The sundering hours, p.37
The Sundering Hours, page 37
“I won’t let you down,” she said. “Not any of you. I promise.”
“My lady?” a voice called down from the companionway.
Seherene bristled at the call. “And there are the watchdogs.”
“Tell ‘em to go hang,” Radburn said.
She smiled. “If only I could. But it’s a small miracle Blackwood let me out of his sight at all. I should be getting back anyway. Isaac might have returned by now.”
“And once he does,” Ink said, “we’ve gotta figure out a way to get rid of Blackwood. We can’t have him tailing us all the way to King’s Island!”
“You’re right, of course,” Delia replied. “But I’m not sure how much we can do about it on the open sea.”
“Don’t suppose begging for mercy would help,” Jasper said.
Radburn snorted. “Blackwood only offers mercy if it’s paid for first. And sometimes not even then.”
“Do you have any other secret hideouts in these parts?” Harriet asked. “Other safehouses?”
Daniel shook his head. “Afraid not. Pirates took all the good ones.”
“Then we’ll have to make our move once we reach Calamor,” Martin said.
“My lady!” the voice called again. “Best we head back now!”
“We should keep you here at the very least,” Simon said to the Entress. “We can say Radburn needs continual care and that you can’t be spared.”
“That would still leave us with two Colonists on his ship,” Delia said. “Thanks to Caradoc and his grand ideas.”
“My lady!”
“You want me to go up there and give him a punch in the nose?” Ink asked.
“Thank you, but no,” Seherene replied. “I think it’s best for everyone if I return. Isaac didn’t exactly make fast friends with Blackwood. I was almost prepared to cast a shield between them. And Mr. Fortescue means well but he does seem the sort who needs . . . looking after. Or am I wrong about that?”
Simon smiled. “Not in the least, I’m afraid.”
“We’ll set the trap for Calamor, then,” Daniel said. “Everyone can put their best efforts to the task. Do everything we can to prepare. Out of interest, how long has it been since you were all in a proper fight? We saw Caradoc and Mrs. Whistler hold their own against slavers, but what about the rest of you?”
“We can manage,” Delia replied. “Even though we kept to Riverfall as much as possible we still had to be ready for trouble whenever we went for supplies, and trouble found us often enough. We’ve made it a point to keep up our skill with a weapon.”
That was true. While doing his daily chores on Riverfall, Ink would sometimes hear gunshots on the outer border of the village. Jeremy had explained the unsettling noises simply as ‘practice’. At first, Ink imagined the worst, expecting to find the corpses of unfortunate fellow captives strewn about the woods. But a closer inspection proved the real targets were trees.
“Good,” Daniel replied. “We’ll do what we can to avoid a fight, of course, but that will probably be easier said than done.”
“We’ll be ready,” Martin said.
Seherene nodded. “And in the meantime, I can start working on a plan to deal with Blackwood.”
“Wouldn’t a good bash to the head do it?” Skiff asked.
“I wish it were that simple. But he’s got some kind of enchantment protecting him. It’s so subtle I hardly noticed it the first time we met. I’ll need some time to figure out how it works.”
Delia nodded. “All right. Then everyone to their purpose. We should have plenty of time to think about things now that we’re missing a mainmast . . .”
“What?” Martin, Radburn, and Harriet all cried out at the same time.
As the explanation was given, Ink saw Seherene step up to Daniel and put a hand on his brow near the bleeding gash. After a few moments, it was healed. He thanked her almost bashfully. She then turned towards the companionway, but paused next to Margaret and nodded at her with a glance towards Radburn.
“It was well done applying that tourniquet. It may have been past the power of enchantment by the time I arrived.”
A small smile tugged at Margaret’s mouth. “I knew all that training in the gambling room would pay off. Come on. I’ll see you back to the boat. And I know you’re more than capable of handling yourself over there, but I’d still suggest keeping that knife belt close by. You can’t lower your guard for a moment when there’s a viper in the room.”
“I don’t intend to.”
The room fell silent as everyone watched them depart. Once their footsteps had faded, Skiff held both hands to her face and glanced around at the others.
