“Open up, in the name of the duke!” a voice barked shortly after dawn. The shouted command was accompanied by a loud pounding on the hospit door, still barred for the night.
Everyone at the breakfast table froze, looking at the door. The apprentices had long since eaten and were bustling about serving breakfast to the patients, leaving Jizell and the others alone in the kitchen.
It seemed to Rojer that long minutes passed in stillness, but in truth it could not have been more than seconds before Mistress Jizell looked up at them all.
“Well,” she said, wiping her mouth and rising to her feet, “I’d best see to that. The rest of you keep your seats and clean your plates. Whatever the duke wants, it’s best you not handle it on an empty stomach.” She straightened her dress and strode out to the door.
She had not been gone more than a second before Rojer sprang from his seat, putting his back to the wall next to the doorway to listen in.
“Where is he?!” a man’s deep voice barked when Jizell opened the door. Rojer crouched low and tilted his head to peek around the door frame, revealing little more than his eye and a strand of red hair. A tall, powerfully built man in bright lacquered armor loomed over Mistress Jizell. He had a fine gilded spear strapped across his back, and his breastplate was emblazoned with a wooden soldier. Rojer recognized his strong-jawed face immediately.
Rojer turned quickly to the others. “Duke Rhinebeck’s brother, Prince Thamos!” he hissed, putting his eye back around the frame.
“We have many patients, Your Highness,” Jizell said, sounding more bemused than threatened, “you’ll have to be more specific.”
“Don’t toy with me, woman!” the prince barked, putting a finger in Jizell’s face. “You know well—”
“Highness, please!” a high male voice cut the prince off. “There’s no need for this!”
A man appeared, spreading his arms between them to passively ease the prince’s arm and pointing finger away from Jizell’s face. He was in many ways the exact opposite of the prince, small and uncomely, with a bald crown and a pinched face. His lank black hair was long, falling into his high collar, and his thin beard drew to a point at his chin. His wire-framed glasses sat halfway down his long nose, making his eyes seem like two tiny black dots.
“Lord Janson, the duke’s first minister,” Rojer advised the others.
Thamos glanced at the minister, who flinched back as if afraid the prince might strike him. The prince glanced at Jizell, then back to the small man, but his stance eased, and after a moment, he nodded. “All right, Janson, it’s your stage.”
“My apologies for the … urgency, Mistress Jizell,” the first minister said, bowing, “but we wanted to arrive before your … ah, guest had a chance to move on.” He hugged a leather paper case to his chest with one hand and pushed his glasses back up his nose with the other.
“Guest?” Jizell asked. Prince Thamos growled.
“Flinn Cutter,” Janson said. Jizell looked at him blankly.
“The … ah, Warded Man,” Janson said. Jizell’s look became more guarded.
“He is in no trouble, I assure you,” Janson added quickly. “His Grace the duke simply wishes me to ask a few questions before he decides whether to grant an audience.”
There was a thump, and Rojer turned from the door to see the Warded Man rise from the table. He nodded to Rojer.
“It’s all right, mistress,” Rojer said, stepping through the doorway.
Janson looked over at him, and his nose twitched. “Rojer Inn,” he said more than asked.
“I’m honored you remember me, Minister,” Rojer said, bowing as the others followed him out of the kitchen.
“Of course I remember you, Rojer,” Janson said. “How could I forget the boy Arrick brought back with him, sole survivor of the destruction of Riverbridge?” The others looked at Rojer in surprise.
“Still,” Janson went on, his nose twitching again, “I would swear I read a report last year from Guildmaster Cholls that said you were missing and presumed dead.”
He looked down his glasses at Rojer. “Leaving a considerable unpaid debt to the Jongleurs’ Guild, as I recall.”
“Rojer!” Leesha cried.
Rojer put his Jongleur’s mask in place. The money had been restitution for breaking the nose of Janson’s nephew, Jasin Goldentone. Of course, Jasin had already taken payment in blood.
“Did you come all this way to discuss the Jongleur?” the Warded Man asked, moving in front of Rojer. His hood cast his face in shadow, giving him a dark countenance frightening even to those who knew him. Prince Thamos put a hand to the short spear strapped to his back.
Janson twitched nervously, his tiny eyes darting from one man to the other, but he recovered quickly. “Indeed not,” he agreed, turning his attention from Rojer as if he had been doing nothing more significant than examining a ledger. He shifted his feet as if he were ready to run and hide behind the prince if anyone made a sudden move.
“You’d be … him, then?” he asked.
The Warded Man pulled back his hood, showing his tattooed face to the prince and minister. Both of their eyes widened at the sight, but they gave no other sign that they had seen anything out of the ordinary.
Janson bowed deeply. “It is an honor to meet you, Mr. Flinn. Allow me to present Prince Thamos, captain of the Wooden Soldiers, youngest brother to Duke Euchor, and third in line for the ivy throne. His Highness is here as my escort.” He gestured to the prince, who nodded politely, though his eyes lost none of their challenge.
“Your Highness,” the Warded Man said, bowing smoothly in accordance with Angierian custom. Leesha dropped into a curtsy, and Rojer made his best leg. Rojer knew the Warded Man had met both men before, in his Messenger days, but it was clear that even Janson, whose memory was legendary, did not recognize him.
Janson turned to his left, where a boy who had been lingering in the doorway appeared. “My son and assistant, Pawl,” he noted. The boy was no more than ten summers old, small like his father, with the same lank black hair and ferretlike face.
The Warded Man nodded to the boy. “An honor to meet you and your son as well, Lord Janson.”
“Please, please, just Janson,” the first minister said. “I’m as common-born as any; just a clerk with a visible post. Forgive me if I seem a bit awkward at this. The duke’s herald, my nephew, usually handles this sort of thing, but as luck would have it, he’s out in the hamlets.”
“Jasin Goldentone is the duke’s new herald?!” Rojer exclaimed.
All eyes turned back to him, but Rojer hardly noticed. Jasin Goldentone and his apprentices beat Rojer and his guild sponsor Jaycob a year ago, leaving them for dead as night fell. Rojer had survived only because Leesha and a few brave city guardsmen had risked their lives for him. Master Jaycob had not. Rojer never made charges, however, pretending not to recall his assailants for fear Jasin might use his uncle’s connections to escape punishment and come after him again.
Janson, however, seemed to know none of this. He looked at Rojer curiously, his eyes flitting to the side, as if checking some forgotten ledger.
“Ah, yes,” he said after a moment. “Master Arrick and Jasin had something of a rivalry once, didn’t they? I’m sure he won’t be pleased to hear about this.”
“He won’t hear,” Rojer said. “He was cored on the road to Woodsend three years ago.”
“Eh?” Janson said, his eyes widening. “I’m sorry to hear it. For all his faults, Arrick was a very good herald and served the duke well, not only for his heroism at Riverbridge. It’s a shame about the brothel incident.”
“Brothel incident?” Leesha asked, half amused as she turned to Rojer.
Janson turned bright red, and he turned to Leesha, bowing deeply.
“Ah … Ah … Forgive me, good woman, for bringing up such indelicate matters in the presence of a lady. I meant no disrespect.”
“None taken, Minister,” Leesha said. “I’m an Herb Gatherer, and used to indelicate matters. Leesha Paper,” she extended a hand for him to take, “Herb Gatherer to Deliverer’s Hollow.”
The prince’s nostrils flared and the clerk’s nose twitched again at the new name the people of Cutter’s Hollow had chosen, but Janson only nodded, saying, “I’ve watched your career with some interest since you apprenticed to Mistress Bruna.”
“Oh?” Leesha said, surprised.
Janson gave her that same curious look. “It should come as no surprise. I review the duke’s censuses every year, and take special note of prominent citizens in the duchy, especially ones like Bruna, a woman who registered every year since the first census, taken by Rhinebeck the First more than a century ago. I’ve kept watch over all her apprentices, wondering which would inherit her mantle. It was a great loss when she passed last year.”
Leesha nodded sadly.
