The Spy Princess (17 page)

Mother smiled gently, as she always did.

So watch over us, if you can.

• • •

I
STILL REMEMBER
that last dinner. I'd look at my food and the peaceful kitchen, and I couldn't really believe I was about to leave. My body knew it, because my middle was a wad of knots.

Deon and Bren traded off telling one of Derek's best stories. Even Lizana listened, smiling faintly, as she moved about the kitchen, for it was her turn to cook.

When the evening ended and she'd said nothing at all, despite our behavior (including a million hints that Deon couldn't resist dropping, because she loved having a secret), I wondered if Lizana had her own plan. I hoped it didn't concern us—that we wouldn't wake up and find ourselves turned into potted plants, statues, or something, to keep us from leaving.

I had my Larei clothes and the travel pack with my extra outfit and blankets, my fashion book, and two pens and a bottle of ink I had taken from Mother's desk.

The last thing I did that night was cut Deon's hair. Afterward, she took a bath and combed it back, like the boys'. I left my own until morning, just in case Lizana checked on us. At first I was afraid we wouldn't be able to get to sleep, but excitement had tired me out.

It was dawn before I knew it. Since I was always the first awake, I'd been appointed to rouse everyone. I bathed, dressed in my tunic and knee-pants, and then, instead of brushing out my mane, I used the scissors from the desk to hack it off.

How light my head felt! I ruffled my hair, glorying in the freedom.

Then I looked in the mirror. The Larei staring back was different from the early days. My face seemed a different shape. My skin was tanned, and the brown in my hair had lightened, making the red seem brighter. My eyes and brows seemed more slanted than ever, reminding me of my father, and I felt a pang of sorrow.

I looked little enough like Lilah that I didn't think a glimpse would give me away.

Then I tied my cut-off hair and Deon's into a knot and put it into the pack. I poked Deon, who was up and dressed in an eye-blink. After putting the bedding through the cleaning frame and tidying the room, I went to quietly waken the boys.

As we left for Tsauderei's, I looked down at Irad House through the blue-gray morning shadows, my throat tightening. What would Lizana think when Tsauderei told her? I was tempted to write a note, but what would I say?

But excitement crowded out my grief, for the other three were lively, Deon most of all.

“Breakfast is ready, brats,” the old mage said when we arrived.

We hurried through the meal. Then Tsauderei said, “Innon, you should be in charge of this, for you're the least likely to lose it.” He held out a small cloth bag. “I'll teach all of you the spell, in case you can't find food. You'll always get a loaf of that nutbread they make in Diannah Forest.”

“By magic?” Bren asked. “How does that work?”

“It's a very difficult series of spells, drawing on supplies they keep in Diannah,” Tsauderei said. “You've got a dozen uses at most before they wear out. So use it only when you really need it.” After we learned the spell, he brought out another precious object. “Now, who wants to carry this glowglobe? I trust you know how to be very careful with it.”

“Me! Me!” Deon exclaimed. “I promise I'll take good care of it.”

Innon tucked the bag away, Deon carefully wrapped the glowglobe in her spare outfit, while Bren stowed the remains of our breakfast.

“Now, Lilah.” Tsauderei handed me a ring on a chain. “This is because it's too big for your finger, and it might call attention to you.”

“All right,” I said, slipping the chain over my head and dropping the ring down the front of my tunic. The ring was cold against my skin.

“If you are in danger of losing your life, you hold it like so.” He demonstrated. “Then repeat this spell.” I repeated the words until he was satisfied. “It's what you might call a summons ring. It will alert me and give me a destination to focus on. I can transport you out—just you, if you are alone, but all of you, if you are hand in hand. Guard it well.”

“I will,” I promised.

He made sure he had our full attention before he continued. “Remember, my Sharadan brothers. There is no such thing as slam justice—not if ‘slam' means force. Do what you can to help, but if things come to violence,
get out
.”

Before we left, I turned to the mage. “I feel bad about fooling Lizana.”

Tsauderei gave me a nod of approval. “I will tell her about our agreement, and also what you just said.”

