(Shadowmarch #1) Shadowmarch (62 page)

“If it turns out not to your liking, tell Nynor and he will find the poet some other place. Thinwight, or whatever his name is, is young and should be agreeable. Bad poets
need
to be agreeable.” She nodded. “Now I have much to do . . .”

“My lady,” the old man said, still having trouble meeting her eyes, “it was not that which I wished to speak about—well, not as much.”

“What else?”

“I have a very great worry, my lady. Something that I have remembered, and that I fear I should have told earlier.” He stopped to swallow. It did not look easy for him. “I think you know I visited your brother on the night of his death. That he called for me after supper and I came to his chamber to entertain him.”

“Brone told me, yes.” She was alert now.

“And that I left before Lord Shaso came.”

“Yes? So? By the gods, Puzzle, don’t make me work it out of you word by word!”

He winced. “It is just . . . your brother, may the gods grant his soul peace, sent me away that night. He was . . . not kind. He said that I was not diverting, that I never was—that my tricks and jests only made him feel . . . made him feel even more that life was wretched.”

Kendrick had only told the truth, but she knew he must have been distressed indeed to be rude to old Puzzle. Her older brother had always been the most mannerly of the family. “He was unhappy,” she told him. “It was an unhappy night. I am sure those were not his true thoughts. He was worried about me, remember, about the ransom for the king and whether he should send me away.”

The jester shook his head in confusion and defeat. He was bareheaded, but the gesture was so familiar she could almost hear the tinkle of his belled cap. “That is not what I wanted to tell you, Highness. When Lord Brone asked me about that night, I told him what I remembered, but I forgot something. I think it is because I was so disturbed by what Prince Kendrick had said—a hard blow for someone who has devoted his life to the pleasure of the Eddons, you must admit . . .”

“Whatever the reason, what did you forget?”
Gods defend me! He certainly does test a person’s patience.

“As I left the residence, I saw Duke Gailon walking toward me. I was in the main hall, so it did not occur to me he might be going to see your older brother and I did not mention it to the lord constable after . . . that terrible event. But I have been thinking and thinking—sometimes I lay awake at night, worrying—and I think now that he was walking the wrong direction to be going to his own chambers. I think he might have been going to see Prince Kendrick.” He bowed his head. “I have been a fool.”

Briony didn’t bother to reassure him. “Let me understand this. You are saying that you saw Gailon Tolly heading toward the residence as you were leaving. And you saw nothing of Shaso?”

“Not that night, but I went straight to my bed from there. Are you very angry, Highness? I am an old man, and sometimes I fear I am becoming a witling . . .”

“Enough. I will have to think about this. Have you told anyone else?”

“Only you. I . . . I believed you would . . .” He shook his head again, unable to say what he believed. “Shall I go to tell the lord constable?”

“No.” She had said it too forcefully. “No, I think for now you should tell no one else. This will be our secret.”

“You will not put me in the stronghold?”

“I suspect that sharing a room with that poet fellow will be punishment enough. You may go, Puzzle.”

Long after the old man had tottered away she remained, standing beneath the pictures of her forebears, thinking.

23

The Summer Tower

H
E PRACTICALLY HAD TO fight his way through the women to get to her. The physician could feel their resentment, as though he were some long-absent lover who had put this baby in her and then left her shamed and alone.
But the king is the father here, not me, and Olin is not absent by choice.

Queen Anissa had grown so round in the belly that it made the rest of her slight frame seem even smaller. Seeing her in the center of the bed, surrounded by gauzy curtains like trailing cobwebs, he had a momentary image of her as a she-spider, gravid and still. It was unfair, of course, but it set him thinking.

“Is that Chaven?” To make room for him, she pushed away one of her small dogs, which had been sleeping against the curving side of her stomach like a rat dreaming of stealing a hippogriff’s egg. The dog blinked, growled, then stumbled down to join its companion who snored near her feet. “Come here, quickly. I think I will give birth at any moment.”

From the look of her, she might have been right. He was surprised by the dark circles under her eyes. In this room of draped windows, the only light an unsteady glow from the candle-studded altar, she looked as though she had been beaten.

“You need more air in this bedchamber.” He took her hand and gave it a quick, formal kiss. The skin was dry and warm—a little too much of both. “And you look like you aren’t getting enough sleep, my queen.”

“Sleep? Who could sleep in such a time? Poor Kendrick murdered in our own house by a trusted servant, and then plague all through the town? Do you wonder I keep the windows covered to keep out bad airs?”

Calling Shaso a trusted servant seemed an interesting way of characterizing him, and the fact that she had not counted her husband’s absence in her list of worries might also have been thought strange, but Chaven did not respond to her words. Instead, he busied himself examining the queen’s heartbeat and the color of her eyes and gums, then leaned in to smell her breath, which at the moment was a little sour. “The plague is all but spent, Highness, and I imagine you were in far greater danger from your own maid when she had it than from it floating in from the town.”

“And I sent her away until she was better, you can be sure. Didn’t I, Selia? Where has she gone? Has she gone for seeing why I have no breakfast yet? Aah! Must you poke me so, Chaven?”

“Just wishing to be certain that you are well, that the baby is well.” He let his hands move across the drum-taut arc of her stomach. The old midwife was still staring at him in a way that was a little less than friendly. “What do you think, Mistress Hisolda? The queen seems well enough to me, but you have more experience with such things.”

The old woman showed a crooked smile, perhaps recognizing his gambit. “She is stronger than she looks, though the baby is a big one.”