Minister Janson gave a respectful pause for the deceased, then cleared his throat. “While we’re on the subject, Mistress Leesha,” he looked down his glasses and affixed her with the same reproachful stare he had given Rojer, “your annual census report is months late.”
Leesha blushed as Rojer snickered behind her.
“I … Ah … We’ve been a bit …”
“Preoccupied with the flux,” Janson nodded, “and,” he glanced at the Warded Man, “other concerns, of course, I understand. But as I’m sure your father can tell you, mistress, paper makes the engine of state run.”
“Yes, minister,” Leesha nodded.
“Please, Janson,” Prince Thamos interposed himself, pushing the first minister to the side. His sharp eyes took in Leesha’s body with a predatory seeming, and Rojer bristled. “The Hollow has been through enough of late. Spare them a moment of your endless paperwork!”
Janson frowned, but he bowed. “Of course, Highness.”
“Prince Thamos, at your command,” the prince told Leesha, bowing low and kissing her hand. Rojer scowled as Leesha’s cheeks colored.
Janson cleared his throat and turned to the Warded Man. “Enough shuffling the papers. Shall we address the duke’s business?”
When the Warded Man nodded, Janson turned to Jizell. “Mistress, if there were a place we could speak quietly …”
Jizell nodded, escorting them to her study. “I’ll bring in a fresh pot of tea,” she said, and returned to the kitchen.
Prince Thamos offered Leesha his arm on the way, and she took it with a bemused look on her face. Gared hovered near them protectively, but if Leesha or the prince took any notice of him, they gave no sign.
Pawl took his father’s paper case and scurried to Mistress Jizell’s desk, laying out a sheaf of notes and some blank pages. He set a quill and inkwell at the ready with a blotter, then pulled out the chair for his father, who sat and dipped the pen.
He looked up suddenly. “No one minds, of course, my penning our discussion for the duke?” Janson asked. “I will, of course, strike anything you consider inaccurate or indiscreet.”
“It’s fine,” the Warded Man said. Janson nodded, looking back to his paper.
“Well then,” he said. “As I told Mistress Jizell, the duke is eager for an audience with the representatives of … ahem, Deliverer’s Hollow, but he is concerned about the authenticity of that representation. May I ask why Mr. Smitt, the Town Speaker, has not come in person? Is it not the first and only legal duty of the Speaker to represent the town in instances such as these?” As he spoke, his hand was almost a blur, taking down even his own words in an indecipherable shorthand, his quill flicking back to the inkwell every few seconds, with never a drop spilled.
Leesha snorted. “Anyone who thinks that has never spent any time in the hamlets, minister. The people look to their Speaker in a crisis, and with refugees from Rizon still trickling in, and those already arrived lacking even basic necessities, he couldn’t pull away. He sent me in his stead.”
“You?” Thamos asked, incredulous. “A woman?”
Leesha scowled, but Janson cleared his throat loudly before she could retort. “I believe what His Highness means is that proper succession should have had your Tender, Jona, come in Mr. Smitt’s stead.”
“The Holy House is overflowing with refugees seeking succor,” Leesha said. “Jona could no more come than Smitt.”
“But the Hollow can spare its Herb Gatherer in this time of need?” Thamos asked.
“This presents a problem for His Grace,” Janson said, looking up at Leesha even as his hand continued to take down their words. “How would it look at court if he received a delegation from one of his vassalages who did not think enough of the ivy throne to even send their proper Speaker? It would be seen as an insult.”
“I assure you, no insult was meant,” Leesha said.
“How not?” Thamos demanded. “Regardless of crisis, your Speaker could have come. Cutter’s Hollow is only six nights hence,” he looked to the Warded Man, “but it appears that this Deliverer’s Hollow has moved farther off.”
“What would you have me do, Highness?” Leesha asked. “Spend a fortnight fetching Smitt when there’s an army at our doorstep?”
Prince Thamos snorted.
“Please don’t exaggerate, Miss Paper,” Janson said, still writing. “The royal family knows all about the Krasian raids on Rizon, but the threat to Angierian lands is minimal.”
“For now,” the Warded Man said. “But those were no simple raids; Fort Rizon and its hamlets, the grain belt of all Thesa, are now under Krasian control. They will dig in for a year at least, levying troops from the Rizonans and training them. Then they will move on to swallow Lakton and its hamlets. It may be years before they turn north and head for your city, but I assure you, they will, and you will need allies if you hope to stand against them.”
“Fort Angiers isn’t afraid of a handful of desert rats, even if your tampweed tales were true!” Thamos barked.
“Highness, please!” Janson squeaked. When the prince fell silent again,
Janson looked back to the Warded Man. “May I ask how is it you know so much of the Krasians’ plans, Mr. Flinn?”
“Do you have a copy of the Krasian holy book in your archives, minister?” the Warded Man asked.
Janson’s eyes flicked away for a moment, as if checking an invisible list. “The Evejah, yes.”
“I suggest you read it,” the Warded Man said. “The Krasians believe their leader is the reincarnation of Kaji, the Deliverer. They are fighting the Daylight War.”
“The Daylight War?” Janson asked.
The Warded Man nodded. “The Evejah details how Kaji conquered the known world before turning its collective spears on the corelings. Jardir will seek to do the same. His advancements may be followed by consolidation periods, where the conquered people are broken to Evejan law,” he fixed Janson and the prince with a hard look, “but don’t let that fool you for a moment into thinking that they’ve ceased their advance.”
The prince glared defiantly, but the color slowly drained from Janson’s face. Beads of sweat had broken out on his forehead, even in the cool spring morning. “You know much about the Krasian people for a Cutter, Mr. Flinn,” he noted.
“I spent some time in Fort Krasia,” the Warded Man said simply. Janson made another mark in his strange shorthand.
“You see why we must speak with His Grace, minister,” Leesha said. “The Krasians can afford to take their time. With their grain silos, Rizon has resources to support an army indefinitely, even as they cut off the flow of food to the north.”
Janson did not seem to notice she had spoken. “There are some who say you are the Deliverer, yourself,” he said to the Warded Man.
Thamos snorted. “And I’m a friendly coreling,” he muttered.
The Warded Man didn’t look at him, keeping eye contact with the minister. “I make no such claim, Lord Janson.”
Janson nodded, writing. “His Grace will be relieved to hear that. But on the matter of the fighting wards …”
“They—” Leesha began.
“They will be shared with all who want them, free of cost,” the Warded Man cut her off, drawing looks of shock from everyone.
“The corelings are the enemies of all humanity, minister,” the Warded Man said. “In this, the Krasians and I agree. I will deny no man the wards to combat them.”
“If they even work,” Thamos muttered.
The Warded Man turned to face Thamos fully, and even a prince could not long weather his glare. Thamos dropped his eyes, and the Warded Man nodded.
“Wonda,” he said without turning to the young woman, who started at the sound of her name, “give me an arrow from your quiver.” Wonda took an arrow and placed it in the waiting hand he threw over his shoulder. The Warded Man laid the missile flat across his hands and presented it to the prince, but he did not bow, standing as an equal.
“Test them, Your Highness,” he said. “Stand atop the wall tonight and have a marksman fire this at the largest demon you can find. Decide for yourself if they work.”
Thamos drew back slightly, and then straightened quickly, as if trying not to appear intimidated. He nodded and took the arrow. “I will.”
The first minister pushed back from his seat, and Pawl darted forward to blot the wet pages and shuffle them back into the leather paper case. He collected the writing implements and wiped down the table as Janson got to his feet and went over to Prince Thamos.
“I believe that should be all for now,” Janson said. “His Grace will receive you in his keep tomorrow, an hour past dawn. I will send a coach here for you in the morning, to avoid any … unpleasantness, should you,” his eyes flicked to the Warded Man, “be seen on the street.”
The Warded Man bowed. “That will do well, minister, thank you,” he said. Leesha curtsied, and Rojer bowed.
“Minister,” Leesha said, moving close to the man and dropping her voice. “I have heard that His Grace … has yet to produce an heir.”
