The Thief Queen's Daughter (22 page)

“You all right there, mate?” his friend asked nervously.

Ven nodded, finally out of laughter.

“Yes,” he said as the wind blew through again, chasing the clouds along overhead. “Let’s get home. We’ve quite a ways to go still.”

They followed the river south, walking along the banks. Ven had pocketed the Lightstone, because the light of the full moon was almost as bright as day. Clemency came alongside Ven and nudged him, then looked at Ida. The Thief Queen’s daughter had her arms wrapped tightly around herself, as if she were cold, her face set in a firmly indifferent expression.

“I’ve tried to talk to her, but she’s not having any part of it,” Clemency whispered so that both boys could hear. “Remember how she told us that she didn’t know her own real name? Well, I told her at least she knows now that her mother thinks it’s beautiful. She gave me a look so cold that I thought I was breathing icicles. It’s time for me to shut up now. Maybe you could say something, Ven.”

“Oh, sure, I’m someone she
really
wants advice from,” Ven said, rolling his eyes. “I think anything I might say would only make things worse. Sometimes the best thing you can do for a friend is to
not
say something when there’s nothing to say.”

“What a horrible deal,” Char agreed. “For once, I really feel sorry for her. Did you get any idea who that man—her father—might be?”

“I thought his voice sounded familiar,” Ven said quietly. “I wondered if it might be Mr. Whiting.”

Char and Clemency shuddered at the same time.

“That would be pretty disgusting,” Clem said.

“And dangerous,” Char added. “I guess it’s prolly possible—they were talkin’ about Northland. When I was working on the
Serelinda,
that’s where Mr. Whiting got onboard the ship.”

“Well, whoever her father and mother are, she just needs to know that to us, she’s still Ida,” said Ven. “Not that that is a good thing much of the time—but it’s what she’s comfortable being. So I think that’s how we should treat her. But, as far as that goes, you at least have something
you
should say to her, Char.”

He could see Char’s face flush, even in the moonlight.

“Uh, yeah, I guess so,” Char said reluctantly. He slowed his pace, waiting for Ida to draw closer, then walked closer to her.

“Ida, I—er—I need to say sorry for callin’ you a liar,” he said awkwardly. Ida didn’t look at him, but wrapped her arms tighter and set her jaw. “I guess you really
have
been in the Market a bajillion times. I apologize.”

Ida kept walking.

“An’ I’m sorry if I hurt your feelings,” Char continued. He looked pleadingly at Ven, who shrugged.

“You didn’t,” Ida said curtly. “I don’t have feelings.”

“Of course you do, Ida,” said Ven. “Everyone has feelings.”

For the first time since they came out of the tunnels, Ida turned and looked at him.

“That’s such a stupid thing to say, Polywog. Surely you’ve met a few people in the last couple o’ days who don’t. But maybe now you know that just ’cause someone takes your stuff or isn’t all that nice to you, that doesn’t mean they’re a liar. I may steal, but I never lie. I do have
some
standards.”

Ven exhaled. “Yes, yes you do.”

“So drop it.”

“It’s dropped.”

The thin girl stared at him a moment longer.

“Don’t you dare feel sorry for me, Polywog.”

“I won’t. I don’t. I wouldn’t dream of it.”

“Good.”

They walked the rest of the way to the bridge in silence.

The day was beginning to break by the time they finally saw it in the distance. The rushing current swelled around the stanchions, the large upright supports made of stones that held up the span, then rushed between them, sending white plumes of spray skyward around them. The sky above had turned from black to soft blue, though the sun had not yet risen, and the birds were beginning to sing.

As they reached the foot of the bridge, Ven stopped in amazement. He broke off from the group and walked down to the banks of the river, staring.

There, beside the bridge, was a series of odd-looking footprints, short, wide tracks with strangely shaped toes.

Beside them were several wadded-up pieces of waxed parchment, and cookie crumbs.

“Blow me down,” he whispered.

“What’s that?” Char asked, coming up behind him. “Looks like trash.”

“Not trash,” Ven said. “Trolls. Another example of superstition, myth, legend, horsefeathers, and nonsense proved true.”

Char shrugged. “Or at least proved possible,” he said. “Come on, mate. Step it up. Only a little ways now and we’re home.”

W
HEN AT LAST THEY CAME THROUGH THE DOOR OF THE INN, THE
door painted with a golden griffin, Mrs. Snodgrass let out an embarrassingly loud whoop of delight and relief. Her eyes were red as if she had been crying, but her round face glowed with delight as she hurried across the inn’s floor and swept them into an uncomfortable group embrace.

“It’s been four days!” she said breathlessly. “I’ve been so worried about you children since Nick came home, saying Saeli had been
stolen
!” She hugged the little Gwadd girl especially tight. “I can’t tell you how happy I am to see you all.”

The smile of delight faded to a look of mock severity. “Especially because there is dust all over my inn.” She looked pointedly at Clem, who blushed. “And weeds in my garden,” she said, staring at Saeli, who turned red as well. “And dishes piling up in the sink,” she said sharply to Char, who shrank away in terror. “And a whole host of odd jobs that need tendin’ to,” she said to Ven.

“What about me?” Ida demanded. “What are you gonna yell at me for not doin’?”

“Go get into trouble or something,” Mrs. Snodgrass said, wiping her hands briskly on her apron and heading back for the kitchen. “It’s been far too quiet around here.”

The children looked at each other and sighed, then set to their tasks, all except Ven, who went over to the tabby cat drowsing lazily in the sun on the stone floor. He pulled the bundle of leaves from his pocket and dropped it in front of Murphy.

“The treat you were promised,” he said.

