Thorn (23 page)

“Thank you,” I say soberly. “I’ll remember that.”

“And there’s an old witch that lives over there,” another girl points down an alley. “She’ll put a curse on anyone who bothers her; and she was trained in one of the mage schools so you can’t even report her.”

We spend the next hour or so together, the children showing me all their favorite spots, vying with each other to be the first to explain. In addition to the well, I see the doorway to the witch’s house, walk past the healer’s home, look down from the roof where the children normally pelt people with snowballs, see the back of the local butcher’s shop where wormy meat can often be got, and spy on the guardhouse at the corner of a large square.

The city feels different here from the streets where I have walked with Falada. Here people move slowly, as if walking were marginally easier than standing still. Some carry sacks of coal or bundles of wood; others pass with the whiff of food; most merely wrap their clothes tightly about them. Many have upon them the look of hard work, their naturally tan faces pale and thin, their eyes shadowed. Occasionally, a man or woman huddles at a corner, bundled in ragged blankets and cloaks and scarves. They hold out empty tin cups and shake them at me, but I have left my purse at the stables and have nothing to give.

The only place I see that speaks of plenty lies on the very edge of the children’s domain: they take me to see a great temple built on a cobbled plaza beside South Road. The building is magnificent, carvings flowing up the marble facade and decorating the arched doorways, the doors themselves left open to give a glimpse of a mosaic-spread inner courtyard and a splashing fountain. “That’s Speakers’ Hall,” Lakmino says in a voice hushed with longing. “They have a free school, if you can pass the test for it, and everyone who studies there never goes hungry again.” The other children are still for once, and in their eyes I see the reflection of unspoken, unattainable dreams. Despite the beauty of the building, I am glad when we turn back into the narrow alleys and they begin to jostle and laugh again.

By the time we head home, my stomach has begun to grumble, telling me lunch is long past. Tarkit’s face is pale with cold, his shoulders hunched. We walk quickly, Tarkit’s head darting back and forth.

“What are you looking for?” I ask, half teasing.

“You should always be careful,” he says. “Torto’s cousin got beat up by robbers last month in the middle of the day. It’s okay when there’s a bunch of us, but now there’s only you and me. The snatchers don’t always care what time of day it is. They just sneak up on you and—wham!—you’re gone.”

I keep watch after that, scanning the alleys and doorways for men or groups of boys. I follow Tarkit as he crosses streets or turns down a different alley to avoid others, his route no longer seeming quite so erratic or whimsical.

 
“This isn’t the way to the stables,” I say, recognizing the streets from my walks with Falada.

“No,” he agrees quietly. “I’m taking you to meet Artemian.”

“Who’s that?” He puts his finger to his lips to hush me. I watch the streets carefully for landmarks. Finally, down a narrow back alley we enter a brick building. We climb a shadowy set of stairs to a landing with two doors, one of them boarded up. Tarkit knocks on the other, calling out his name.

I hear a step from the other side and the door swings open. “Come in.”

I follow Tarkit into the lamplit room. My old friend, the scar-faced man, closes the door behind us. “Wait by the door, boy. I’ll speak with the lady in the next room.”

I follow him, studying his long stride, his broad shoulders and wiry build. A swordsman, I think. There is gray in his hair and I realize with shock that he must be more than twice my age. I wonder how Red Hawk won such a man’s loyalty.

“Artemian,” he says, closing the door behind us. I
had
guessed that.

“Thorn.”

“Do you have the money for the boy’s apprenticeship?”

I slide my fingers under the sash at my waist and pull out the pouch I had taken from Valka’s trunk, handing it to the man. He opens it and tips its contents into his palm: a delicate gold pendant adorned with pearls. Wordlessly, he drops the pendant into the pouch, closing his fingers around it. I watch him, wondering if I have misjudged it.

“You haven’t much experience with valuing jewelry, have you?”

I flush. “Is it too little?”