I was a little heartsick as we soared up and up and the valley dwindled below, and I suspected that the boys felt the same.

The magic guided us north, and we winged swiftly over the mountains, talking from time to time. We practiced our signal codes as we flew, and when we reached the highest peak, I tossed the knot of hair down into a crevasse and thought,
Farewell Lilah and Deon, and welcome Larei and Daen!

Then we saw Diannah Forest. We stayed as high in the air as we could, hoping to fly all the way there. But soon we were being guided gently toward the ground.

“Head up!” Bren yelled, fighting to stay aloft. “Go fast, keep your head up!” Innon, Deon, and I were fine, but Bren struggled so hard that he, the best flyer of all, came down into a thorn bush. He climbed out, exceedingly chagrined.

We started down the trail, Innon teaching us one of the valley work songs. It was new to Deon, but she quickly wound up leading the singing, the distinctive Sartoran triplets echoing through the trees, for we wanted the guardians to find us as soon as possible.

She was in the middle of making new verses—one for each brother—when an old man and a young one emerged from the shadowy forest. They were both dressed like guardians. “I remember you!” she said to the youngest one. “I'm Daen now. We've come straight from Lizana.”

The men didn't react.

“We need a horse,” she went on.

“Why?”

“Because we have to get to Miraleste.”

“Why?”

Before Deon could get us into trouble, I said, “We're going to help Peitar Selenna and Derek Diamagan.”

“Four children,” the older man said. “Are you by any chance great mages in humble form?” I knew at once that he was teasing, even though his face and tone were serious.

“Laugh if you want,” Deon said. “But you'll see. We'll be famous soon.”

“Famous.” Bren nodded firmly.

“And feared,” added Innon. With his sun-bleached hair short, his face looked rounder and less threatening than ever.

“Far and wide,” I finished, not to be left out.

“I have a fine mount right at hand,” the man said, the corners of his mouth quirking into his gray-and-brown beard. “Recently rescued from an undeserving skinflint.”

His companion led out a large draft horse on which we all fit, more or less. Unfortunately, Deon and Bren were fastest, so they got the front. Guess where I was stuck?

As we rode off, Deon turned and yelled, “Remember the Sharadan brothers!”

• • •

T
HAT NIGHT, WE
camped near a stream. In the lowlands it was still so warm we didn't need our blankets. We ate the rest of our breakfast, taking turns at telling stories—except for Deon, who sang a funny insult song she'd made up in my uncle's camp. Uncle Darian was defeated in some imaginative ways that night, and Derek and Peitar were amazed and grateful.

As we lay under the starry sky, Bren said in a dreamy voice, “If there wasn't any trouble, and you could do whatever you wanted, what would you do? I think I'd like to travel.”

“I
know
I want to travel,” said Innon.

“I want to be a pirate.” Deon spoke the way you do when you know everyone else disagrees. “A girl pirate that attacks only bad people, like the stories about Dtheldevor and her gang in Everon getting the Norsundrians.”

“Her secret base is an island off Wnelder Vee,” Innon corrected. “They attack Norsunder's ships along the coast of Everon.”

“Oh, who cares exactly where. Maybe none of them even exists. My Gran says it's all a lot of noble hot air. But that's what I'd
like
to do.”

“Lilah?” Bren asked. “I mean, Larei?”

I bit my lip. “I've spent so much time thinking of what I
don't
like to do . . . I don't know. Read histories? Travel? Have adventures?” The truth? Right now I was doing what I really wanted—going to help.

“Well, seems to me we're about to have some adventures soon,” Innon commented.

• • •

T
HE TRIP WAS
uneventful. We met some patrols as we got closer to Miraleste, but after a few brief questions—we claimed to be looking for work, which was true enough—they let us go.

On the fourth morning we began meeting more road traffic. Mindful of the horse's welfare—we wouldn't be able to keep it, and it wasn't fair to let either rioters or warriors capture it—we let it go and walked the last leg.

“Don't forget the plan,” Bren whispered when the city gates came into sight. He spoke to us all, but I had a feeling it was meant especially for his cousin.

