Chapter 9

 

The priest who had incited the riot was executed by hanging and disembowelment. Rhia’s two junior staff, the manservant Brynan and the new maid, Nerilyn, asked leave to attend. The execution was held outside the city both as a mark of how low the priest had fallen and to accommodate the crowds.

This was the duke’s justice being seen to be done. Just as it would be seen to be done to Etyan, if he was guilty. When the sound of the crowd drifted up the hill, Rhia closed the shutters and lit a lamp.

The servants returned as darkness fell. Their voices carried up the stairwell, before being hushed by Markave. Shortly afterwards her steward entered her study with the newly arrived lock for her ironwood chest. As he turned to leave she asked how the execution had gone.

“As well as these things ever go, Brynan tells me.”

“But there was no… unrest?”

“Quite the contrary. Before the execution the duke’s representative announced that taxes on foodstuffs entering the city will be cut by a third.”

“A popular move, I imagine.”

“Indeed so, m’lady. And as a result, everyone will expect prices to fall. If the merchants don’t cut their prices, then the people will have a new target for their anger.”

“So they will.” Typical Francin, to divert people’s attention like that.

“Will that be all, m’lady?”

“Yes. No, wait.” She had been so wrapped up in the news about Etyan she had failed to share it. Now she explained that young Lord Harlyn had been located and the duke was sending people to Zekt to bring him home. She did not mention her response to Francin’s offer.

“This is wonderful news, m’lady,” said Markave, “and I am sure the duke will keep you informed.”

“With those details he feels I should know, yes. However, servants may discover things their masters and mistresses remain oblivious of.”

“I am not sure what you are asking.”

“Just that if you, or anyone you regularly converse with, finds out anything regarding the expedition to Zekt, you should tell me.”

“What manner of thing, if I may ask?”

“Who is going, how they will travel, and when they will depart.” If the expedition did not leave in the next five or six days, it would have to wait another two weeks. Whilst Shen ran multiple caravans to the other five adjacent shadowlands, the route to Zekt had just the one, shuttling back and forth, a week each way over the mountains.

“May I speak freely?”

“Always.” There had been a time when he came close to being more than a servant, shortly after the rain-fever took Father. Just a hand over hers, unexpected eye contact, a soft word. That she had let it develop into adolescent infatuation was her problem, not his. After all, he was over ten years her senior, and had his own grief to deal with after losing his wife to the same disease. Nothing had come of it. He had remarried, and her feelings towards him had mellowed.

“We – your household – look forward to the safe return of young Lord Harlyn. But we would be distressed should your eagerness to ensure this lead you to do anything rash.”

He knew her well. “Such as?” she asked with false lightness.

He bowed his head, the thinning patch on the top catching the lamplight. “I could not say, m’lady.”

Or rather would not. “Your concern is…” she searched for the right words and settled on “… a credit to you. Yet I would still like to know anything you discover.”

“I shall report all I hear.”

Markave’s unease with her plan gave her a moment of doubt. But only a moment.

 

The following morning another note from the duke arrived. Her hands trembled as she unfolded it, in case she was being summoned to the palace to hear the charges her brother would face. But the note merely stated that Francin would be despatching the expedition to Zekt “early next week” and that it was “travelling unofficially”.

As must she. She could book herself onto the caravan and travel to Zekt openly. It would be scandalous, but not illegal or impractical, for an unaccompanied noblewoman to leave her shadowland. She had considered such travel before, had in fact promised herself she would see the world once Etyan was safely married. But she suspected Francin would stop her, just as he had stopped her late uncle.

Rhia rang for Fenera. The steward’s wife arrived in the parlour with flour on her hands. When Rhia apologized for taking her from her duties she bobbed and said it was nothing.

“I would like to ask a favour of you,” said Rhia.

“Of course, m’lady.”

“I wish to borrow some of your clothes.”

“I’m sorry, m’lady?”

“Just a few items, a loan I will reimburse you for. I’m after some practical women’s clothing, just for a while.”

Fenera started, then focused. “As m’lady wishes.” The housekeeper blinked then added, “M’lady is somewhat smaller than I.”

“Yes, but Nerilyn is a beanpole, so she’d be no good.” Rhia tried to make her comment lighthearted, an attempt at womanly camaraderie. Fenera just stared. Rhia cleared her throat. “If you could put together a few pieces by tomorrow, please.”

“Yes, m’lady.”

 

The woodcarvers had quoted her “about a week” to construct the sightglass. With the Harbinger still some years off, she had seen little urgency. But now she was going into the skyland, and she wanted her sightglass for that journey.