Prince Thamos bristled visibly, but Janson held up a hand to forestall him. “It is no secret that the ivy throne is heirless, Miss Paper,” he told Leesha calmly.
“Fertility was a specialty of Mistress Bruna’s,” Leesha said, “and it is one of mine, as well. I would be honored to offer my expertise, if it were desired.”
“My brother is quite capable of producing an heir without your help,” Thamos growled.
“Of course, Highness,” Leesha said, dipping a curtsy, “but I thought perhaps the duchess might bear examination, in case the difficulty is hers.”
Janson frowned. “Thank you for your generous offer, but Her Highness has Herb Gatherers of her own, and I would strongly advise you not to broach this topic before His Grace. I will mention it along the proper channels.”
It was a vague response, but Leesha nodded and said no more, curtsying again. Janson nodded, and he and Thamos headed for the door. Just before he left, the minister turned to Rojer.
“I trust that you will be visiting the Jongleurs’ Guild to clarify your status and settle your outstanding debts before leaving town again?” he asked.
“Yes, sir,” Rojer said glumly.
“I am certain tales of your recent adventures will be of great value to the guild, and likely pay your debt in full, but I hope you will show discretion regarding certain,” he glanced at the Warded Man, “subjective interpretations of events, however tempting it may be to use the more … sensational interpretations.”
“Of course, minister,” Rojer said, bowing deeply.
Janson nodded. “Good day, then,” he said, and he and the prince left the hospit.
Leesha turned to Rojer. “Brothel incident?”
“A copse of wood demons couldn’t get me to tell you about it,” Rojer said, “so you might as well quit asking.”
Leesha watched from Jizell’s kitchen window as a coach pulled up the next morning, its wide doors emblazoned with Rhinebeck’s seal—a wooden crown hovering over a throne overgrown with ivy. The coach was accompanied by Prince Thamos in full armor astride a great charger, and a squad of his elite guardsmen, the Wooden Soldiers, following on foot.
“They brought an army,” Rojer said, coming up beside her and peeking out. “I can’t tell if we’re being protected or imprisoned.”
“Why should the day feel any different from the night?” the Warded Man asked.
“Maybe it’s normal for those the duke has invited to audience,” Leesha said.
Rojer shook his head. “I rode in that coach plenty of times when Arrick was herald. Never needed a squad of Wooden Soldiers at our backs for a ride across town.”
“They must’ve tested the arrow last night,” Leesha said, “which means they know that what we’re offering them is real.”
The Warded Man shrugged. “What will be, will be. Either they’re here as escorts, or Rhinebeck will have a squad of crippled soldiers.” Leesha’s mouth fell open, but the Warded Man walked out into Jizell’s courtyard before she could respond. The others followed him.
The coach’s footman placed a stair beside the coach and held the door. Thamos watched them from astride his charger, nodding to the Warded Man slightly as they climbed into the coach. They were quickly clattering along the boardwalk toward Rhinebeck’s palace.
The duke’s keep was the only structure in the city made entirely of stone, a tremendous show of wealth. As with Duke Euchor of Miln, Rhinebeck’s keep was a self-sufficient mini-fortress within the larger fort of the city proper. There was open ground on all sides of the thirty-foot-high outer walls, which were carved with great wards, the grooves filled with bright lacquer. They were impressively permanent, though they had likely never been tested by anything more than a lone wind demon. If the walls of Fort Angiers were breached and demons entered the city in numbers, Rhinebeck could shut the gates and await the dawn in safety, even if the entire city were in flames around his keep.
Inside the walls, they passed the duke’s private gardens and herds, along with dozens of buildings for his personal servants and craftsmen, before reaching the palace. Its sheer walls climbed several stories, with lookout spires reaching even higher, past the keep’s wardnet.
The palace wards were works of art as well as function, and Leesha could sense the strength of the symbols, her eyes dancing along the invisible lines of power they created.
“Please follow me,” Prince Thamos said to the Warded Man when the carriage pulled to a stop at the palace entrance. Leesha frowned as they followed the prince into the palace, wondering if she was to be ignored in favor of the Warded Man throughout the interview. He had said repeatedly that he took no responsibility for the Hollow, any more than Marick did the Rizonan refugees. Could she trust him to speak the town’s needs before his own?
The vaulted ceiling of the entrance hall soared overhead, but the great room was empty of petitioners. The prince led them away from the main throne room, down halls thick with carpet and covered in tapestries and oil paintings. They came to a waiting room with velvet couches and a warm fire, set in a marble mantel. “Please wait here on the duke’s pleasure,” Thamos told the Warded Man. “The attendants will see to your refreshment.”
“Thank you,” the Warded Man said as a valet arrived with a tray of drinks and small sandwiches. Two Wooden Soldiers stood rigid outside the door, spears at the ready.
Time went by, and Rojer, bored, began to juggle their empty teacups. “How long do you think Rhinebeck will have us wait?” he asked, his feet beating a pattern on the floor as he moved to keep his crippled hand in position to throw and catch.
“Long enough to establish that he’s holding the reins,” the Warded Man said. “Dukes make everyone wait. The more important the guests, the longer they’re left to count rug threads. It’s a tiresome game, but if it makes Rhinebeck feel secure, there’s no harm letting him play it.”
“I should have brought my needlepoint,” Leesha said.
“I have a great number of unfinished hoops, dear,” a voice behind her said. “I’ve always been good at starting patterns, but somehow I never get to the end.” Leesha turned to find Minister Janson standing in the doorway, holding the arm of a venerable woman who looked to be in her late seventies.
Rojer gave a start, and Leesha winced as one of the cups he was juggling hit the floor. Thankfully, it bounced on the thick carpet and did not break.
The woman fixed Rojer with a look that would have done Elona proud. “Arrick never got around to teaching you manners, I take it.” Rojer’s face turned redder than his hair.
The woman was small, even for an Angierian, barely five feet tall from the white Krasian lace at the hem of her wide, green velvet gown to the top of the lacquered wooden circlet resting upon the severely pinned gray hair atop her head. The circlet’s points were banded in gold and set with precious stones. She was thin like a reed, and stooped slightly, leaning on the first minister’s arm. The hands that clutched him were covered in wrinkled, translucent skin. A velvet choker around her neck was set with an emerald the size of a baby’s fist.
“Please allow me to present Her Grace the Lady Araine, Duchess Mum, mother to His Grace, Duke Rhinebeck the Third, Guardian of the Forest Fortress—”
“Yes, yes,” Araine cut him off. “Everyone in the world knows my son’s titles, and I’m not getting younger as you recite them for the thousandth time this week, Janson.”
“Apologies, my lady,” Janson said, bowing slightly.
Leesha dipped into a curtsy at the introduction, and the men bowed. In her men’s breeches, Wonda had no skirts to spread, and assumed an awkward posture that was neither.
“If you’re going to dress like a man, girl, then bow like one,” Araine said, looking down her nose. Wonda blushed and bowed deeply.
The duchess mum grunted in satisfaction and turned to Leesha. “I’ve come to rescue you from all this tiresome men’s business, dear.” She glanced at Wonda. “The young lady, as well.”
“Apologies, Your Grace,” Leesha said, curtsying again, “but I am serving as Speaker for Deliverer’s Hollow, and must remain for the audience.”
“Nonsense,” Araine tsked. “A woman Speaker? They may practice such frivolity in Miln, but Angiers has the right of things. Women were not meant to handle affairs of state.” The duchess mum let go Janson’s arm and latched on to Leesha’s, pulling her toward the door even as she pretended to lean on it for support.
“Leave the men to their ledgers and proclamations,” Araine said. “We will speak of more feminine matters.”
Leesha was mildly surprised at the woman’s strength. She wasn’t quite as frail as she appeared. Still, the idea of sitting around with a bunch of pampered women vapidly discussing weather and fashion while the men charted the course of Deliverer’s Hollow was unacceptable.
Janson leaned in to Leesha as she resisted the old woman’s pull. “It isn’t wise to upset the duchess mum,” he whispered. “Best humor her for now. The duke will not receive the others for quite some time, and I will come for you before you’re needed.”
