Valiant (15 page)

And he did it with complete self-possession. What had Lord Cinnan thought of the disorder? Perhaps he didn’t care as long as Lord Verras could find what was required as quickly as he’d found the inkwell.

Lord Verras shifted in his chair to face me.

“I talked to Will this morning.”

I leaned forward. “How is he? Did he seem better?”

“He was well enough to tell me—” he looked up at the ceiling—“he told me he was bored out of his head and asked for something to play with.”

I smiled. “He’s doing well, then. Give him something that’s broken and a few tools to tinker with.”

“I’ll do that.” Lord Verras handed me a dusty lump of cloth. “He suggested a project for you, too. His tunic.”

I unfolded it and spread it out on my lap, running my finger over an ugly tear in the sleeve. I hadn’t noticed any wound on Will’s arm earlier, but I’d check next time I visited, just to be sure.

“I’ll get you any supplies you need,” said Lord Verras. “You might like sewing while you’re here.”

“I hate sewing.”

“The king swears you’re the best tailor he’s ever had.”

“I never said I wasn’t good. Just that I hate it.”

“But why?”

“Did you know that the only things that make the Tailor smile are his silks and velvets? I do not please him. He doesn’t smile when he sees me. When he watches me sew, I can tell that he wishes he could hold a piece of velvet one last time.”

Lord Verras’s eyes widened.

I drew in a deep breath, hating the way it rattled. “All my life, the Tailor has loved his fabric more than me, more than
my mother, I think—at least toward the end.” My voice grew steadier. “That is why I hate sewing. How could I love my rival?”

I silently folded Will’s tunic. This time yesterday, he’d been teasing me about crooked seams. Mending the tunic would be my way of holding him. But my throat was too thick to tell Lord Verras I’d do it.

Perhaps he knew anyway. His voice was kind when he broke the long silence. “Will told me about his father.”

I nodded. “Will waits at the fountain by the gates every day at morning bells. He’s waited three months for his father to return from Kellan.”

Lord Verras’s face was carefully blank.

“What do you know?” I asked.

“Kellan was attacked weeks ago, though we’ve only just learned of it. No one escaped to tell us.”

I hugged Will’s tunic to me. “I can’t tell Will that. I won’t.”

“You shouldn’t. His father may still be alive.”

I took a steadying breath. “You think the duke’s army attacked Kellan. And that it’s marching toward Reggen.”

“I do.” Lord Verras pointed at a map hung on the wall. There were slashes in the plains between the Western Steeps and Reggen—
villages that had been razed?
I didn’t know there had been so many. “That’s why I need your help. Yesterday, you told me about the giants. Now I need to know about the duke. I need to know who’s leading the army.”

I stared at the table, trying to remember. “I don’t know
much about him. I think he told the scouts to kill humans before they could hear us. The young one thought our voices could … do something. Hurt him? He would have crushed me, if not for Oma.”

Lord Verras wrote down every word I said. His pen had a rhythm; the writing and dipping into the inkwell made a scraping sort of music. He wrote as if Reggen’s safety hung on each detail. Every now and then he’d shush me to keep me from talking ahead of him, too engrossed in his task to realize his rudeness.

Finally, he glanced up at me. “Did they say whether the duke was a giant or not?”

“No … I don’t know. They never said. I assumed he was human because Duke of the Western Steeps is a human title.” I sighed and shook my head. “But maybe I heard wrong. I was so focused on keeping Will safe. Maybe the duke didn’t want us killed. Or maybe Oma is a washwoman who tells them they shouldn’t kill humans the same way we tell children not to pull the legs off ants.”

“But what do you
think
? If you had to say right now?”

I thought back to when the giants first mentioned the duke, and felt the cold, creeping fear once more. “I think the duke wanted the giants to kill humans on sight without talking to us. I think he’s human. And I wonder why the giants would listen to him. I could fool the scouts for a little while, but how could a man make an army of giants follow him across the plains?”

