The Hostage Prince (4 page)

Jack smiled kindly, an odd expression on such a wizened, grey face, but Aspen knew it was genuine. “You are dear to me, boy. I will not let you come to harm so easily.”

“Thank you, Jack. I . . .” Aspen stopped short, suddenly afraid he would burst into tears if he tried to say anything more. Princely honor—both Seelie and Unseelie—demanded that he face everything with aplomb and grace, whether it was murder, war, or simply tea that had gone a bit cold.

Though not
, he thought suddenly,
if something was done by an underling that undermined authority or honor.

Aspen squared his shoulders and looked directly at Jack. He'd done his best for every day of the seven years he'd been at the Unseelie Court, alone amongst his enemies, to do just that, to be careful and honorable. But the thought of being executed made him remember how young and scared he really was. And no amount of royal dignity could change that.

“Your Serenity,” Old Jack Daw said, his eyes sparkling with emotion. “I am a simple servant, and you are a Lord of the Realm. Save your thanks for someone more deserving.”

It was the kind of overdone courtesy one used with a higher-ranking courtier, not with a friend. Aspen needed the friend more. He forced a smile. It felt like it might even stick. “And my mercy?”

Jack grinned, courtesy forgotten. “Do not waste any more of it on serving girls or midwives' apprentices! Let King Obs know how valuable you really are.”

“Done!” Aspen said. And to prove he belonged in the company of those around him, he grabbed the nearest serving girl roughly and shoved her toward the kitchen. “More meat for Old Jack Daw! And be quick about it, or we will pop
you
in the ovens next!”

The Border Lords roared their approval and flung their dishes at the poor girl's heels to hurry her along, before turning back to bang upon the table with the butt ends of their knives once more and shouting a praise song to Aspen that tried to rhyme his name with
grasping
and failed.

Glancing up from his tankard at the noise, King Obs grinned at Aspen.

Even the twins looked down the table at him with something like approval on their beautiful, enigmatic faces.

Strangely, it didn't make Aspen feel as good as he thought it would.

He picked a piece of fruit from a nearby bowl and took a big, juicy bite.
Dust,
he thought.
It tastes like dust and decay. And death.

But he ate it with gusto anyway, because
that
was what Unseelie princes always do.

B
y the time Snail got back into the kitchen, she was shaking. At first she thought it was from fear, but she soon realized it was from anger. Even more anger than before. For now, heaped onto that earlier anger, was this new offense.

How that toff, that stupid prince had glared at her and made a face, as if seeing some piece of donkey dung stuck to the bottom of one of his silken shoes. And then he'd shouted at her to “get up and get out of here! Do not stop to ask why.” And dismissed her without even asking if she'd been injured in the fall.

And the way those toffs talk
, she thought.
“Do not,” instead of “don't.” “Cannot” instead of “can't.”
As if plain talk wasn't good enough for them.

Not that she expected a prince would concern himself with her feelings and her way of speaking. Their kind never did. Not princes. Not like real folk.

“A fall,” she said aloud, “that was no fault of my own.” She looked around to see if she could find who'd pushed her into the serving girl who then had dropped the platter with the teapot and cups. “If I find you, you'll get an earful, I promise you that!”
And maybe more.

Nettle came over and handed her a twist of second-day cheese bread and a cup of water. “Here. Now, better make yourself scarce. Old Bonetooth has already chewed up that hapless serving girl and spit out the pips, and he won't make no distinction between you being a midwife's apprentice or the girl who carried the dropped tray.”

“But someone pushed me . . .” she began.

“No blame, no shame,” he said.

“What do you mean . . .” she started to say and then stopped. Because suddenly she knew. The one to blame was Yarrow, of course, who must have told the new girl to give her a shove. They were probably both giggling over it upstairs. But no one would back Snail on this because of how besotted the potboys were with Yarrow.

Snail looked around. Yarrow and the other girl were already gone from the room. The serving girl who'd dropped the tray was nowhere to be seen, probably cowering in a cupboard somewhere.

Suddenly she noticed that Master Chef Bonetooth was running a bloody cloth across his lips. “He
ate
her?”

Such a punishment wasn't unheard of, of course. But those sort of things happened only in the Seelie Court.

Not here
, Snail thought.

Suddenly all her anger left her and she began to tremble in a different way. Her legs felt as if they were wobbling, and she doubted her knees would hold her up much longer.

“Scarce!” Nettle repeated, pointing toward the door.

