CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Caledon
BEYOND THE MOUNTAINS, MONT, THE capital city of the Kingdom of Montrice, rises to greet them. In the sun’s glare the city’s harsh gray structures look like part of the natural landscape, jutting up aggressively behind an intimidating stone wall that stretches miles in each direction. But as they ride closer, they can see the carved-out details in the buildings, deep-set windows, arrow loops and battlements on every roof in case of attack.
“Not very welcoming, is it?” Shadow says.
Cal nods. “Mont is a city accustomed to war.” Most windows that he can see, especially near the edges of the city, are gated with iron bars—decorative, but also functional. Armed guards patrol the perimeter, on horseback and on foot. A wide gated entrance at the north side of the city, usually open, is shut tight. Cal frowns. They’re not going to be able to walk right in after all.
“What should we do? Find another way in?”
“No,” Cal says. “Stealth is too risky at the moment.”
Shadow looks down at her clothes and then at Cal. She’s still wearing her stable-hand uniform, except the shirt no longer has sleeves thanks to the incident with the Aphrasians, and Cal has been wearing the same clothes since he left to see the queen. They have been washed in the river, but are ragged and worn from their journey out of Deersia and into the black woods. “Except we don’t look like we belong here. We look like nothing but trouble.”
“We look as well as we are going to look,” says Cal.
“Do I still look like a boy?” she asks.
He shakes his head emphatically. “No one would mistake you as male. Your deception was successful at Deersia only because people see what they expect to see.”
They approach the gate. A man stands inside the guard tower. Cal clears his throat. “Gates were open last time I was here,” Cal says to him, using the neutral dialect of Avantine.
The man replies, “Times have changed, especially concerning Renovians. Beware of them, shady folk.”
Cal nods. “Horrible city, Serrone, full of barbarians,” he says.
“From where do you hail?”
“My sister and I are from Argonia,” he tells the guard. “Just passing through Mont on the way to our grandfather’s estate in Stavin.”
The guard narrows his eyes.
“Of course, we have coin to spare,” adds Cal, and Shadow takes her cue to bring out the pouch full of gold.
“Much coin,” Shadow says, smiling slyly.
THEIR PASSAGE INTO THE city secured, they ride into town. People everywhere stop to stare at them, even pausing mid-conversation to watch them go by. Their dirty, plain clothes mark them as poor or foreign or both, especially compared with the elaborate dress around them. Behind Mont’s impenetrable fortress walls lies a city of vanity and finery.
Mont’s women, and some of the men, wear dramatic, garish makeup and huge hooped gowns of ornately embroidered fabrics with headdresses so large that the streets feel even more crowded than they already are. It’s difficult to see around them, even on horseback. One woman’s headdress is so big that it requires wire supports from her shoulders. The men and women wear similar fabrics, but rather than wide, swishing gowns, most of the men have long, narrow tunics over tight pants and heavy boots. Over their tunics, they wear chest armor, and all are carrying weapons, as if they’re ready to go into battle at any moment. Cal notices that even the women in the grandest gowns have daggers sheathed at their hips as well. The Montricians have become far more fearful since he was here last, though that was some time ago—two years? And he was only in the city a day or two, picking up a message from one of the queen’s operatives.
“Try not to stare; it’s considered rude,” Shadow says out the side of her mouth. “You really should read Crumpets and Cravats.”
He’s about to retort when he realizes she’s only teasing him.
They pass a marketplace, where vendors are selling imported produce at shockingly high prices. In the town square, skinny, barefoot children in linen shifts throw copper coins into a huge fountain. An old man sits hunched on the edge of it. A ten-foot-tall statue looms over them. “King Hansen himself.” The man nods when he sees them staring.
The statue depicts a generically handsome young man wearing a crown and fur-lined royal cape, one arm raising a sword, the other holding a shield. He looks about the same age as Cal, nineteen or so.
“It’s good luck to make offerings to him,” the old man adds, motioning to the children. Shadow scrunches her nose in disapproval. Cal doesn’t like it either. There’s something . . . lacking about this place. Shallow. Elaborate statues celebrate an unaccomplished young king while children use what little coin they have gambling on fountain wishes. Coin that will surely end up in the king’s pocket.
