C H A P T E R F O U R T E E N Despite all the troubles she’d had over the previous two days—the kidnapping and threats and robberies and rain and dirt and all—Raisa was intoxicated, bewitched, and bemused by freedom. She strode through the streets in her breeches and shirt, anonymous to the citizens around her, drinking in the details of the colorful neighborhood known as Ragmarket.
Colorful was a word for it. It was also stinking and clamorous and spicy and terminally interesting. Pregnant with possibilities and risk. The bubble that usually protected the princess heir of the Fells had burst, and multiple sensations flooded in—the sights and smells and raw emotions of the queendom she was to rule one day.
She grappled with the notion that it was only context and clothing that made her recognizable. Was that really all she was—the random occupant of a spot in the lineage of queens? Could any girl be chosen off the streets, dressed up, and put in her place? Did she have any natural ability to do this job?
The Guard was thick on every street, bristling with weapons and bravado. Yet no one recognized her. There was no undercurrent of rumor as there would be if her disappearance were common knowledge. Puzzled, she stopped and asked a shopkeeper sweeping his steps to tell the news.
“Somebody said there was a kidnapping,” she said. “Is that why the Guard’s all about?”
The shopkeeper shook his head. “Don’t know nothing about a kidnapping. It’s those murders in Southbridge. The Guard is searching every tavern, inn, and warehouse in Ragmarket. Bad for business, it is. I say, if the street rats want to murder each other, let them.” He glanced about, lowering his voice. “They say it was that Cuffs Alister. He’s as bloodthirsty as they come.”
Raisa couldn’t help glancing over her shoulder. Cuffs was trailing half a block behind her, as if he hoped he wouldn’t be seen—by her or with her, Raisa wasn’t sure.
It was somehow thrilling to know he was back there, in pursuit of her, like in the story of Hanalea and the highwayman.
But this wasn’t a story. This was real. And she meant to find out what was really going on.
The towers of South Bridge loomed ahead of her. The guardhouse crouched hard by the bridge, on the Southbridge side. It was a squat, sturdy, stone building with tiny barred windows. A paved courtyard surrounded it, with stables behind for the horses. The Gray Wolf banner flew overhead, proclaiming that this was the queen’s outpost, even amid the squalor of Southbridge.
The line for the bridge was longer than usual. A half-dozen fully armed guardsmen stood at each end, questioning all who sought to cross. Raisa’s stomach did a sickening flip. Surely she’d be recognized by anybody who’d been sent out specifically to find her.
On impulse, she turned aside into a bakeshop. Inside, it was relatively clean and well kept, with displays of sticky buns and meat pies and pastries. The boy behind the counter wore a slouched red wool muffin cap to contain his hair.
“Good morning to you,” she said. “I would like eight sticky buns, wrapped for travel. And your hat.”
After a brief negotiation, Raisa left the shop with eight sticky buns in hand, her hair tucked up under the boy’s cap.
I’ll probably end up with the itches, she thought.
Cuffs was waiting for her outside. He gripped her wrist and yanked her into a doorway. “What. Are. You. Doing?” he hissed, his face inches from hers. Close up, she saw that his blue eyes were flecked with gold, his lashes thick and pale, the angry bruises on his face fading into pastels, a bit of blond stubble on his chin.
She held up her sack of buns. “I’m a bakeshop girl,” Raisa said.
“This an’t a game,” Cuffs said. “You need to turn yourself in to the bluejackets on the bridge. Tell them you’re the girl that was stolen from the temple. And go home.”
“I’ve got something to do first.”
“Look. I can’t cross the bridge while it’s swarming with bluejackets,” he said. “I can’t help you if you get into trouble in Southbridge.”
“Fine. You’re done with me. I’m on my own, all right?” Raisa said, thinking, You can’t help me where I’m going.
She wrested free of him and headed for the near end of the bridge. She looked back once to see him staring after her, hands stuffed into his pockets, a scowl on his face.
It took a good ten minutes to get through the line. Raisa tapped her foot impatiently, anxious for the encounter to be over. She wasn’t used to having to wait.
At the checkpoint, she bowed low before the guardsmen, as she’d seen others do.
“What’s your name and business, girl?” the guardsman demanded, scratching himself in a rude place.
“Rebecca Morley, Your Honor,” Raisa said, staring at the ground, still worried about being recognized. “Mean to sell bakery goods cross the river.”
“Bakery goods, you say? Let’s see.”
