The Thief's Daughter (6 page)

CHAPTER SIX

The Eel of Ceredigion

One had to look the part of a prince to be convincing in that role. As Owen rode his stallion to the sanctuary of Our Lady, followed by a few attendants, he realized he had gotten used to the stares and deference from the people milling about the streets buying mincemeat pies and muffins. His tunic was not ostentatious, but his fashionable clothes set him apart and identified him as one who should be obeyed. A woman with a small child steered the lad out of his path, speaking in low tones to the boy, training him to give way to someone who was highborn. The bucks’ head badge was respected and recognized; those who saw it knew the owner of that standard was Fountain-blessed, a rare gift to anyone.

As they reached the gate, Owen saw the sanctuary men appraising him. The gate was open, so Owen dismounted and handed the reins to one of his retainers. As he marched into the yard, he stared up at the beautiful arches of the sanctuary, admiring the craftsmanship that had gone into the structure. After jogging up the steps, he approached the main door and discovered the deconeus of the sanctuary, a man by the name of Kenilworth, awaiting him with attendants.

“You honor us, my lord duke,” the deconeus said ingratiatingly. “You have come to worship at the Fountain?”

Rather than wait for the man, Owen continued into the main hall. The black and white tiles on the floor had always reminded him of a giant Wizr board, and indeed, his visit here was akin to his next move in an especially long, difficult game. The deconeus hurried to keep up with him.

“Is there a particular purpose for your visit then?” the deconeus asked hurriedly. “Is all well, my lord?”

“Perfectly,” Owen said in a curt, impatient voice. “Where is John Tunmore, erstwhile deconeus of Ely?”

The deconeus paled. “My lord, you
know
he has claimed sanctuary at Our Lady.”

“Why else do you think I came
here
to speak to him? Fetch him at once.”

“With all due speed,” the deconeus answered, bowing reverently.

Owen had paused by the interior fountain in the main hall, the largest of the fountains on the grounds. There were three main jets of water accompanied by many smaller ones around the rim. The sound of the fountain was soothing, and its warbling masked the various conversations happening around the vast hall. Commoners, merchants, sailors, and even a few lesser nobles were all walking around the hall, speaking amongst themselves. Owen stared into the waters, his eyes darting to the dark coins settled on the basin floor.

Out of the corner of his eye, Owen saw the deconeus speaking to some underlings, and he felt his impatience stirring. When he was younger, Ankarette had urged him to describe the Deconeus of Ely as an eel in one of his false visions. The analogy was fitting. Owen was eager to ride north to prevent more trouble from brewing. But he knew his mission here was important. Even if there were a hundred little ways to prove this supposed prince was an imposter, the magic of the Fountain was too powerful to be ignored. If Tunmore had played a role in convincing others of the prince’s legitimacy, they needed to know. Besides, it was possible he had useful information about the plot as a whole.

Deep in thought, Owen continued to stare down at the coins in the fountain. Then, beyond the dark smudges of the coins, he saw something more substantial. Yes, there was something in the waters.

It was a chest, with four sturdy iron legs, a rounded top, and a handle. The handle almost protruded from the surface of the waters, but it remained completely submerged. As Owen drew nearer to it, he saw the designs crafted into the lid and box. Eager to touch it, he tugged off his riding gloves and stuffed them into his belt, hiked up the sleeve of his tunic, and reached into the water. The iron chest was real. He rubbed his hand over it, feeling the handle lying flat against the top. There was a hasp and a lock on one side, a groove opening in it for a key. There was no key.

He felt the Fountain rush through him, triggering memories from long ago. He had seen this chest amidst the treasures the Fountain had revealed to him at the bottom of the palace cistern. The treasures consisted of casks of jewels, shields, armor, and the like. The day he and Evie had almost drowned there, he had noticed an empty space in the piles of phantom riches, a path showing where the chest had been dragged toward the opening of the cistern. So much had happened immediately after that incident, he’d almost forgotten. But now, amidst the shushing noise of the waters, he remembered it with clarity.