“Catnip.” Murphy sighed in delight. “Oh, happy day. A wonderful treat, to be certain. Well done, Ven. Too bad you’re human. You are almost worthy of being a cat.”

“But I’m not human, Murphy,” Ven said. “I’m Nain.”

“Ven,” Murphy said haughtily, “by cat standards, you’re
human
. Actually, you fall into an even broader category than that. There’s cats. And then there’s everything else. Unfortunately, you still qualify as ‘everything else.’”

“Well, actually, the one who thought of bringing it to you was Ida,” Ven admitted. “So if you are keeping track of points or something, she’s a lot closer to being a cat than I am.”

The orange tabby stretched. “Alas, neither of you will ever get there,” he said as he walked off to find a warm place to sleep. “You will just have to get used to being what you are, and living with the disappointment. Good night.”

“Murphy—it’s morning.”

The cat opened one eye, then pointedly stretched one paw, allowing the claws to extend fully.

“Do you really want to press this point with me, Ven?” he asked. Then he rolled to his side and returned to his slumber.

From across the room Ven could see the Lirin Singer smile.

“Don’t ever try to confuse a cat with the facts,” McLean said, tuning his strange harp. “They know better. Welcome home, Ven. How was the Market?”

Ven came over and sat beside him. “Terrible,” he said. “And amazing. And depressing. And magical.”

McLean nodded. “As I expected. But I see you had things well in
hand
.”

Ven opened his mouth to disagree, then looked down at his palm. The stain with the image of the Time Scissors was still there.

“Can you see it, McLean?” he asked quietly.

“See what?”

“The picture in my hand.”

The Singer smiled. “Now, Ven, you know better than that. I can’t see anything.”

“Not with your eyes—but you know it’s there, don’t you?”

“If you’re asking because you want to be certain that
you
are seeing it, then I can tell you that it’s there,” said the Singer. “But you have to remember, Ven, Singers swear to always tell the truth. So can I
see
it? No. I’m afraid not. But when you’re done with your chores, I’d love to hear the story of your adventure.”

Ven sighed in relief. “Good enough,” he said. “Well, I’d best get to work.”

Mrs. Snodgrass came out of the kitchen, a plate of sausages in her hands. “All of your chores can wait until you’ve had breakfast,” she announced to the children. “And a nap.”

Ven came over and, feeling brave, reached up to steal a sausage off the plate.

“Sit down at the table, Ven Polypheme, and eat from your plate, or I’ll box your ears into next week,” the innkeeper said severely.

“Yes, ma’am,” Ven replied. “And afterwards I’ll skip the nap and will get as many odd jobs done as you want, Mrs. Snodgrass, if you wouldn’t mind letting me take a short trip to the castle first.”

When he was shown into the place where King Vandemere kept his puzzles off the Throne Room, a grand meal had been laid out for them both. The king sat at his table, across from where Ven’s plate had been laid, buttering a poppy seed roll when Ven came into the room.

“No need for that,” the king said as Ven attempted to bow, waving his butter knife at Ven. “Have a seat. Will you be joining us, Galliard?”

The Vizier drew himself up haughtily.

“No, thank you.”

“So, Ven, I’ve been meaning to ask you something,” the king said as Ven took his place.

“Yes, Your Majesty?”

The king chewed ungracefully, then swallowed.

“Which of the girls in the inn is the prettiest?”

Ven blinked. “Excuse me, Your Majesty?”

“The prettiest—which one of the girls where you live is prettiest?” The king popped another piece of the roll into his mouth. “In your opinion, of course.”

“Hmmm,” Ven said. “I’ve never really thought about it. I’m not much of a judge of human beauty, sire, being Nain and all.”

“Well, who has the nicest hair? Surely you can make a judgment about that.”

Ven’s face went hot. “Uhm, well, Ciara has very nice curls, I suppose,” he said awkwardly. Behind the king’s back he could see Galliard’s eyes roll. “But Bridgette has the most, er, unusual hair of all of them—it’s red—and long.” He lapsed into silence, feeling foolish.

The king nodded, buttering another piece of the roll. “And the prettiest smile? Who has that? I don’t get to see many girls where I am, being king and all. It’s nice to hear about them at least if I can’t see them.”

Ven swallowed. “I would say that Emma’s smile is probably the nicest. She’s very shy—Emma, I mean—and so when she smiles it’s, well, extra special.”

The Vizier bowed sharply. “Excuse me. I have work to do.” He turned and left the room, closing the door abruptly.

King Vandemere watched him leave, then turned to Ven.

“Sorry about that,” he said quickly. “I haven’t gone suddenly insane, Ven—I just wanted to be certain Galliard believes that we are babbling about things that young men babble about. Otherwise he would insist on staying and hearing whatever you said. And I want to be able to do that alone.”

Ven sighed, relieved. “Oh, good. I had thought for a moment that I had been observing the wrong things for you as your eyes out in the world, Your Majesty.”

“Tell me about the Thieves’ Market,” the king said.

“There’s something missing,” King Vandemere said, running his fingers over the puzzle he was constructing. “‘The brightest light in the darkest shadow is yours.’ I still don’t understand, even hearing the story.”

A thought struck Ven. “The Rat King told us a story,” he said, “the story of how the Wonder came to be in the realm of the Downworlders. Would it help if I told you that?”

“Absolutely,” said the king.

“Even though you fired me as the Royal Reporter, I took notes so I could tell it to you as the hammered truth. Like my father always said, ‘Tell people the hammered truth, and it will ring like steel against an anvil.’”

“Exactly what I want,” the king said, taking more pieces out of the box. “Tell it to me as much in the Rat King’s words, and voice, as you can.”

So Ven did.