Fire and Thorns 00.7: King's Guard (5 page)

9

F
ERNANDO’S arrow is buried deep in a man’s chest. A perfect shot.

The dead man is unkempt and rough looking, the kind of man you wouldn’t glance at twice if he were a field hand or part of a deck crew. Good chance he was one or the other for most of his life. White scars, cold in the moonlight, welt along the knuckles that still grip the knife he carries; he probably brawled for money on the side. The blade he clutches is short and sharp, for slitting swiftly and quietly.

“He studied us,” Fernando says. “Then he moved so fast. I didn’t know what to do, and I just . . .”

“Tell me,” I say.

“He stepped into the glow of the firelight, quietly, and I was . . . tired. . . . I thought maybe I was dreaming. He studied us all, even me—he must have thought I was asleep—then drew the knife—”

“You did the right thing,” I say quickly. “This man was sent to kill us.”

“What?” Lucio says.

“He was matching our descriptions. Someone told him we were coming this way.”

I let the information sink in, then I add, “We may still be in danger. Fernando, keep that bow ready. You and Lucio go check the road. See if our assassin has company. If he does, try to take him alive so we can question him. Now go!”

It must be the rush of blood in their veins, because they jump to obey. I dash to the nearby lean-to and shake Miria awake. She is on her feet instantly, and I explain as we head back to the campsite.

“Quick, help me search him,” I whisper. “He may carry something we would not want the others to see.”

She does not flinch from the blood as she goes through his jacket, checking the pockets and linings and seams, while I check his trousers, then pull off his boots. Miria and I exchange a glance and both shake our heads. He carries nothing that would identify him.

This may be our only chance to talk, so I blurt, “Is Rosaura really dying?”

Miria glances around to make sure we are truly alone. “Dr. Enzo thinks it likely.”

She is only confirming what I already knew, but the sadness inside me is suddenly a physical pain. “And Isadora . . .”

“The women are first cousins,” she says. “And close friends. I’m not sure why the king ultimately chose Rosaura, but he loved Isadora first.”

Footsteps startle us. Fernando and Lucio return with a horse.

“This is all we found,” Lucio says.

I leap up, hoping the horse will be Blaze, proof that this is the same man who killed Raúl, but we have no such luck; the beast is as unidentifiable as its late owner. Fernando can’t take his eyes off the assassin’s body. I hope it is the moonlight giving the boy a sickly sallowness, that he will not vomit up his meager dinner. Lucio’s jaw is set, grim and serious, when he sees the pockets turned out and the seams ripped open.

I make up my mind.

“There is more I must tell you,” I say. “But first, tie the horse to the post, as if he were staying here overnight. Then pack up your gear.”

They nod and go to it.

“Here, help me,” I say, rolling the body over. Miria braces the body up, and I snap the arrow and remove the pieces. I throw them down the well, where they won’t be found.

Fernando and Lucio return a moment later. “What’s going on here?” Lucio demands.

“I carry a secret message from the king to someone in the Fortress of Wind,” I say.

“That’s Lord Solvaño de Flurendi’s castle,” Lucio says.

“Yes. The king has sent messages through official channels, including his Guards, but has received no response. So he sent someone he personally trusted—his squire—who was murdered.”

“That’s why he came to you,” Lucio says. “You’re his last resort. Must be a damned important message.”

Lucio is smarter than I’ve been giving him credit for. Fernando remains silent.

“There is one other thing you must know.” I work as I talk, saddling my own horse, cinching up Rosaura’s quilt onto the back like a bedroll. “Miria is one of the queen’s servants.”

“My lady,” Lucio says with a slight bow. He’s had some practice.

Fernando grows paler.

“I’m just a servant,” Miria says. “Not a lady.” She glares at me. “His Majesty told you not to tell them anything.”

“He also said to use my judgment. I don’t want them endangering themselves or our mission through ignorance.”

She pauses, then says, “Fair enough.”

I help saddle her horse.

“Are we just going to leave him here?” Fernando says, still staring at the body.

“A victim of robbery,” I say. “Robberies are not unheard of at these way stations. Let’s get rid of any sign we passed this way. With luck, whoever hired him won’t find out what happened for some time.”

We’re back on the road an hour before dawn, but I can’t imagine any of us wanting to sleep. Wind has swept sand onto the road, which muffles the steps of our horses. In the dark, an assassin could sneak up on us easily.

The silence is finally broken by Fernando, just as the eastern sky is turning from black to blue. “I’ve never killed anyone before.”

“You did the right thing,” Miria says swiftly.

“It was a quick decision and an accurate shot,” I say. “You did well.”

Another silence. Then Lucio speaks. “I’ve killed someone.”

I’m not surprised. I give him what I hope is an encouraging look.

“When I was six years old.”

Now I’m surprised.

“I was at my aunt’s wedding. My cousin, who was only four, was chosen over me to throw petals along the bridal walk. He got a special suit of clothes made, and at the wedding, he danced with the bride, even had a sip of wine. It all seems so stupid now, but I remember shoving him. His head hit the corner of a table. It cracked his skull open. He bled all over my aunt’s wedding
terno
.”