Grateful that she had such a friend in Nettle, she was through the door before he could say another word, collapsing on the other side. And there she lay on the floor, trying to catch not only her breath but her courage, which seemed to be running away from her faster than a will-o'-the-wisp on a summer's eve.

Suddenly someone grabbed her shoulder from behind. Snail flinched and hunched her shoulders.
I will not cry, I will not cry,
she told herself.
He may chew me up, but I will not cry!

In fact, she was too frightened to cry.

“There you are. Where've you been, you silly girl? You'll have to go and wash up all over again. Floor's not the place for a midwife's apprentice that's got to be cleaner than clean. Especially right now.”

Snail looked over her shoulder into Mistress Softhands's red face. “I thought you were Chef Bonetooth,” she stuttered, “come to eat . . . eat . . .
eat
me.” She took a deep breath. “And chew me to bits.”

“Slovenly—and stupid as well, are you? He's his mother's son. Milk and cheese is all that one gobbles down, don't you know.”

“Really?” She searched the old midwife's face for some sense of a joke. But her face was as humorless as ever.

“The only ogre you have to worry about is one in a birthing chamber.”

“I thought there was a law against them eating midwives.”

“I always knew you were quick, the quickest of all the apprentices, so use that nog of yours. And stand up!” Mistress Softhands stood, arms folded, watching her.

I am?
Snail was stunned, but was quick enough for the moment not to say it aloud. Instead, she got up slowly until she was sure her still-shaking legs would hold. She felt a stone lift from her belly. “That Nettle!” she said with some passion, fists clenched at her side. “I'll kill him, I will!”

“Ah, well, if you take the word of someone called Nettle,” her mistress said, holding Snail's face in her hand and shaking her right finger, “then you deserve every rash and sting you get.” Then she turned away from Snail, but not before saying over her shoulder, “Now quick. The queen's time is here, and none too soon by the looks of her. I've been telling Mistress Yoke for weeks, we should have been slipping her beth root to make the baby come sooner. Of the nine midwives, I've been the only one concerned. Now she's well over her time and it will just make things harder. And you know what they say about cross queens.”

Snail thought,
Sooner a hungry dragon than a cross queen.

“Has she really begun at last?” was all she dared to ask.

Luckily Mistress Softhands was distracted enough by the work ahead not to scold her about this, saying only, “Of course, of course. Why else would I be in such a pother! Now go wash and meet me at the birthing tower quicker than quick.” And off she went, as fast as if she'd a magic witch broom between her legs.

The thought of Mistress Softhands on such an instrument of travel almost made Snail laugh out loud, but she held it in. She'd already gotten into enough trouble for one day.

*  *  *

S
NAIL WENT INTO
the nearest washing chamber and cleaned up from her twin spills on the floor—
the tumble and the crumple
, as she called them to herself. After that, she went up to her bedchamber and put on a fresh, starched apron. The dress and the hose seemed surprisingly clean.

A quick inspection in the small mirror and she was off down the hall and then three stairways up to the Great Tower, where the queen was to give birth.

Of course, the queen was not there yet. She was in her great bed in the chamber next door, lying down. In between the birth pains she played cards with her ladies—Knaves High and Split the River, real ladies' games, not the kind of cutthroat games the servants played below stairs like Pinch, Poke Her, and Hold Them Down. When not calling out her cards, the queen was shouting out orders. Snail was not allowed in the queen's bedchamber—only a master midwife could go in to check on her—but Snail could hear her bellowing easily enough, even through the heavy wooden door. The queen might be delicate as a wren and as lovely as a hummingbird, as the minstrels sang, but no one ever said she had a soft voice.

“I want some of that sweet apple wine, now.
NOW,
you fool! Not later,” the queen howled, and then added, “Oof, another one of those pains. Yes, by the green gods it hurts, and no, I will not sit up. YOU can sit up yourselves.” Clearly this last was said to whichever midwife was examining her.

“Just LEAVE ME BE,” the queen continued. “I have a hand to play. No.
NO!
Do not leave me, you stupid midwife. Do what I mean, not what I say. I want that WIIIIIIIINE!”

Snail turned into the first of the three birthing chambers, the one where Mistresses Softhands, Yoke, and Treetop were in charge of Snail, Yarrow, and the new apprentice. The queen would not make a final decision as to which chamber to give birth in until the very last moment, nor which three of the nine midwives would be in attendance. It was a ploy to fool any wicked spirits or Seelie spies who might be wishing the new baby harm.

