The Hollow Crown: A Novel of Crosspointe (23 page)

She began a systematic exploration of the first floor. She found the regent’s office empty. She went inside, her fingers itching to pick the locks and rifle through the drawers. But she had no time. She continued her search, finding nothing of interest. At last she slunk down into the kitchens. She had to be more careful here. The cook slept in an attached room and her helpers were scattered about on thin straw mattresses. The room was hot from the day’s cooking and the oven fires were banked.
Sylveth
didn’t work for cooking—somehow food didn’t cook evenly with majick.

She stepped carefully around the exhausted bodies and stroked a cat who purred loudly into her hand. She took a small cake from the basket on the counter before going through to the buttery and out into the cold cellar. Beyond that was a cold storage for vegetables and herbs and another for wine and liquor. Margaret wandered through, looking for a door into the rest of the basement area but found nothing. There had to be more. The kitchen and cellar took up no more than half of the manor’s main floor area. That meant there was another half where Carston might be imprisoned.

She was retreating back to search for another passage out of the kitchen when she found what she was looking for. It was a door hidden behind a rack of whiskey casks. It was well disguised, and if she hadn’t been looking for it, she wouldn’t have seen it. There was only about a six-inch gap between the rack and the hidden door. Margaret pushed against the heavy wood frame but it didn’t budge. She ran her fingers over the wood, pressing and digging into crevices and knotholes. She went around and reached as far as she could down the gap, then began on the casks. She brushed past a rough spot on the bottom of the third cask. She felt the tingle of a ward and then a click. The rack shifted slightly and she pushed against it. It swiveled away from the wall and Margaret smiled.

The door wasn’t warded. She picked the lock with ease and turned the handle. The hallway on the other side was paneled with polished wood. The floor was black and white marble and the walls were decorated with paintings, sculptures, and a variety of other bric-a-brac. Margaret peered both directions and saw no one. But the corridor was brightly lit, which likely meant that people had passed by recently.

Margaret slid out into the passage. She turned left for no better reason than it went deeper into the space and she figured the regent would bury Carston as far back in this warren as he could.

She found a number of empty rooms and kept going, pushing deeper. Ahead she heard the rumble of voices and dodged into a room on the right. She glanced around, shutting the door behind her. An odd chill ran up her spine. This was a sitting room of a princely variety. Everything was ostentatiously sumptuous. The carpets were deeply piled, the furniture layered with gold leaf, the decorations rare treasures from around the world. Beyond were equally luxurious bedchambers. The place was fit for any king, but what was it doing hidden in the basement?

Margaret tensed. Instinct told her something was very wrong about this.

Another rumble, this time of laughter. Margaret eased back out into the hallway. She moved silently, her heart pounding. She slid a knife into her hand. At the corner she pressed close to the wall and peered around the edge, only to yank herself back.

She licked her lips and looked again. The hall spread into a large, lofty room. It was filled with stuffed chaises and chairs, and the walls were lined with books, statuary, paintings, porcelain, and bronzes. They were clustered haphazardly, without any sense of taste, more like a storage warehouse than anything else. Something else caught her eye. She sucked in a startled breath. The floor was layered with white bearskin rugs from Ayvreshar, each dyed in the rich colors of the tribes. They were impossible to buy and even one was almost priceless. There were at least fifty of them.

In fact—

She ducked away. It was a pyrate’s treasure trove in there. There were pieces there from Relsea and Tapisriya—countries that the Jutras had rolled over and squashed. Margaret rubbed the back of her hand over her trembling lips. If those things were here, then it meant the regent was involved with the Jutras. Though Avreshar remained free, rumors had it that the Jutras had begun raiding within its borders. It was only a matter of time until it fell.

Her stomach churned and she fought the urge to throw up. Ryland and Vaughn needed to know this. Again a burst of laughter. She shifted and peeked around again. Now she saw that there was a salon through an arched opening on the left. On the right were a series of closed doors. Each was barred from the outside with a small slot window at eye level. Prison cells.

