A lesser darkness dimmed the stars. Sulwyn stuffed his white cloak behind a tree, and tugging his newly-fitted tunic into place, followed the outhouse path from the low scrub forest onto the open, snow-covered hilltop below the cliffs of Archwood, that was Artem’s advance camp. Though nothing moved, his surveillance yesterday with Colm told him the men—particularly the servants—would soon be active.
A messenger had ridden up the valley late last evening, and Fearghus had withdrawn the uprisers to let him pass, urging Sulwyn to hurry, that he might overhear the message. Of course, the king’s man was on horseback traveling on a beaten trail by a direct route and would clearly reach the king’s encampment many candlemarks before Sulwyn could make the journey. It was disappointing but could not be helped.
Sulwyn hobbled to the tent he and Colm had identified as most likely the wash tent. It was unguarded. Within, a boy dozed by the fire. His timing was good. The servants had not yet begun their daily preparations. Sulwyn pilfered a set of matched, soft linen towels monogrammed in the colors of House Delarcan, before his movements woke the boy.
The child jumped to his feet. “Wash water, Sieur?”
“Yes.”
“A bag of soap powder?” The unquestioning boy was sleepy and filled the linen bag from a bin, before Sulwyn could answer.
“And a shaving cup.”
“Yes, Sieur.”
He turned to leave, but the door flap opened. Another servant in livery identical to his stopped short when he saw Sulwyn.
The man took in Sulwyn’s supplies. “Bit early, today?” he asked querulously. “The commander has asked not to be disturbed before the candlemark past sunup.”
After a year of siege, the necessity of rising early was undoubtedly long gone. “I was summoned by Magiel Col,” Sulwyn answered, grateful for Meg’s information. He scanned the other’s uniform for a sigil marking his position in the king’s household. “—Sieur,” he said, spotting the metal piece on the man’s collar.
“Where’s Fallon?”
Fallon. Must be Wenid Col’s man. Sulwyn tucked the fact away. “Unwell, Sieur. I’m sure he will be better with another candlemark’s sleep.”
“Why haven’t I seen you here before?”
“I just came up from the lower camp, Sieur.”
The man eyed him askance, then nodded, and Sulwyn stepped into the predawn cold, his mouth suddenly dry and his armpits damp. He blew out to steady his breathing, then crunched purposefully if unevenly with his stiff leg and steaming pail up the hill. The sooner he was done his business and gone, the better.
Two soldiers guarding a large stone building with a proper thatched roof watched him approach. “No one requested a barber,” one said.
Sulwyn frowned in perplexity. “I was told the king rises early today.”
“No,” said the other. “Who told you that?”
“Fallon,” Sulwyn said in surprise.
“Fallon serves Magiel Col,” the first one said. Confirmation.
“And why are you here? Where’s Ioan?” the other asked.
“I’m up from the camp in the lower valley. Ioan is ill.”
“This is irregular.” The first one looked at the second. “Run down to check with the quartermaster.”
Sulwyn shifted with his bucket. “The water’s getting cold. Can I at least take it inside until this is sorted out?”
The first guard waved him in. “Don’t wake the king,” he warned.
An attendant dozed by an interior door, the embers in the hearth were choked with ashes. Heavy tapestries insulated the room, though the cold still penetrated the chinks in the stone. A map-strewn table stood in the center of the carpet, and the messenger—wrapped in furs and blankets—slept on a cot.
Sulwyn snatched a glance at the uppermost map. Memorized lines and symbols on familiar landmarks. He hoped he could remember.
But he had only minutes before the guards sorted out that he was not one of their men.
Without waking the attendant or the messenger, Sulwyn pushed the interior door with his shoulder and entered the king’s bedchamber.
King Artem stood in a fur-lined robe by a tiny window, its drapes slightly parted, the pale light falling on his face.
Piss.
The king turned, his eyes abstracted; he resumed his contemplation of whatever lay beyond the window. Sulwyn flicked his gaze to the floor to cover his surprise and forced himself to breathe evenly. Servants were invisible.
He nodded a bow to the king’s back and moved soundlessly over the carpets to the side table, where he poured steaming water into a basin and laid out the king’s washing and shaving tools.
Sulwyn had counted on waking the king by bringing his bedside wash towel. Casting Meg’s spell—and chanting the spell words—with the king awake would be more than just a little tricky. His fingers trembled as he laid the razor on the towel. He needed to do this deed and leave before dawn lightened the sky and the camp woke.
“Boy!” The king pitched his command loudly enough that Sulwyn assumed he was not being addressed, but he readied himself for instructions, even so.
The shaving mug. In his hand. Meg had created a curse the king could wash in; Sulwyn was not to let it touch his skin. He emptied Meg’s powder into the shaving mug.
The servant from the outer chamber appeared.
Sulwyn covered the charm with soap powder.
“Send Uther in.”
Uther Tangel. The messenger.
The servant bowed. “Yes, Majesty.” He disappeared, returning momentarily to place candles about the room and stoke the fire.
Sulwyn added half a ladle of hot water to the cup.
The messenger, hair standing at all angles and livery rumpled, entered, closing the door behind the retreating servant.
“Uther.”
“Father.” The young man bowed his head, a quick nod. The king’s eldest son bore him a resemblance, but only if one knew to look.
“I have a reply for you to take back to Lord Innes, Regent of Midell.” King Artem waved at the desk across from the bed. “Get paper and ink.”
“Yes, Sire.” Uther did as he was bid and sat at the desk.
