The Emerald Storm (16 page)

“Gather his things and take them to the guest quarters,” Thranic ordered. Glancing toward the bow, he stopped abruptly. He glared at them, licking his thin lips in thought, then slowly approached. As he did, he held his dark cloak tight, his shoulders raised to protect his neck from the cold wind. Between this and his stooped back, he resembled a scavenger bird.

“What are you all doing on deck? None of you are part of the larboard watch.”

“Off duty, sir,” Wyatt answered for them. “Just getting a bit of fresh air.”

Thranic peered at Hadrian and took a step toward him. “You’re the cook, aren’t you?”

Without thinking, Hadrian felt at his side for the hilt of his absent sword. Something about the sentinel made him flinch. Sentinels were always scary, but this one was absolutely chilling. Returning his gaze was like staring into the eyes of restrained madness.

“You joined this voyage along with…” Thranic’s eyes shifted to Royce. “This one—yes, the nimble fellow—the one so good at climbing. What’s your name? Melborn isn’t it? Royce Melborn? I heard you were seasick. How odd.”

Royce remained silent.

“Very odd, indeed.”

“Sentinel Thranic?” the old man called, his weak voice barely making the trip across the deck. “I would rather like to get out of the damp wind if I could.” He coughed.

Thranic stared a moment longer at Royce then pivoted sharply and left them.

“Not exactly the kind of guy you want taking an interest in you is he?” Wyatt offered.

With the longboat back aboard, the captain appeared on the quarterdeck and ordered a new course—due east, into the wind.

“Another dispatch fr
om Sir Breckton, sir,” the clerk announced, handing a small scroll to the imperial chancellor. The elderly man returned to the desk in his little office and read the note. A scowl grew across his face.

“The man is incorrigible!” The chancellor burst out to no one, then pulled a fresh sheet of parchment and dipped his quill.

The door opened unexpectedly and the chancellor jumped. “Can’t you knock?”

“Sorry, Biddings, did I startle you?” the Earl of Chadwick asked, entering with his exquisite floor-length cape trailing behind him. He had a pair of white gloves draped over one forearm as he bit into a bright red apple.

“You’re always startling me. I think you get a sadistic pleasure from it.”

Archibald smiled. “I saw the dispatch arrive. Is there any word from the
Emerald Storm
?”

“No, this is from Breckton.”

“Breckton? What does he want?” Archibald sat in the armchair opposite the chancellor and rested his booted feet on a footstool.

“No matter how many times I tell him to wait and be patient, he refuses to grasp that we know more than he does. He wants permission to attack Ratibor.”

Archibald sighed. “Again? I suppose you see now what I’ve had to put up with all these years. He and Enden are so headstrong I—”

“Were,” the chancellor corrected, “Sir Enden died in Dahlgren.”

Ballentyne nodded. “And wasn’t that a waste of a good man.” He took another bite and with his mouth still full went on. “Do you need me to write him personally? He is my knight after all.”

“What would help is to be able to tell him
why
he doesn’t need to attack.”

Archibald shook his head. “Saldur and Ethelred are still insisting on secrecy regarding the—”

The chancellor raised a hand stopping him. Archibald looked confused and the chancellor pointed at the chambermaid on her knees scrubbing the floor near the windows of his office.

Ballentyne rolled his eyes. “Oh, please. Do you really think the scrub girl is a spy?”

“I have always found it best to err on the side of caution. She doesn’t have to be a spy to get you hanged for treason.”

“She doesn’t even know what we are talking about. Besides look at her. It isn’t likely she’ll be bragging in some pub. You don’t go out at night boasting at bars do you, lass?”

Ella shook her head and refused to look up so that her brown, sweat-snarled hair continued to hang in her face.

“See!” Archibald said in a vindicated tone. “It is like censoring yourself because there is a couch or a chair in the room.”

“I was referring to a more subtle kind of danger,” Biddings told him. “Should something happen. Something unfortunate with the plan such that it fails—someone always has to be blamed. How fortunate it would be to discover a loquacious earl who had boasted details to even a mindless chambermaid.”

Archibald’s smirk faded immediately.

“The third son of a dishonored baron doesn’t rise to the rank of imperial chancellor by being stupid,” Biddings said.

