The Crimson Crown (38 page)

There was a cut over Amon’s right eye, and the freshly pressed uniform was stained and spattered with blood. Talia was similarly bloodied up.

“How…Are many dead?” Raisa asked.
Any of the Wolves? Anyone I love?
she added silently.

Amon shook his head. “None, thank the Lady. They couldn’t use their numbers in the narrow corridor. They could only come at us two at a time. When the reinforcements came up from the guardhouse, the stripers were caught between. That made the difference.”

“Klemath?”

“He got away,” Amon said, his face hard and grim. “Which means we have a bigger problem outside. General Dunedain’s gone to investigate. Now that we’ve cleared the keep, I’ve sent teams to take a count of everyone within, and to assess what goods we have in the buttery and the kitchen stores.”

“Then we’re under siege? By our own army?” Raisa asked, her voice cracking with disbelief.

“It seems so,” Amon said. “I expect we’ll find out soon enough what they want.”

“I just hope he doesn’t expect me to marry Kip,” Raisa said, shuddering. “I’d leap from the tower first.”

Cat snickered, and that set Magret to laughing, and soon they were all in convulsions.

“Even w-worse,” Cat cackled, blotting tears of mirth from her eyes. “Maybe he wants you to marry b-b-both of them.”

“I’ll make you a rope, Your Majesty, so you can hang yourself,” Magret said.

Talia swaggered across the tower room, thrusting out her hip and planting her hand on an imaginary weapon. “Your Majesty, marry me. I haven’t a brain in my head, but I have a really…big…sword.” Then she got a bewildered look on her face. “I only hope you can teach me how to use it.”

Amon just stared at them as if they’d all gone mad.

Or giddy.

Raisa didn’t care. She was just glad that nobody she cared about had died—yet. But she knew that couldn’t last.

Han awoke to murky torchlight, hurting in every place imaginable and some he’d never known about before.

He was no stranger to pain. He’d endured the tender touch of the queen’s gaolers in the past, and knew it was survivable. Life on the streets brought with it a share of knifings, beatings, and streetlord discipline—at least until you got your own game going.

“Alger?” he said, searching for his ancestor’s presence.

“I’m here,” Crow said, his voice low and soothing. “Go back to sleep if you can.”

Lord Bayar had wasted no time getting down to the business of ferreting secrets out of Han. Clearly, he meant to keep Han alive long enough for a thorough interrogation. And mobile enough to lead them to the armory if need be. So for the present, he used a light and careful hand—familiar devices, including thumbscrews, toe wedges, and flogging. Now and then he raised blisters with wizard flame, but never went deeper.

Han stood for hours locked into a collar that forced him to keep his neck stretched out or be spiked in chin and chest. He hung on the wall from his wrist darbies, as the days and nights ran together. Bayar broke two fingers on Han’s right hand. Why he’d stopped with two, Han didn’t know.

One thing you had to say about the Bayars—they never minded getting their hands bloody. Unusual for bluebloods.

They watered him liberally, and fed him some, too. Han ate and drank what was provided, when he was conscious enough.

Curse me for an optimist, Han thought. I always think, given time, I’ll find a way to win. That’s what got me here. Every time I make a claim on the world, it catches the attention of the vengeful gods. He remembered his words to Raisa.

I promise you that if you love me, and you agree to marry me, I will make it happen.

They seemed to mock him now.

Nobody knows I’m here, he thought. And I can count on the fingers of one hand those who would care. He’d told Raisa about the armory, part of his new resolve to trust his friends. But all she knew was that he was going after it. She’d have no idea where to look for him.

Micah never once came to the dungeon deeps, not even to gloat. Where is he? Han wondered. Was he busy courting Raisa, with his rival all chained up?

Though Micah wouldn’t see Han as a rival. Not really.

I have to survive, he thought. Otherwise, Raisa will marry Micah.

At first, Fiona spent quite a bit of time in the dungeon, hands clasped together, watching her father work on Han, her face pale and stonelike. She seemed to be trying to take some pleasure in it, and not succeeding.

Han made no effort to put up a brave front. Most of the time he just screamed himself hoarse, though a couple of times he amused himself by screaming Fiona’s name as if he were in the throes of passion.
FEEE-OHHH-NAAA!
Lord Bayar made him pay for that, but afterward, Fiona didn’t come down anymore, which Han appreciated.

