The Cup and the Crown (8 page)
“No you’re not. You just haven’t had an education. But you’re as sharp and clever as any young lady of my acquaintance. Now look again—don’t move it; I have it perfectly placed—and tell me what you see.”
“The letter
W
.”
“Exactly. And combined with the others that follow, it spells out the name William.”
“Like my grandfather?”
“That
is
your grandfather, lady.”
“Oh.” And then, after studying it a while, “But there’s nothing under it, no little lines running down . . .”
“Not yet,” Pieter said, turning the scroll around so the top part, with the three kings, was on their side of the table now and the word that said
William
was in front of him. From out of his pocket he pulled a new device—two metallic rings, each holding a circle of glass just as strips of lead hold the panes of a window. The rings of metal and glass were connected by a squiggly bit of wire in the middle.
“Eyeglasses,” Pieter said, slipping the squiggly bit onto his nose. “They magnify as the glass dome does, so I can see to work small.” Then he sharpened his pen with a knife, wiped it clean with a cloth, and dipped it into the ink.
“You must tell me the names. William begat—?”
“What is ‘begat’?”
“William’s issue. His children.”
“Oh. There was just my mother.”
“And her name?”
“Greta.”
He nodded and carefully began to write the name on the scroll. When he was done, he drew a remarkably straight line running down from it and looked up again at Molly.
“How would you like to be listed, lady?” His eyes, as seen through the circles of glass, were distorted.
“You look like a demon in those eyeglasses.”
“I assure you I am nothing of the kind. Now how shall I list you? As Marguerite? Or your full title? It’ll be tight, but I think I can manage.”
Molly pinched her lips and thought. “Not the title, no.” She chewed on a fingernail, thinking some more. “Just Molly,” she decided. “That’s who I really am.”
“All right.” She watched, scarcely breathing, as he slowly, carefully, made the tiny strokes on the paper that spelled out her name, and enrolled her for all time as one of the people of Harrowsgode.
“Oh, Master Pieter—is that really my name? Tobias, you must come and see!”
“It’s wonderful,” he said, leaning over to look. “Exactly the way a princess’s name ought to be written.”
“I’m not a princess,” she said, though her face fairly glowed with pleasure.
Just then the assistant returned, closing the door very gently again—no doubt he’d been scolded for slamming it—and handed Pieter a single scroll.
“Only one reply?” he asked. Then, checking to see who’d sent it, “Nothing from the Council?”
“No, Master. They were very busy. They just took the letter and sent me on my way.”
“I understand.” He opened the scroll and scanned it quickly, nodding with satisfaction. “What about Richard Strange?” he asked. “Did you not go to Neargate?”
“I did. He’s agreed to host the gentleman.”
“All right, then,” Pieter said to Molly and Tobias. “It grows late, and all is now arranged. Shall we away?”
“Where?”
“To your lodgings. We have no inns in Harrowsgode, as we have no travelers; but you’ll be quite comfortable, I promise. Marguerite—excuse me, Molly—you’ll be the guest of a near relative, Claus Magnusson, a professor at the university. His father was William’s brother, so that would make him a cousin of sorts. The family knows Westrian, so language won’t be a problem.”
“What about me?” Tobias asked.
“You’ll be staying with a gentleman named Richard Strange. He was born in Westria, so he knows the language. I’m sure you’ll suit each other splendidly. Now, come. Get your things. Robbin, you take Lord Worthington over to Neargate. I’ll see to the lady. Do you want my mother to accompany us?”
“No,” Molly said. “It’s just a stuffy old custom.”
“As you like, my dear. Shall we go?”
And then they were out the door and through the gates of the university, where they parted—she to go one way and he another. It had all happened too fast.
“But how will I see Tobias?” she asked. “We didn’t make any plans. I don’t even know where he’s staying.”
“Don’t worry. Dr. Magnusson will arrange it. No problem at all.”
KING KOENRAAD WAS VERY OLD.