“Point taken.” Archibald glanced back at the scrub girl with a new expression of loathing. “I had best return to Saldur’s office or he’ll be looking for me. Honestly, Biddings, I’m really starting to detest staying in this palace.”

“She still won’t see you?”

“No, I can’t get past her secretary. That Lady Amilia is a sly one. Plays all innocent and doe-eyed, but she guards the empress with ruthless determination. And Saldur and Ethelred are no help at all. They insist she plans to marry Ethelred. It has to be a lie. I simply can’t imagine Modina wanting that old moose.”

“Particularly when she could choose a young buck like yourself?”

“Exactly.”

“And your desire is true love, of course, with absolutely no thought how marrying Modina would make you emperor.”

“For a man who went from third baron’s son to chancellor, I am surprised you can even ask me that.”

“Archie!” bellowed the voice of Regent Saldur, echoing down the hall outside the office.

“I’m in with Biddings!” Archibald shouted back, through the open door. “And don’t call me—” He was interrupted by the sudden rush of the scrub girl running bucket in hand from the office. “Looks like she doesn’t like Saldur any more than I do.”

Arista had spilled scrub water onto her skirt causing it to plaster the rough material to her legs. Her thin cloth shoes made a disagreeable slapping noise as she ran down the corridor. The sound of Saldur’s voice made her run faster.

That was close, too close. Yet even as she fled through the corridor, she wondered if Saldur, who had known the princess since birth, would recognize her. There was nothing magical about her transformation, but that did not make it any less impenetrable. She wore dirty rags, lacked makeup, and her once lustrous hair was now a tangled mess. It had lightened, bleached by the same sun that tanned her skin. Still, it was more than just her appearance. Arista had changed. At times when she caught her own reflection, it took a moment to register that she was seeing herself and not some poor peasant woman. The bright-eyed girl was gone and a dark brooding spirit possessed her battered body.

More than anything else, the sheer absurdity of the situation provided the greatest protection. No one would believe that a sheltered, self-indulgent princess would willingly scrub floors in the palace of her enemy. She doubted even Saldur’s mind would grant enough latitude to penetrate the illusion. Even if some thought she looked familiar—and several seemed to—their minds simply could not bend that far. They could no more accept that she was Arista Essendon than the notion of talking pigs or that Maribor was not god. To entertain such an idea would require a mind open to new possibilities, and no one at the palace fit that description.

The only one she worried about, beside Saldur, was t empress’s secretary. She was not like the others—she noticed Arista. Amilia saw through her veneer with suspicious eyes. Saldur clearly surrounded the empress with his best and brightest and Arista did all she could to avoid her.

On the road north from Ratibor, Arista fell in with a band of refugees fleeing to Aquesta and arrived nearly a month ago. The spell led her to the palace itself. Things grew more complicated after that. If she was more confident in the magic and her ability to use it, she might have returned to Melengar right away with the news that Gaunt was a prisoner in the imperial palace. As it was, she felt the need to see him for herself. She managed to obtain a job as a chamber maid, hoping to repeat the location spell inside the castle walls at various locations, only this turned out to be impossible. Closely watched by the headmistress, Edith Mon, she rarely found enough free time and privacy to cast the spell. On the few occasions she succeeded, the smoke indicated a direction but the maze of corridors blocked any attempt to follow. Magically stymied, Arista sought to determine Gaunt’s whereabouts by eavesdropping while at the same time learning her way around the grounds.

“What have ya done now!” Edith Mon shouted at her, as Arista entered the scullery.

Arista had no idea what a hobgoblin looked like, but she guessed it probably resembled Edith Mon. She was stocky and strong. Her huge head sat on her shoulders like a boulder, crushing whatever neck she might have once had. Her face, pockmarked and spotted, provided the perfect foundation for her broad nose with its flaring nostrils through which she breathed loudly, particularly when angry, as she was now.

Edith yanked the bucket from her hands. “Ya clumsy little wench! Ya best pray you spilled it only on yerself. If I hear ya left a dirty puddle in a hallway…”

Edith had threatened to cane her on three occasions, but was interrupted each time—twice by the head cook. Arista was not sure what she would do if it came to that. Scrubbing floors was one thing, but allowing herself to be whipped by an old hag was something else. If it came to that, Edith might discover there was more to her new chambermaid than she thought. Arista often amused herself by contemplating which curse might be best for old Edith. At that moment, she was considering the virtues of skin worms, but all she said was, “Is there anything else today?”

