(Shadowmarch #1) Shadowmarch (48 page)

“I wished only to hear of your journeying,” he said out loud, then realized he did not want to wait days more before sharing his concerns with the physician. “And perhaps talk a little more of that matter we discussed last time . . .”

Prince Barrick rose from the stool on which he had been perched off-balance and almost tipping over, Chert realized, like any ordinary young man. “I will not keep you, then,” he told the physician. The prince spoke lightly, but Chert thought he heard disappointment and something else in the boy’s words—anger? Worry? “But I would speak to you again. Tomorrow, perhaps?”

“Of course, Highness, I am at your service always. In the meantime, perhaps a glass of fortified wine before bed would help a bit. And please remember what I said. Things always look different when night is on the world. Let me escort you to the door.”

Barrick rolled his eyes. “My guards are in the kitchen bothering your housekeeper and her daughter. Since Kendrick was killed, I cannot go anywhere without bumping elbows with men in armor. It was all I could do to convince them I did not want them in the room with me here.” He waved his good hand. “I will find my own way out. Perhaps I can sneak past the kitchen and have an hour to myself before they know I’m gone.”

“Don’t do that, Highness!” Chaven’s voice was hearty, even cheerful, but there was an edge to it. “People are frightened. If you disappear, even for a short time, some of those guardsmen will suffer.”

Barrick scowled, then laughed a little. “I suppose you’re right. I’ll go and give them some warning before I run for it.” He nodded in a distracted way toward Chert as he left.

 

“The Rooftoppers, eh?” Chaven took off the spectacles perched on his nose and wiped them on the cuff of his robe—a robe surprisingly stained considering he had worn it while receiving royalty—then put them back on and gave Chert a shrewd look. “It is very unusual news, this, but I confess that there are many you could tell it to who would be more surprised than me.”

“You already knew?”

“No—or at least I have never seen them, let alone met their queen in such an unusual audience. But I have encountered . . . signs over the years that suggested to me that the Rooftoppers might be more than fable.”

“But what does it mean? All this talk of shadows and the coming storm? Is it because the Shadowline is moving? There is talk back home in Quarry Square that something came across the Shadowline in the hills to the west and took an entire caravan.”

“For once, the talk is right,” said Chaven, and quickly told his guest the merchant Raemon Beck’s story. “Even now the prince and princess have sent a company of soldiers to the place it happened.”

Chert shook his head. “I cannot believe it—I am more than ever certain that the old tales are coming to life. It is a curse to live in such times.”

“Perhaps. But out of great fear and danger, heroism and beauty can come, too.”

“I am not your man for heroes,” said Chert. “Give me a soft seam and a hot meal at the end of the day.”

Chaven smiled. “I am not so fond of heroism myself,” he said, “but there is a part of me—my curiosity, I suppose—that dislikes too much comfort. It is, I think, the despoiler of learning, or at least of true understanding.”

Chert suppressed a shudder. “Whatever sort of lessons the Rooftoppers spoke of—Old Night! That has a terrible sound. And the Lord of the Peak who warned them, some Rooftopper god, no doubt. In any case, those are the sort of lessons I would rather avoid.”

“The Lord of the Peak?” Chaven’s demeanor seemed to grow a little cool. “Is that what they said?”

“Y-yes—didn’t I tell you? I must have forgot. They said the truth of all this was spoken to them by the Lord of the Peak.”

Chaven stared at him for a moment as from a distance, and Chert feared he had offended somehow against their old but constrained friendship. “Well, I expect you are right,” the physician said at last. “It is some god of theirs.” He moved suddenly, rubbed his hands together. “It is good of you to bring this all to me. Your pardon, but you have given me much that is new to think on, and I have more than the royal family’s physical bodies in my care.”

“It . . . it was strange to see Prince Barrick. He is so young!”

“He and his sister are both growing older quickly. These are harsh times. Now I hope you will pardon me, good Chert—I have much to do.”

