Tomorrow's Kingdom (6 page)

“No,” said Lord Bartok with a chuckle. “The cripple thinks he can outsmart me, but he is an arrogant, lowborn fool. To be sure, I will send men to follow the carriage— but only so that his spies do not suspect that I know it's nothing but a ruse.”

“A ruse?” said Atticus in bewilderment.

“I have it on excellent authority that instead of setting out by carriage tomorrow, late this night the cripple will board a ship bound for northern waters,” said Lord Bartok. “Though I have not been able to determine its final destination, it will undoubtedly follow in the path of the ship that carried away the queen three days past.
Immediately following this afternoon's funeral—after you've made arrangements to have Aurelia serviced—you and your chosen men will board a ship of your own, this one hidden in a cove just beyond the mouth of the royal harbour. When the cripple's ship sets sail this night, yours will follow it at a distance that ensures you are undetectable to all but the keenest eye. Where his ship docks, so, too, shall yours. If he thereafter travels overland, buy horses and follow him to his final destination, wherever that may be. There, you will surely find the queen being held captive. Do what you must to rescue her. If you can kill the cripple while you're at it, so much the better, but remember that securing possession of the queen is your main objective.”

“I will, Father,” said Atticus even as a vaguely calculating look flitted across his soft-featured face.

Lord Bartok considered his son for a long moment. Then he said, “Atticus, do not get into your head the idea that you ought to wed and bed the queen yourself.”

Looking as guilty as a child caught filching sweetmeats, the young nobleman wildly cast about for something clever to say, but all he could manage to come up with was a blustering “Father, I would
never
—!”

“I'm glad to hear it,” interrupted Lord Bartok calmly, “because if you did, I would do far,
far
worse than disinherit you.”

At these words, Atticus's wine-reddened face got considerably redder. “For gods' sakes, Father, I
know
—”

“Good,” said Lord Bartok. “Go, now. Prepare for your journey, then dress for the funeral. And when you take your place in the procession this afternoon, Atticus, remember to look sad. The dead king was your beloved brother-in-law, after all.”

EIGHT

A
S ZDENO HAD PREDICTED
, people thronged to Parthania from the surrounding countryside to pay their final respects to the king. From their hiding place, Rachel could hear the noise of the restless crowds that had packed the streets along the funeral procession route.

“Is it almost time to go?” she asked Zdeno nervously as she smeared her already grimy face with yet another handful of camouflaging dirt.

“Almost,” he replied, carefully smoothing a final layer of pale clay over his birthmark before leaning forward to give her a kiss on the mouth.

Rachel smiled as he pulled away beaming. Her “personal hero” had grown rather daring in the three long days they'd spent hiding inside the crumbling crypt. It would not have been Rachel's first choice as a hideout, but Zdeno had assured her that no one would dare to look for them there—not only out of fear of waking the dead but also out of fear of the flesh-eating night walkers that were rumoured to inhabit the graveyard. Though he'd hurried on to say that he was almost positive the rumours were false and that in any event, no earth-bound demon in existence would be able to feast on her while
he
was around, Rachel had only felt marginally comforted. She'd felt better after the crypt's dusty corpses had been transferred to another resting place, however, and better still once Zdeno had returned from fetching bandages, candles, food and drink enough to last them for several days. Wanting to feel useful, she'd offered to clean and dress Azriel's wounds, but Zdeno had taken one look at Azriel with his shirt off and insisted upon tending the Gypsy himself. As he'd done so, Azriel had groaned and grimaced and gnashed his teeth so agonizingly that Rachel had feared his wounds must be far worse than they looked. But by the next morning, he'd seemed none the worse for wear, and now, as they prepared to make their escape from the city, he looked as fit as ever and a
thousand
times fiercer, the thought of his kidnapped wife and their unborn child ever upon his mind.

“So it is agreed?” said Azriel as he hid his auburn curls beneath the filthy piece of linen he'd found under the sugarberry bushes that grew behind the crypt. “If one or two of us fall or are captured this day, whoever escapes will find my tribe and tell them what has happened to Persephone?”

“It is agreed,” said Rachel, even though she quailed at the prospect of carrying on alone.

“It is agreed,” said Zdeno shortly.

“Good,” said Azriel, his blue eyes glowing from beneath his makeshift scarf. “Let's go.”

Zdeno's prediction that the streets would be so crowded that Mordecai's soldiers would find it impossible to properly look for anyone turned out to be exactly right. Unfortunately, his prediction that they'd be able to slip through the gates unnoticed fell alarmingly short of the mark.

“We're going to need to create a diversion,” said Azriel as he stared at the half-dozen New Men who stood, sword in hand, scrutinizing anyone who ventured anywhere near the gates.

“What kind of diversion?” asked Rachel unhappily.