Deon's quick smile betrayed her excitement, but she kept a steady pace as Innon hefted his bag over his shoulder. I swallowed and wiped my sweaty hands. Up on the gates, warriors moved back and forth, watching the crowd of slow-moving wagons and people going to and from market. No one paid us the least attention.

The Sharadan brothers had arrived.

PART III

Slam Justice

one

O
ur first job was to learn the city. Our second, to find a hideout.

Deon knew her way around already, from running messages for Derek, but she contained herself as Innon made us walk the full length of the main street. Before we split up, he said, “If you get lost, head uphill until you can see the palace, and you'll be able to figure out where you are.”

Bren took the west side, nearest the palace. If he was recognized, he'd be remembered as kitchen help. Deon took the north, Innon the east. We agreed to meet outside the Three Princes Inn—no longer the Freedom Alehouse—at sunset.

I explored the twisting streets of the south end, marking the turns and landmarks and noting the guardhouses. Masons, bricklayers, carpenters, and glaziers were rebuilding—but not, of course, in the poorer sections.

All the streets had been cleaned. The foul smell was gone, now that the Wand Guild was back at work. Some merchants had tents or makeshift storefronts; others had combined their shops. Patrols moved at a deliberate pace, watching everything.

Almost all of the revolutionary slogans had been whitewashed over, and I imagined Uncle Darian's well-trained city guard marching with buckets and brushes, their mail-coats jingling, as they solemnly painted out all the references to “Dirty Hands.”

The sun was setting when I returned to the Three Princes. I found Deon playing a game with a few local kids, while Innon scouted the big shops nearby.

Bren came rushing down the hill when it was almost too dark to see and torches were being set out along the main street. Just as he reached us, a patrol rode into the wide, three-way intersection, and other riders and pedestrians scrambled out of the way.

“Curfew!” a warrior shouted. “Return to your homes! Everyone indoors by evening bells, unless you have a pass!”

“I've got a lot to report,” Bren said breathlessly.

“And I found us a place,” said Innon. “Come on, we'll have to leg it.”

We sprinted downhill to the east side, the poor area of Miraleste. Soon I had a stitch in my side. All that flying had been nice, but I'd gotten out of the habit of running!

By the time he led us into a narrow, deserted alley, the evening bells were ringing. We skirted broken stone and burned timbers and stepped in under the warped, smoke-blackened sign of a candle shop.

Ash and cinder had been swept up against what remained of the counter. We climbed a set of narrow, rickety stairs to a loft. Innon lit a candle from his pack, and we were able to study our new home. “The entire alley is deserted,” he said. “No one will hear us here.”

“It doesn't smell like fire,” Bren said.

“I think it happened a long time ago. You can see how the alley ends at the burned-out wagon yard.”

“Looks good.” Deon nodded. “Nobody around, already been looted. I like it. Let's stay.” Bren and I agreed, to Innon's obvious relief.

“I swept downstairs so we won't leave footprints. If we fence off this loft, we can have light, since there are no windows up here.”

“So let's use the glowglobe,” Deon said, taking it out.

As Innon hesitated, I said, “They're spelled to last for years. I don't think we'll use up the magic that fast.”

He snuffed the candle, and we set up the glowglobe on a wooden box. The light made the loft seem almost cozy. Then we unloaded our packs. I picked a spot close to the edge so I could keep an eye on things, then folded my blanket into a makeshift pallet. Better to sleep uncovered than to lie on the hard wooden planking—but I said nothing, because Deon would be sure to make a comment about nobles and weakness.

After we were settled, we divided up the last of our stale bread and dry cheese.

“Water,” Bren managed before he started coughing.

“Communal well just up the street,” Innon said. “We'll have to get a bucket with a clean-spell—either steal it or work for it, because they cost a lot.”

Bren turned to me. “Can you get one from the palace?”

“Me! I'm not going
near
the palace! I thought
you
would spy there.”

“It has to be you.” As he talked, he drew idle shapes in the dust. “See, I went to the kitchens, and Mirah-cook is there. She's not Derek's contact, but she's one of us—she was helping Lizana save people. Mirah remembered me. She told me that they need a spit-boy they can trust. I'd do it, Larei, but you know your way around the palace much better than I do. More important, you know some of the secret passages.”

