby.

“Be very careful, Lady. Good as your intentions may be, the direct way isn't always best.”

“And yet here we are on the road, Lazarus.”

“Yes, for want of a better option.”

They made camp not long before dawn, still some four or five hours' ride from the city. Mace forbade Kelsea to build a fire, and as a precaution he situated their camp behind a large blackberry thicket that blocked the view from the road. The riders behind them must have finally made camp themselves, for Kelsea heard no more hooves. She asked Mace if she could shed her armor for sleep, and he nodded.

“But you'll wear armor tomorrow, Lady, since we'll enter the city in high daylight. Armor's not much without a sword, but it's better than nothing.”

“Whatever you say,” Kelsea murmured, already half asleep despite the insistent throb in her neck. She must sleep. All things narrowed toward tomorrow.
Fey
, she thought. Riding toward death. She slept and dreamed of endless fields, the fields she had seen running out before her across the Almont Plain, covered with men and women, ragged scarecrow figures working the land. Beyond the fields the sun was rising, and the sky was on fire.

Kelsea moved closer to the nearest of the farm women. The woman turned and Kelsea saw that she was beautiful, with strong features and dark, tangled hair, her face surprisingly young. As Kelsea approached, the woman held out a bundle of wheat, as though for Kelsea's inspection.

“Red,” the woman whispered crookedly, her eyes bright with madness. “All red.”

Kelsea looked down again and saw that the woman was holding not a sheaf of wheat but the broken, bleeding body of a small girl. The child's eyes were torn out, the sockets filled with blood. Kelsea opened her mouth to scream and Mace shook her awake.

Chapter 5

Wide as God's Ocean

Many families waited in front of the Keep that day, preparing themselves for grief. They couldn't know that they were about to become players on the stage of history, and some to hold parts greater than they could ever have imagined.

—
The Early History of the Tearling
,
AS TOLD BY
M
ERWINIAN

T
hey entered New London several hours after midday. Kelsea was groggy with the heat, the punishing weight of her armor, and lack of sleep, but as they crossed the New London Bridge, the sheer size of the city slapped her awake.

The bridge had a toll gate, two men on either side making the collection. Mace produced ten pence from his cloak and managed the admirable trick of paying the gatekeeper while keeping his face covered. Kelsea studied the bridge. It was a marvel of engineering: at least fifty yards long, carved from grey blocks of granite and supported by six enormous pillars that jutted upward from the Caddell River. The Caddell would continue around the outer edge of the city, meandering some fifty miles southwest before it descended in falls over the cliffs and emptied into the Tearling Gulf. The water beneath the bridge was a deep azure.

“Don't look too long at the water,” Mace murmured, and Kelsea jerked around to face forward.

New London had originally started as a small town, built by early settlers on one of the lower foothills of the Rice Mountains. But as the town grew into a city, it had spread from hill to hill, eventually becoming the Tear capital. Now New London covered the entire stretch of foothills, its buildings and streets rolling gently up and down to accommodate the topography. The Keep rose from the center of the city, an enormous obelisk of grey stone that dwarfed the buildings surrounding. In her mind, Kelsea had always pictured the Keep as an orderly structure, but the castle ascended ziggurat fashion, without symmetry: battlements and balconies on various levels, multiple nooks and crannies capable of concealment. The Keep had been constructed during the reign of Jonathan the Good, the second king of the Tearling; no one knew the name of the architect, but he must have been a marvel.

The rest of the city was less marvelous. Most of the buildings were poorly constructed of cheap wood, and they leaned haphazardly every which way. One good fire, Kelsea thought, and half the city would burn down.

Near the Keep, perhaps a mile distant, was another tower, pure white and perhaps half as tall, topped with a golden cross. That must be the Arvath, the seat of God's Church. Close to the Keep, of course, although Mace had told her that the Regent had given in and allowed the Holy Father to build a private chapel within the Keep walls as well. Kelsea couldn't tell if the cross atop the Arvath was gilded or made of real gold, but it shone brilliantly in the sun, and Kelsea narrowed her eyes at the sight. William Tear had forbidden the practice of organized religion in his utopia; according to Carlin, he had even thrown one man right over the side of his flagship when he found out the man had been proselytizing in secret. But now Christianity had rebounded as strongly as ever. Kelsea couldn't say what her attitude toward God's Church would have been if she'd grown up in a different house, if her values had not been so shaped by Carlin's atheism. But it was too late; Kelsea's distrust of the golden cross was instinctive and visceral, even though she knew that she would have to come to some sort of compromise with what it represented. She had never been good at compromise, even during the easy conflicts that arose in the cottage.