“This little trinket of yours will pay for ten boys, not one.”

I let out my breath in relief. “Then use it for ten boys.” He pockets the pouch but makes no move towards the door. I lick my lips and say, “Thank you for helping me that day.”

Artemian shrugs. “Our friend asked that we keep an eye on you. I myself am grateful for the service you did him.” His fingers flick to his pocket. “You’ve got this pendant here, enough to keep you for years, and you’re willing to work at the stables for a pittance. Why? Why not use a portion for the boy, and keep the rest for yourself?”

“I don’t need it,” I say. “Not the way he does, or the other boys I see on the street.” I am aware of the man’s eyes on me, aware of my cracked and callused hands, my stained tunic and threadbare cloak, the sores at the corners of my mouth. But every day I have three meals, every night I have a place to sleep.
And it isn’t mine to take
. I stare at the ground, wondering what I have become, if I have turned into a Red Hawk myself, stealing Valka’s jewels.

“I see.” He rubs his arm with his hand, as if his muscles ache. “I want you to remember this place. If you need something more from our friend, come find me. If I’m not here, leave a lock of your hair and I’ll find you.”

“My hair?”

“It’s an uncommon color. I’ll know it’s yours.”

“Oh.”

He opens the door, waving me out. Tarkit smiles as he sees me. “Go in peace, lady.”

Alone in my room later that night, I throw open my traveling trunk and search through my clothes, searching out something to wear to Melkior’s dinner.

The carriage driver hands me into a plush interior of velvet cushions and gilded metalwork. I have brushed the straw from my hair and scrubbed the grime from my hands, unearthed an embroidered silk skirt and tunic I half-like from among Valka’s trunks, and even dabbed a bit of lilac water on to hide the scent of the stables that yet lingers. Even so, I feel nothing more than a servant playing at dress-up, riding in a carriage meant for greater people.

We pass through the palace gates and follow the well-cobbled road that circles the palace, rolling to a stop in a private courtyard. Sitting in the darkness of the carriage looking out, I feel as I did that first time I came to the palace, Valka across from me and the tastes of familiarity and fear mingling on my tongue. I cannot remember much of Melkior: he is tall, with a wide smile and shrewd eyes. I search my memory for any other bits or images that might offer further insight, but come up empty-handed.

The driver clears his throat, standing at the door, and I realize he has been waiting more than a moment for me to alight. So it is with muffled laughter that I first set foot into Melkior’s courtyard. I cross to the doors still smiling, unperturbed by the silent welcome. There is, after all, a single main door and two smaller ones: it would not take my brother to sort out which to use.

I enter a small foyer. It is richly adorned in mosaics, lit by candles in wrought bronze candleholders, the wooden floor gleaming. I pass through the far door and enter a plush sitting room. Here I detect the hand of a woman; no doubt Melkior is married, I think, and then am surprised his wife did not address the card to me herself. The room is carefully laid out, low gold and maroon couches lining the wall, interspersed with small gilt tables of various shapes and sizes that are set with silver trays filled with delicacies.

Kestrin rises from where he had been lounging on one of the couches, offering me an elegant court bow. “My lady, may I welcome you? Our hosts will join us shortly.”

So it had been him—not that I am surprised. I curtsy. “Your Highness, I thank you. I hope I have not inconvenienced his lordship.”

Kestrin is dressed elegantly in a dark green tunic and cream sash. They are lightly embroidered, with a touch of cream at the cuffs of his tunic, and green chasing its way along his sash. He wears calf-length boots, and I can just make out cream pants tucked into them. “Lord Melkior did not expect you quite so soon. We are notorious for starting our functions long after the appointed time.”

“I see,” I say, my voice sweet. He had planned this little tete-a-tete; I’m not about to take the blame for it. “It is not my habit to keep a carriage waiting. I suppose in future I should, that I not abuse my hosts’ hospitality.”