She re-read papers on Zekt, on caravan etiquette and on the nature, geography and creatures of the skyland itself. Although the skykin shared a common origin with the shadowkin there was comparatively little written about them, at least not in her papers. Had she more time she might have requested further writings from the enquirers’ network.

She packed, unpacked and repacked several times. She kept her baggage in her bedchamber to avoid having to discuss it with the servants, though from the looks she saw exchanged, they knew her plan.

Despite the preparations, she found herself noticing how quiet the house was. When Etyan first disappeared, the silence was disconcerting. Yet even as worry over her brother kept her awake at night, she had guiltily enjoyed the peace his absence brought. Etyan had filled the house with noise and fuss, never walking up the stairs when he could run, leaving every room he entered in a mess, pulling the servants from their duties to practise the latest courtly dance or play some fashionable new game. Laughing, even as he denied a minor misdemeanour or concocted a ridiculous excuse for skipping his lessons. Infuriating. Impossible. Full of life. But since coming of age last year, he had also started bringing home noble scions of other Houses, eager to impress them now he had assumed his role as head of House Harlyn, and Rhia did not miss that at all.

In these last months she had become accustomed to the house’s air of quiet reserve, but as she climbed the central staircase she felt suddenly alone. First Ma, then Father. Then Etyan. But he wasn’t lost yet. She would bring him home, and learn to embrace the chaos that came with him.

 

Markave brought news back from the restday service. According to a contact at the palace the expedition would consist of a couple of militiamen posing as traders. That she would be keeping company with the same men who had laid into the rioters with such efficient brutality was alarming, although if there were dangers on the road, the militia would be the ones to deal with them. More chillingly, if Etyan tried to run, they would be able to deal with him.

Markave said his contact would pass on the exact timing of the expedition once it was known.

 

The next morning, she awoke from another dream mish-mash of recent events: the body in the pool was Alharet’s, until Rhia reached out, as she had not dared to in real life, and turned it; then Donkey-Face grinned up at her, starting her awake. Voices drifted up the stairwell. Markave and Fenera; arguing, though she could not make out actual words, only the aggravated tone. The steward shushed his wife and silence returned. She wondered if the disagreement had been about her before reminding herself that other people had lives too.

 

Twoday came around, and with it her regular visit to Alharet. The matter of the Zekti expedition was sure to come up and Rhia did not want to lie to her friend. Alharet had been so adamant she should not go. She quashed the thought that being unable to take the duchess into her confidence had cut off a valuable source of information about her destination. Instead she sent a note pleading indisposition.

She received the reply later that day.

 

Dearest Rhia,

I am sorry you were unable to visit today, as I do enjoy our weekly chats. I hope you will be fully recovered and in a position to see me next week.

In the meantime, I have a gift for you, which I was going to present when you came to the palace. It is a new sandclock, of a similar design to the one you lost. I hope you will find a place for it in your study.

Yours,

A

 

The sandclock was magnificent, a superior specimen to the broken one. The gift made her uneasy: here she was, running after someone who had run from her, whilst deceiving her best friend!

A second note arrived as night fell. She wondered if it brought news of the duke’s party, who must surely leave soon to catch the caravan. But it was from the woodcarvers. The sightglass was complete.

 

“M’lady, m’lady, wake up!”

Rhia forced her eyes open. A familiar figure was bending over her, holding a lantern. “What is it, Nerilyn?”

“The men going to Zekt, they’re leaving now!”

Rhia struggled to free herself from the tangled sheets. “Has Brynan gone to the woodcarvers’ yet?”

“No, m’lady, it’s still dark. Shall I–”

“Yes! Tell him to meet me on the north road. Wait, where’s Markave?”

“Downstairs, m’lady. He brought news of the departure.”

“Right. Good.” No, not good, it meant the expedition had a head start on them. “Go, girl! Send Brynan on his way!”

Nerilyn slipped out, leaving the lantern. Rhia staggered to her feet then lurched over to her dresser, sweeping off last night’s dress in favour of the plain kirtle loaned by Fenera. If she laced it tight and cinched the belt it barely dragged on the floor. Men’s clothing would be more practical, but Father’s old breeches and shirts would attract even more attention than noble attire.

By the time she was dressed Nerilyn was back, asking if she was decent. Markave entered after her.

“Is this your pack, m’lady?” he asked, gesturing to the bundle by the door.

“Yes. Carry it, please.”

Rhia looked around, knowing she had missed something – aside from enough sleep, a good wash and breakfast – but not what, until her eye lit upon her satchel. She looped it across her body. Markave had already hoisted the pack on his back. She grabbed the lantern and followed him out. As she did so she glimpsed a feline face darting away. She would have liked to say goodbye to the cats. She would have liked a lot of things. But she was out of time.