He was nearly blind, profoundly deaf, and too frail to walk without assistance. He’d completely forgotten his once-beloved queen, dead now these many years; and he didn’t recognize Prince Fredrik, the son she’d borne him. Every night he’d ask his gentlemen of the chamber where his mother was and why she hadn’t come to kiss him before he went to sleep. He mostly stayed in bed, except on good days, when he’d have himself carried to a large leather chair in which he’d sit by the fire, a woolen blanket draped across his lap, summer and winter.
This was a tragedy for Harrowsgode. For though Prince Fredrik was everything you’d want in a king—sensible, judicious, and wise—he was not permitted to step into the breach and rule in his father’s place. The law quite clearly stated that a king’s position was absolute so long as he drew breath. That left the Privy Council in charge, since their official duty was to assist and advise the king.
The Council, all Magi, held their meetings in the Celestium, an airy chamber in the central tower of Harrowsgode Hall. There, all matters concerning the city were thoughtfully discussed, sometimes for hours, until consensus was reached and a decision made.
If the Celestium was the city’s reasoning mind, the buzzing hive of government offices below on the second floor was unquestionably its beating heart, for here those decisions were put into action.
The heart and mind were linked in the person of Soren Visenson, the chief counselor of Harrowsgode, whose title was Great Seer. Every morning he went downstairs to meet with his principal ministers to hear their reports and pass along the will of the Council.
On this particular day he’d stayed later than usual due to a meeting with the designers and engineers of a new citywide hot-water system soon to be up and running. They were just finishing their discussion when the Minister of Security came rushing in without even bothering to knock. He was flushed and breathing hard.
“Your Excellency,” he said, “please excuse the interruption, but I just received word that strangers have been seen entering the valley. There are five of them: three men and two women. The men are all carrying swords.”
A chill fell over the room—for though their city walls were strong and high, their moat deep and wide, and their ramparts always manned with well-trained archers, they’d never wanted, and had never had, an army. They’d counted on magic and mountains to protect them. And now, for the first time in the hundreds of years since they’d settled in the valley, magic and mountains apparently had failed them.
“It could mean nothing, my lord. There aren’t enough of them to do us any harm; and they came quite openly, bringing women. That’s not what you’d expect from a raiding party.”
“You said they were armed.”
“Yes, but I’m told that foreigners always carry swords for protection when they travel. Most likely they’re commonplace travelers who happened to lose their way.”
Soren shook his head. “Impossible. No one finds this place by accident. We need to question them closely and find out how they came here, and why. But disarm them first—and take care how you do it. If you frighten them they’ll fight back, and someone might be harmed.”
The minister nodded. “I understand. I’ll take my strongest men; we’ll go in the guise of a welcoming party and explain that we don’t allow weapons here. I doubt they’ll resist. They have a similar custom in Austlind, I believe—something about a visitor offering his sword to his host to show that he comes in peace.”
“Good. Then once they’re disarmed, arrest them. I presume there is someplace in the village where criminals can be confined.”
“I suppose; I’ll ask. But I’ll need a warrant to do it.”
“I’ll write one out now—for their arrest and for their execution. I’m sorry, but it can’t be helped. If they leave this valley they’ll carry tales, and others are sure to follow. But question them thoroughly first—one at a time would be best, I think—then come and report to me. I’ll be here all day.”
“Your Excellency,” the minister said with obvious discomfort, “such actions require the approval of the Council. And for execution, it has to be unanimous.”
“We don’t have time for that. I’ll explain to the Council later. For now my signature will be sufficient.”
“But, Your Excellency, I really can’t—”
The Great Seer shot him a look of cold rage. “Then I’ll have to find someone who can.”
The minister flushed with anger and embarrassment. “I’m sorry, Your Excellency. I only meant—”
Just then they heard the pealing of the bell in the village tower.
“We know, we know,” Soren muttered to himself. “Now go and round up your men—unless, of course, you’d rather resign, in which case please do me the favor of sending in your deputy.”
“No need of that, my lord.”
“I’m glad to hear it. Now go. By the time you’re ready, I’ll have the warrant.”
As the Minister of Security turned to leave, a messenger arrived. He, too, stepped through the open doorway without asking permission to enter. Protocol had fallen by the wayside that day.