When Bayar used truth charms on him, Crow would step in and spout gibberish and nonsense for hours. Bayar stopped that, likely worried that Han was going crazy. There’d be no way to get good information out of a Mad Tom.

Crow is trapped in my head, Han thought. With no amulet to escape into. He’s suffering again, along with me.

As Han weakened, Crow began taking control of him more and more, standing in and enduring hours of torture on his behalf. Han tried to stop him, but he was too weak to prevent it, and it did allow him to get some sleep. When Crow ceded back his body, Han would explore it cautiously, looking for all the new hurt places and making sure nothing was missing.

Han struggled to sit up. His eyes were so swollen that he had to turn his head to see slices of his surroundings. He realized, then, that they’d moved him to a different prison—one that stank of scummer and blood and despair.

He no longer dangled from the wall, but lay on a pile of filthy blankets on the stone floor. His wrists and ankles were still darbied, but the Bayars had given him enough chain to allow him to move in a small arc from bed to slop jar to water skin.

“What’s going on?” Han asked Crow.

“I don’t know,” Crow said. “They moved you here, all in a rush, chained you up, and left again.” He paused. “You have company.”

Han noticed it now—groaning and raspy breathing from the far side of the room. He looked across to see a small heap of clothing against the wall on the far side.

“Hello!” Han called. “Who are you?”

The groaning stopped abruptly, and the heap shifted. “Cuffs?”

“Flinn?” Han said, astonished. Questions tumbled through his addled brain.

Flinn pushed himself into a sitting position, propped against the wall. He’d had always been small, but now he seemed to have dwindled further, a handful of bloody rags over bones—scarcely recognizable. Even at a distance, Han could tell he was in a bad way. His torso was wrapped in bloodstained bandages, and Han could smell the stench of putrefying flesh.

“What are you doing here?” Han asked softly.

“I was going to ask the same thing when they brung you in here, and I saw how you’d been worked over.” Flinn coughed, a hacking, wet cough that sounded ominous. “See, I was the one put the finger on you. I thought you was in with them.”

“I know,” Han said. “I’m sorry. What you heard at the Smiling Dog—I was gamoning the Bayars, and it went wrong. I don’t blame you for thinking I was in their crew.” He paused. “Now you tell. I thought you were Captain Byrne’s. He wouldn’t hand you off to the Bayars.”

“I run off,” Flinn said. “When I came to see the queen, Cat was there. I knew she’d go right to you, and I figured you’d come after me for bawling to the watch. So I kicked the bluejackets and run back to Pilfer to collect my things, but the Bayars had a watch out—for you, I guess—and they grabbed me.

“I didn’t go down without a fight, though, and I was bad hurt. They brung me back here, and at first they had healers working on me to keep me alive, but then all of a sudden they quit and dumped me down here.”

“Flinn. I’m sorry,” Han said, his voice thick with remorse. “It’s my fault you’re here.”

“I should’ve known better than to think you’d throw in with them,” Flinn said, his breath wheezing through broken teeth. “I ain’t a snitch, Cuffs, you know that, right? But Queen Raisa—she’s a good one, and I didn’t want to see her hurt.”

“She is a good one,” Han said softly. He cleared his throat. “If you thought I was out to murder the queen, it was right to turn me in. Now rest, and don’t worry about it.”

But Flinn seemed compelled to make his case. “You’ll get off; you’ll see,” he said eagerly. “I’ll be dead before long, and I can’t swear against you if I’m dead.”

“Just rest,” Han said. “Keep your strength up.” He realized what Flinn didn’t, in his feverish state. With Han in hand, the Bayars no longer had need of Flinn, since they never meant to bring Han to trial. They’d chained Flinn up and left him to die.

Once again, Han’s anger flared, and with it, his drive to survive.

It took two days to arrange a parley with Klemath under a flag of truce. Understandably, there wasn’t a lot of trust on either side.

“He can send written demands,” Amon said. “I don’t want him coming within a hundred yards of you.”

“No,” Raisa said. “I want to look the man in the eye. I want to understand why he did this. I want to sort out truth from lies.”

“Fine. Let him come in here,” Cat said, her head bent over her sharpening stone, honing her body blades. “I’ll cut him to pieces too small for the maggots to find.”