Before Azriel could answer, the funeral procession came into view at the far end of the street. Leading the way was Mordecai himself. Rachel shivered when she caught sight of him. Dressed as he was in a hooded robe of black velvet and clutching in his bony hands the reins of the enormous black stallion he was riding, he did not look like a mourner at all.

He looked like Death.

Directly behind him was a wheeled platform drawn by six white horses. The platform was covered with a flowing purple cloth so long that it swept the cobblestones. Centred upon the cloth was a silver-handled coffin crafted from polished ebony and heaped with white lilies. Surrounding the platform were black-clad, poleaxe-wielding New Men whose job it clearly was to keep people away. Even so, every few seconds someone—usually dressed in lowborn rags or worse—darted out of the crowd to call a blessing on the dead king, to touch his coffin or to toss a garland of wildflowers atop the lilies.

Rachel had not really known King Finnius, but seeing how well the common people had loved him—and knowing how well Persephone had loved him—she felt her eyes begin to sting.

Before she could shed even a single tear, however, there came such a piercing screech from three feet above her head that she instinctively ducked. Squinting skyward, she was amazed to see Ivan, the hawk that had followed Persephone so far and so well. He had a plump hare clutched in his talons, and even though she knew it was impossible, it seemed to Rachel that as he swooped around, he was staring right at her.

“What is he doing?” she whispered in alarm as Zdeno sidled closer and the people around them looked up and pointed.

“I think he thinks you're
her
, Rachel,” murmured Azriel as he scowled at his feathered nemesis. “And I think he means to give you a little gift.”

Rachel's knees turned to water at the thought of the dangerous attention Ivan's generosity would surely attract. But if the hawk meant to give her the hare, he sadly misjudged the trajectory it would take when he released it. Because instead of landing anywhere near Rachel, it landed directly on top of the coffin, scattering the white lilies and homemade garlands and setting the nearby New Men shouting in alarm. Yanking hard on the reins, the furious former regent wheeled his horse about to see what was going on. As he did so, Ivan flew straight at him.
Ducking, Mordecai glared up at the creature that had
dared
to attack him only to find himself treated to a close-up view of that same creature releasing a large splatter of shit as it cruised by. Fortunately for Mordecai, only a few in the crowd actually saw him suffer this indignity, the rest being riveted by the pandemonium that had been caused by the scattered lilies. For even before the lilies had hit the cobblestones, a dozen quick-thinking lowborns had run forward, eager to get their hands on a memento of the day. Alarmed when they realized that they'd be left empty-handed if they didn't act fast, hundreds of other lowborns had immediately stampeded toward the fallen flowers. Unfortunately, there were only an armful of lilies, and many of those had been trampled underfoot in the initial rush. People got angry. The New Men bellowed and lashed out, but they were hopelessly outnumbered. Shoving matches were breaking out now and fistfights too. Those who cared nothing for the lilies but were glad of an excuse to vent their discontent with life were jumping into the fray; those too fearful of reprisals to do so were pressing forward in their eagerness to see what was happening. Several people near the front fell, screaming as they went down. The crowd surged ahead, forcing the New Men guarding the king's coffin to scramble on top of the platform to avoid being crushed. Outraged that Mordecai's hated soldiers would dare to desecrate their beloved king's funeral bier by treading upon the purple cloth of royalty with their filthy boots, the people nearest the platform grabbed for the soldiers' legs. The platform began to rock dangerously as the mob tried to topple the soldiers while at the same time avoiding their wildly swinging poleaxes.

Just when it seemed that the poor king's coffin would be dumped onto the street, Mordecai unsteadily stood up in his stirrups. Splatter still dripping from his face, he jabbed his finger in the direction of the half-dozen New Men guarding the city gates and screamed, “
DON
'
T
JUST
STAND
THERE
,
YOU
USELESS
IMBECILES
—
GO
HELP
THEM
!”

His face half-shadowed by the makeshift scarf, Azriel turned toward Rachel and smiled for the first time in three days.

NINE

B
LISSFULLY UNAWARE
that he'd made possible the escape of the man he hated more than almost any other in the realm, Mordecai saw the funeral procession concluded, the king entombed and the lowborn rabblerousers rounded up and punished.

Hours later, he descended into the vast labyrinth of fetid tunnels that lay beneath the palace. Setting a flickering torch in the rusted wall bracket of one particularly stifling dungeon cell, he called out, “Have you missed me?”

The woman whose chains were shackled to the weeping wall at the back of the cell said nothing, only stared unblinking into the shadows.

Undeterred by her lack of response, Mordecai shuffled over to examine her more closely. The one the king had called Moira was now so thin that she could only truly be thought of as a cow if she were a cow in a land of terrible famine. Her ragged shift hung in rotting tatters that left precious little to the imagination. Her hair was falling out in clumps, her nails were torn, she was caked in her own filth, and her skin was covered with oozing sores and festering rat bites.