“You’re not from here, I take it,” the old man says.
“No, sir, we’re looking for an inn,” Cal says. “Do you know where we can find one?” Shadow hands the man a silver coin.
“Follow me.” He gets up slowly, straightening out his back. Cal can almost hear it creaking and cracking. The man begins walking on the road, shuffling his feet.
“May I offer you my horse?” Cal asks. The old man waves him off.
He leads them a few streets away, stopping in front of a two-story wood-and-brick building in a more modest neighborhood. The sign out front reads: STARLIGHT INN, LINDEN GARBANKLE, PROPRIETOR.
They dismount on the side, where there are low-walled stalls to keep the horses overnight. The old man holds out his hand as if to shake Cal’s. “Well. I suppose this is where I leave you.”
“We appreciate it,” Cal says. The old man reaches out and grabs his forearm to shake it.
“Don’t worry about a thing,” he says. He looks pointedly at their clothing. “Garbankle’ll take good care of you. Best place in all Montrice for a couple of ruffians to stay undetected.”
“Not sure what you mean,” Shadow says. “We’re—”
“Garbankle has no love for the authorities but a great love of money, you understand? I know you’ll think of a way to improve diplomatic relations between our two fine kingdoms.”
Cal shakes his head, his courtly Argonian accent impeccable. “But I told you, we’re not—”
“Bah!” He waves his hand at him. “I been around long enough to know a crook when I see one. And you gave me a Renovian coin.” He winks.
Shadow stammers, trying to protest, but the old man says, “Don’t worry about me. I lose no sleep over law and order. The crown, it comes and goes. Or the one wearin’ it does.” He begins shuffling away.
“Can I give you a ride back to . . . ?” Back to the fountain? Home? Cal doesn’t know what to say, but he wants to offer the man some kindness in return for his aid. “A ride back?”
The old man just waves his hand behind him again. A few seconds later, he rounds the corner, out of sight.
They tie up their horses and prepare to enter the inn. If Shadow is nervous, she hides it.
“Let’s get our story in order,” Cal says.
“I know what to do,” Shadow says. “Follow my lead.” Without waiting for him to respond, she walks inside.
“SO SORRY ABOUT THAT, Mister Garbunkle . . . erm, -bankle. Don’t mind my brother. If he seems out of sorts, it’s only that we’re dreadfully road-weary! My brother can’t control his temper, that boy! Again, my apologies. I agree you said nothing wrong whatsoever—I would’ve assumed the very same if I saw two people like us walk into my place of business.” Shadow smiles widely at the suspicious-looking innkeeper, who leans over the bar to take a better look at them.
Garbankle squints at her, but doesn’t respond.
Shadow continues. “You see, we’ve come all the way from Argonia. Dressed as beggars, as you can tell, to repel thieves. As one does. It was so dire out there, I was even forced to cut my hair to disguise myself. What a trial that has been! We’re simply traveling through Mont on our way to Stavin, thought we might pay a visit to the vizier while we’re here, if possible, pay our respects . . .”
Cal nudges her. She realizes her mistake immediately. Why did she say “pay our respects”? To whom would they do that? She’s lost hold of her story.
“Pay our respects to the vizier’s father. Who . . . knew our grandfather. You see, we’ve inherited my grandfather’s estate, so we must hurry on to Stavin. Backley Hold. Is what it’s called. The house, that is. I assume you know it?”
Cal closes his eyes. She’s repeating the plot of an old Renovian fable. He hopes the man doesn’t know it.
The innkeeper shakes his head from behind the weathered wood counter. He opens his mouth as if to speak, but Shadow just continues talking. “Well now. That’s quite surprising. It’s home to one of the largest vineyards in the triangular kingdoms. Maybe you’ll recognize our name, instead?” She glances to a vase of white lilies on the counter. “Mine is Lady Lily . . . I mean Lady Lila Holton. This is my brother, Lord Callum.” She blinks, waiting.
