Curse of Kings (The Trials of Oland Born, Book 1) (13 page)

HE SIGN ABOVE THE DOOR READ
pinfrock & sons: stationers & printers
. The shop was in darkness. Oland and Delphi looked in at the mahogany cabinets that lined the walls on each side. They were mostly glass-fronted and filled with stacks of papers of different sizes. Where there was space on the walls, framed illustrations and print samples had been mounted.

Two glass-topped counters stood on the floor opposite each other. The one on the right held rows of quills, the one on the left, stamps and coloured waxes.

Candlelight glowed from the archway into a back room.

“That must be where the printing press is,” said Oland. He turned to Malben. “You wait here.” He gestured to a ledge above them. “It's a small shop. If we bring a monkey with us…”

“We might look roxley,” said Delphi.

Oland smiled at her using a Decresian word. Malben tilted his head. Oland lifted him up towards the ledge and he jumped the rest of the way. Oland pointed a finger at him to stay.

Oland and Delphi knocked on the door. They could see the silhouette of Pinfrock in the archway as he leaned back into view from the desk he was standing at. He squinted towards them, then turned back to his task. They knocked again. Pinfrock approached the door slowly, but, when he realised who was outside, he hurried them in.

“I am nervous for you,” he said to Delphi. “Why are you still here?”

Oland had taken
The Ancient Myths of Envar
from his bag. He held it out and pointed to the printer's stamp on the back.

“Ah,” said Pinfrock.

“Did you know Archivist Samuel Ault?” said Oland.

Pinfrock stared at him. “Why do you ask?” he said.

“I used to live in Castle Derrington in Decresian,” said Oland. “I am familiar with so many of the writings of the kingdom, most of which are written by hand. But of the pieces that are printed, yours is the only printer's name stamped on the back.”

There was pride in Pinfrock's eyes, but he didn't reply.

“I believe that that means,' said Oland, ‘if you worked for him, that you were loyal to King Micah… and that you might have known his archivist.”

Pinfrock nodded. “I was loyal to King Micah, as were my ancestors to his.”

“And… did you know Samuel Ault?” said Oland.

“Why do you ask?” said Pinfrock.

Oland pounced with his next question. “Or do you know his son, Tristan Ault?”

Pinfrock's gaze flickered. He looked nervously about him. “Please,” he said, “why are you asking?”

“For many reasons,” said Oland.

“To save the Kingdom of Decresian from Villius Ren!” said Delphi.

Oland frowned at her. He would have gone as far as telling Pinfrock about the census, about his own private quest, but he had no desire to tell him of the king's letter.

“Show him the king's letter!” said Delphi.

“What king's letter?” said Pinfrock.

“Show him!” said Delphi. “It will prove that you are telling the truth.”

With reluctance, Oland took out the letter from King Micah. “I'm sorry, but I'd rather not show you all of this, but I will show the first part and the signature, so you will know that I speak the truth.”

He folded the letter and showed Pinfrock what he had promised.

“The writing…” said Pinfrock, frowning. He closed his eyes. When he opened them and turned to Oland, they were filled with resolve. “Follow me,” he said.

He guided them into his workshop.

“You cannot breathe a word of what I am about to tell you,” he said. “Not to anyone, not ever.”

Oland and Delphi nodded.

“One morning, fourteen years ago, a letter was left at my door that said that, on the last Friday of every month, I was to deliver a bottle of ink and a ream of paper to the town of Hartpence in Oxlaven. It's close to the border with Gort. I was to place the ink and paper in a metal box under a statue of a woman who stands there. She's called the Spinster Caudelie Reilly.

“I was paid handsomely in advance for the ink, the paper, my time and my silence. Double my time. Who else would use so much paper and ink, other than an archivist? I know all my customers from near and far, and no one comes close to buying what this man does.”

Oland thought about how strange it would be to follow instructions from someone you had never met and to do so every month for fourteen years. Then he realised that he was doing exactly that – but the person who had written
his
letter was dead, which made it even stranger.

“And you don't know who left you this letter?” said Delphi.

“No,” said Pinfrock. “But… I am somewhat confused. If yours was written by King Micah, then how can this be?”

He pulled open a drawer and, from inside it, slid back a piece of wood and the envelope that was hidden behind it.

“I've kept the letter to this day,” said Pinfrock. “I don't know why. And I don't know if I will ever be given instructions on when to end these deliveries…”

He slid out his letter. It was barely intact. He laid it flat on the desk in front of him.

Oland and Delphi leaned in.

Oland's face immediately darkened. “Both letters are written by the same hand. My letter can't be from King Micah. I've been tricked.”

ELPHI LOOKED AT
P
INFROCK'S LETTER
. T
HEN SHE
looked at Oland's.

“Yes, they're written by the same hand,” she said. “So perhaps King Micah wrote both of them?”

“He couldn't have,” said Oland. “He died that night. He couldn't have been collecting papers and ink after that.”

Pinfrock shook his head. “This is an archivist's hand, but a youthful one. I believe that this, indeed, was written by the younger Ault. Tristan, did you say?”

“Yes,” said Oland.

“If, as you say, the archivist died on the night the king was overthrown, then clearly his son did indeed decide to follow on the tradition. He could be doing that very well. I always remembered, from my dealings with King Micah, that his archivist was even more secretive than most. I would imagine that, if he had lost his life in the course of his duty, any son of his would take great pains to remain in hiding.”

Delphi nodded. “Yes!” she said. “That makes sense, Oland.”