Leesha looked at him, his face unreadable, and frowned. Not wanting to antagonize the royal family, she reluctantly allowed herself to be led away.
“The women’s wing is this way, dear,” Araine said, leading Leesha down a long, richly appointed hall. Outside of the Warded Man’s treasure room, Leesha had never seen such largesse as in the duke’s palace. Her father had been the richest man in Cutter’s Hollow while she was growing up, but the duke made Erny’s wealth seem like the scraps that one might throw to a dog after a great feast. Lush carpets caressed and cushioned her every step, woven with vibrant patterns, and tapestries and statues on marble pedestals lined the walls. The ceiling was painted gold, and glittered in the light of the chandeliers.
Throughout the duchy Rizonan refugees were starving, but could the royal family ever truly understand what that meant, surrounded by such opulence? It reminded Leesha of her mother, always seeing to her own comfort first and others’ only when someone was watching.
Araine’s shuffling steps became firmer as they went, the frail-looking old woman guiding Leesha through the vast palace as a man might lead a woman through a dance. Wonda trailed along silently behind until they passed through a final door and Araine looked back at her.
“Be a dear and close the door, there’s a good child,” she said. Wonda complied, pulling the sturdy oak portal shut with a click.
“All right then, let’s have a look at you,” Araine said, releasing Leesha’s arm with a push that sent her into a spin for the duchess mum’s inspection.
Araine looked her up and down, her lip curling slightly. “So you’re the young prodigy Bruna was so proud of.” She sounded less than impressed. “How many summers have you seen, girl? Twenty-five?”
Araine snorted. “Bruna used to say a Gatherer wasn’t worth two klats before fifty.”
“You knew Mistress Bruna, Your Grace?” Leesha asked, surprised.
Araine cackled. “Knew her? The old witch pulled two princes from between my legs, so yes, I’d say I knew her. Pether was nigh fifty years ago, and Bruna was almost as old then as I am now. Thamos was a decade later, a giant babe like his brothers, but I wasn’t as young then as I was for the others, and needed more than some glorified midwife. Bruna was in her eighties by then, and reluctant to leave the Hollow even when I sent my herald to get on his knees and beg. She grumbled the whole time, but came just the same, and stayed in the palace for months. She even took on a pair of apprentices, Jizell and Jessa, while she was here.”
“Jessa?” Leesha asked. “Bruna never mentioned a Jessa.”
“Hah!” Araine barked. “That’s no surprise.” Leesha waited for the woman to elucidate further, but she did not.
“I’d have made Bruna Royal Gatherer if she’d wanted it,” Araine went on, “but the wretched old woman turned and headed back to the Hollow the moment Thamos’ cord was cut. Said titles meant nothing to her. All that mattered were her children in the Hollow.”
The duchess mum looked at Leesha. “That how you feel as well, girl? Putting the Hollow above all, even your duty to the ivy throne?”
Leesha met her eyes and nodded. “It is.”
Araine locked stares with her for a moment, as if daring Leesha to blink, but she finally grunted in satisfaction. “I wouldn’t have trusted another word from you if you’d said otherwise. Now, Janson tells me you claim some of Bruna’s skill with fertility.”
Leesha nodded again. “Bruna gave intensive lessons on the topic, and I have years of practical experience.”
Araine looked down her nose at Leesha again. “Not too many years, I expect, but we’ll forgive you that for now. Can’t hurt, you checking her. Everyone else has.”
“Her?” Leesha asked.
“The duchess,” Araine said. “My latest daughter-in-law. I want to know if the girl is barren, or if it’s my son that’s seedless.”
“I won’t be able to determine the latter by examining the duchess,” Leesha said.
Araine snorted. “You’d be out on your pert bottom if you claimed you could. But first things first. Have a look at the girl.”
“Of course,” Leesha said. “Is there anything you can tell me about Her Highness, before I examine her?”
“She’s fit as a courser, with a sturdy frame and wide breeder’s hips,” Araine said. “Not the sharpest spear on the rack, but that’s how an Angierian lady of quality is expected to be. Her brothers are canny enough, so we’ll call it nurture and not nature. After Rhinebeck’s last divorce, I picked her out of all the well-bred young hopefuls myself, with an eye on the nursery. Lady Melny was the youngest of twelve children, two-thirds of them male. She has three sisters, and all have children of their own; two boys for every girl. If anyone should be able to give the ivy throne an heir, it’s her. Of course, all my son cared about was the size of her paps, but Melny has meat enough there to suckle even a big baby like Rhiney.”
“How long have they been wed?” Leesha asked, ignoring the comment.
“Over a year now,” Araine said. “The Royal Gatherer brews fertility tea and I have Janson close the brothels when she’s cycling, but still she reddens her wadding each moon.”
Araine brought Leesha through the maze of private halls and stairs used by the women of the royal family. She saw many servants, but not a single man. Finally, they came to a plush bedchamber filled with velvet pillows and Krasian silks. The duchess was standing before one of the great stained-glass windows in the chamber, looking out over the city. She wore a wide dress of green and yellow silk, cut low in the front and laced tight at the waist. Her hair was put up behind a gold and gem-studded tiara, and her face painted exquisitely, ready at any moment in case the duke should summon her to his chambers. She was no more than sixteen summers old.
“Melny, this is Mistress Leesha of Cutter’s Hollow,” Araine introduced.
“Deliverer’s Hollow,” Leesha corrected. Araine gave her a look of bemused tolerance.
“Mistress Leesha is an expert in fertility,” Araine went on, “and will be examining you today. Take off your dress.”
The girl nodded, not hesitating in the least as she reached behind herself for the laces of her corset. It was clear who was in charge among the duke’s women. Her handmaids quickly moved to help with the fastenings, and soon the duchess’ dress was folded beside the bed.
“Examine as you see fit,” Araine muttered while the handmaids worked, too low for anyone else to hear. “The girl’s been poked and prodded more times than a two-klat inn tart.”
Leesha shook her head, feeling sorry for the poor girl, but she bent and opened her herb pouch on the duchess’ vanity, laying out a series of bottles and swabs. She had hoped for this opportunity, and came prepared with the proper chemics.
The young duchess stood meek and silent as Leesha went about her examination, but her heart was thudding in her chest when Leesha listened to it. The girl was likely terrified, afraid of what would happen to her if she failed to produce an heir like the duchesses before her. Leesha wondered if she had even been given a choice in the union, or, as was common throughout Thesa, it was arranged by her parents without a thought to her desires.
She took a sample of the duchess’ urine and swabs of her vaginal fluids, mixing the samples with chemics and leaving them to interact. She felt at the girl’s womb, even going so far as to slip in a finger to examine her cervix. Finally, she smiled at the duchess. “Everything seems in order, Your Highness. Thank you for your cooperation. You can get dressed now.”
“Thank you, mistress,” the duchess said. “I hope you can find what’s wrong with me.”
“I don’t think anything’s ‘wrong’ with you, dear,” Leesha said, “but if something needs correcting, rest assured, we will.” The duchess smiled weakly and nodded. Likely she had heard the same thing from a dozen other Gatherers. She had no reason to think Leesha any different.
The duchess went back to the window as Leesha went over to the vanity to check on her test results. The duchess mum drifted over to her.
“There’s nothing wrong with that girl,” Leesha said. “She’s fit to breed an army.”
Araine handed her a bit of netting full of dried herbs. “The tincture the Royal Gatherer makes to brew her fertility tea.”
Leesha sniffed the packet. “Standard. It certainly doesn’t hurt, but I could brew stronger … not that it matters.”
“You think the problem is with my son,” Araine said.
Leesha shrugged. “The next logical step would be to examine him, Your Grace.”
Araine snorted. “The stubborn ass will barely let a Gatherer look down his throat when he’s caught a chill and coughing up his innards. Little chance he’ll let you anywhere near his manhood …” she looked Leesha up and down and smiled wryly, “… unless you want to examine him and collect your samples the old-fashioned way.”