Cal gives the man a curt bow and then sticks his nose in the air, trying to look haughty. The innkeeper shakes his head again. Shadow looks to Cal and follows his lead, lifting her nose a little higher in the air. “Hmm, where was I? Oh yes. The, um, Holtons, our family, are always happy to pay our bill in advance. In fact, we insist upon it.” She roots around in her money pouch and pulls out a gold coin. “I imagine such a fine establishment charges . . . fifty a night for room and board and stabling of our two fine horses? We only carry Renovian currency, as we just came from there. But this should cover two. And a half. Please, keep the half. On be-half of the Holtons!”
Cal almost chokes. Fifty a night? For this? More like fifty a month, at best!
“Imagine that, got it right on the first try!” the innkeeper says, snatching the coin from her hand. “You do know your room and board. Must be a frequent traveler.”
She smiles politely. “Mm-hmm.”
“Lucky for you I got one room I save just for special noble guests like yourselves. You and your, uh, brother here can take room seven. I’ll go ahead and show you up.” He grabs a key from the wall behind the counter and walks ahead of them. Shadow turns to Cal and flashes him a self-satisfied smile. He won’t deny that she’s a decent storyteller, but he also knows the innkeeper never would’ve bought that ridiculous yarn if she hadn’t grossly overpaid him.
They follow him up a few well-worn stairs and down a dusty hallway. There are no sounds from any of the other rooms. They must be the only guests.
He stops in front of a door. “As you two are flesh and blood, there won’t be any impropriety, right?” he says, sticking the key in the lock.
“Well, I never!” Shadow says, feigning outrage.
“You’d be surprised,” the innkeeper says. “Or maybe you wouldn’t.” The door swings open. “Make yourselves at home,” he says, before handing the key over to Cal and shuffling back down the hall toward the front desk. On his way he calls over his shoulder: “Washtub’s out back.”
Inside the room there’s a small round table with one chair and a single bed. Cal wipes his hand across the table and leaves a long smear in the dust. Shadow sticks her head out the door into the hallway and calls out, “Excuse me, Mister Gorfinkle. I believe there’s been a mistake.”
“No mistake,” he yells back over his shoulder. “Take it or leave it.”
She shuts the door. “I gave him fifty a night for this?”
“I couldn’t stop you.” Cal sighs. He looks out the dirty window. Their view is the gray brick wall of the building next door. “Hopefully we won’t be here long. And you’re not paying for the room so much as his silence.”
“Right,” Shadow says. She sits down on the bed, then falls back. “A real bed. A hard one, but a real one, at least.”
“No time for a nap. We have things to do.”
“Yes. We should inquire about proper attire for Lord and Lady Holton of—what did I say it was called?”
“Backley Hold.”
“Backley Hold! Is there a quill around here? I should write it down.”
“I’ll remember for you,” he says, and holds out his hand for her, a true gentleman.
She takes it. His hand is warm in hers.
He bows to her. “Shall we, my lady?”
“I believe we shall,” she says.
BY THAT EVENING LADY Lila and Lord Callum are outfitted in simple, yet far more suitable, clothes whipped up by Mont’s finest—and most bribable—tailor. Anything can be bought in this city, for the right price. And somehow Shadow’s purse seems to be bottomless.
Cal even made an appointment with the barber next door. He’s already bathed and dressed in a sharp new black suit, in the Montrician style, of course, when Shadow comes out of the back room of the shop where a seamstress was helping her into a new gown.
He doesn’t look up from the broadside he’s been reading. He’s discovered that political treatises are illegal in Montrice, so clever satirists use fictional characters to stand in for King Hansen and his council. Cal’s totally absorbed in the tale, about a greedy, spoiled little boy who takes whatever he wants from anybody he wants, when Shadow clears her throat to get his attention.
A beautiful figure is standing a few feet in front of him. For a moment he can’t quite place her or where he is. Then Shadow smiles and holds out the skirt of her new dress. “What do you think?” The sound of her voice takes him back to himself.
He looks at her as if for the first time.