Lord Verras smiled, never looking up from his writing.

“What?” I asked.

“Lord Cinnan used to say that to me after I told him everything I’d learned:
What do you think? Right now?
Sometimes what came out of my mouth surprised me. It
is
effective.”

“Do you know what else I think?” I told him. “I think … I hope … the giants might not come back.”

He frowned.

“You don’t believe me.”

“You don’t believe yourself.” He shrugged. “You hope the giants won’t come back, but you think they will.”

He was right, but I wouldn’t admit it. “Why are you so sure, then?” I challenged. “And why do you keep asking about the duke?”

Lord Verras set his pen down, but didn’t answer. He just looked at me, in that way of his that I was beginning to recognize, as if there were something in my face that he could measure or weigh.

“Because I told you everything I knew,” I said. “Mostly, though, because you need someone to think with.”

“What?”

“You know something about the duke. I’d wager velvet on it. And you were wondering if you should tell me.” I sat back in my chair, making myself comfortable. “I was telling you why you should.”

He smiled wryly. “You’re proud of yourself, aren’t you?”

I folded my arms. “What do you know?”

He scrubbed the ink that smudged his right forefinger.

“Four years ago, Tor came back from a counsel, where all the kings of the River Cities had met. He said that the Duke of the Western Steeps had demanded to join them. The duke claimed that all of the kings were descendants of the emperor and that he was also a descendant.”

“But wasn’t the original Duke of the Western Steeps a son of the emperor?” I asked.

Lord Verras shook his head, a gesture that said,
hush!
as clearly as if he’d spoken it aloud. “The original duke was illegitimate. That was why he was given such a wretched piece of land. No Duke of the Steeps has ever sat in the counsel—or demanded that honor—not in the two centuries since the emperor’s death. It was a ridiculous request.”

“What happened to the duke?”

Lord Verras stopped rubbing at the ink stain. “Tor said he was thrown out, that when the duke was finally dragged beyond the doors, he collapsed and wept like a child. Tor thought it was funny, but …” Lord Verras shrugged. “There were rumors the duke’s people wouldn’t have him afterward, that they pelted him with stones when he rode back to the Steeps. They turned him away from his own castle.”

How horrible. It was foolish for the duke to make his claim in such an outrageous way, to just walk into a meeting and demand a place there. But to be thrown out and then rejected by his people …

“Then what happened?”

“No one knows. It wasn’t as if the Steeps needed a ruler.
It’s covered with small towns and villages that look after themselves. They don’t want interference and they’re too poor for bandits to bother with them. Lately, there have been rumors of a newer, stronger duke who claimed the castle. But he’s made no move to communicate with Reggen or any of the other River Cities.”

“A relative of the old duke?”

“No one knows. I was too busy with rumors of giants.… It was only when the rider appeared two days ago that the Duke of the Western Steeps was even connected to the approaching army.”

“What do you think about this duke right now? Is he the same duke your cousin threw out?”

Lord Verras stared at his desk. I’d never seen a man work through a problem like him, as if his thoughts were so real he could hold them in his hand.

“I hope not. He’d have a score to settle. And he’d be crazy enough to use giants to do it.”

“You
hope
not, but you think he is.”

Lord Verras raised his eyebrows at my impertinence. Then he nodded slowly. “We’ll know soon, one way or another.” He picked up his pen. “Thank you for all you’ve told me. You may go back to Lissa now.”

“Could I stay with the Tailor instead?”

“But you—” Lord Verras didn’t finish the thought. Finally, he ventured, “This is about Lissa, isn’t it?”

“She thinks I’m a pawn,” I told him. “I won’t be anyone’s pawn … certainly not hers.”

He put the pen back down. “How did it feel yesterday in the throne room to know that your life was in King Eldin’s hands? That anything he declared would come to pass, and you were powerless to stop him?”

I didn’t answer.