And to make more work for us
, Snail thought, but didn't say so aloud. She just walked into the room, rolled up her sleeves, held her hands and arms out for Mistress Treetop to inspect. When the midwife nodded, Snail went over to the narrow bed and the mattress that she was to stuff with newly gathered Ladies' Bedstraw. The bedstraw would not only sweeten the air of the tower, but also ease the baby's passage into the light.

She saw Yarrow, Mistress Yoke's apprentice, already setting out the juniper twigs, juniper berries, and seeds of the ash tree in the great hearth, forming them into circles of power. Yarrow was looking perfect as always, not a raven hair out of place.

I should say something
, Snail thought. But then she realized it would give Yarrow another excuse to accuse her. And all the midwives would back Yarrow on that, since making disagreements or pother in a birthing room—and especially the queen's birthing room—was the worst sort of thing a midwife could do.

All potheration set aside at the bedfoot
, Mistress Softhands always cautioned.

Yarrow would be lighting the herb piles soon and saying the words of cleansing. As the oldest of the apprentices, she'd had her choice of jobs. It was no surprise she left the gathering of hand towels, birth cloths, and such to the newest girl. Snail suddenly remembered her name—Philomel.

Plenty of time after
, Snail thought,
to get back at the two of them. Maybe revenge really
is
best as cold soup rather than hot porridge, as the old saying goes.

Stuffing the mattress appealed to Snail anyway. Fire-making was a precise task in the birthing room. If it went wrong, the whole tower could be filled with smoke, and everything would have to be moved to a lower chamber, including the queen on a litter.

And if something
can
go wrong
, Snail knew,
it
will
go wrong, especially if I'm in charge.

Suddenly, she was
very
glad all she had to do was stuff the mattress. Even if the bedstraw
was
prickly. She liked the smell, and the ordinariness of the task. She began to hum to herself, one of the songs the pot boys had been singing at last night's party.

 

And she winked,

And he blinked,

And their hearts both beat as one . . .

 

It was a tune that caught up in one's ear. A ballad about a changeling who changed a prince's heart. The song helped her move the bedstraw into the coverlet in an even, flowing motion.

Mistress Softhands came by and swatted her on the head. “If you must sing, sing a song of queen's praise,” she said. “Or a song of jubilation for the event at hand. None of this silly, common nonsense. A changeling can't never even
talk
to a prince. And singing such heresy in the queen's tower room? What are you
thinking,
child!”

Snail swallowed down her retort and began to hum the only praise song she knew. The words went something like, “Glorious queen . . . dum-ti-dum . . . ever been . . . dum-dum-ti-dum . . . in the highest . . .”
Oh, it has no joy in it. No fun
.
No proper smooth rhythm, either
. But not wanting to be swatted again, she stopped singing altogether, and just punched in handsful of the bedstraw until the mattress was lumpy and coarse.

“Look at what Snail's gone and done!” It was toffee-nosed Yarrow, standing over her and pointing.

The three midwives surrounded the bed, shaking their heads,
tsk
ing, shaking fingers, and looking dour as only midwives can amongst themselves on the day of a birth.

“I'll shake it out,” Yarrow said, in that snooty way she had, and, with several quick flicks of her wrists, did just that.

“I was about to shake it down,” said Snail, but no one heard her because just then the queen started bellowing again.

This time there were no words in what she was saying, just a lot of screams and whines, and an occasional roar.

Snail ran to the door but knew better than to throw it open. Unless there was a knock indicating the queen had chosen their room, it was punishable by death to do so. Instead, she stooped, put her eye to the keyhole, and looked into the chaos of the hall.

On a litter carried by four blinded trolls—trolls were not supposed to look at the queen if she was not perfectly dressed and glowing—the queen thrashed about, her slim arms waving, be-ringed hands clutching at the air. Her normally serene face was red and sweaty as a farmer's wife, and she was using words Snail had only heard the dog boys say, swears of such monumental force that Snail was surprised the air in the hallway hadn't turned blue or the stones in the tower melted and run like whey.

“Look at Snail!” Yarrow cried out from across the room. “She's spying! She's
spying
!” At the same time, she pushed Philomel, who darted forward to try and pull Snail from the door.

But Mistress Softhands shouted, “Leave her!” and bulled her way through the two hysterical girls, then leaned down over Snail's shoulder and whispered. “What do you see, girl?”