I startle a genuine laugh for him. He gestures to the sofas. “Won’t you join me?” I take a seat as he moves to a side table. A decanter of wine and a set of crystal goblets wait on a silver tray. “May I offer you refreshment?”

“I thank you, but I do not drink wine.” He arches an eyebrow, his hand pausing as it curves around the bottle. “Do not let me deter you,” I stammer, catching the glint of recognition in his eyes. I have hated the stuff since my brother first made a habit of seeking me out after he’d had a bottle—something Kestrin might well have heard about. “I would not decrease your pleasure.”

“There is no worry of that.” His hand drops from the bottle. “I take more pleasure in good company than I do in wine.”

Here is an opening then to find out what he wants of me, what he really knows. “You must be hard-pressed indeed, Your Highness, to count me as good company. Have you found the court so troublesome you would rather spend an evening with a servant?”

“The particular goose girl in question has more of the court in her, I believe, than she gives herself credit. Certainly it is in her blood.”

I stiffen, but I cannot tell whether he means Valka’s noble lineage, or my own royal heritage. I wave my hand dismissively, trying to keep the conversation to a lighter tone. “Your Highness must not expect any of the latest court gossip from me, whatever sort of blood I may have.”

He stretches his legs out before him, his lips quirked in a smile. “I am tired of gossip. I expect we shall get on very well, the two of us.”

My stomach flutters unexpectedly. I find myself smiling at him as he regards me warmly. “Who will make our party tonight?” I ask abruptly. “Will your lady join us?”

“The princess and her closest friends have traveled a day’s journey north for the purpose of an outing.”

“I am not much of a replacement, Your Highness, though I may speak the same language.”

“Oh, I would not worry about that,” he says. “As for the rest of the party: Lord and Lady Melkior are our hosts, their two daughters, Fesa and Tahima, will accompany us, as well as their son Jashi. My cousin, Lord Garrin, will also attend. He is usually as prompt as yourself.”

I remember vaguely being told about him—the only other member of the royal family. It had not occurred to me until now to wonder what became of his parents. “I do not believe I have met him before.”

“He was in his lands to the west when you arrived. While he has come here for the winter, there have been few opportunities for an introduction.”

“No,” I agree. “I tend to avoid the court unless I have an errand, and apparently he has a similar contempt for goose barns.”

“Though your errands have proved most intriguing,” Kestrin says, his eyes crinkling with amusement.

I manage a small smile. “My errands or my property, Your Highness?”

“Both, I must admit. Though you have left off your errands of late, and so I have had little indeed to occupy my idle hours.”

“Is that why I have been invited here, that you may allay your boredom on a winter day?”

“I thought it might not be a bad thing for you to have friends among the court,” he tells me, and though his tone remains light his eyes turn serious.

I consider him, but he is still too like my brother for me to accept these words from him. Certainly Melkior and every other member of this small party owe Kestrin what loyalties they have, and would easily betray any thoughtless word of mine to him. “I doubt I could command any true friendships among the court, considering my position.”

“I think you underrate yourself, my lady.”

“Am I a lady again, then?” I ask. If he thinks me foolish enough to forget the danger the court poses to a serving girl, I have no qualms with reminding him of what he himself has called me before. “Pray when was I restored to such a title from that of ‘thorn’?”

He laughs a court laugh but his features grow still, his expression bland. I have turned his mood. “My lady by her own admission has always been a thorn.”

“No, Your Highness, not always. Just upon my arrival here. It is a distinction of a sort, you know, to be a bother to a prince.”

“I believe you have likewise always been a lady of high distinction.”

I bite my lip. I had forgotten the barbed sting of the language of the court, and now my mind stumbles over its dusty store of half-meant responses and finds nothing fitting. “I did not think I was so very early,” I finally say.

“Our hosts will be in momentarily. Lord Melkior is thought to be the essence of punctuality; I'm sure he will be sorry to have kept you waiting.”