Leesha scowled, and Araine laughed.
“I thought not!” she cackled. “We’ll make the girl do it! What else is a young duchess for?”
Minister Janson remained behind after the duchess mum left with Leesha and Wonda. He produced a slim oak box, lacquered smooth, and handed it to Rojer.
“We found this in Arrick’s chambers after his dismissal,” Janson said. “I messaged the Jongleurs’ Guild informing him I had it held in trust, but your master never bothered to retrieve it. I confess, it baffled me; Arrick took everything but the feathers from his mattress when he left, including a few things that weren’t precisely his, but this he left on a table, plain as day.”
Rojer took the case and opened it. Inside, on a bed of green velvet, lay a gold medallion on a heavy braided chain. Molded into relief upon the medallion were crossed spears behind a shield with Duke Rhinebeck’s crest: a leafed crown floating above an ivy-covered throne.
Rojer remembered enough of Arrick’s heraldry lessons to recognize the medallion immediately: the Royal Angierian Medal of Valor. The duke’s highest honor. Rojer stared at it, amazed. What had Arrick done to earn such a prize, and why would he leave it behind? Beyond even the symbolic value, the medal itself was worth a fortune. In metal-poor Angiers, the braided chain alone was worth a mountain of klats, and the gold …
“His Grace bestowed the medal upon Arrick for his bravery at the fall of Riverbridge,” Janson said, as if reading his thoughts. “It would have been enough if he had saved himself and returned to report the fall to the duke, but to face the corelings and rescue you as well, a boy of only three summers who could not run or hide on his own …” He shook his head.
Rojer felt as if the minister had slapped him. “I can’t imagine why he would have left it behind,” he said hollowly, swallowing the lump in his throat. “Thank you for keeping it safe.” He closed the case and slipped it into the multicolored bag he carried across his shoulders.
“Well,” Janson said, when it became clear Rojer had no more to say. He looked to the Warded Man. “If you’re ready, Mr. Flinn, His Grace is ready to receive your delegation.”
“But Leesha …” Rojer began.
The minister pursed his lips. “His Grace does not care to receive women in his throne room,” he said. “I assure you, Mistress Leesha is in good hands with the duchess mum and her ladies-in-waiting. You can relate the audience to her after His Grace has dismissed you.”
The Warded Man frowned, and he locked stares with the minister. The little man seemed petrified under those hard eyes, but he did not recant. His eyes flicked to the guards by the door.
“Very well,” the Warded Man said at last. “Please lead the way.”
Janson masked a sigh of relief and bowed. “This way, please.”
Duke Rhinebeck was tall for an Angierian, but still shorter than most of the folk of Deliverer’s Hollow. He was thickly set, a man in his mid-fifties, the muscles of youth now run to flab. His gravy-stained doublet was emerald green, and his leggings brown, both of rare, Krasian silk. He wore the lacquered wooden crown of Angiers atop his oiled brown hair, shot through with gray, but his fingers and throat were bedecked with rings and necklaces of Milnese gold.
To the duke’s right and on a lower dais sat his brother, Crown Prince Mickael. Almost as old as the duke if a bit more robust, Prince Mickael was clad in equal finery, his hair held in place with a gold circlet. To the duke’s left sat Shepherd Pether, Rhinebeck’s middle brother. The Shepherd was even fatter than Rhinebeck, despite the austerity implied by his plain brown robe and shaved head. Unlike the rough material most Tenders wore, the Shepherd’s robe was made of fine wool, tied with a belt of yellow silk.
Prince Thamos kept his feet, standing at the bottom of the dais in his ward-lacquered breastplate and greaves. He held his spear at the ready, as did the Wooden Soldiers at the door, though Rojer and the others had been searched and stripped of their weapons before entering the throne room. Even so, beside Gared and the Warded Man, Rojer felt as safe as if he were standing in Deliverer’s Hollow under the bright sun.
“His Grace, Duke Rhinebeck the Third,” Janson announced, “Guardian of the Forest Fortress, Wearer of the Wooden Crown, and Lord of all Angiers.” Rojer dropped to one knee, Gared following suit. The Warded Man, however, only bowed.
“Bend knee to your duke,” Thamos growled, pointing to the Warded Man with his spear.
The Warded Man shook his head. “I mean no disrespect, Your Highness, but I am not Angierian.”
“What nonsense is this?” Prince Mickael demanded. “You are Flinn Cutter of Cutter’s Hollow, Angierian born and raised. Do you mean to say the Hollow no longer considers itself part of the duchy?” Thamos tightened his grip on his spear, leveling it at them, and Rojer swallowed hard, hoping the Warded Man knew what he was doing.
The Warded Man seemed not to notice the threat. He shook his head again. “I mean nothing of the sort, Your Highness. Flinn Cutter was only a name given at the gate for expedience’s sake. I apologize for the deception.” He bowed again.
Janson, who had retreated to a small desk beside the dais, began scribbling furiously.
“Your accent is Milnese,” Shepherd Pether said. “Are you beholden to Euchor, perhaps?”
“I have spent time in Fort Miln, but I am not Milnese, either,” the Warded Man said.
“Then state your name and city,” Thamos said.
“My name is my own,” the Warded Man said, “and I call no city my home.”
“How dare you?!” Thamos sputtered, advancing with his spear. The Warded Man gave him the bemused look a man might give a young boy who put up his fists. Rojer held his breath.
“Enough!” Rhinebeck barked. “Thamos, stand down!” Prince Thamos scowled, but he did as he was told, retreating to the foot of the dais and glowering at the Warded Man.
“Keep your mysteries for now,” Rhinebeck said, raising a hand to forestall any further questions. Prince Mickael glared at his older brother, but kept his tongue.
“You, I remember,” Rhinebeck said to Rojer, apparently hoping to cut some of the tension in the room. “Rojer Inn, Arrick Sweetsong’s brat, who thought my brothel was a nursery.” He chuckled. “They called your master Sweetsong because his voice made women sweet between the legs. Has the apprentice become the master?”
“I only charm corelings with my music, Your Grace,” Rojer replied with a bow, painting a smile on his face and hiding his anger behind a Jongleur’s mask.
Rhinebeck laughed, slapping his knee. “As if a coreling could be taken in like some wood-brained tart! You have Arrick’s humor, I’ll give you that!”
Lord Janson cleared his throat. “Eh?” Rhinebeck asked, turning to look at his secretary.
“The word from Messengers passing through the Hollow is that young Mr. Inn can indeed charm demons with his music, Your Grace,” he said.
The duke’s eyes widened. “Honest word?” Janson nodded.
Rhinebeck coughed to hide his surprise, then turned back to them, looking at Gared. “You are Captain Gared of the Cutters?” he asked.
“Er, just Gared, Y’Worship,” Gared stuttered. “I lead the Cutters, yeh, but I ent no captain. Just handy with an axe, I guess.”
“Don’t sell yourself short, boy,” Rhinebeck said. “No one praises a man who won’t praise himself. If half of what I hear about you is true, I may give you a commission myself.”
Gared opened his mouth to reply, but it was clear he had no idea what the proper response was, so he simply bowed, dipping so low Rojer thought his chin might strike the floor.
Leesha sipped her tea, her eyes flicking over the rim to regard the duchess mum, who watched her in return with similar quiet candor. Araine’s servants had set a polished silver tea service on the table between them, along with a pile of pastries and thin sandwiches, before vanishing. A silver bell sat beside the platter to summon them back when needed.
Wonda sat rigidly, as if trying to make herself as invisible to the duchess mum as she was to corelings in her Cloak of Unsight. She stared at the plate of sandwiches longingly, but seemed terrified to take one, lest she draw attention to herself.
The duchess mum turned to her. “Girl, if you’re going to dress like a man and carry a spear, stop acting like some timid young debutante whose first suitor has come to court. Eat. Those sandwiches aren’t piled there for show.”