With the distinct feeling that he was being hurried out, Chert had almost reached the door when he remembered: “Oh! And I have something else for you.” He fumbled in the pocket of his jerkin, withdrew the unusual stone. “The child Flint, the one you met—he found this near the Eddon family graveyard. I have lived with and worked with stone as man and boy, but I have never seen anything like it. I thought perhaps you could tell me what it is.” A sudden thought: “It did not occur to me, but it was with me when I met the Rooftoppers. Their little Nose-man said he could smell evil. I thought perhaps it was the scent of the shadowlands still on Flint . . . but perhaps it was this.”

Chaven took it, gave it a quick glance. He did not seem impressed. “Perhaps,” he said. “Or perhaps it was all part of the incomprehensible politick of the Rooftoppers—they are an old race about which we know little in these days. In any case, I will examine it carefully, good Chert.” He gave it another look, then slipped it into one of the sleeves of his robe. “And now, good morning. We will talk longer when I am not just come back from the countryside.”

Chert hesitated again. Chaven had never before made him feel unwelcome. He wanted to probe the unfamiliar situation like a sore tooth. “And your journey went well?”

“As well as could be hoped. The fever that struck the prince has come to many houses, but I do not think it was what I once feared—something that comes from beyond the Shadowline.” He stood patiently by the door.

“Thank you for your time,” the Funderling told him. “Farewell, and I hope I will see you again soon.”

“I shall look forward to it,” Chaven said as he closed the door firmly behind him.

The sky was high and clear today, but cold air stabbed down from the north and Briony was glad of her warm boots. Not everyone seemed to approve of her manlike choice of clothing: woolen hose and a tunic that had once been Barrick’s; Avin Brone took one look at her and snorted, but then hurried into the day’s business as if he did not trust himself to comment on her apparel. Instead, he complained about the fact that her brother apparently could not be bothered to attend.

“The prince’s time and reasons are his own,” Briony said, but secretly she was not displeased. She had reasons to hurry, and although she did her best to attend to the matters to be settled, the taxes to be assessed, the countless stories whose only desired audience was her royal self, she was distracted and paid only intermittent attention.

Finished, she stopped and went to a meal of cold chicken and bread in her own chambers. She would rather have had something warmer on such a day, but she had an assignation to keep . . .

What a way to think of it!
She was amused and a little ashamed.
It is business—the crown’s business, and overdue.
But she couldn’t completely convince even herself.

Rose and Moina were in a frenzy of disapproval of her behavior today, both her immodest, masculine garb and her choice of meetings. Although they were neither of them forward enough to say much, it quickly became clear that the young noblewomen had been intriguing between themselves and would not be sent away without a fuss. After Briony’s heated words were met with fierce resistance—but couched in the terms of purest obedience to their mistress’ commands, of course—she gave up and allowed them to accompany her.
It is just as well,
she told herself.
It is perfectly innocent, after all, and now there will be no whispering gossip.
But she couldn’t help being just the smallest bit resentful. Mistress of all the northern lands—well, alongside her brother—and she could not have a meeting without being surrounded by watchful eyes, as though she were a child in danger of hurting herself.

He was waiting in the spice garden. Because of the argument with her two ladies, he had waited longer than she would have liked. She couldn’t help wondering whether chill weather like this felt more cruel to someone brought up in hot southern lands, but if Dawet dan-Faar was suffering, he was too subtle to show it.

“I had planned we would walk here,” she said, “but it is so fearfully cold. Let us go across the way into Queen Lily’s Cabinet instead.”

The envoy smiled and bowed. Perhaps he was indeed glad to go somewhere warmer. “But you seem to have dressed for the weather,” he commented, looking her up and down.

Briony was disgusted to find herself blushing.

The cabinet room was modest in size, just a place where Anglin’s granddaughter had liked to sit and sew and enjoy the smells of the spice garden. At first all of Briony’s guards seemed determined to join her in the cozy little paneled room, but this was too much; she sent all but two out again. This pair took up positions near the door where they could watch Rose and Moina doing needlework, then all four of them settled down to keep a close if covert eye on their mistress.

