All The King's-Men (The Yellow Hoods, #3) (24 page)

Christina waved the note in her hand. “The castle in Panad has been destroyed. It was attacked from the air, according to the report.”

The crowd immediately roared with chatter.

“What… what… what do you mean, destroyed?” said Cantrell, a balding man of modest height and belly. He took off his goggles and put his spectacles on. “Please, don’t exaggerate—”

Mounira noticed something in the way he reacted—something just a touch off.

“Canny, I do mean
destroyed
,” continued Christina. “Apparently the castle and the city around it are in ruins, and there were few survivors. They were attacked by something that reportedly looked like air balloons.”

Cantrell folded his arms, unfolded them, and then folded them again nervously. “That—that makes no sense. Who has that? We don’t have that. If we don’t have things like that, then… are they coming for us?”

Christina took a deep breath, knowing the weight of what she was about to reveal. “This report came from Piper before she died.”

Canny dropped his gaze. Christina and Remy had told him a few hours ago about Pietra Piper’s death, but had said they would need to share the details with everyone at the same time.

“Pietra’s dead?” whispered voices in the crowd. 

“Reports I’ve received this morning say that the entire royal family of Myke is gone. Given the military action I saw in Freland, I suspect that someone is trying to tighten their grip… and I believe it might not be the Pieman’s Fare.”

The room hushed, trying to think of what this meant. They’d been focused on crazy royals, the Tub, and Marcus Pieman’s Fare as their only enemies for decades, but now there was suddenly a new, and potentially more dangerous, player.

“The few details of the strike make it sound to me like a test of some sort. Something to create
rumor
.”

Christina felt for Cantrell, who was still staring at the floor, a red-haired woman rubbing his arm to console him. Christina had known him for about ten years, meeting him when she’d rescued him from a prison camp for Abominators. 

Cantrell finally looked up, and Christina continued. “From the second report, which we got this morning, Piper followed the air balloons to a small village called Bodear where she thought they were going to land, but instead they devastated that village. Piper died shortly after giving her report to a courier.”

The noise level in the room rose to a dull roar. Christina whistled everyone to silence once again.

“I’m not done. Marcus Pieman has abducted Nikolas Klaus, and the steam engine plans are still in play.”

Someone in the crowd screamed, “We’re doomed!”

“No! We’re not!” boomed Christina with such decisive force that it silenced the crowd. She pointed at members of the crowd. “Canny, Matt, ELF’ies, I just told you that we have a new enemy and they have airships! What do you have to say to that?”

Mounira smiled at Christina with admiration.

“We… learn to fly,” said Cantrell.

“Louder, Canny,” yelled Christina.

 “We learn to fly!” Canny roared

The crowd went wild.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Crumbled Ginger

The Hound had been lost in his agony and failure for days. It felt like an eternity since he’d been wearing Simon St. Malo’s shock-gloves, standing on the battlefield with Richelle and the Red Hoods against the Yellow Hoods. For weeks, he’d felt like he mattered, and then in the blink of an eye it had all been taken away. All of the gains he’d made had been wiped out, and now he saw himself as less than nothing.

His sleep was constantly disrupted by pain, but now there was something new—something oddly pleasant. It was like he could somehow push back the demons of agony more easily. He opened an eye to see what force could be so powerful as to do that. He saw Saul across the room in a chair, sleeping, a foot bandaged up. As the Hound started to close his eye, the sensation came again. He summoned up the energy to move his head and saw Gretel. She removed the cloth from his back and dunked it in a bucket of water. She then wrung it out and applied some jellied salve to it before rubbing the lotion onto his back, making the sensation come again. He’d never felt such mercy.

 Gretel noticed the Hound gazing at her, and paused for a moment. Over the past several days, she’d gently shaved his face and head, and tended to his wounds with vinegar and pulpy salves. She’d seen his eyes go from showing a hollowed-out soul, to having a glimmer of something when he looked at her. She took comfort in that, feeling that somehow, maybe, she was making amends for all the evil she’d previously done. When she thought of her past actions, they seemed alien to her.

