Tomorrow's Kingdom (4 page)

Stricken by the grim, almost hopeless picture he painted and unable to think of a single word of comfort to offer in response, Rachel stared at the ground and said nothing at all.

After a few moments of heavy silence, Zdeno cleared his throat and said, “So, I've been thinking that if we're going to save the queen, the first thing we need to do is get out of Parthania.”

“Get out of Parthania?” echoed Rachel, feeling a rush of gratitude that he should speak so matter-of-factly of rescuing Persephone. “But … but isn't this the best place to start looking for answers?”

“It is,” said Azriel, who likewise seemed to have been jerked back from the precipice of despair. “But though we are safe enough at the moment, you can be sure Mordecai's soldiers are not going to stop looking for us.”

“The longer we remain in the city,” added Zdeno, “the greater the danger to us—and therefore to the queen, for we are the only ones who know she's been kidnapped and is in need of rescuing.”

Rachel—who did not really like the sound of any of that—nevertheless tried to appear unconcerned as she said, “So, how are we going to get out of the city if the soldiers are going to be looking for us, Zdeno? Between my resemblance to the queen and your birthmark, we'll be easy to spot.” Pausing to give the large, wine-coloured birthmark on his face a kiss to reassure him that she didn't find it ugly, only noticeable, she added, “Swathing our
heads in leper bandages won't work because you can be sure that the New Men will be on the lookout for anyone who seems to be hiding his face—or hers.”

“Oh! Well, uh, the Council will have to lay the king to rest, and they'll have to do it soon,” offered Zdeno, who was still blushing furiously from Rachel's kiss. “People will throng to Parthania for the funeral procession, and when the streets are so crowded that Mordecai's soldiers will find it impossible to properly look for anyone, we'll slip through the city gates unnoticed.”

“And then?” said Rachel hopefully.

“And then we'll make for my tribe's hidden camp,” said Azriel. “Cairn, Tiny and Fayla are as brave and clever as they come—together with them, we'll come up with a plan to find and rescue Persephone and the child.”

Rachel smiled weakly, wondering if she was the only one who'd noticed that after fleeing Parthania, the next step in their plan was to “come up with a plan.”

Before she could begin to worry in earnest about this, however, Azriel seized her by the arms so suddenly that she let out a startled squeak and Zdeno nearly attacked him.

“Do you know what I just realized, Rachel?” exclaimed Azriel. “Persephone may not have told me about the child, but after escaping Mordecai, she did not run as she could have done—as she once would have done. She was coming back to me!”

“Yes,” said Rachel, smiling in spite of the discomfort of his fingers digging into her flesh.

“She loves me,” declared Azriel, sounding triumphant
and
defiant. “And I'm going to save her—her and the baby.”

Though Rachel really did not see how he was going to be able to do so, the fearful orphan girl who'd ever longed to do something important with her life—even at the cost of it—barely hesitated.

“I know you will, Azriel,” she said fervently as she reached up to peel his fingers off her arms. “I know you will.”

SIX

“C
AREFUL, FOOL!”
snarled Mordecai as one of the many servants assigned to cart his belongings down to the palace courtyard stumbled beneath the weight of a particularly heavy crate. “That crate contains a set of priceless crystal goblets that I mean to give to my royal bride when I am reunited with her five days hence. Do you
want
to see them shattered to bits before my journey is even begun? Are you
trying
to ruin my wedding?”

“No, Your Grace, of
course
not!” spluttered the brawny red-headed wretch, his green eyes wide with horror. “I wish you a most joyous wedding and … and a long and happy union with Queen Persephone!”

Mordecai—who despised servants that failed to act like pieces of furniture to be used, smashed or replaced as he saw fit, and who
especially
despised servants that dared to flaunt their strong bodies and straight limbs in front of him—stared at this particular servant with eyes that glittered so malevolently that a sheen of sweat appeared upon the young man's broad, freckled forehead.
Mordecai could smell the stench of his fear from across the room.

“See that the crate is safely stowed in one of the wagons,” Mordecai said softly, his gnarled hands clenching into fists. “Pretend that your life depends upon those goblets arriving at their destination intact.”

The terrified young man leapt to obey so quickly that he bashed the crate into the doorframe
twice
before finally managing to make his escape.

Mordecai chuckled at the knowledge that, in truth, the crate contained nothing but rocks and would be painstakingly loaded onto the back of a wagon that would follow an empty carriage going nowhere at all. Then he shuffled into his bedchamber and eased his aching body down onto a cushioned chair by an open trunk full of women's undergarments. As he did so, he marvelled yet again at how dramatically the world had changed since that terrible moment three days past when he'd entered the king's bedchamber to discover the royal fool dead and Finn's rightful heir, the new queen, gone. How providential that one of the New Men in the palace courtyard had recognized the queen in spite of her grubby clothes! How fortunate that he'd had the wits to quietly follow her through the watchtower passageway and out into the streets instead of trying to abduct her in plain view of the palace! How remarkable that the queen had proceeded down to the common harbour—and right past the waiting ship—of her own accord! Though her despicable Gypsy husband had somehow escaped capture that day, all in all, things had worked out better than Mordecai could have hoped.