“And look where they got me,” I said flatly. “Besides, I don't know anything about spits.”

Bren pretended to crank one. “All you do is turn the handle until someone tells you to stop.”

“You won't be stupid again and walk right into Dirty Hands.” Deon leaned forward eagerly. “Look, none of us knows the palace like you—not even Innon.” Innon nodded in agreement. “Think of the adventure!”

Bren said, “You'll wear palace gray. And like you told us, no one looks at servants' faces.”

I groaned.

Deon gave me a look.
“If
,” she said, “we
really mean
to be the Sharadan brothers—which was
your
idea—and build a reputation, and
help,
then we
have
to take some
risks
.”

The boys waited, Bren still drawing, Innon studying the ladder as if it was about to sprout wings.

I choked down the last of my bread. “First thing in the morning.”

Deon nodded, then continued, “Anyway, the servants count everything at the palace, that much I know. I'll find a bucket with the clean-spell on it.”

“I'm going to keep exploring,” Innon said. “I have an idea.”

• • •

A
T DAWN
I
trudged up the servants' road into the palace. Barking dogs chased around as I joined a long line of servants and delivery people waiting to pass the guards. I scuffed through the dust covering the old paving stones and tried to look bored.

When it was my turn, I said, “Mirah-cook expects me. New spit-boy.”

I was waved in by a big mail-gauntleted fist and sped straight to the kitchens, head down. I was terrified that Uncle Darian was at some window, watching me.

Mirah-cook was a tall, long-nosed woman with hair the same color as mine. As soon as she saw me, she asked, “Who are you?”

“Bren sent me,” I said, my heart pounding. “Larei the spit-boy.”

She eyed me sternly, then said, “Sit here. Turn the spit slow and even until these chickens are done. I'll tell you when.”

I sat on a stool next to a deep-set fireplace with a big wheel of iron spits and cranked the wooden handle, unnoticed in the constant swirl of activity. There was a bucket of fresh water nearby, with a ladle in it, for me. This was thirsty work.

Mirah was one of seven cooks, each overseeing different things, from the delivery and preparation of fish and fowl, baked goods, vegetables, and desserts to the final arrangements of cooked food on fine dishes. Pages arrived and left, carrying the same silver trays I remembered from before the revolution. Someone had managed to hide them.

I kept turning the spit until Mirah appeared and motioned me to stop. As a young man in an apron began to slide the cooked chickens onto serving platters, she led me to a small room. “We'll get you a proper uniform,” she said.

She took a gray tunic from the linen closet and sized it against me. “That should fit. Now, what's your name again? Can you come every day?”

“I'm Larei. As for coming every day, I—I don't know,” I hedged.

She peered at me closely, as if she wished she could see inside my head. “
Who
sent you, again?”

“Bren.”

She eyed me—clearly she wanted something more than Bren's name. “He was vouched for by . . . two people.”

“Derek,” I said carefully. She nodded, but she still seemed to be waiting. For what? I remembered our arrival at the beginning of summer. Bren was pretending to be the page to . . . “Lord Peitar Selenna,” I added, very softly.

Her face cleared. “Good! I hoped so. This is
very
important. I need someone trustworthy to listen to a very important meeting and report back about what they say, but none of us will fit into the hiding place that we managed to put in just last week. You know where the blue dining room is? Not the old formal one, it's still under reconstruction, but the smaller one next to it?” I nodded and pulled the tunic over my clothes. “You do? Good. Under the table, wall end, there's a door hidden in the baseboard carving. Crawl in there and pull it shut. One of us will let you out when it's safe. Take this and scoot.”

She indicated a silver tray laden with bowls of nuts and grapes that someone had set on a cart. I hefted it and raced down the servants' corridors, past palace buildings that had been completely cleaned. Most of the walls were still bare; I wondered if artisans were working on new tapestries and statuary.

The blue dining room overlooked the lake and the garrison. Everything was new and smelled of fresh paint. I set down the tray, then ducked under the table and felt along the carved leaves and vines along the baseboard. It was impossible to see, and I had to go over it three times until a section clicked and a small square of wall opened.