“Sorry, Y’Grace,” Wonda said, bowing awkwardly. She grabbed a fistful of the finger sandwiches and shoved them into her mouth, neglecting napkin and plate alike. Araine rolled her eyes, but she seemed more amused than put off.
The duchess mum then turned to Leesha. “As for you, I can see the questions on your face, so you might as well ask them. I’m not getting any younger while we wait.”
“I’m just … surprised, Your Grace,” Leesha said. “You’re not what I expected.”
Araine laughed. “From what, my frail crone act in front of the men? Creator, girl, Bruna said you were quick, but I’ve my doubts if you couldn’t see through that.”
“I won’t be fooled again, I assure you,” Leesha said, “but I confess, I don’t understand why the act was needed at all. Bruna never pretended to be …”
“Doddering?” Araine asked with a smile as she selected a delicate sandwich from the tray and dipped it smoothly in her tea, eating it in two quick bites. Wonda attempted to mimic her but left the sandwich in her tea too long, and half of it broke off in the cup. Araine snorted as the girl quickly swallowed tea and sandwich alike in one quick gulp.
“As you say, Your Grace,” Leesha said.
The duchess mum looked down her nose at Leesha in that reproachful way she had. It reminded her of Lord Janson’s look, and she wondered if the first minister had learned it from her. “It’s necessary,” Araine said, “because men turn to hardwood around a sharp woman, but around a dullard they are soft as pulp. Live a few more decades, and you’ll find my meaning.”
“I’ll remember that in the audience before His Grace,” Leesha said.
Araine snorted. “Keep up with the dance, girl. This is the audience. What goes on in the throne room is all just for show. Whatever they may think, my sons no more run this city than your Smitt does the Hollow.”
Leesha choked on a pastry and almost spilled her tea. She looked at Araine in shock.
“It was ill planned to come without Mr. Smitt, though,” Araine tsked. “Bruna hated politics, but she could have taught you the bare rudiments. She knew them well enough. My boys take after their father, and have little use for women at court unless they’re putting food on a table or kneeling under it. They’ve naturally assumed your Mr. Flinn—if that’s even his name—leads the dance now, and will give even that ape Gared and Arrick’s brat more respect than you.”
“The Warded Man doesn’t speak for the Hollow,” Leesha said. “Nor do the others.”
“You think me dim, girl?” Araine asked. “One look at them told me that. It makes no difference, though. All the decisions are already made.”
“Excuse me?” Leesha asked, confused.
“I gave Janson his instructions last night after I read his report, and he’s seeing to them now,” Araine said. “So long as none of those peacocks starts a real fight while they strut and posture in the throne room, the result of the ‘audience’ will be this:
“You will return to the Hollow to await a team of my best Warders to study your combat wards. Before winter, I want every two-klat Warder in Angiers etching weapons until every wood-brained huntsman who can pull a bow has a quiver of warded arrows and warded spears are cheap at the boardwalk kiosks.
“Thamos and the Wooden Soldiers will accompany the Warders,” Araine went on, “both for their protection and so your Cutters can train them in demon hunting.”
Leesha nodded. “Of course, Your Grace.” Araine smiled patiently at the interruption, and Leesha realized as far as the duchess mum was concerned, these were royal commands and not topics for debate.
“The Tenders of the Creator are in turmoil over your painted friend,” Araine went on. “Half of them think he’s the Deliverer himself, and the other half think he’s worse than the mother of all demons. Neither side seems to trust your young Tender Jona, though he seems to be leaning toward the former category. They wish to inquisit him. I’ve exchanged missives with my advisors on the Council of Tenders, and have agreed that a replacement, Tender Hayes, will be sent to tend the faithful in the Hollow while Jona is called here to give testimony before the council. Hayes is a good man, not crazed with zealotry and no fool. He will gauge the Hollowers’ beliefs about the Warded Man even as the council gauges Jona’s.”
Leesha cleared her throat. “Your pardon, Your Grace, but the Hollow isn’t a city with dozens of Tenders. The people trust Jona to guide them because he has earned that trust over many years. They won’t just follow any man in a brown robe, and they won’t take well to the idea of your dragging Jona off to an inquisition.”
“If Jona is loyal to his order, he’ll go willingly and quell any doubts,” Araine said. “If not … well, I wish to know where his loyalties lie as much as the council.”
“And if the council’s inquisition ends unfavorably?” Leesha asked.
“It’s been a while since the Tenders burned a heretic,” Araine said, “but I expect they still know the recipe.”
“Then Tender Jona will not be going,” Leesha said, putting down her cup and meeting the duchess mum’s eyes, “unless you intend to test your Wooden Soldiers against men who cut trees by day and wood demons by night.”
Araine’s eyebrows raised, and her nostrils flared. The serene veil returned in an instant, so quickly that Leesha thought she might have imagined the flash of vexation. Araine turned to regard Wonda.
“Is that true, girl?” she asked. “Will you take arms against your duke, if the Wooden Soldiers come for your Tender?”
“I’ll fight whoever Leesha tells me to fight,” Wonda said, sitting up to her full height for the first time since meeting the tiny duchess mum.
Even at fifteen summers, Wonda Cutter was taller than most men in Deliverer’s Hollow, men known to be the tallest in the duchy. She towered over the diminutive old woman, but Araine seemed more amused by her than cowed. The duchess mum nodded as if to dismiss Wonda back to her previous state and looked at Leesha, tapping a nail on her delicate teacup.
“Very well,” she said at last. “I will personally vouch for Tender Jona’s safety and return to the Hollow, though he may return stripped of his robes.”
“Thank you, Your Grace,” Leesha said, bowing her head in acceptance of the terms.
Araine smiled and raised her teacup. “You may be Bruna’s heir after all.” Leesha smiled, and they drank together.
“The Warded Man,” Araine said, after a moment, “will go alone to Miln, to carry his story about the Krasians to Euchor and make our plea for aid.”
“Why the Warded Man and not your herald?” Leesha asked.
Araine snorted. “Janson’s fop nephew? Euchor would eat the boy alive. If you haven’t heard, Euchor and my son despise each other.”
Leesha looked at her, but the duchess waved the look away. “Don’t try to meddle with those wards, girl. The ivy throne and the metal one have been at odds long before the current occupants sat their overweight bottoms down on them, and will be long after they’re gone. It’s the way of men to glower at their rivals.”
“That doesn’t explain why it should be the Warded Man and not a Royal Messenger,” Leesha said. “I assure you, if he even agrees to go—and you may find him harder to steer than you think—he will go with his own agenda, and not yours.”
“Of course he will,” Araine said, “which is precisely why I want that man as far from my city as possible. Whether he means it or not, his very presence will incite people to mad zealotry, and that’s no way for a state to run. Let him go and cause a stir in Miln; Euchor may agree to whatever we want, just to be rid of him.”
“And what, exactly, do ‘we’ want?” Leesha asked.
Araine eyed, her, and Leesha could not tell if she was more amused or annoyed at her audacity. “An alliance against the Krasians, of course,” the duchess mum said at last. “It’s one thing to bicker over some carts of wood and minerals, but quite another for the sheepdogs to keep nipping at one another when there are wolves at the pen.”
Leesha looked at the woman, wanting to argue, but she found herself agreeing. Part of her felt so safe when Arlen was around, she never wanted him to leave the Hollow. But there was another part of her, a growing part, that found his presence … stifling. Just as he had feared, the Hollowers and refugees were looking to him to save them rather than saving themselves, and hadn’t Leesha done the same? Perhaps it was best for all that he go for a short while.
When the moment for Leesha to reply had passed with no word spoken, Araine nodded and turned back to her tea. “I have yet to decide what to do with Arrick’s boy. His so-called fiddle magic bears closer examination, but I have no designs on it as yet.”
“It’s not magic,” Leesha said. “Not as we know it, anyway. He just … charms the corelings, like a Jongleur works a crowd’s mood. It’s a useful skill, but it works only so long as he continues to play, and he hasn’t been able to teach the trick to others.”
“He might make a good herald,” Araine mused. “Better than Janson’s fop nephew, at any rate, though that says little.”