Raisa mutely opened the sack of buns and extended it toward the soldier. He reached a filthy paw in and removed one. He bit into it, grinned approvingly, and took another.
Raisa’s cheeks flamed, and it took all of her self-control to keep from snatching the bag back. If she were truly a bakery girl, the cost of the buns would come out of her own pocket.
“These is good,” the soldier said, handing back the depleted sack and swiping at his mouth with his sleeve. “Save me a couple for when you cross back.” And he waved her on, grinning.
Raisa fumed all the way across the bridge. So this was the queen’s face to the people. A common thief and bully. No wonder Amon considered rebellion a possibility.
On the Southbridge side, the temple stood on one side of the Way, the guardhouse on the other, like emblems of good and evil. Raisa leaned against the temple wall and studied the guardhouse. It looked impregnable, its windows like slitted eyes sneering at her. There was no way Cuffs and his gang were getting in and out of there.
At least she could find out if what they said was true—were they really holding three Raggers in the guardhouse, and were they really being tortured?
She took a deep breath and tried to center herself in her work, as Elena always said. Then she crossed the Way to the guardhouse door.
The lone guard at the door surveyed her in a bored fashion. In the guardroom beyond, several soldiers diced and played cards.
“What do you want?” he barked.
“I…ah…it’s my sister, Sarie,” Raisa said in a whiny voice. “She got ta’en by the bl…the Queen’s Guard th’other day. In Ragmarket. I was told she was here. I brung her some dinner is all.” She shook the bakery bag.
The guard grabbed it away from her. “We’ll see she gets it,” he said, dismissing her.
Well. That wouldn’t do at all.
“Please, sir,” Raisa persisted. “I was hoping as I could see her, you know. It’s been three days, an’ I wondered how she was getting on. She’s been sick lately, and three days in gaol can’t be doing her good.”
“No visitors.” He squinted at her suspiciously. “You should know that a’ready.”
Raisa snatched at his sleeve, and he slapped her hand away, gripping the hilt of his sword. “Stay off! You bloody little—”
“Please. I’ve got some money, sir,” Raisa quavered. “Not a lot, but some, and…”
The guard turned back to her, interest lighting his face. “If you’ve got money, let’s see it, then.”
“I will. You’ll see, sir. Only maybe after…” Raisa began.
The guard’s hand snaked forward. He gripped the neck of her shirt and yanked her toward him. “Don’t play games with me, girl.” He drew back his huge fist, and Raisa’s mouth went dry with fear, but then a voice came from behind him.
“Let the girl in, Sloat. Lemme see her.”
Sloat released her and stepped aside.
The man who’d spoken sat at a table by the fire, with greasy plates, playing cards, and several empty mugs arrayed before him. He had a thin, cruel face and muddy brown eyes, lank hair that hung to his shoulders. He wore the blue uniform of the Queen’s Guard, and the bars on his collar said he was a sergeant.
“Come here, girl,” the sergeant said, motioning to her with a smile that turned Raisa’s bowels to water.
Reluctantly, she crossed the room and stood before him, keeping her eyes downcast. Why had she thought this was a good idea?
“You’re Sarie’s little sister, are you?”
She nodded mutely.
He gripped her wrist, twisting it hard. “Speak when you’re spoken to, girl.”
Raisa gasped in pain, tears springing to her eyes. “Yes, sir. I’m Sarie’s sister.” She held up the bakery bag with the other hand, like a shield. “I brought her dinner, sir.”
“The Sarie what’s in the Raggers?” the sergeant continued.
She glanced up quickly, then away. “The Raggers, sir? What’s that?”
The sergeant laughed. He let go of her wrist and took a swig of beer. “What’s your name?”
“Rebecca, sir.”
“You’re a right pretty little thing, Rebecca. How old are you?”
Raisa cast about desperately for an age. Younger was better she decided. “Th-thirteen, sir,” she said, hunching her shoulders, trying to remember what thirteen looked like.
“Ah.” He grinned wider. “Would you like to see your sister, then?”
“I would, sir.”
The sergeant stood and took her by the arm. “Come on, then.”
Sloat began muttering a protest. “Sergeant Gillen, I a’ready told her, No visitors.”
“Shut it, Sloat,” Gillen said. “We’ll make a special exception, in this case.”
He hauled her down a long corridor lined with stout-looking wooden doors, her feet touching the floor only at every third step. And all the way, Raisa kept thinking, This is the brutal Sergeant Gillen. The one the Raggers whispered about. The one Amon spoke of, who beats people in the street. What have I gotten myself into?
