“Who goes there?”
The flags above the gatehouse snapped in the wind, proclaiming the company to be the Parliament’s Men, Fourth Division, the ‘Orphan Makers.’ Lovely. Though, the demon admitted to herself, the gold and crimson stripes that fringed the flag were a nice touch.
Lucia didn’t answer the guard immediately, as she was supposed to be hard of hearing. She was surprised Cleft hadn’t jumped in, with his penchant for the dramatic. That business with the Marchesa must have really thrown him for a loop.
She wondered, as she trundled the cart closer, how Talia would have approached the situation. She was, however briefly, a member of the military herself. Would she have tried to pull rank on the guardsmen here and arrange a meeting with the top brass? Something like that, perhaps.
“Just a traveler peddling her goods,” protested Lucia in an appropriately wavering tone.
The guardsman stepped closer, his stance somewhat apologetic—and Lucia felt the hum of the matching emotion within his frame as he approached. She put one leg across her other and faked a slow stumble, just in time for the guard to catch her.
Cleft came up behind her, then, thanking the guard for assisting his dear grandmother. “She’s simply precious to us,” he said. “We like to keep her out of trouble.”
Lucia didn’t glance back, but she could still, in her mind’s eye, see the dumb smiles and nods from Gallow and Prow.
“Of course. Though, nowhere safer in all the Isles than with the Orpha—uh, the fighting Fourth!” the guard proclaimed. He turned back to Lucia. “Careful, ma’am. These ain’t cobblestone roads like you’re used to in the city.”
“Thank you, sir,” Lucia patted the young man on the shoulder as she continued into the camp. Behind her, Gallow and Prow helped push the cart forward, the latter humming some inane tune not quite under her breath.
The guard, satisfied that he had performed a good deed in helping the elderly, turned to Cleft and said in a low tone he probably thought Lucia couldn’t hear, “You can stay the night, but you’re to be on the road come morning.”
“Of course,” the Scarlet Spindle said. “We are grateful for your generosity.”
“Uh huh,” Gallow added with an exaggerated nod.
And they were in.
The rows of tents stretched before them, broken up by the occasional supply cart and, more often, cookfires. Various squads lounged around the fires, sharpening blades, disassembling firearms, and generally passing the time languidly. Lucia made for the nearest of these cookfires, and the soldiers surrounding looked up in vague interest.
“Good evening, esteemed sirs,” Lucia said as she sat down on an aged stump of wood and pulled out a deck of cards. She started shuffling, then reshuffling, ignoring for the moment the stares of the various soldiers.
Then, she pulled out a single card, cut off a strained gasp, and looked up with eyes of terror. “Your captain, who is your captain?” she said in notes of urgency.
Her eyes moved from a young woman sharpening a hunting knife as she leaned against a tentpole, to the three men hovering over the bubbling stew, to the soldier she took as the squadleader standing a few paces back.
The knife sharpener spoke first. “Marshal Davidson, been with our company since the first. Why?”
“I need to see him,” Lucia said, standing unsteadily and putting her weight on the cane. She knew the woman had been close enough to see the card: the ace of spears, a particularly bad omen.
“Why do you need him?” the squadleader said, not moving from his spot. Lucia could feel the suspicion crackling within the soldier, but she saw little need to soothe it. Soldiers were a wary bunch.
Cleft stepped forward from behind Lucia, and made a curious motion with his hands—ah, for the squadleader to step aside with him. The man shrugged, and Cleft whispered a few things to him that Lucia did not catch. She did catch the widening of the eyes, the wonder rising in the man’s chest as he looked back at her.
“Yes, why do you need me?” came a voice from behind Lucia. The demon nearly laughed out loud at her luck. They’d stumbled right into him.
She turned and saw the very stereotype of a mercenary captain: grizzled visage, well-worn uniform and crooked but still highly visible rank on his shoulder. Lucia gave a slight bow to him as he stepped closer, then said in a low tone only he could catch, “The Starseer of the Lion Prince greets you,” to which came a straightening of the captain’s posture accompanying a similar bloom of wonder in his chest.
Marshal Davidson looked up above the sun descending to the horizon in the west, eyes lost in the sky for a moment. Then, he turned his sight back to Lucia and said, “Well, follow me. Your servants … ?”