My stomach sinks.

“I brought shame on the whole family. My mother shunned me. My father fostered me in other houses.”

“I’m sorry,” Miria says. “That must have been very hard for you.”

“If I don’t make the Guard, I don’t know where I’ll end up.”

“You’ll make it,” I tell him, though I’m not sure I believe it.

The desert air is turning hot with daylight before Lucio speaks again.

“Have you ever killed anyone, Hector?”

“Not exactly,” I say. It’s not something I like to talk about, but now I owe Lucio a story. “I failed to save a man’s life last summer. We were aloft in the rigging of my brother’s ship. A rope snapped and a block came loose—it hit Juan in the head and he fell into the sea.”

There had been so much blood, a crimson arc of it, trailing him as he slipped off the tilting spar and dropped unconscious into the waves.

“On the next roll of the ship I leapt from the mast into the water, but the sails had already carried us away. I swam as fast as I could. He was sinking. . . . I got to him, eventually, and held his head above the water until they could send a boat back to pick us up. But I didn’t get there fast enough. He never regained consciousness, and he died the next day. My brother said the water killed him, not the blow to the head.”

Fernando still has said nothing. Lucio reaches over and clasps his shoulder.

“Cheer up,” he says. “You killed one man who deserved it and saved four lives. That makes you better than Hector and me combined. If any of us makes it into the Guard now, it should be you.”

Fernando’s smile is weak, but grateful. For the first time, I feel a spark of gladness that Enrico chose these two to send with me.

10

W
E stand watch every night, but no one else comes after us, and we reach Puerto Verde three days later. It’s a port city, surrounded on three sides by sandstone cliffs. The bay is a deep emerald green, and filled with merchant ships, fishing trawlers, even a few pleasure barges. The Fortress of Wind sits atop a spur of rock that juts out into the bay. We see its distant outline as we enter the city.

“Have you heard the stories?” Lucio asks.

“About Princess Brindé?” Miria says. “She was locked in the tower by her father, until a brave sea captain climbed the wall to rescue her.”

Seawater froths at the base of the tower, spouting into the air with each pounding wave. Climbing it would be impossible.

“I doubt it’s true,” I say, reaching into my saddlebag. “There is no Princess Brindé in the historical record.” I pull out the book on the architecture of Joya d’Arena that was a gift from my mother—just far enough to give them a peek at the cover. “According to this, the original tower was a lighthouse, used to warn ships at night. Inviernos stormed the lighthouse and extinguished it, and Admiral Hugano lost his entire fleet on the rocks. That’s when the fortress was built to protect the lighthouse.”

“But it’s not a lighthouse anymore,” Fernando says.

“No,” I say. “The queen’s great-grandfather dredged the port and built a jetty, which made him a very rich man. This castle stayed in the family, though.”

Lucio adds, “Lord Solvaño charges a small berth fee to ships in port. All captains are required to use local crew to load and unload cargo, and he takes a small tax. It’s how he maintains his wealth.”

I give Lucio a sharp look. I hadn’t known that.

It takes an hour to navigate the warren of docks and warehouses that makes up Puerto Verde and reach the other side. Up close, the Fortress of Wind is wholly at odds with the wealthy reputation of its keeper. It seems to be crumbling under its own weight and is all the more imposing for its overgrown walls and wild gardens and tattered banners. The front gate is rusted orange and smothered with purple bougainvillea. Two sentries regard us coldly, but I show them the king’s seal, and they wave us through.

Then we are forced to wait in a cold hall, where dust motes gray the air and a nearby hearth sits ashy and dead. Finally, Lord Solvaño comes to receive us.

I’ve seen him many times before at court. He’s a man who seems to simultaneously grow larger and smaller, swelling in girth but shrinking in sympathy and character until only anger remains.

He crosses his arms and glares. “What are you doing here?”

Solvaño does not have a reputation for delicate diplomacy.

“We have a message for your daughter from the king,” I say, handing him a missive with Alejandro’s orders—but not the message itself. “Could we see the lady Isadora, please? We’ll deliver His Majesty’s message, take her reply, and be on our way.”

“She’s not here,” he says. He holds the missive as if it was a jellyfish, a repulsive thing that might sting him.

“Where did she go?” I ask. “Our orders are to deliver the king’s message to its recipient, wherever she may be. “

Lord Solvaño frowns. “I cannot tell you.”

“Why not? The king will order a search.” I don’t know if he will or not, and the slight deception does not sit well. I shift uncomfortably, imagining Rosaura’s disapproving look.

“No, no,” he insists. His eyes twitch like a pair of dice coming to rest. “She asked me not to tell.”

“So you have a way of communicating with her, then?”

“Of course I do.”

“Then tell her that the king’s messengers await, and she will come to us.”

“I’ll send her the message,” he says. “I’ll convey her reply directly to the palace at Brisadulce.
If
she replies, that is. She has always been disrespectful and irresponsible.”