Mace rode silently beside her, occasionally pointing for a change of direction, as the bridge ended and the crowded thoroughfare entered the city proper. They both remained heavily cloaked and hooded. Mace believed that all routes to the Keep would be guarded, and Kelsea sensed the watchfulness in him, the way he occasionally shifted his position to place himself between her and something that had put his wind up.

Kelsea couldn't detect anything out of the ordinary, but how could she know what was ordinary? The streets were lined with stalls, merchants hawking everything from simple fruits and vegetables to exotic birds. An open-air market, Kelsea realized, one that grew ever more densely packed as she and Mace attempted to maneuver their horses farther into the city. There were shops as well, each with a gaily-colored placard out front, and Kelsea saw a tailor, a baker, a healer, a hairdresser, even a haberdasher! What sort of vanity supported a hat shop?

The crowd astounded her. After years with only Barty and Carlin, it was hard to accept so much humanity in one place. People were everywhere, and they came in so many varieties, tall and short, old and young, dark and fair, thin and round. Kelsea had met plenty of new people in the past few days, but she had never really considered before how many possibilities were presented by a single human face. She saw a man with a long, hooked nose, almost like the beak of a bird; a woman with long, wavy blonde hair that seemed to reflect the sun in thousands of sparkles. Everything seemed overly bright, enough to make Kelsea's eyes water. And the sounds! All around Kelsea was the roar of innumerable voices raised at once, a clamor that she had never heard before. Individual voices pressed in on her from time to time, merchants shouting their wares or acquaintances greeting each other across the confusion of the road, but their voices were nothing compared to the overall roar of the crowd. It attacked Kelsea's ears with a physical force that threatened to crush her eardrums, yet she found the chaos oddly comforting.

As they rounded one corner, a street performer caught Kelsea's eye. He placed a rose in a vase, made an identical vase appear from nowhere, then made the rose vanish and reappear instantaneously in the second vase. Kelsea slowed her horse to watch. The magician vanished the rose and both vases entirely, and then reached into his own mouth and produced a snow-white kitten. The animal was clearly alive; it squirmed in his hands while the crowd applauded. The magician then presented the kitten to a small girl in the audience, who squealed with excitement.

Kelsea smiled, charmed. Most likely he was gifted only with extraordinary dexterity, not true magic, but she could see no slip in the flawless transition of objects.

“We court danger here, Lady,” murmured Mace.

“What danger?”

“Only a feeling. But my feelings on such matters are usually right.”

Kelsea shook the reins and her horse began to trot forward again. “The magician, Lazarus. Mark him for me.”

“Lady.”

As the day drew on, Kelsea began to share Mace's anxiety. The novelty of the crowd was diminishing, and everywhere Kelsea looked, she sensed people staring at her. She felt more and more hunted, and wished simply for the journey to be over. She had no doubt Mace had chosen the best route, but still she began to long for an open, clear space where threats could arrive cleanly, an honest fight.

But she didn't know how to fight.

Although New London had the feel of a labyrinth, some neighborhoods were clearly better off than others. The higher-end areas had well-tended roads and well-dressed citizens on the streets, even a few brick buildings with glass windows. But other areas had tightly packed pinewood buildings with no windows and denizens who slouched along the walls in a creeping, furtive manner. Sometimes Kelsea and Mace were forced to ride through a cloud of stench that suggested that the houses were plumbed poorly, or not at all.

This is what it smells like in February
, Kelsea thought, sickened. What must it be like in high summer?

Halfway through a particularly run-down section, Kelsea realized she was in a blue district. The street was so narrow that it was really an alley. The buildings were all made of some cheap wood that Kelsea couldn't even identify, and many buildings listed so far sideways that it seemed a miracle they were still standing. Occasionally Kelsea heard screams and the sound of things breaking as they passed. The air rang with laughter, a cold laughter that made her skin break out in gooseflesh.

Poorly dressed women appeared from the crooked doorways and leaned against walls, while Kelsea stared at them in helpless fascination from beneath the shelter of her hood. There was an indefinable air of squalor about the prostitutes, something that couldn't be pinpointed. It wasn't their clothing; certainly their dresses were neither more nor less fancy than many Kelsea had seen, and despite the considerable amount of flesh they displayed, it wasn't the cut of the garments either. It was something in the eyes, in the way the eyes seemed to eat up the faces of even the heaviest women. They looked worn, the young as well as the old. Many of them appeared to have scars. Kelsea didn't want to imagine the lives they must lead, but she couldn't help it.

I'll close this entire section down
, she thought.
Close it down and give them all real employment.