Sulwyn mixed the ingredients, an aroma of bitter herbs rising from the cup. The Gods must be on his side.
“Honorifics. And then: the three towns taken by the uprisers in the last few weeks must be regained at all costs,” the king dictated. “Track down witnesses to the uprisers’ reported new magic.”
Uther wrote. Thank the Gods. Sulwyn hadn’t missed the entire debriefing.
“Within two weeks I will send you a thousand troops.” The king cast a glance at Uther, who wrote diligently. “Regarding your request for support from the treasury, I am obliged to inform you that you must raise the necessary funds yourself. You have my blessing to raise taxes on the farmlands of Midell.”
Sulwyn swallowed, so as not to choke. The villain raised the revenues to fight his own people by taxing the people he would tyrannize. He repeated the king’s words silently, fixing them in his memory.
He’d stopped stirring the shaving brush.
“I will visit Theurgy within four weeks. I trust you will have the military situation under control by that time.”
Weeks. He resumed lathering the brush. Would Meg’s curse have had time to work by then?
The king turned to Uther. “Read it.”
Uther read back the king’s words. Sulwyn turned his back, digesting all he heard. He bent over the soap cup and whispered the spell words.
“Good,” the king said. “Take another letter.” He eyed Sulwyn irritably. “Where is Ioan?” Sulwyn opened his mouth to reply, but the king waved his words aside and sat in a chair near the sideboard. “Shave me. Be quick.”
The curse. Now.
Sulwyn propelled himself into action, pushing the king’s hair back and draping him with a towel, hoping the spell words had taken.
Uther waited with paper and pen.
“This one is for Edrick of Storm River. Begin with the honorifics.”
Sulwyn soaked a towel in the warm water of the basin.
“Is Edrick duke or regent?” Uther asked.
“Steward.” The king composed himself. “In these times of civic strife, a levy is imposed on the mines of Storm River. It is required that three cut emeralds of royal quality and with the dimensions of a coin, be sent, with a dispatch, to Cataract Crag.” He laid back and closed his eyes, and Sulwyn applied the warm towel.
By the Many, the guards must have discovered Sulwyn’s lies by now.
Uther added the flourishes required by protocol and read the letter back to the king. Light seeped into the room through closed drapes. Piss.
Sulwyn removed the towel and applied the charmed soap to the king’s cheeks and jaw.
“By the One, what kind of stinking soap is that?” the king snapped.
“Healing herbs have been added to protect against curses—”
“They stink. Don’t bring them again.”
“Yes, Majesty.”
“Father?” Uther said.
The king waved a hand and Sulwyn stilled his razor as the monarch spoke. “Compose a letter to Jace’s regent in Cataract Crag. I want the gems sold—bartered to Aadi, mind—and not for a pittance. By the One, we are scraping the barrels of the treasury to pay for all these uprisings.”
“Very well, Sire,” Uther said, and he bent diligently over his paper.
Sulwyn shaved the stubble from the king’s chin, holding his breath to keep from trembling at this latest news.
The room brightened as Uther read his letter aloud and Sulwyn wiped the dregs of soap from the royal face.
“Took long enough,” the king complained, glaring at Sulwyn. “Deliver the letters,” he said to his son, rising from his chair. He bellowed for the boy in the other room to bring his clothes.
Uther left, and Sulwyn cleaned his station, taking his tools to the anteroom.
One of the guards awaited him, a liveried servant at his side. Hmm. Ioan, would be Sulwyn’s guess.
“Ioan!” He piled the man with towels, soap and razor, vacating the antechamber as though he expected the surprised man to follow. “Fie on that Fallon. I’m just up from the valley. He told me to be here early for the king’s shave, but clearly he didn’t tell anyone.” Sulwyn led the way, cursing his distinctive limp, to the wash tent, the suspicious guard remaining at his post by the king’s hut in the growing light of dawn.
“Fallon knows nothing about this!” Ioan spluttered, trotting to keep up with Sulwyn. “You’ve entered the king’s presence without authority!”
Two or three soldiers were making their way toward the mess tent and half a dozen servants now scurried through the compound. It was getting trickier and trickier to make his escape.
“Fallon said that?” Sulwyn reached the wash tent. “It’s all a big mistake. Here. Let me dump this water and I’ll meet you inside to explain. I need to take a piss, anyway.” He stepped toward the edge of camp.
A glance over his shoulder confirmed that Ioan, shaking his head, had stepped into the wash tent.
Sulwyn limped as quickly as he could up the outhouse path, hoping no one in the waking camp would cast a glance his way. Or if they did, would not question his bucket. Ha.
The woods, low scrawny things, were an eternity away.
Sulwyn hobbled, the icy path treacherous beneath his stiff leg and stolen boots. He heard no sounds of pursuit, but did not turn to look.
Don’t look up, he willed. Don’t look up. Do your duties without noticing anything unusual.
The trees loomed closer.
Sulwyn stepped behind the outlier scrubs, still perfectly visible from the camp.
A shout went up in the distance behind him.
Piss! Did they have dogs? He hadn’t seen any.
He hitched more quickly into the larger trees, slipping on a root.
A figure rose before him—
Meg.
She blew a powder in his face and chanted words of magic. “Walk fast,” she said.
He dropped the pail, increased his gait, almost to a stumbling jog, and she kept pace with him. “I’m betting Fearghus doesn’t know you’re here,” he said under his breath. “What’s the powder?”
“A spell of concealment, but it won’t work long and it won’t cover our tracks.”
Better than nothing. He took her hand and, limping, he ran.