Over the years, he had read everything he could find about the mysterious treasures that some Fountain-blessed saw in the water, but he’d discovered very little. According to some accounts, seeing the treasures of the Deep Fathoms was a precursor to death. Others claimed the treasures were gifts or boons the Fountain granted to mere mortals. The most famous story was how King Andrew had drawn a blessed sword from the fountain waters of Our Lady. A sword he had taken out to sea with him upon his death. But Owen believed the treasure was real. He had touched it with his own hands in the cistern. And now, at this very moment, he could feel the hard edges of the chest as he groped it in the waters.

“It’s considered sacrilegious to wash your hands in the fountain. If you believe in that sort of thing.”

The voice caught Owen completely off guard. He had been so immersed in the memory that he had not heard Tunmore make his approach.

Owen was stooped over the waters, but he turned and straightened. John Tunmore was a tall man, and his voice betrayed a slight Northern accent. Owen had caught glimpses of him before, but they had never met in person. Tunmore was in his early fifties, and his hair was shorn almost to the skin. It was dark brown with flecks of gray. His size gave him an intimidating bearing, and he radiated a snide aura, as if he had contempt for the world in general and Owen in particular. But the sparkle in his eyes hinted that he was intrigued too.

“You wished to see me?” the Eel reminded him.

“I was not washing my hands,” Owen said tautly.

“It looked like it from my perspective.” His eyes narrowed, his lip curling into a barely suppressed sneer. “Or were you trying to steal a coin?”

“I leave that work for the sexton,” Owen quipped. “No, I thought I saw something in the water. No matter.”

“What, if I may ask?” Tunmore probed.

“I saw a chest.”

“You
thought
you saw a chest,” Tunmore corrected. “There clearly isn’t a chest in the fountain.”

“It was there, and I was about to pull it out when you startled me.”

“Indeed,” Tunmore said, his voice betraying a hint of uneasiness. “As you can see, it is not there now. What did you come here for, my lord?”

Owen glanced back at the water, and the chest was indeed gone. He bristled with frustration. “To speak with you,” he said. “I’ve recently returned from Westmarch. From Occitania, actually.”

“So it would seem,” Tunmore said. “I heard you arrived yesterday. What news from the borderlands?” He looked like a starving man seeking crumbs from a rich man’s table. Though he tried to keep his voice smooth and unconcerned, Owen could sense he was restless.

“Would it interest you to know that Lord Horwath and I sent King Chatriyon fleeing? His army was completely routed.”

Tunmore’s face grew visibly pale. “Indeed? What a surprise. How fortunate for you. I’m flattered you came all this way to tell me about your
exploits
.”

Owen shook his head. “That’s not the fortunate part, Deconeus. We found something in Chatriyon’s tent. A letter.”

Tunmore frowned. “Are you suggesting I wrote a letter to the King of Occitania?”

“No, I am not. It’s what was
in
the letter that was so interesting.” Owen tugged his belt and withdrew the letter. He had requested that one of the Espion forgers copy it during the night. To Owen’s untrained eye, it looked identical to the original. He offered the letter to the other man.

Tunmore took it and pursed his lips. He opened the letter and began to devour the contents. As Owen watched the other man’s eyes move over the words, he felt the subtle churn of the Fountain. It was as if a winch had turned and opened a sluice gate, rushing water into the deconeus’s reserves. And Owen realized in an instant that
this
was how Tunmore fed his magic with the Fountain. It was through news, gossip, lurid intrigue, treason—the machinations of courts and politics fed him, sustained him, and gave him his power. Being trapped in the sanctuary of Our Lady had deprived him of his main sources of information. Owen’s own source of power was more flexible. He derived it from stacking tiles, playing Wizr, or reading challenging works—anything that taxed his wits and made him think intently.

Owen snatched the letter from the Eel’s hand and literally felt the sluice gates slam shut.