“I would prefer that Rojer stay with me, Your Grace,” Leesha said.
“Oho! Would you?” Araine asked, amused. She reached over the table and pinched Leesha’s cheek. “I like you, girl. Not afraid to speak your mind.” She sat back, looking at Leesha a moment, and then shrugged. “I’m feeling generous,” she said, refilling their teacups. “Keep him. Now, for this ‘Deliverer’ business.”
“The Warded Man does not claim to be the Deliverer, Your Grace,” Leesha said. She snorted. “Night, he’ll bite the head from any that suggest it.”
“Whatever he claims, folk believe it,” Araine said, “as evidenced by the sudden change of your hamlet’s name … without royal permission, I might add.”
Leesha shrugged. “That was the town council’s decision and none of mine.”
“But you did not oppose it,” Araine noted.
Leesha shrugged again.
“Do you believe it?” Araine asked, meeting her eyes. “Is he the Deliverer come again?”
Leesha looked at the duchess mum for a long time. “No,” she said at last. Wonda gasped out loud, and Leesha scowled.
“It appears your bodyguard does not agree,” Araine said.
“It’s not my place to tell people what or what not to believe,” Leesha said.
Araine nodded. “Just so. Nor is it your town council’s. Janson has already penned a royal condemnation of the name change. If your council is wise, they will repaint their signs in a hurry.”
“I’ll inform them, Your Grace,” Leesha said. Araine narrowed her eyes at the vague response, but said nothing.
“And the refugees?” Leesha asked.
“What about them?” Araine asked.
“Will you take them in?” Leesha asked.
The duchess mum snorted. “And put them where? Feed them what? Use your head, girl. Angiers accepts them, but the fort cannot hold so many. Let them swell the hamlets like yours. The Warders and soldiers I send the Hollow will show the duke’s full support for our neighbors in this time of need, and we’ll forgive the lumber shipments the Hollow has failed to make.”
Leesha pursed her lips. “We need more than that, Your Grace. We have groups of three sharing blankets, and children running about in rags. If you have no food to spare, then send clothing. Or wool from Shepherd’s Dale, that we might make our own. It’s their shearing season, is it not?”
Araine thought a moment. “I’ll have a few carts of raw wool sent, and drive a hundred head of sheep, as well.”
“Two hundred,” Leesha said, “at least half of breeding age, and a hundred milking cows.”
Araine scowled, but she nodded. “Done.”
“And seed from Farmer’s Stump and Woodsend,” Leesha added. “It’s planting season, and we have the labor to clear land and grow a full crop, if they have sufficient seed to plant.”
“That’s in everyone’s interest,” Araine agreed. “You’ll get as much as we can spare.”
“How can you know the men will come to these terms?” Leesha asked.
Araine cackled. “My sons couldn’t tie their shoes without Janson, and Janson answers to me. Not only will they decide as he advises, they’ll go to their graves thinking it was all their own ideas.”
Leesha still felt doubtful, but the duchess mum only shrugged at her. “Hear it for yourself, when your men come out and tell you what they ‘negotiated.’ Until then, let’s finish our tea.”
“Why have you come before the ivy throne?” Rhinebeck asked.
“The Krasian advance threatens us all,” the Warded Man said. “Refugees flood the countryside, more than the hamlets can easily absorb, and when they move on Lakton—”
“This is ridiculous,” Prince Mickael cut him off. “At the very least, show your face when addressing the duke.”
“Apologies, Highness,” the Warded Man said with a slight bow. He drew back his hood, and in the sunlight streaming in through the windows, the wards seemed to crawl across his skin like living things. Thamos and Janson, having seen this before, kept composure, but the other princes could not entirely hide their shock.
“Creator,” Pether whispered, drawing a ward in the air before him.
“Since you have no name, I suppose you’ll want us to call you Lord Ward?” Mickael asked, twisting the surprised look on his face into a sneer.
The Warded Man shook his head, smiling wanly. “I’m as peasant as they come, Highness. No lord in any land.”
Mickael snorted. “Circumstances of birth notwithstanding, I find it hard to believe a man who styles himself the Deliverer doesn’t think himself as much a lord as any of royal blood. Or do you think yourself above such things?”
“I’m not the Deliverer, Highness,” the Warded Man said. “I’ve never claimed otherwise.”
“That’s not what your Tender in Cutter’s Hollow believes, by his own reports,” Shepherd Pether noted, waving a sheaf of papers in the air.
“He’s not my Tender,” the Warded Man said, scowling. “He can believe as he wishes.”
“Actually, he can’t,” Janson interrupted, “if he is representing the Tenders of the Creator in Angiers, he owes his loyalty to His Grace the Shepherd and the Council of Tenders. If he is preaching heresy …”
“That’s a fair point, Janson,” Pether said. “We’ll have to look into that.”
“You could perhaps have the Council of Tenders summon and inquisit Tender Jona, Your Grace,” Janson suggested.
“Hear, hear,” Mickael said. He looked to his brother. “You should do that with all haste, brother.” Pether nodded.
“Your former mentor, Tender Hayes, would be fit to replace him in the Hollow and minister the refugees, Your Grace,” Janson suggested. “He has experience working with the poor, and is loyal to the ivy throne. Perhaps you can convince the council to send him?”
“Convince them?!” Pether demanded. “Janson, I am their Shepherd! You tell them I said to send Tender Hayes!”
Janson bowed. “As you say, Your Grace.”
“As for you,” Pether said, turning back to the Warded Man, “why did the Hollowers rename their hamlet Deliverer’s Hollow if you have no sway there?”
“I never wanted the change,” the Warded Man said. “They did it against my wishes.”
Mickael snorted. “Save that ale story for a taproom of drunks. Of course you wanted the change.”
“To what end, Highness?” the Warded Man asked. “It does nothing but further a notion I would rather quash.”
“If that is so, you will have no argument if His Grace sends the town council a royal decree commanding that they change it back, of course,” Janson said.
The Warded Man shrugged.
Rhinebeck nodded. “Do it.”
“As you wish, Your Grace,” Janson said.
“All this is neither East nor West,” Prince Thamos snapped, stamping his spear butt on the floor. He looked at the Warded Man. “We tested your wards. I killed a wood demon myself with that arrow. I want more. And the other combat wards you’ve developed, along with training for my men. What do you want in exchange?”
“It matters not what he wants,” Rhinebeck said. “The Hollowers are my subjects, and I won’t pay for what they owe the ivy throne regardless.”
“As I told Prince Thamos and the Lord Janson, Your Grace,” the Warded Man said, “the corelings are the real enemy. I won’t withhold warded weapons from any who want them.”
Rhinebeck grunted, and Thamos’ eyes took on an eager light.
“I can consult with the Warders’ Guild to select Warders to send to the Hollow, if Your Grace wishes,” Janson said. “Perhaps with a contingent of Wooden Soldiers to guard them?”
“I’ll lead them personally, brother,” Prince Thamos said, turning to look at the duke.
Rhinebeck nodded. “Very well,” he said.
“What of the refugees from Rizon?” the Warded Man asked. “Will you take them in?”
“My city has no room for thousands of refugees,” Rhinebeck said. “Let them succor in the hamlets. We can offer them … what was it again, Janson?” Rhinebeck asked.
“Royal asylum,” Janson said, “and the protection of the crown to any who swear an oath of loyalty to Angiers.” Rhinebeck nodded.
The Warded Man bowed. “That is very generous, Your Grace, but these people are starved and penniless, lacking basic necessities of survival. Surely, in your mercy, you can offer more than that.”
“Very well,” Rhinebeck said. “I’m not heartless. Janson, what can we spare?”
“Well, Your Grace,” Janson said, flipping open a ledger and scanning its contents, “we can forgive the Hollow its delinquent lumber shipments, of course …”
“Of course,” Rhinebeck echoed.
“And while in the Hollow, your Royal Warders can offer their expertise in protecting the refugees in the night,” Janson went on, “as can the Wooden Soldiers.”