“My grandchildren will await me here,” Lucia said smoothly, not bothering to put as much of a quaver into her voice as before. It was pitifully easy to deceive self-important men like Davidson. All you needed was to make them believe they see through a pettier deception, and then they’re all yours.
Within bare moments, she stood within his command tent, the detritus of a standing mercenary company strewn across a finely lacquered desk beneath the rich canvas. He lit a few candles, which were more than enough to illuminate the space, then dismissed his aide-de-camp. The woman bowed quickly and departed, letting the tent flap closed behind her.
There was a pregnant pause.
“Starseer,” the Marshal murmured as he took a seat. Lucia pulled the hood from her head, revealing a much younger face than would have fit her earlier pretense—but perfectly fit her current game.
“Marshal,” she said. This man, according to Talia’s dossier, was honorable, though self-important, and had Royalist leanings. He was therefore the perfect mark for their scheme. “Could I do a reading for you?”
“If it’s safe. I mean, from the Prince’s court—”
“From the court in exile, yes, and please. Think little of it, and speak less.”
“Yes, of course.”
Lucia pulled out the deck of cards from her pocket, and turned over the top card. Ace of spears, as before.
“Everything turns on this moment, Marshal,” Lucia said. She dropped a folded letter onto his desk in a smooth motion, masked by her shuffling. The next card pulled was the Maven of Fate, twin ravens circling the slight hooded figure on the card.
For his part, the Marshal did not immediately move towards the letter, whose gaudy red seal dominated the folded parchment. But, his eyes did not leave it.
“The Maven. Great matters of grave importance hang on your every word, tonight.”
Then, the third card: the Prince of Spears.
The Marshal nodded, fully expecting this final draw.
“Good sir, a royal commission awaits you.”
She met his eyes and saw them widen in acknowledgment. Her work here was nearly done.
“I take my leave of you, Marshal. The Prince will await your signal.”
Seconds later, Lucia stepped from the tent, back into the afternoon air. The sun had descended more fully towards its august death, bathing the camp in shadow and autumnal hue.
She stepped forward, then nearly bowled over a dark shape she hadn’t seen on the path before her. “Apologies,” she gasped out, as she recognized the Marshal’s aide-de-camp. Then, she made a double take. How … ?
The aide-de-camp gave a low laugh as she leaned on her cane, and Lucia could not fail to recognize it. “What are you—?”
Talia, effortlessly disguised as the man’s secretary, put a finger to her lips, and then stepped back towards the tent. “Give me thirty seconds,” the Duke whispered.
Lucia could only nod. Her heart had lodged itself firmly in her throat, so words would not have come easily had she tried.
The Duke disappeared into the tent, and Lucia strained to hear anything within. At first, there was silence, but there followed a small groan, barely perceptible unless you were listening for it. She counted forty heartbeats, considered that good enough, then swept into the tent behind her Duke.
“What are you doing here?”
Talia stood behind the Marshal, who now sat unconscious in his chair, right hand clutching the open letter Lucia had left with him, his forearm impaled by a thin knife. The Duke’s eye gleamed as she responded, “Just indulging myself, I suppose. Though I imagine things will go more smoothly for us if our mercenary friend loses the chance to flee.”
“I guess.”
Talia pulled out a signet ring from her pouch—the very forgery she’d commissioned from the Scarlet Spindle—and slip it on the man’s thumb. The coup de grace, and full of grace it was.
Lucia continued, “Didn’t you have business back at Fallmire?”
“In truth? It did not bear as great an import as Richmond made it seem. Mere paperwork. Therefore, I decided to see if I could catch up to you.”
Lucia huffed and crossed over to the back corner of the tent. A hefty chest lay there, and she found it was unlocked. She popped it open. “You borrowed that poison from Cleft?”
“This?” Talia shrugged. “Well, we had a little left. Our good Marshal should awaken in, oh, six hours or so.”
Lucia snorted. That was quite a dose. She riffled through the papers contained within the chest, before she found the smaller tin filled with heavy coin. This she hefted fully in her hands, before handing it over to Talia.
Lucia met her eyes. “He’ll come awake with a tongue drier than the richest Dralkian wine. Or Dralkian courtesan, for that matter.”
Talia stowed the purloined payroll tin. “True enough. Though I believe thirst will be the least of his concerns when he does. Now, let us make ourselves scarc—”
Talia cut herself off. Footsteps at the tent flap.