The deconeus’s eyes were wide with panic, and he almost tried to grab the letter back from Owen. It was the food the hungry man craved.

“I was not . . . quite done reading that yet,” Tunmore said, stammering, his hand trembling.

“I know you are Fountain-blessed,” Owen said softly.

The deconeus stiffened, seemingly shocked at Owen’s words. “How can you suggest such a thing? I am close to the Fountain by virtue of my office, but I assure you that your understanding of me is quite mistaken.”

“And I assure you that it is not,” Owen answered evenly. “Just as I am sure you know about the chest that disappeared from the fountain. You’re the one who put it there. You took it from the cistern at the palace, did you not?”

Tunmore’s face was white. “How could you possibly know that?” he said through clenched teeth.

“Because I too can see the treasure in the cistern, and that chest was dragged away right before you made your escape to Our Lady. And these
lies
you’ve written,” Owen continued, holding up the wrinkled note, “will be brought to light.”

Tunmore’s face sank into a mask of fear and dread. He looked like a man standing on a precarious bridge, one that was about to collapse. “You have no idea, little
pup
,” Tunmore whispered harshly, “what is truly happening here. What you
risk
in supporting that monster. This is not about kings and courts and Espion. There is more at stake here than you can even comprehend. You pretend to have the sight, but you see nothing!”

Just then Clark walked up to them. His face was composed and neutral, but his eyes were gleaming. There was a folded note in his hand, the wax seal broken.

“My lord, I found it,” Clark said as he handed the note to Owen.

“Where did you . . . ? That is
mine
!” Tunmore blustered. He reached for the note, but Clark seized his wrist and applied pressure to a sensitive spot. Suddenly the deconeus was wobbling on his feet, his features tight with pain.

Owen took the note from Clark and opened it. As the first words met his eyes, he felt the force of the Fountain again, but this time it was as strong as a river. Before Owen could be swept away by it, he steadied himself. When he looked down at the words again, it was as if he had become a boulder dividing the river. It went around him on both sides, making him a little dizzy from the rushing noise, but it could not budge him.

“How are you
doing
that?” Tunmore snarled, staring at Owen in amazement.

“Though it is your gift to sway others, you cannot force me to believe something against my will,” Owen said with scorn. “I see it clearly. You wrote the original. Now the information is being copied. The one we found in the king’s tent was a copy of a copy. You’re spreading lies to weaken King Severn just as you attempted to do years ago. This is misprision in the highest degree. Believe me, Deconeus, if you leave this sanctuary, you will not be thrown into a river to judge your guilt. We both know most Fountain-blessed would survive such a test. No, you will be taken to a mountaintop to freeze to death. Yes. I know
that
too!” Tunmore’s face went wild with disbelief and fear.

“You are guilty of treason, and everyone who has supported you and sent you messages is also guilty. If you wish me to intercede on your behalf with King Severn, there is one piece of information you must give me this very moment. Where will this pretender’s ships land? Where will they strike first? I know about Atabyrion striking the East and Occitania striking the West. Where in the North is the pretender going to land?”

Tunmore’s face was like dripping wax. “Despite what you may think, I have not committed treason. It is not treason to support the
true
king.”

“I may be young, but I am not a fool,” Owen said sharply. “Do you think I believe any of this rubbish?” he asked, wagging the papers in front of Tunmore’s face.

Tunmore shook his head. “It is not rubbish, you little upstart.
I
am the one who persuaded the king’s simpering former spymaster, Bletchley, to make the princes disappear. It was always my intent to keep the throne of Ceredigion unstable until the surviving lad was old enough to take the crown himself. I’ve hidden him in Brugia. I’ve hidden him in Legault. He’s been to every kingdom except his own. And he is returning, our true king! When he lands, the people will rise up and throw the tyrant into the river. You cannot stop the destiny of the Fountain, lad. You might as well try and turn a river with your hand!”