“Your Eminence . . . Lord Minister,” he said, giving each of them a hasty bow. “The villagers have called up to the ramparts to say that there’s been a death. One of our own.”
“Not again!” The Great Seer leaned back and gazed at the ceiling, fighting for his composure. “Drowned?”
“No, sire. He survived the plunge, but then he took a shortcut through an enclosure, and a bull was in it. The animal killed the boy, or so it appears.”
Soren turned to his minister, who’d been edging toward the door. “How could your men have missed him?” he roared. “Up there on the wall in plain sight, climbing over—”
“Perhaps he did it in the dark of night.”
“And no one heard the splash?”
“I . . . it does seem rather unlikely, Your Eminence. Maybe the sound of the wind—”
“Oh, the devil take you, Lord Minister! This was a needless tragedy, and a precious life was lost—all because of your incompetence.”
The minister shut his eyes. He’d moved beyond fear and resentment now to complete and hopeless submission. Had the Great Seer asked him to pitch himself out of the window, he would have done it right away.
“I am deeply ashamed,” he said.
The Great Seer studied his minister in silence, considering whether the man was too dispirited to perform his duties properly in this moment of great emergency, and if so, whether the deputy was up to the task. He quickly came to the conclusion that a broken horse was a useful and obedient horse, and decided in favor of mercy.
“All right,” he said. “We’ll discuss it later. For now, you and your men can go out with the coroner. The strangers won’t suspect you. It’ll give you an advantage.”
“Your Eminence,” said the messenger. “Lord Minister. Please excuse me, but there’s something else. It appears that one of the principal witnesses in the case . . .”
And so the day went, from one appalling development to the next, until crisis was capped by disaster in the form of two letters, one arriving hard on the heels of the other.
The first, hastily written, came from the judge who’d presided over the trial. He wished to inform the Council that Pieter, the barrister for the defense, had taken it upon himself to invite two foreigners into the city, an outrageous breach of Harrowsgode law and custom.
Then they heard the same news a second time, in more measured tones, from the barrister himself.
Pieter explained that the girl in question wasn’t really a foreigner but a lost descendant of the Magnus clan. She was, in fact, the granddaughter of William Magnusson, who’d so famously hidden his prodigious gifts in the guise of a simpleton and then when his little charade was up, escaped through the river channel.
The Great Seer nodded as he read this. Pieter had done the right thing—though he shouldn’t have made the decision on his own. The girl could have waited in the anteroom till the Council had been consulted.
Then he came to the second paragraph and despair washed over him. He dropped the letter on the table and cradled his head in his hands. Was incompetence spreading through Harrowsgode like the very plague? What in the name of Magnus had the barrister been thinking—letting a foreign lord into the city? It was absolute madness!
He looked up. The room was filled with officials, among them the Deputy Minister of Security, who was standing in while his superior was away in the village.
“I want the barrister Pieter arrested,” the Great Seer said, unable to keep the fury out of his voice.
“I’ll see to it, Your Excellency, as soon as—”
“Yes, I know. The bloody papers.”
“And the foreign gentleman?”
“He’s included in the warrant I issued earlier. But don’t arrest him yet. We might need to trot him out to reassure the lady till we’ve brought her safely into the fold. I should have that taken care of by tomorrow.”
“And after that?”
“We won’t need him anymore.”
THE RATCATCHER OF HARROWSGODE,
Richard Strange by name, sat in solitary splendor eating his dinner. He enjoyed the small luxuries his salary made possible; and though he regrettably had no lady-wife or friends to join him at table, he dined on quail stuffed with almonds and dates, a selection of fine aged cheeses, rare fruits, white bread, and some pretty little butter cakes he hadn’t been able to resist. He ate them off a silver plate and drank his wine from a crystal goblet etched with a floral design and rimmed with gold (a recent purchase, one of a pair).
He’d lingered rather longer than usual over his meal, it being a warm and lazy afternoon. Now he got up, fetched a silver tray, and carefully set his platter, goblet, knife, and fork upon it, ready to carry them out to the kitchen where—since he was his own servant as well as lord of the manor—he would wash them all himself and put them away.