The older woman glared. “Oh! You think yer sumptin’, don’t ya? You think yer better than the rest ’o us, that yer arse shines ’o silver. Well it don’t! Ya don’t even have a family. I know you live in that alley with the rest ’o them runners. Yer one dodgy smile away from makin’ yer meals whorin’, so I’d be careful sweetie!”

There were several snickers from the other kitchen workers. Some risked Edith’s wrath by pausing in their work to watch. The scullery maids, charwomen, and chambermaids all reported to Edith. The others, like the cook, butcher, baker, and cupbearer reported to Ibis Thinly, but sided with Edith—after all Ella was the
new
girl and in the lives of those who lived in the scullery this was what passed for entertainment.

“Is that a yes or a no?” Arista asked calmly.

Edith’s eyes narrowed menacingly. “No, but tomorrow ya start by cleanin’ every chamber pot in the palace. Not just emptin’ them mind ya, I want them scrubbed clean.”

Arista nodded and started to walk past her. As she did, cold water rained down as Edith emptied the remaining bucket on her.

The room burst into an uproar of laughter. “A shame it wasn’t clean water, ya could use a bath.” Edith cackled.

The uproar died abruptly as Ibis appeared from out of the cellar.

“What’s going on here?” The chief cook’s booming voice drew everyone’s attention.

“Nothing, Ibis,” Edith answered. “Just training one o’ my girls is all.”

The cook spotted Arista standg in a puddle, drenched from head to foot. Her hair hung down her face, dripping filthy water. Her entire smock soaked through, the thin material clung indecently to her skin causing her to fold her arms across her breasts.

Ibis scowled at Edith.

“What is it, Ibis?” Edith grinned at him. “Don’t like my training methods?”

“No, I can’t say I do. Why do you always have to treat them like this?”

“What are you gonna do? You gonna take Ella under your wing like that tramp Amilia? Maybe this one will become archbishop!”

There was another round of laughter.

“Cora!” Ibis barked. “Get Ella a table cloth to wrap around her.”

“Careful, Ibis. If she ruins it the chamberlain will have at you.”

“And if Amilia hears you called her a tramp, you might lose your head.”

“That little pretender doesn’t have the piss to do anything against me.”

“Maybe,” the chief cook said, “but she’s one of
them
now, and I’ll bet that any noble who heard that you insulted one of their own—well, they might take it personally.”

Edith’s grin disappeared and the laughter vanished with it.

Cora returned with a tablecloth, which Ibis folded twice before wrapping around Arista’s shoulders. “I hope you have another tunic at home, Ella, it’s gonna be cold tonight.”

Arista thanked him before heading out the scullery door. It was already dark and, just as Ibis had predicted, cold. Autumn was in full swing and the night air shocked her wet body. The castle courtyard was nearly empty with only a few late carters dragging their wagons out through the main gate. A page raced between the stables and the keep hauling armloads of wood, but most of the daily throng of activity that usually defined the yard was absent. She passed through the great gates where the guards ignored her. The moment she reached the bridge, and stepped beyond the protection of the keep’s walls, the full force of the wind struck her. She clenched her jaw to stifle a cry, hugged her body with fingers turning red, and shivered so badly it was hard to walk.

Not skin worms. No. Not nearly bad enough.

“Oh, dear!” Mrs. Barker exclaimed, and rushed over as Arista entered Brisbane Alley. “What happened child? Not that Edith Mon again?”

Arista nodded.

“What was it this time?”

“I spilled some wash water.”

Mrs. Barker shook her head and sighed. “Well, come over to the fire and try and dry off before you catch your death.”

She coaxed Arista to the communal fire pit. Brisbane Alley was literally the end of the road in Aquesta, a wretched little dirt patch behind Brickton’s Tannery where the stench from the curing hides kept away any except the most desperate. Newcomers without money, relatives, or connections settled here. The lucky ones lived huddled under canvas sheets, carts, and the wagons they arrived in. The rest, like Arista, simply huddled against the tannery wall trying to block the wind as they slept. That is, until the Barkers adopted her.