Anissa sat up. “That is just what I am feared of! He
is
big, I can tell—how he kicks! One of my sisters died birthing such a child—they saved the baby, but my sister died all . . . washed in blood!” She made a southern sign against evil happenstance. She was afraid, of course, Chaven could see that, but there was also a hint of falsity to her words, as though she played up her fear in hopes of sympathy. But why shouldn’t she? It was a frightening business, childbirth, especially the first time. Anissa was already well past twenty winters, he reminded himself, not yet in the time of danger for first mothers but certainly past her prime according to all the learned men who had written about it.

This was also the first time Chaven had heard her refer to the baby as “he.” The royal physician did not doubt that the midwife and her coven of helpers had been at work, perhaps dangling a pendulum over Anissa’s stomach or reading splatters of candle wax. “If I order you a medicinal draught, will you promise to drink it every night?” He turned to Hisolda. “You will have no trouble finding the constituents, I’m sure.”

The old woman raised her eyebrow. “If you say so, Doctor.”

“But what is it, Chaven? Is it another one of your binding potions that will turn my bowels to stone?”

“No, just something to help you sleep. The baby will be strong and hearty, I am sure, and so will you be if you do not sit up nights frightening yourself.” He stepped over to the midwife and listed the ingredients and their proportions—mostly wild lettuce and chamomile, nothing too strong. “Every night at sundown,” he told the old woman. He was beginning to doubt that flattery worked on her, so he tried another tack, the truth. “I am a little frightened to see her so restless,” he whispered.

“What are you saying?” Anissa moved herself heavily toward the edge of the bed, disturbing the dogs and setting them growling. “Is something wrong with the child?”

“No, no.” He came back to her side, took her hand. “As I said, Highness, you are frightening yourself without need. You are well and the child is well. The plague seems to have passed us by, praise to Kupilas, Madi Surazem, and all the gods and goddesses who watch over us.”

She let go of his hand, touched her face. “I have not been out of this place so long—I must look a dreadful monster.”

“You look nothing of the sort, Highness.”

“My husband’s children think I am. A monster.”

Chaven was surprised. “That is not true, my queen. Why would you say such a thing?”

“Because they do not come to see me. Days go by, weeks, and I do not see them.” When she was excited her accent grew thicker. “I do not think they will love me like a mother, but they treat me like a serving maid.”

“I don’t believe Princess Briony and Prince Barrick feel that way at all, but they are much occupied,” he said gently. “They are regents now, and many things are happening . . .”

“Like that handsome young Summerfield. I heard. Something bad has happened to him. Didn’t I say that, Hisolda? When I heard he left the castle, I said ‘Something is not right there,’ didn’t I?”

“Yes, Queen Anissa.”

Chaven patted her hand. “I know nothing for certain of Gailon Tolly except that there are many rumors. But rumors are not to be trusted, are they? Not in a household already so upset by death and your husband’s absence.”

She grabbed his hand again. “Tell them,” she said. “Tell them to come to me.”

“You mean the prince and princess?”

She nodded. “Tell them that I cannot sleep because they shun me—that I do not know what I have done so they are angry with me!”

Chaven resolved to pass the message along in a slightly less heated form. It might be useful to convince the twins to come and visit their stepmother before the child arrived, for any number of reasons.

He removed his hand, disguising the escape as another kiss across her knuckles, then bowed and bade her farewell. He suddenly found that he wanted to be alone to think.

The little page had been roused from his pallet on the floor and sent to make his bed anew in the outer chamber. They were finally alone.

“What’s troubling you so?” Briony sat down on the edge of the bed. “Talk to me.”

Her brother pulled the fur lap robe up across his chest and huddled deeper into the blankets. It was not a warm night, not with true winter on the doorstep and Orphan’s Day less than a month away, but Briony did not find the room particularly cold.
Is he still suffering with that fever?
It had been at least a tennight but she knew some fevers did not loose their grip for a long time, or came back again and again.

“Why did you say that idiot poet could stay in the household?”

“He amused me.” Was she going to have to discuss it with everyone? “In truth, I thought he might amuse you, too. He tried to convince me he was writing an epic poem about me—a ‘pangegyric,’ whatever that is. Comparing me to Zoria herself. The gods alone know what he’ll compare
you
to. Perin, probably . . . no, Erivor in his seahorse chariot.” She tried to smile. “After all, Puzzle isn’t as diverting as he used to be—I think I’m beginning to feel too sorry for him. I thought it would do the two of us good to have someone new to make fun of. Which reminds me, Puzzle came to me when I was leaving your room earlier today. Told me that on the night Kendrick was killed, he saw Gailon in the hallway.”

Barrick frowned. He seemed not just sleepy but a little dazed. “Kendrick saw Gailon . . . ?”

“No,
Puzzle
saw Gailon.” She quickly repeated what the old jester had told her.

“He has heard that Gailon has disappeared,” Barrick said dismissively. “That is all. He wishes to be remembered as denouncing him if it turns out that Gailon is a traitor.”

“I don’t know. Puzzle never bothered with politicking before.”

“Because Father was here to protect him.” Barrick’s expression suddenly changed into something vague, distant. “Do you like him?”

“Who?”

“The poet. He is handsome. He speaks well.”

“Handsome? I suppose, in a prettified sort of way. He has an absurd beard. But that is certainly not why I said he could . . .” She realized she had been led astray again. “Barrick, I don’t want to waste any more breath on that callow fool. If you dislike the poet so much, give him some money and send him away, I don’t care. I’m convinced he’s nothing to do with the greater matter. Which is what we’re going to talk about.”