The seamstress has pulled her growing hair up off her face with a thick band, decorated with glittery leaves and vines around the top of her head. The gown is a pale greenish-blue, with iridescent layers flowing from a fitted empire bodice, and covered in pale gold-and-silver floral embroidery.
“Just a little something I had lying around,” the seamstress says. “It was just waiting to be fitted to the right person.” She smiles and stands back to admire her work. Then glances disapprovingly at the choppy hair around Shadow’s ears. “The wig will be ready tomorrow.”
Cal blinks a few times. He hardly thinks a wig is necessary; she looks perfect exactly the way she is. He tries to find the right words but can’t. Finally he manages: “I think . . . I believe Lady Lila is going to be quite popular.”
Shadow waves him off. “Don’t be silly.”
There’s an awkward moment until the seamstress breaks the silence by clearing her throat and announcing, “We accept coin of all realms.”
Each of them receives a set of day clothes and evening wear, which Shadow pays for with the coins in her pouch. Their old clothes are thrown in the burn pile out back. They are too ragged to save, though Cal feels a bit melancholy about it. They’re all he has left of home, and he had rather grown accustomed to Shadow in her shirt and breeches.
WHEN THEY RETURN TO the inn, Garbankle is still leaning behind the front desk. He’s tearing up a notice about new Montrician tax codes. “I’ll be sure to let the vizier know distinguished guests are in town,” he says as they pass by. They smile at each other.
In their tiny room, Caledon and Shadow stand around uncomfortably, one of them on each side of a double bed that barely looks big enough for one. Somehow, being under a roof and inside four walls feels quite different from sleeping near each other in the cave. “I’ll take the floor,” Cal says.
“That’s not fair to you,” Shadow says. She clasps her hands in front of her and begins to fidget with her fingers.
“It’s not a problem,” Cal insists, despite the fact that he was secretly thrilled at the idea of not sleeping on a cold, hard floor. “I don’t want you to be uncomfortable. You’ve just recovered from a rather serious injury, remember?” he adds. “And I’m fine there. I’m used to it.”
But she shakes her head. “We’ve both slept on that frozen ground; you are as tired as I am. We will share the bed,” she says with a finality that brooks no disagreement.
Cal shrugs and points to a screen in the corner. “You can change. I’ll step out of the room if you like.”
Shadow gathers up the bottom of her gown and clomps over to the changing screen. “The seamstress made me quite a matronly night shift, so there is no need.”
While she’s taking off her dress, Cal removes his boots and slides under the covers. He tries to keep his eyes on the wall, but somehow, he can’t help glancing to the corner of the room where Shadow is changing. He can see her silhouette through the screen and looks away, abashed. He remembers seeing her walking out of the spring in all her glorious form. She had not been embarrassed to be seen then, and he’d admired her spirit. It was not all he’d admired, of course, but he was a gentleman.
“So tomorrow,” she says, interrupting his thoughts. “The vizier.” She steps out from behind the screen and the shift is as matronly as promised, but made of linen so fine as to make everything underneath it visible even in the low light.
Cal coughs and averts his eyes once more, trying to find a safe space for them to land. He has been alone for so long, he had forgotten how much he enjoyed female company. But while there had been many girls in Cal’s past, he’s never met one like her. The vizier, right, they were talking about the vizier.
“The vizier is our key to the palace,” Cal says after he has composed himself.
Shadow climbs onto the other side of the bed. He feels her leg brush his as she slips between the covers, and senses the slight pressure from it in every part of his being. He is a fool who should have slept on the floor.
“Can we discuss it in the morning?” she asks, voice groggy as she turns to the wall.
“As you wish.”
She doesn’t move again, so he assumes she drifted off to sleep. After the day they’ve had, she must have been exhausted. Cal is too, but the knowledge that Shadow is so terribly within reach gnaws at him, pushing sleep farther away with each passing moment.
Shadow of Nir, from the Honey Glade, a beekeeper, a maiden of the farm.
He remembers how she nestled up to him in the dark cavern, and how she didn’t move away when she awoke to find them so entwined. He wishes they were back there a moment, huddling for warmth, instead of in a cozy room with so much air between them.
At last, after a very long while, he falls asleep.