I saw what Mirah meant. As small as I was, I just managed to fit inside. With the door shut, tiny holes in the carving gave me bits of view. A short while later, people entered. There was the clink and tinkle of silver, plates, and wineglasses being set out. Mouthwatering smells came next.

All but one of the servants withdrew. Then the door opened again, and I saw three sets of heavy blackweave military boots, followed by a pair of green court shoes with emerald and diamond clasps.

There was the sound of pouring, and then, “Begone. We can wait upon ourselves.” It was a fussy courtier's voice—the owner of the expensive green shoes.

After the servant left, closing the door behind him, Fussy-Voice said, “Benoni. I trust you'll have a better report today.” Benoni! I knew who that was—Petran Benoni, the army commander!

“No,” came a deep voice. “Same.”

Another voice, higher and more sarcastic, observed, “Are you worried about your own report, Flendar?”

Without warning, a pinched, aristocratic face appeared upside-down in front of me. I held my breath. Just as well I couldn't move, or I would have betrayed myself.

The pale gaze swept this way and that, and then the face disappeared.

A snort from Benoni. “Expecting spies under the table, eh? Do you check under your bed at night?”

“It's my job,” Fussy-Voice—Flendar—said officiously, “to see to it that the only eavesdropping is done by
us
. If you'd done
your
job, we wouldn't all be sleeping in camp quarters while the rabble that half destroyed the palace laughs behind our backs.”

A fourth voice said with good-natured humor, “Oh, give it over. Petran jokes us all—”

He stopped as the door opened. I heard another pair of boots. From the silence, I knew they had to belong to my uncle. I'd planned to stay away from him—and here we were, in the same room, my second day in Miraleste!

Cramped as I was, I wormed my fingers under all those clothes to close comfortingly around Tsauderei's ring as my uncle said, “Sit down. Serve yourselves. Benoni, your report.”

“There's trouble all along the east. I'll give you the details when we meet with the couriers. We're pretty certain it's Bernal Diamagan and his old contacts, though everyone we talk to insists they've never heard of him.”

“Then you should be executing the town leaders as an example,” Flendar cut in.

“No,” my uncle said. “At that rate, half the populace will be gone. Anyone you catch, send to me. Anyone you suspect, send to me. No more summary hangings, unless you apprehend them in the act of sabotage. Flendar, your report?”

“I'm up to thirty couriers, but recruitment is necessarily slow. I have to be very careful, I'm certain you'll agree—”

“Your command structure is?” Uncle Darian interrupted.

“All any of them know are two others. They report to me, and I tell Leonos where to send a patrol.”

“Have you given their identities to Leonos?”

“No,” said the third man, obviously Leonos.

Flendar's tone was ingratiating. “You yourself ordered—very wisely, I might add, Your Majesty—that you wished their identities known to as few as possible. We don't know how many of the city guard have relatives among Diamagan's rabble, for example.”

“Yes, yes. So there is an identifier?”

“Everyone outside of my staff here in the palace wears a heron signet, all copies of my own.”

“Leonos?”

“Aside from the fact that the loyalty of my guards has never been questioned, it works so far.” Leonos sounded slightly hesitant.

“But?” Darian prompted.

“Most haven't the stomach to be putting civs to the question, especially children or the elderly.”

“Flendar?” Uncle Darian's voice was sharp.

“It seems more efficient to conduct my own investigation . . .”

“You heard me: hold them. If they have to wait a week—a month—so be it.”

“As you wish, Your Majesty. I take it, then, you'll want to make time for the old man we found this morning? He's been positively identified as one of Diamagan's messengers.”

“What have you done with him?”

“Well, we used the knouts. His attitude was defiant, and it was necessary to remind him who holds the whip-hand these days.”

“Go. Find out his status. If he's alive, send word to me, and I'll interview him myself.”

“But . . . now?”

“Yes. We all agree that the sooner we tie Diamagan by the heels, as well as my enterprising nephew, the sooner we'll have peace, do we not?”