Carlin's voice spoke up in her head.
Will you regulate the length of their dresses as well? Perhaps forbid novels deemed too pornographic?

There's a difference.

No difference. Blue laws are blue laws. If you wish to dictate private morality, march yourself over to the Arvath.

Mace directed her to the left, between two buildings, and Kelsea was relieved when they emerged onto a wide boulevard lined with neatly kept shops. The grey facade of the Keep was closer now, blotting out the surrounding mountains and most of the sky. Despite the width of the boulevard, it was so crowded that Kelsea and Mace were boxed in again, and could only muddle along at the crowd's pace. There was more sunlight here, and Kelsea felt uneasy, exposed despite her cloak and hood. No one knew what she looked like, but Mace must cut a recognizable figure anywhere. He seemed to share the feeling, for he spurred his stallion forward until he was literally nudging the crowd of riders and pedestrians out of the way. A path opened before them, with some grumbling on either side.

“Straight ahead,” Mace muttered, “as quickly as we can.”

Still their progress was slow. Rake, who had behaved well throughout the journey, seemed to sense Kelsea's anxiety and now began to resist her direction. Her efforts to control the horse quickly became exhausting in combination with the weight of Pen's armor. She was sweating in thick drips that trickled down her neck and back, and Mace's darting glances behind them became more frequent as they went. The crowds continued to pack them in more and more tightly as they approached the Keep.

“Can't we take another way?”

“There's no other way,” Mace replied. He was controlling his horse with only one hand now; the other was on his sword. “We're out of time, Lady. Push on; not much farther now.”

For the next few minutes, Kelsea struggled to stay conscious. The late-afternoon sun bore down on her dark cloak, and the close quarters created by the crowd did nothing to relieve the feeling of suffocation. Twice she swayed in her saddle, and was only restored by Mace's tight grip on her shoulder.

Finally the boulevard ended, branching off onto a wide field of grass that circled the Keep and its moat. At the sight of the Keep Lawn, Kelsea felt a moment of atavistic excitement. Here the Mort soldiers had gathered with their siege equipment, had nearly breached the walls, and then had been turned away at the last minute. The lawn sloped gently downhill toward the Keep, and almost directly below Kelsea, a wide stone bridge crossed the water, leading to the Keep Gate. Two lines of guards were stationed at even intervals along the edges of the bridge. The grey monolith of the Keep itself towered almost directly over Kelsea's head, and staring at the top made her dizzy, forced her to look away.

The Keep Lawn was covered with people, and Kelsea's first reaction was surprise: wasn't her arrival supposed to be a secret? Adults, children, even the elderly streamed like water across the grass and down toward the moat. But this wasn't at all how Kelsea had pictured this day in her daydreams. Where were the cheering masses, the flowers thrown? Some of these people were weeping, but not the happy tears that Kelsea had imagined. Like the farmers in the Almont, all of these people looked as though they could use several hundred good meals. They wore the same sort of clothing Kelsea had seen in the Almont as well: dark and shapeless wool. Deep misery was etched into each face. Kelsea felt a sudden wave of powerful anxiety. Something wasn't right.

Another scan of the lawn revealed that while many of the people on the lawn were milling around, apparently loitering, some of them had organized into long, straight lines that stretched down to the edge of the moat. When the crowd parted, Kelsea saw that there were several tables down there, tables with men standing behind them, probably officials, given the deep, identical blue of their clothing. Kelsea felt relief, tinged with slight disappointment. These people hadn't come to see her at all. They were here for something else. The lines were very long, and they weren't moving. The entire crowd appeared to be waiting.

But for what?

She turned to Mace, who was keeping a sharp eye on the lawn, one hand clenched on the hilt of his sword. “Lazarus, what are all these people doing here?”

He didn't answer, wouldn't meet her eye. A cold noose seemed to tighten around her heart. The crowd shifted again, and Kelsea spotted something new, some sort of metal contraption beside the moat. She stood up in her stirrups to get a better look and saw a series of structures: low rectangular boxes, about ten feet tall. The tops and bottoms were wood, and the sides were metal. There were nine of them in a line, stretching all the way down the lawn toward the far corner of the Keep. Kelsea squinted (her eyesight had never been very good) and saw that the walls of the boxes were actually a series of metal bars. Time suddenly slipped backward, and she saw Barty, heard his voice as clearly as if he was beside her, his fingers cleverly weaving wire through a series of holes punched in a piece of sanded wood. “Now, Kel, we make the wire tight enough that the rabbit can't get away, but not so tight that the poor little bastard suffocates before we find him. People have to trap to survive, but a good trapper makes sure the animal suffers as little as possible.”