At the end of the hall was a metal gate, and beyond that another wooden door that Gillen unlocked with a large metal key. Gillen took her through both, stopped long enough to light a torch, and then propelled her down a narrow staircase to the cellar.
Raisa shivered from fear and cold. It was chilly and damp on the cellar level, and she knew they must be close to the river, because of the stink.
Or maybe it was the stink of death all around her. This was an evil place, where evil things were done. Images of disaster circulated through her head. She felt panicked, claustrophobic, and she knew she had to get out.
“You know, sir, I’m thinking maybe it’s best I come back tomorrow,” she said, turning back toward the stairs.
“Come on, missy, we’re almost there.” Gillen seized the scruff of her neck and yanked her forward so hard she nearly fell.
Instinctively, she knew that any sudden claim to royalty would be disregarded. In the unlikely event he did believe her, he would not hesitate to throttle her to death and drop her in the river to prevent her from carrying this story back to Fellsmarch Castle. Gillen had a killer’s heart under his royal blue uniform.
She’d thought of it as an adventure, like something Hanalea would do. She’d thought she understood the stakes she’d be playing for, and she’d been wrong.
Had Hanalea been frightened when she confronted the Demon King? Raisa felt plenty frightened now.
Ahead was a metal grillwork bolted into the stone with a massive metal lock at one side. As the torchlight bled through the cage door, Raisa could see movement in the gloom beyond, a shuffling of bodies.
It was a girl and two boys, fifteen or sixteen, maybe, though it was difficult to tell. They were thin and filthy, and they’d been beaten so badly they were scarcely recognizable as human. They did not crowd forward, as one might expect, but pressed themselves back into the corners as if hoping to escape Gillen’s notice.
Raisa was sickened—and furious to know that what Cuffs Alister had said was true.
“Hey, Sarie,” Gillen crooned, unfastening the door. “I’ve brought you some company.”
“Go away,” came a whisper from the dark. “We can’t tell you what we don’t know. We an’t seen Alister in months.”
“Come now, don’t be like that,” Gillen said, his voice silky. “Someone’s here to see you.”
“Who’d come to see me?” she demanded.
“I’ve got little Rebecca here, luv. She’s brought some supper.”
“Who?” Overcome by curiosity, Sarie shuffled out of the shadows and into the light. She was tall for her age, and broad of hip and shoulders. She looked like no relation to Raisa.
“Now your baby sister is here, I think we’ll get somewhere,” Gillen said with a bone-chilling smile. He tightened his grip on Raisa. “Maybe it’ll loosen your tongue when we put her on the rack.”
Sarie gaped at Raisa, then back at Gillen. “Who the bloody hell is this?”
In stories, Queen Hanalea fought off the powerful Demon King through strength of character and the power of good.
In the clan camps, they spoke of the small overcoming the mighty through the force of a focused mind.
Amon Byrne had shown Raisa street-fighting techniques meant to disarm a bigger and stronger opponent.
Raisa was smart enough to know that her chances of overpowering someone like Mac Gillen were slim to none. But when a person gives no quarter, if she’s fighting for her life, it can make a difference.
When she slammed both feet into Mac Gillen’s kneecaps, she knew it was unlikely to disable him. She hoped it would be enough to distract him.
In that she succeeded. He screamed like a stuck pig and went down, clutching at his knees, swearing.
“Get him!” Raisa shouted recklessly, rolling to her feet. “To me! Come on!”
With the strength born of desperation, the three Raggers jumped on Gillen, dragging him to the floor, kicking and punching for all they were worth. Gillen was like a massive bear set upon by coyotes who were snapping and biting and growling, but doing very little damage.
Gillen’s hands fastened around Raisa’s throat, and he squeezed, stopping her breath. She twisted and turned but could not break free. The blood roared in her ears, and spots swam before her eyes, coalescing into wolflike shapes.
Then somebody plowed into them, and the pressure on her throat was released.
Greedily gasping for air, Raisa snatched up the fallen torch and jammed it, still burning, into Gillen’s face. He screamed with pain and rage and left off pounding one of the boys. Suddenly he seemed less interested in beating them to death and more interested in getting to the door. Raisa hooked a foot around his ankle and sent him sprawling, and Sarie lifted a heavy iron chamber pot and slammed it into his head.
Gillen finally lay quiet.