The Hound stared at her, trying to understand how the ruthless archer had changed. He wondered if this was all part of an elaborate trick; he could imagine Hans doing such a thing. As he stared at Gretel, wondering about the dark rings around her eyes, a gentle smile crept across her face.

For Gretel, the nightmares of a yellow-hooded fury seeking revenge had been replaced with blurs of violence and a familiar-seeming figure. It felt like a fog was lifting from her mind, and try as she might, she couldn’t get the fog to stay. Each day the nightmares became more vivid. The only thing that gave her any solace was tending to the Hound. 

Gretel leaned forward and stroked the Hound’s face, calming herself. The Hound tensed up, feeling that in some way she was mocking him in his sorry state.

 “Does it feel better when I use the cloth?” Gretel asked softly. There was a hint of approval-seeking in her tone.

The Hound turned his head to the wall and closed his eyes.

Her shoulders dropped.

Then, the dry, gravelly voice of the Hound whispered, “Thank you.”

Gretel smiled and fought back the fledgling tears. She looked at everything and nodded to herself, satisfied. She’d done as the medicine lady in the nearby village had instructed her to.

Saul watched his sister as she slept outside the doorway, leaning against the cabin. His foot was feeling better, and he was thankful that Gretel had been able to prevent it from getting infected. She had a gentle face, framed by her blond hair. Most of the time, she’d been kind to him, defending him from Hans when needed. Sometimes she was the sense of reason of their trio, and sometimes the instigator of trouble.

Sitting down next to her, he wondered about what Hans had said, and stared at Gretel again. He’d always known that they weren’t really triplets, and the more he thought about it, the more he was certain that Gretel had always known, yet she had never treated him any differently.

Gretel started muttering and twitching. Saul recognized the signs of another nightmare. He gently put his hand on his sleeping sister’s shoulder. “Gretel, it’s okay,” he said, hoping to soothe her soul.

Gretel sprang forward, screaming, stumbling around as she shifted from being asleep to being awake. She fell to her knees on the ground and turned around to glare at Saul, rubbing where he had touched her as if it was dirt that wouldn’t come off.

“Sorry!” yelled Saul, his hands in the air. “Everything’s okay. You were having another nightmare.”

She scanned around the clearing and nodded. She pulled her arms in as if she was cold. “The man is getting clearer in my dreams.”

“Do you think he’s real?” asked Saul.

Gretel’s chin trembled and she stared at the ground, nodding.

“Everything is going to be—”

“Don’t say that!” screamed Gretel, pointing sharply at Saul. “Stop, please...” she begged. “The man in my nightmare keeps saying that.”

Saul’s face fell. Though he was only a yard away, he felt a million miles from her. They seemed to be falling apart, as if Mother was the glue that had bound them.

 After a couple of minutes of listening to the wind play with the trees, Gretel asked, “Saul, why do I want to just cry?”

Saul tried to answer twice, stopping each time to think. He, too, was having confusing emotions arise; nightmares that felt like strange memories, but when he’d tried to talk to her about it, she’d demanded he stop. Finally, defeated, he said, “I don’t know.”

Sniffling, Gretel asked, “Can you make me gingerbread cookies, like Hans used to? They always made me feel better.”

“I’m sorry,” said Saul, staring at the ground. “I don’t know how.”

Gretel pulled her legs in and put her head on her knees. “I understand. I just want to stay here for a while, okay?”

“Okay,” said Saul, standing up with a limp. “I’ll check in on the Hound.” 

As he was about to close the door, he glanced back at Gretel. She wasn’t the twenty-year-old fierce warrior he’d known. She was a scared little girl battling the monsters from under her bed.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

Badge of the Conventioneer

Nikolas scratched his short, salt-and-pepper beard as he gazed out at the countryside racing by. He’d been impressed with the Neumatic Tube, and the laugh he’d shared with Marcus about Isabella had reminded him of how Marcus used to be when they’d first met.