The king was dead. Mordecai was in possession of the queen. And if she'd spoken the truth—and the dewy sprig in the locket that dangled against his sunken chest suggested that she had—the queen knew the location of the healing pool.

The game was almost over, and Mordecai had won.

Wishing he could see the expression on the face of that high-and-mighty bastard Lord Bartok when he realized that he'd lost because he'd been outsmarted, Mordecai reached into the trunk and pulled out a pair of ivory-coloured silk underpants trimmed with lace. As he rubbed them against his cheek, he idly wondered how Queen Persephone was being treated. He hoped she was being treated well, as befitted her station as uncrowned monarch of the realm and mother of his future half-royal sons. He also hoped she was being treated wretchedly, as befitted her base character and as payback for having played him for a fool on more than one occasion.

The knowledge that she was a royal personage
and
a lying whore made Mordecai want to groan aloud. He resisted the urge to indulge in fantasies of their impending reunion, however, for he had much to do. He needed to see to the final details of that afternoon's royal funeral and to ensure that all was in readiness for the secret journey that he
would
be making. He needed to finish sifting through the pilfered belongings of the queen's dead mother to find those bits of fragrant silk he most longed to see hugging his bride-to-be's ripe young curves on their wedding night. He needed to meet with Murdock to ensure that he understood what was expected of him while he presided over the court in the days to come and also to whet his appetite for the vast and bloody assignment that would follow.

And Mordecai needed—nay, he
wanted
—to visit the one he'd neglected of late. The one with whom he could chat so companionably, the one he could trust with his secrets as he could trust no other.

There was much he was looking forward to telling her.

SEVEN

“S
O YOU'RE CERTAIN THAT
you're not with child?” Lord Bartok asked his only daughter.

Little Lady Aurelia shifted uncomfortably, the voluminous skirts of her shimmering black mourning gown whispering as she did so.

“Yes, Father,” she replied in a voice that bore no resemblance to the chirping one she normally spoke with. “My courses came yesterday as … as I knew they would.”

“As you knew they would,” echoed Lord Bartok coolly.

Aurelia swallowed hard. “Yes, Father,” she murmured, casting a darting glance at her bleary-eyed brother, Atticus. He was slouched in a cushioned armchair beside her father at the far end of the table.

She, herself, was standing.

“I told you before, Father,” she continued haltingly. “The king was unable to … that is to say, he never managed to … I was never properly bedded.”

Lord Bartok's lips thinned. “You are the most useless thing,” he said in conversational tones. “I arranged everything.
Everything
. I approached the king. I orchestrated your secret marriage to him. I outsmarted the upstart cripple. All you had to do was to lie on your back and get him to climb on top of you, and you couldn't even manage that.”

Aurelia flushed at the baldness of his words. “I
tried
, Father. I swear I did!” she protested, clutching at the flounces of her skirts with her bony little hands. “I kissed him
ever
so passionately—I … I promised things that would have made a whore blush. But the king was ill and tired all the time! And though he was ever courteous to me, he never
ever
seemed desirous of me. Indeed, I would not be surprised if he was a man who did not feel desire for women at all!”

“He was hot enough for Lady Bothwell,” reminded Atticus, “until he discovered that the bitch was his own sister, that is. Perhaps you should have behaved more like a bitch, Aurelia—or more like a sister.”

He followed up this clever bit of advice by ogling Aurelia's small bosom while running his pink tongue along his fleshy lips. He then laughed shrilly and poured himself another goblet of wine.

Lord Bartok eyed his son askance, wondering for the thousandth time how it was that he'd been cursed with an heir who was such a wastrel. Then, shifting his pale-blue eyes to his daughter once more, he asked, “Are any of your servants aware that you've begun your monthly bleeding?”

“No, Father,” said Aurelia with an eagerness that suggested she was relieved to have gotten
something
right. “I kept knowledge of it from them, just as you instructed.”

“Good,” said Lord Bartok.

“Shall I continue to pretend to be with child, then?” asked Aurelia, still brimming with eagerness. “Shall I begin padding my bodice and skirts—when the time comes, do you mean to find an infant I can claim to have birthed?”

Wordlessly, Lord Bartok shook his head. Then he turned to his son and said, “Atticus, you will see Aurelia serviced.”

Atticus choked on his mouthful of wine. “Serviced?” he gasped as he clumsily wiped wine from his chin with his pudgy white fingers.

“If we can get her with child in the next few weeks, we'll be able to pass the infant off as the dead king's child,” explained Lord Bartok. “With luck it will be born early and a boy.”

Atticus looked at his sister as though seeing her for the first time. “And you would have
me
service her?” he asked in a wondering voice as his watery eyes drifted from her shocked face to her childlike body.

Lord Bartok cocked his head to one side and stroked his trim, silvery beard as he considered the possibility. At length he shook his head and said, “No. I would have you arrange to have her serviced by a trusted servant who resembles the dead king as much as possible.”

“Even trusted servants talk,” said Atticus, whose eyes yet lingered upon his sister's body.

“Dead servants don't talk, trusted or no,” said Lord Bartok. “As soon as Aurelia's monthly time has passed, you will see that the chosen servant lies with her as often as he
can manage for three weeks, and thereafter you will see that he lies with the dirt and the worms.”