She frowned. The entire arrangement was strange. Such luxurious accommodations side by side with a dungeon. She chewed the inside of her cheek. She should get out of Molford and back to Sylmont as quickly as possible. Ryland needed to know the regent was consorting with the Jutras. Her gaze slid to the cells. Inside one of those, Carston was trapped, terrified. She was sure of it. Her attention went back to the archway. She couldn’t make out any of the conversation, but she’d give her teeth to hear it. So would Ryland. A tight smile tightened her mouth. If she got caught, she very well might be giving her teeth, and maybe the rest of her too. She was creeping across the opening even before she finished the thought.

The thick jungle of treasure lent her concealment even as it provided a field of danger where she risked revealing herself by knocking things over. It took half a glass to cross through the gauntlet. By the time she was done, sweat was trickling between her breasts.

She stopped beside a wide-bellied cabinet that was carved to resemble an open-weave basket. The wood was fragrant—sweet and spicy at the same time. A set of squat frog statues carved from a gray-green stone were set in a semicircle in front of it, and several bolts of cloth were stacked to the side. She wriggled in behind and settled in to listen.

She could hear the speakers clear enough now.

“. . . have done remarkably well,” said a deep, raspy voice. “The Dhucala is pleased.”

Margaret went cold. The Dhucala was the Jutras king. If she needed any confirmation that the regent was colluding with the Jutras, she had it.

“However, you have promised to open Blackwater Bay to our ships, and compasses and Pilots to keep us safe on the sea. When can I tell the Dhucala to expect them? He is most eager. He hopes the gifts he sends will encourage you to go more quickly with your plans.”

“I have already taken steps,” came the regent’s smug voice. “Nicholas Weverton will soon be powerless to stop me. I will seize his property and put his family in chains. His allies will drop him like a handful of hot coals and switch allegiance to me. He has underestimated me and will pay the price for it. He has no idea what is about to happen to him.”

“And what about the Ramplings?”A different voice, younger, more agile.

“Toothless.”

“Are they? I have heard young Prince Ryland is stirring up resistance against you. It is said that many of your people disapprove of you.”

“He is a green boy.”

“Yet he eludes you.”

“I have had my attention on more critical matters. What Ryland does is of little consequence.”

Margaret’s lip curled, but there was truth to what he said. Ryland was an excellent diplomat, but he knew nothing about war or the real politics of Crosspointe. He was just too damned inexperienced. He was collecting support and biding his time until Vaughn had built an army, but the longer he waited, the more entrenched the regent became. Soon it would be nearly impossible to pry him off the throne. And the bastard wanted to be king. She didn’t doubt for a single moment. How he’d thought he’d ever keep it by letting the Jutras overrun Crosspointe, she couldn’t imagine.

The Jutras didn’t leave anything left of a country after they conquered it. They first murdered anyone who defied them, including any leaders. Next they killed off anybody too old or too weak. The rest they gave a choice: become Jutras or die. Those men and women with some fighting ability would join the warrior cast—called
picrit
. They would remain forever at the bottom of the cast, though their children would be able to rise. If they were permitted children. The rest would become slaves—the
neallonya
caste. Geoffrey Truehelm would be lucky if he was just killed.

“Perhaps it is time you turned your attention to the Ramplings. They are inventive and it would not do to underestimate them.” The first voice again.

Margaret itched to see them for herself. She gripped the legs of the cabinet to keep herself anchored and wondered just where in the black depths Truehelm’s bitch wife was in all this? It wasn’t like Alanna Truehelm to let herself be excluded.

“Once I have Weverton in hand, I will send my troops to scour Crosspointe. I will have him and any other errant Ramplings in shackles before the end of the summer season. After that, it shall be simple enough to take control of the Pilots’ Guild. Then the Dhucala will have his compasses and Pilots.”

The irony was bitter. King William had been selling compasses to Glacerie to gain allies on the water against the Jutras, and here the regent was planning to hand them over to the Jutras. The man was a snake and he needed to have his head chopped off.