“Lissa has lived like that for years.”

“He’s only been king two years.”

“It wasn’t only Eldin. There’s always a king.”

I couldn’t imagine being trapped like the princess while her brothers played with her life. But it didn’t give her the right to do the same with others—with me.

And why did Verras defend her? I hated that he was so calm, so sure. Then … 
Ah, that must be it
. Besides, I wanted to see if I could make him blush.

“You wanted to marry her, didn’t you? That’s why you know so much about her. And that’s why she’s so gentle with you.”

He didn’t blush, but his mouth dropped open and he squinted at me as if I’d spoken another language. He was flustered—truly flustered—and that was as good as a blush.

Maybe better.

“Me? No,” Lord Verras stammered. “No! I am the third son in my family. My father was fortunate to even find a lady whose father would allow a betrothal.” He sobered. “But even after the betrothal was signed, Lady Farriday’s father wouldn’t think of a marriage until I’d made a name for myself. So I was sent here to help my cousin and to work under the respected Lord Cinnan. Now that Lord Cinnan has been sent away, I wonder if Lady Farriday’s father will still find me acceptable.”

“What is she like?”

“The princess or Lady Farriday?”

I wasn’t worried about impertinence. “Both.”

He leaned back in his chair.

“I told you about my father, about why I dressed as an apprentice,” I said. “Besides, the princess is not the only one whose life was decided for her.”

He nodded and then, to my surprise, answered my question. “Lady Farriday is … I’ve seen her only once. She trains falcons, and I like that about her, that she works with such wild creatures. She’s intelligent and”—he held a hand up to stop the question I’d begun to voice—“pretty enough. Prettier than a third son deserves.”

Lord Verras sighed. “As for Lissa … she and I shared the misfortune of having older,
powerful
brothers used to getting their own way. It creates quite a bond. I’ve known Lissa since our nurses let us wander the gardens while our brothers tore around, beating each other senseless with wooden swords.”

“I can’t see King Eldin tearing around with a sword.”

Lord Verras’s mouth thinned, as if remembering something unpleasant. “No, not poor Eldin. Torren was the one with the sword.”

Lord Verras glanced at me, turning away from whatever memory that had been resurrected. “But go. See the Tailor first. Get what you need for Will’s tunic.” Lord Verras unearthed a piece of paper and scribbled something on it. “Give this to the physicians overseeing your father.”

I realized, all at once, how much I owed him. “Thank you.”

He nodded and turned back to his writing.

He wasn’t making this easy, but I wouldn’t be a coward. “No. Thank you for …”
Fighting to keep me out of the dungeon yesterday; for not minding that I ask so many questions; for actually answering them
. “… everything.”

Lord Verras peered up at me. He was flustered again, enough that I didn’t know whether to laugh or take pity on him. Finally, he answered, “You’re welcome. For everything.”

All the way to the Tailor’s room, I wondered:
what sort of nobleman is that unused to thanks?

The Tailor was sleeping when I entered his room, and I sighed in relief. He’d hate what I was about to do. I tiptoed to the trunk and eased open the lid. A little thread would mend the tunic, but Will should have more … and for that, I’d need some of the Tailor’s fabric.

Whoever had fetched the trunk from our shop had tucked the Tailor’s notion box on top of the canvas-covered bolts. I used the Tailor’s shears to quickly cut what I needed, listening all the while for a change in his breath, a rasping no.

Nothing.

I tucked the fabric into my satchel and closed the trunk, then walked to the Tailor’s side. He lay perfectly still—

His eyes flew open.

I leapt back, hands gripping the satchel as if the Tailor really could wrench it and the fabric away from me.

He stared at me, his expression vacant.

He didn’t recognize me.

Of course. He’d seen me dressed as a boy for months now—ever since his illness. I smoothed my skirt over my hips and stepped closer.

“It’s me, Tailor.”
Tailor
still fit better on my tongue.