Oland looked unconvinced. “Or it could all be meaningless. This entire…” He trailed off. He leaned into Delphi. “Let's talk about this later,” he whispered.

They turned towards Pinfrock. There was a worried look in his eyes.

“Thank you,” said Delphi.

“Yes,” said Oland, “thank you for showing us your letter, and for telling us what you know.”

Pinfrock handed him his letter and Oland put it into his bag.

Delphi pointed to some of the ornate writings that were framed on the walls.

“What beautiful coloured ink,” she said.

“And they are no more,” said Pinfrock. “It's all black ink now. My coloured inkwell has dried up, so to speak. Or has been misappropriated, ironically, by darker forces. Only one man is brave enough to work in colour.”

Oland and Delphi had no idea what he meant, and Pinfrock didn't elaborate. When he spoke again, it was clear that the conversation was at an end.

“Please, be careful,” he said. “Mind how you go.” He bowed.

Oland and Delphi ran down the cobbled streets and turned a corner into a deserted square with a fountain at its centre. A low stone wall encircled it. The night was filled with the winding-down sounds of late-night revellers.

“Stop running,” said Delphi. “Where are we going?”

“I don't know,” said Oland.

“Wait,” said Delphi. “Wait. Listen to me.”

He stopped. They sat down on the wall.

“So my letter was not from King Micah after all,” said Oland.

“It had to have been!” said Delphi. “I have no doubt they were his words, dictated to someone loyal and trusted—”

“Did you know that Villius Ren used to be loyal and trusted?” said Oland. “Villius Ren was our age when King Micah took pity on him and rescued him from an orphanage. King Micah saved him from a terrible life, and gave him a privileged one. And still he was a traitor. We know very little about Tristan Ault and—”

“We know that his father was killed by Villius Ren,” said Delphi. “And that Tristan likely took the king's records away…”

“We only know that because that's what we've been told,” said Oland. “I'm tired of being told things, and having to act on them. The letter was the one thing that was different. It was in writing. It was fact… or so I thought.”

“Oland, you've come this far,” said Delphi. “Whoever left that letter for you believed in it and believed in you… can you not at least accept the possibility that the archivist wrote this on behalf of the king?”

Oland looked away. “I have no choice.”

Malben suddenly landed in front of him.

“Malben,” said Oland. “Did we forget about you?”

“Never!” said Delphi.

Malben climbed up the centre of the fountain.

“Oland,” said Delphi, “the last Friday of the month is three days from now. Why don't we go to the border between Gort and Oxlaven and wait by the statue that Pinfrock told us about? If what he is saying is true, the archivist's son will come for his paper and ink. At least, if he does, we will know. He is the best person to tell us about King Micah. And perhaps about your parents. If you think about it, Oland, he is the only person we know of who can help…”

Oland paused. “If he wants to,” he said eventually. But he was doubtful. His thoughts were tainted by the fear that he would never find the crest, by the inhospitable places they had stopped, by the obstacles that had already appeared in their path. There was so much to discover, and now the one person who could enlighten them was a man who had successfully hidden away from the world for fourteen years… yet what had they to lose by looking for him?

“All right,” said Oland. “We'll go.”

Suddenly, Malben jumped from the top of the fountain towards them. He landed hard on Delphi's shoulder and sent her toppling into the water. “No!” she cried as she went under. Oland jumped into the fountain. Malben cried out in fright, then darted away. Oland grabbed Delphi, turning her face up and pulling her out of the water. Her cape slipped from her shoulders. Malben reappeared, jumping up and down wildly, his small face panicked. Then he disappeared once more.

Delphi sat on the edge of the fountain, her head bent. “Thank you,” she said to Oland. “Thank you.” She took hold of her cape to pull it back on, but, before she had the chance, Oland saw three deep scars like slashes across each of her shoulder blades. He wondered what could have happened to her.

“You saved my life,” she said.

“It was only a fountain,” said Oland.

“Remember the prophecy,” said Delphi.

“I never thought you were going to drown,” said Oland.

“And yet still you came to my rescue.”

“Delphi, you're perfectly fine – you're not even coughing or spitting up water,” said Oland, “so perhaps this water prophecy is all nonsense.”

“There is a way of finding out,” said Delphi. “If we're going to the border with Gort, and we have three days to make it there, then we have time to visit the scryer.”

Oland stood up. “Oh, no,” he said. “No. We're not going to the scryer. No.”

“Why not?” said Delphi. “She might even be able to tell us where the Crest of Sabian is. Does she not tell people their future fortune or failings?”

“You don't even believe that,” said Oland. “You just want to know about the water prophecy.”

“You'd want to know about your own death if someone warned your mother so fiercely,” said Delphi. “I haven't asked for anything on this journey. Please just let me do this. I left the beautiful Falls,” she said, “to come to miserable Galenore. There is nothing of beauty here, nothing. I feel so sorry for Galenorans. I'm so lucky to live where I live. And yet the one part of the Falls that I can't truly enjoy is the water – the very essence of that beauty. You can't tell me that you don't believe in the Scryer of Gort, and at the same time stop me from going underwater,” said Delphi.

“I think you can go underwater all you like,” said Oland.

Delphi gripped the edge of the wall and leaned backward into the fountain, raising her legs straight up in front of her. Oland quickly put a hand behind her back and pushed her upright.

“Don't,” he said. “Don't…”

Delphi turned to him, her eyes bright, water dripping from the ends of her choppy hair.

“We shall visit the scryer,” said Oland. “Just to put an end to your taunts.”