“And what about this unfortunate business in Sylmont?” came the second voice.

The question was met with a long silence. Margaret frowned. What unfortunate business?

“It appears that the fall of the Kalpestrine has had an unsettling effect on our majicars. They are not quite themselves. It is my hope that when trade opens between Jutras and Crosspointe, I may depend on your aid in this matter. In the meantime, I have issued an order to execute any majicar on sight, and have sent men to clear out Sylmont. It should be safe enough to return there soon.”

Margaret breathed in a long, slow breath, feeling like she’d been kicked in the stomach by a mule. Executing majicars? She remembered Keros’s battle in the Riddles and worry wormed through her stomach. What had happened? Was the city in ruins? What about Ryland?

“Let us not keep you any longer,” the older Jutras voice said. “Your servants will wonder what you do down here so late in the night.”

“They are paid not to wonder,” came the regent’s dismissive reply.

“But it is their nature, yes? And you must be circumspect until your hold on this country is complete.”

Circumspect. That was how the man had managed to get this far. He’d always been so careful to manage his ambitions so that he didn’t get caught. Though her father had suspected him of gray dealings, he’d always maintained an untarnished public character. Margaret turned one of her poisoned rings around her finger. He’d had as much reason or more than Nicholas to assassinate her father. She’d dearly love to return the favor.

There were shuffling sounds as the men rose and began to exit the room. She hunched herself down, keeping well hidden.

“When will you return to the Dhucala?” the regent asked.

“He has asked us to remain here in your service,” the younger Jutras replied. “We are at your disposal.”

Margaret shook her head. Their language and accents were flawless and smooth, as if they’d been born in Crosspointe. That sent a creeping shiver down her spine. It said a lot about how long the Jutras had been after Crosspointe, and how deeply their plots were rooted. They were a brutal, terrifying people, but they were not stupid.

“Surely you do not plan to stay here at Molford Manor,” Truehelm said in alarm.

“Of course not. We would not risk revealing our alliance, and we have other business to attend to. We will depart as soon as may be, Eved-cala.”

The last word made Margaret gasp.
Eved-cala?
The word meant something like viceroy. She shook her head silently. The regent wanted more than the throne. Was he insane? Did he really believe they’d give him so much power? He was a fool!

“Other business?” Truehelm echoed. Much to Margaret’s disgust, there wasn’t even the slightest hint of concern in his voice about what the two Jutras might be up to.

“Yes. We may have further information for you soon,” said the younger one.

There was a quiet smugness to his voice that sent a curl of fear through Margaret. What were they up to? She chewed the inside of her lip. She was going to have to find out.

“One more thing,” the elder one said. “Visitors arrived in Molford a day ago. They are staying at the inn. They were on horseback.”

There was a sliver of silence. “Horses, you say? That is interesting. I will look into it,” Truehelm said. “How will I find you should I need you?”

“Take this. Hold it in the palm of your hand and blow across it. We shall know to come to you.”

Margaret couldn’t see what
this
was. A cipher made from Jutras majick, no doubt. She tensed, then slowly eased up behind the frog statuary. And had to bite her tongue to keep from cursing.

They were both compact in stature and their fingernails were long and pointed. They each had long black hair down to their waists, with dark skin and yellow eyes, which were bordered above and below by black and red dots. The younger one’s face was marked by black triangle tattoos on his left cheek, and a series of scars on his right jaw. The older Jutras had a flowing tattoo down the left side of his prominent nose and ritual scarring that ran from his right temple all the way down his neck. The facial scarring and tattoos along with the long, loose hair indicated they were
kiryat
—the priest caste, and that meant they were also majicars—wizards—and likely powerful ones. Margaret swallowed. The tattoos on their faces indicated that they were cultists—servants of one of the two Jutras gods and high up in the
kiryat
caste. Which meant that they truly were close to the Dhucala; and no matter what lies they may have told the regent, one thing was almost certainly true—they had the Dhucala’s blessing on everything they did.