“No,” Raisa said. “All I have as a ruler is my word. And if that can’t be trusted, then—”

“Let me do this one little thing,” Cat begged. “After Klemath, I’ll never ask you for another favor. You can be extra trustworthy after that.”

There were no gifted within the castle close. The most prominent had assembled on Gray Lady prior to the attack, to launch the investigation of Han. The rest had repaired to their summer homes in the southern mountains, escaping the unusual heat in the Vale.

Where was Han? Could he be somewhere in the city of Fellsmarch, outside the castle close? Was he on the run in the mountains? Did he even know the castle was under siege?

Raisa ricocheted between wishing she had him there with her, to hoping he was somewhere out of danger. Han Alister had a way of finding trouble, and these days there was plenty of trouble to be found.

Raisa didn’t know where her father and grandmother were, either. They were likely in the upland camps, keeping a close eye on Gray Lady, waiting for some decision about Han. Did they know what was happening down in the Vale?

Did it matter? The clans were not adept at flatland warfare—at coming up against an army in formation. But they could make it impossible for the mercenaries and their allies to get anything into or out of the Vale.

Unfortunately, Raisa and her allies would run out of resources before the mutinous army did.

And so they met, the queen and the traitor, under a little canopy outside of the Fellsmarch guardhouse at the end of the drawbridge. Raisa wore the magicked armor made for her by Fire Dancer. Amon had insisted, and, anyway, it presented the image of a queen at war.

Raisa was backed by General Dunedain, Captain Byrne, four bluejackets, and Cat Tyburn. Klemath headed a motley of striper mercenaries, along with a long-nosed, arrogant-looking Malthusian priest. The priest was clad all in black, save the rising sun pendant at his neck and the golden keys about his waist.

When Cat spotted the priest, her eyes narrowed. She looked from the cleric to Klemath and back again, looking puzzled. And alarmed.

She recognizes him, Raisa thought. Why would Klemath come with a priest, and a flatland priest, at that? She spotted Keith Klemath in the back of the pack (or was it Kip?), and for a split second wondered if the man was there to perform a marriage. But the
lytling
Klemath looked awfully glum for it to be his wedding day.

“Klemath,” Raisa said, wrenching her gaze back to her former general. “I certainly cannot bid you welcome, but I am interested in hearing an explanation of this…ill-considered adventure.”

“Your Majesty. I am not here to explain. I am here to discuss terms of surrender,” Klemath said.

“I’m glad to hear it,” Raisa said. “I cannot promise clemency, but I will promise you justice.” To her right, she saw Cat wink at the general and draw her finger across her throat.

Klemath looked flustered. Then angry. “I am here to discuss terms of
your
surrender, Your Majesty, not mine.” He slapped his gloves across his palm for emphasis.

“What makes you think I intend to surrender?” Raisa said, cocking her head.

“You are hopelessly outnumbered,” Klemath said, as if tutoring a small child. “You have—what—a few dozen guards? I have thousands of soldiers surrounding the castle close.”

“That’s a lot of hungry mouths to feed,” Raisa said, tsking. “We are well provisioned, here in the keep, but as for you—well, I hope you planned for a long siege.” She looked past him, shading her eyes, to the mountains ringing the Vale. “I don’t recommend trying to bring any supplies through the mountains,” she said.

“We will own the passes before long,” Klemath blurted, his face pinking up like a strawberry.

The priest leaned toward him and murmured a few words.

“May I introduce the Most Holy Father Cedric Fossnaught, Principia of the Church of Malthus,” Klemath said.

Fossnaught moved forward, extending his pendant as if he expected Raisa to kiss it.

Raisa put up both hands and took a step back as Cat stepped between her and Fossnaught, scowling, her largest blade extended from under her trailing sleeve. “Keep your distance, you ragged-tailed flatland crow, or I’ll…”

Fossnaught staggered backward, nearly falling, looking terrified.

Raisa laid a hand on Cat’s arm to restrain her. “I think he understands your meaning, Lady Tyburn,” she said. “So, Fossnaught. Ah…what brings you to the queendom of the Fells? I would think you had plenty to do in the south.”

“I bring greetings from His Majesty, King Gerard Montaigne of Arden,” Fossnaught said.