“Of course, of course,” Rhinebeck said.
Janson pursed his lips. “Please allow me to review further, Your Grace, and I will present you with detailed lists of what resources we have available.”
“See to it,” Rhinebeck said.
Janson bowed again. “As you command.”
“And what of the Krasian advance?” the Warded Man asked.
“I’ve seen no evidence that the Krasians will advance, apart from your own claims,” Rhinebeck said.
“They will,” the Warded Man assured. “The Evejah demands it.”
“You know a lot about the desert rats and their heathen religion,” Pether said. “Lord Janson says you even lived among them for a time.”
The Warded Man nodded. “That’s correct, Your Grace.”
“Then how can we be sure of where your loyalties lie?” Pether said. “For all we know, you’re a corespawned Evejan convert yourself. Night, if you won’t tell us who you are and where you’re from, how do we even know you’re not a Krasian yourself under all those wards?”
Gared growled, but the Warded Man held up a finger, and the giant Cutter fell silent. “I assure you, that isn’t the case,” the Warded Man said. “My loyalty is to Thesa.”
Rhinebeck smiled. “Prove it.”
The Warded Man tilted his head curiously. “How shall I prove it, Your Grace?”
“My herald is out in the hamlets,” Rhinebeck said, “and cannot travel as swiftly as you, in any event. Go to Fort Miln for me and speak to Duke Euchor. Invoke the Pact.”
“The Pact, Your Grace?” the Warded Man asked. Rhinebeck looked to Janson, who cleared his throat.
“The Pact of the Free Cities,” the minister said. “In the year zero, after the first wardwalls were finally built and a semblance of order restored to the ravaged countryside, the surviving dukes of Thesa signed a mutual nonaggression pact called the Pact of the Free Cities. In it, they recognized the death of the king of Thesa and the end of his line, and accepted one another’s sovereignty over their territories. The pact bans the taking of territory by force, and promises the unity of all cities in putting down its violators.”
“Did the Krasians sign this Pact?” the Warded Man asked.
Janson shook his head. “Krasia was not part of Thesa, and thus was never subject to the Pact. However,” he held up a hand to forestall further response as he set his spectacles at the end of his nose and lifted an old parchment, “the exact wording of the Pact is as follows:
“Should the territory or sovereignty of any duchy be threatened by human design, it shall be the obligation of all signees and their posterity to intercede in unity on behalf of the threatened party.” Janson set the parchment down. “The Pact was so worded to outlaw all warfare among men, because there were so few of us left after the depredations of the Return. Thus, it remains binding, regardless of whether the Krasian leader signed it.”
“Do you think Duke Euchor will see it so?” the Warded Man asked Janson.
“Are you in audience with my secretary, or me?” Rhinebeck demanded loudly, drawing all eyes back to him. Rojer saw that the duke had gone red in the face, as angry as he had been the night he had caught seven-year-old Rojer sleeping in the bed of one of his favorite whores.
The Warded Man bowed. “Apologies, Your Grace,” he said. “No disrespect was meant.”
Rhinebeck seemed somewhat mollified by the response, but his reply remained gruff. “Euchor will try to find a way out of the Pact like a coreling longs for a gap in the wards, but without support from him, Angiers cannot afford to commit to attacking the Krasian host.”
“You would violate the Pact yourself?” the Warded Man asked.
“Intercede in unity, the Pact says,” Rhinebeck growled. “Should I clash with the desert rats alone, only to have Euchor sweep in and destroy both our weakened armies and declare himself king?”
The Warded Man was silent a long time. “Why me, Your Grace?”
Rhinebeck snorted. “Don’t be modest. Every Jongleur in Thesa sings of you. If your arrival causes half the stir in Miln that it has in Angiers, Euchor will have no choice but to adhere to the Pact, especially if you sweeten the call with your battle wards.”
“I won’t withhold them for political gain,” the Warded Man said.
“Of course not,” Rhinebeck said, grinning, “but Euchor need not know that, ay?”
Rojer edged closer to the Warded Man. A skilled puppeteer, he could shout or whisper without moving his lips, even making the sounds appear to come from another place.
“He’s just trying to be rid of you,” he warned, so the others did not hear or notice.
But if the Warded Man heard him, he gave no sign. “Very well, I’ll do it. I’ll need your seal, Your Grace, so Duke Euchor knows the message is authentic.”
“You’ll have whatever you need,” Euchor promised.
“Your Grace,” the lady-in-waiting said, “the Lord Janson bade me to inform you that the duke’s audience with the delegation from Cutter’s Hollow is at an end.”
“Thank you, Ema,” Araine said, not bothering to ask how things went. “Please inform Lord Janson that we will meet them in the antechamber when we have finished our tea.” Ema curtsied smoothly and vanished. Wonda threw back the rest of her cup and got to her feet.
“There is no need for haste, young lady,” Araine told her. “It does men good to have to wait for a woman now and again. It teaches them patience.”
“Yes’m,” Wonda said, bowing.
The duchess mum got to her feet. “Come here, girl, and let me have a proper look at you,” she said. Wonda came closer, and Araine walked around her, examining her worn and patched clothes, the jagged scars on her homely face, and reaching out to squeeze her shoulders and arms like a butcher examining livestock.
“I can see why you chose to lead a man’s life,” the duchess mum said, “you being built like one. Do you regret missing out on a life of dresses and blushing at suitors?” Leesha got to her feet, but the duchess mum raised a finger at her without even turning, and Leesha kept her tongue behind her teeth.
Wonda shifted her feet uncomfortably. “Ent never given it much thought.”
Araine nodded. “What’s it like, girl, to stand among men when they go to war?”
Wonda shrugged. “Feels good to kill demons. They killed my da and a lot of my friends. Some of the Cutters treated us women different at first, trying to keep us behind them when the demons came, but we kill as many as they do, and after a few of them got pounced on for looking out for some woman instead of themselves, they wised up quick.”
“The men here would be worse, by far,” Araine said. “I had to abdicate power when my husband died, even though my eldest son was an idiot, and his brothers little better. Creator forbid a woman sit the ivy throne. I’ve always been a little jealous of the way old Bruna dominated men openly, but that sort of thing just isn’t done here.”
She eyed Wonda again. “Not yet, anyway,” she allowed. “Stand tall in the night for me, girl. Stand tall for every woman in Angiers, and never let anyone, man or woman, make you stoop.”
“I will, Y’Grace,” Wonda said, making a proper bow at last. “I swear it by the sun.”
Araine grunted and tapped her chin for a moment, then snapped her fingers. She snatched up the little silver bell on the table and rang it. In an instant one of her ladies-in-waiting appeared. “Summon my seamstress immediately,” Araine said. The woman curtsied and scurried off, and moments later another woman arrived, assisted by a young girl with a leather-bound book and a feathered quill.
“The girl,” Araine said, pointing to Wonda. “Take her measurements. Everything.” The royal seamstress nodded and produced a series of knotted strings, calling the measurements out to the girl, who noted them in her book. Wonda stood awkwardly while the woman worked, moving Wonda’s limbs about like a doll’s, and running her hands over places that made the girl blush furiously. The white scars on her face became even more prominent as her cheeks colored.
The seamstress came over to Araine and Leesha when she was finished. “It’s a challenge, Your Grace,” she admitted. “The girl is flat where a woman should be curved, and broad where a woman should be narrow. Perhaps a few ruffles on the dress to distract the eye, and a fan to help her hide the scars …”
“Am I an idiot?” Araine snapped. “I’d as soon put Thamos in a gown as that girl!”
The woman paled, and dipped into a curtsy. “Apologies, Your Grace,” she said. “What did you have in mind?”
“I don’t know yet,” Araine said. “It will come to me, I’m sure. Run along now.” The woman nodded, quickly gliding out of the room with her assistant in tow.
Araine turned to Leesha as she and Wonda prepared to go. “Bruna and I were great friends, dear, something that was of great benefit to both of us. I hope we can be friends, as well.”
Leesha nodded. “I hope so, too.”