Nikolas had been fifteen, and on the streets of Teutork, the capital of Teuton, for nearly a year. It had taken him months to flee his homeland after the death of his family. He’d found going from a life of privilege to fighting for scraps horribly difficult. Without even paper and ink, he’d found himself needing to use rocks to scratch out the designs and ideas that built up inside him—ideas that threatened to overpower his young mind. Each time, with the design done, he’d have to destroy it to make sure that he wasn’t arrested or killed.

After being robbed and beaten up a few times, he’d learned to throw a punch just well enough to give some bullies and thugs pause. He’d learned more about the nature of humanity over the past two years than he’d ever found in the philosophy books he’d consumed over the years. 

Then he’d seen a baker swearing and cursing over a broken wheel for his empty cart and had approached him, asking for some bread in exchange for fixing the wheel. The baker had laughed at Nikolas, seeing his shaggy hair and tattered clothing, but figured why not. “If you get it done before noon, I’ll give you ten loaves!”

Rummaging through the crude tools he kept wrapped up in an old cloth bearing a noble crest, Nikolas thought through how to just repair the wheel without making it better. He’d learned that doing otherwise could be dangerous. He needed to fix it just enough so that the merchant would be happy, but not enough to get himself noticed.

As Nikolas reached over to grab a tool, he noticed a pair of polished black boots with silver buckles walking towards him. Sitting on the ground, the young Nikolas Klaus looked way up at the nobleman standing before him.

“Doing some repairs today?” asked the tall man as he crouched down. He had long brown hair done in a ponytail and a clean-shaven face. He wore a blue jerkin and white pantaloons, covered by a black cloak that was pinned to his left shoulder with a gold brooch. 

Nikolas immediately recognized the gold brooch. “You’re a Conventioneer,” said Nikolas nervously. Most of them were not satisfied just to have their scientific endeavors protected by the crown. They also actively hunted down others who were not so protected and turned them in. He trembled.

Marcus nodded and smiled. “Yes, and I can see by the expression on your face that you have heard stories or had some bad experiences with other ones. I’m not like any of them.”

Nikolas peeked around the stranger at the three people standing around him, all dressed with frills and in bright colors.

“Those are my assistants,” said Marcus. “I can see that makes you more nervous.”

“You must be important,” said Nikolas.

“In the eyes of some, yes,” said Marcus. 

“Sir Pieman, we don’t have time for this,” said one of the aids. “There are street rats everywhere. Why talk to this one? Or any of them for that matter?”

The thirty-year-old Marcus glanced over his shoulder at the man, and then at the one beside him. “Joshua, you are now my secretary.” He turned to look at the first man. “Warren, I relieve you of your responsibilities and salary.”

As the two men argued behind him, Marcus turned back to look at the frozen teenager. “What’s your name?”

Nikolas’ eyes were glued to the gold brooch.

“They call it the Badge of the Conventioneer. It protects you, but means you are committed to upholding clean thinking and improvements for society, and eliminating deviant behavior. Have you heard of Abominators?” asked Marcus.

The boy nodded nervously.

“Has anyone ever called you one?”

Nikolas stared blankly at Marcus, unsure of how to respond.

“In this kingdom of Teuton,” said Marcus, gesturing to everything around them, “I am the right hand of the High Conventioneer.” Marcus then changed languages. “Am I right in guessing you are from Brunne?”

The boy frowned. “You speak Tyroli? Why didn’t you speak Brunnif? And you knew this, how?”

“Little things,” said Marcus, smiling. “Everyone of noble birth speaks Tyroli as well as at least Brunnif. The wrench you have in your little set of tools—it’s got a curve in it. I assume you made it, but that curve is a Brunne artifact. If you made it, and given your age, it means you are tied to that land.” Marcus smiled.