“I trust I find you well, Lord Dawet?” she asked when they had both been served with mulled wine.

“As well as can be expected, Highness.” He sipped. “I confess that days like this, when the wind bites, I miss Hierosol.”

“As well you might. It is very unwanted, this cold weather, but the season finally seems to have changed. We had been having unusually warm days for Dekamene, after all.”

He seemed about to say something, then pursed his mouth. “And is it truly the weather that causes you to be dressed this way, Highness?” He indicated the thick hose and the long tunic—one of Barrick’s that he never wore—that she had so carefully altered to fit her own slimmer waist and wider hips.

“I sense you do not approve, Lord Dawet.”

“With respect, Highness, I do not. It seems to be a sin against nature to dress a woman, especially one as young and fair as yourself, in this coarse manner.”

“Coarse? This is a prince’s tunic, a prince’s doublet—here, see the gold fretwork? Surely it is not coarse.”

He frowned. It was a much greater pleasure than she would have guessed to see him discomfited—like watching a supercilious cat take a clumsy fall. “They are men’s clothes, Princess Briony, however rich the fabric and workmanship. They make coarse what is naturally fine.”

“So the mere fact of what I wear can make me less than fine, less than noble? I fear that leaves me very little room in which to maneuver, Lord Dawet, if I am already so close to coarseness that a mere doublet can carry me to it.”

He smiled, but it was a surprisingly angry expression. “You seek to make sport of me, Highness. And you may. But you seemed to ask whether I approved, and I would be honest with you. I do not.”

“If I were your sister, then, would you forbid me to dress this way?”

“If you were my sister or any other woman whose honor was given into my keeping, yes, I would certainly forbid you.” His dark gaze suddenly touched hers, angry and somehow demanding. It was startling, as though she had been playing with what she thought was a harmless pet that had suddenly shown it could bite.

“Well, in point of fact, Lord Dawet, that is why I asked you to attend me.”

“So it is not ‘we’ and ‘us,’ Highness?”

She felt her cheeks warming again. “We? Us? You overreach yourself, Lord Dawet.”

He bowed his head, but she glimpsed the tiniest hint of a smile—the old one, the self-satisfied one. “I have been unclear, Highness. I apologize. I simply meant that you did not say ‘we,’ so I wondered if this was
not
then an audience with you and your royal brother, as I had been given to understand. I take it that instead you wish to speak more . . . informally?”

“No.” Damn the man! “No, that is not what I meant, although of course I act today as co-regent and with my brother’s approval. You make me regret speaking to you in a friendly way, Lord Dawet.”

“May the Three Highest bring ruin on my house if I intended any such thing, Princess—if I intended anything other than respect and affection. I simply wished to know what sort of meeting we are having.”

She sipped at her wine, taking a moment to recover her confidence. “As I said, your remark about me being a woman in your care was to the point. Only a few weeks gone, I might have
been
just such a forlorn creature, sent with you to marry your lord, like . . . like a bit of tribute. Do not forget, Lord Dawet, you come here as the ambassador of our enemy.”

“You have greater enemies than my master Ludis, Highness. And I fear you also have friends who are even less trustworthy than me. But forgive me—I have interrupted you. Again, I am unforgivably rude.”

He had flustered her again, but the anger gave her something to grip, a certain leverage. “It is finally time for the crown of Southmarch and the March Kingdoms to return an answer to your master, the Protector of Hierosol, and his offer of marriage. While my older brother was regent, there might have been a different answer, but now, as you may guess, the answer is no. We will ransom my father with money, not my maidenhood. If Ludis wishes to beggar the northern kingdoms, then he will find that when the Autarch comes to his front door, Hierosol will get no assistance from the north. Rather, though we hate the Autarch and would not ordinarily wish to see him gain even a handful of Eion’s soil, we will rejoice at the defeat of Ludis Drakava.” She paused, slowing her breath, making her voice firm. “But if he sees another way—if King Olin might be released for something less than this exorbitant amount of gold, for instance—then Ludis might discover he has allies here that will stand him well in days ahead.”