The last statement is the first he’s said that he actually believes, but it does not at all fit with my impression of the warm, intelligent woman with whom I arranged correspondences and meetings for so many months.

“We’ll wait here until she responds,” I insist.

“You don’t want to do that,” he says with a polite smile. “My daughter is not worth the king’s trouble.”

“It’s not for me to decide who is, or is not, worth His Majesty’s trouble. We’re happy to wait.” And I can’t help adding, “We’ve heard such nice things about the lovely hospitality of the Fortress of Wind.”

“It will be several days before I can get a message to her. I’d hate to waste your time.”

“Our time is the king’s to waste, and he asked us to personally collect her reply. We’ll stay until we hear from her. Of course, if it would be faster for us to go to Isadora ourselves, we’re happy to do so.”

His face goes cold and hard. “I’ll have my staff find rooms for you.”

“Thank you,” I say. I wait until he’s turning away, and then, because I wish to discomfit him further, I reach inside my jacket and pull forth the book. “Oh, Lord Solvaño, one other thing.”

“I’m at your service,” he snaps impatiently.

I hold up the book. “I’ve a personal interest in architecture, and I recently read Master Jinto’s seminal paper on the Fortress of Wind. I’d consider it a great favor if I could tour the original tower.”

It also might give me access to parts of the fortress I wouldn’t otherwise have.

He hesitates a breath too long. “Of course,” he says. “My staff will show you whatever you wish. You!” He indicates a young serving woman with a lift of his chin. “See to our guests.”

She flinches away from him, almost imperceptibly. “Yes, my lord.” Her skin is sallow, and a large bruise purples her forearm.

The rest of Solvaño’s staff follows as he sweeps from the hall. The servant girl stares after him. Is she meant to spy on us?

Gently, Miria asks her, “Could I have mint tea, please? Double-steeped?”

The servant gives her a clumsy but grateful curtsy, then scurries away. Miria has given us a chance to talk privately.

The four of us bend our heads together.

“He’s lying,” Miria whispers.

“Agreed,” I say. “Wherever Isadora is, she is not far. Her father does not strike me as a man who would let her out of his sight. I’m surprised he allowed her to come to court.”

“He sent her to win King Alejandro’s hand,” Miria says. “He instructed her to do whatever necessary to become queen.”

“I didn’t know that.” Poor Isadora. My mother always said that forced marriages are a tragedy—no one should have to marry someone they don’t love. Though, looking back, I’m certain Isadora held
some
kind of affection for Alejandro.

“So what do we do?” Lucio asks.

I hesitate, feeling unsure. This is where we could use a statesman. A tried-and-true commander.

“I can talk to the servants,” Miria says. “See if they know anything. Servants are more likely to talk to other servants.”

“Yes, good idea,” I say, relieved to have any kind of suggestion at all. “Lucio,” I say. “Wander the docks and the market, ask for stories about the tower.” Lucio is from distant, rural Basajuan and will seem like the perfect yokel to these people. They may tell him things they wouldn’t tell the rest of us.

“I’m to play the ignorant outlander, yes?” he says.

A grin sneaks onto my face before I can stop it.

“I suppose I have no choice but to indulge in a flagon of wine. To complete the part.”

“I’m glad you’re willing to make such sacrifices for your king,” I say, and he nods solemnly.

“Fernando?”

He jumps as if he’s been shot with an arrow.

Perhaps Fernando is still not over killing a man. If so, I need to distract him. “We must be prepared,” I say. “You’ve proven yourself an able guard, so I need you to stick with me or Miria, watch our backs at all times. Can you do that?”

I’m not sure it’s the right thing to do, but during the summer I crewed on my brother’s ship, Felix’s response every time I showed even a hint of nervousness or hesitation was to keep me busy.

“Yeah, I can do that,” Fernando says. The deep breath he takes seems like his first in many long days.

“You don’t care if something happens to
me
?” Lucio says.

I open my mouth to say something scathing, but wisdom, for once, wins out. “I think that, of all of us, you are most able to take care of yourself.”

“Oh.” Anger plays across his features, warring with acceptance. Acceptance wins. He puts a hand to the dagger at his belt, and his features harden with determination.

Miria’s expression is harder to read, but I feel as if she’s watching, judging. She’ll report back every tiny detail of this trip. It might even be the real reason she is here. But I can’t think about that too much, not until after we find Isadora.

The serving girl returns and apologizes, explaining that it’s not the right season for mint, but the cook will be out in a moment to personally offer Miria her choice of spices. “Your rooms will be ready soon after,” she assures us.

“Thank you,” I say.

“How long do you think you’ll be in Puerto Verde?” she asks with a twitchy smile. I can’t tell if her artlessness is meant to suss out information or if it’s a genuine attempt at conversation.

“As long as it takes,” I say with a forced smile of my own.

“Oh. But what if the lady never responds? You can’t stay here forever! I mean, you could I suppose, but . . .”

“As long as it takes,” Lucio repeats, his voice firm, and the girl’s mouth slams closed.