“All right, I have to ask . . . is no one going to talk about the giant sea serpents?”
This time, an entire chorus of voices rang out.
“What?”
The moment Seherene returned to the Grackle, she asked after Caradoc. He still hadn’t returned. Blackwood had ordered the crew to search the ship and even scan the surrounding waters to be sure he hadn’t tumbled overboard in the storm. But there was no sign of him. Seherene decided then and there to remain on deck, certain he would appear again any minute.
Hours passed. Someone gave her a blanket. Another offered to bring up a hammock for her, but she refused to sleep. Only when the sun appeared on the horizon did she finally admit defeat to her heavy eyelids. He would be back by the time she woke. He had to be.
As she made her way to her cabin, Blackwood assured her they would continue searching for Caradoc with no effort spared. But Seherene knew better. She saw it in his eyes, and in the crew who whispered around her. They considered him drowned. What energy they spent now was in hope of recovering his body—and the Spider Key with it.
Chapter 25
Through the Keyhole
There was no time for Riva to fully recover. Helena had begun to grow suspicious, and as Dr. Tyrus could not come up with a viable explanation that might satisfy his wife, it was time for “Charlotte” to show her face at last. This she did—but not before having Emma cut her hair short and dye it black. She also took to wearing a pair of spectacles, as well as a large linen cap which curved so far around the sides of her head her face could not be fully seen unless she looked at someone directly, which she rarely did. Whenever anyone spoke to her beyond the safety of the room she shared with Emma, she kept her head bowed and said as little as possible.
Tyrus came at least once a day to assess the state of her health, but avoided prolonging his stays lest he risk rousing suspicion for spending more time with one of his servants than any other. Riva also did her best to steer clear of Kieran, fearing he would recognize her even in disguise and blurt out her secret again for all to hear. Because she kept so much to herself, Helena declared her the shyest girl she had ever met, but also praised her as an excellent worker.
She’d been sent to the laundry—a decision which Emma had encouraged, largely because it meant Riva would spend most of her time in a small, out-of-the-way room without many others around. Her main tasks involved boiling water in the copper, identifying various stains and preparing the treatments for them, and working at the mangle to wring out the washed clothing. The near-constant turning of the iron crank made her arms very sore, so much that she felt she couldn’t bear another day of it. But she always did, and she soon began to realize how grateful she was for the aches and pains. They proved she was active, of use again. Regaining her strength one crank at a time.
She remembered fondly the many hours she spent doing chores and heavy work with her fellow Colonists. The memories, in turn, began to renew her hopes. As far as anyone knew, they were all right. The papers reported that they’d escaped the clutches of the Colonist-hunters on Fenmire, and had now gained a powerful ally who was more than capable of protecting them. Riva couldn’t wait for the day she returned to them, hopefully with Emma and her parents in tow. They were all as good as exiles now—Emma for escaping the mass arrests at Harroway, her parents for having a convicted Colonist daughter—and there was no better place for exiles than Riverfall.
“Do you think the Lady Seherene really means it?”
Riva looked up from the mangle. Her co-worker, Tara, had just returned with another basketful of kitchen towels to be washed. Riva pursed her lips against a sigh. Tara was a younger girl of seventeen. A Cassrian, like many servants of the household. She was kind in her own way and had been very patient in teaching Riva the ropes, but she was also unhinged at the jaw, pouring out an endless stream of gossip, questions, and opinions. The laundry was seldom quiet, save for the brief moments of relief when Riva found herself alone. Though it tested her patience, she also recognized the benefits. It saved her from having to talk or explain anything about herself. It also warded off any other servants who might have otherwise hung around.
“That she really means what?” Riva asked, knowing full well her acknowledgement of the question would open another floodgate of prattle.
Tara shut the laundry door with her foot and hurried to set the basket near the wash tubs. “Well, that she’s really taken up their side. The Colonists, I mean. Or is it all some big game she’s playing? Of course, why play games if she could’ve simply arrested them on that island up north? So it must be a genuine change of heart. It’s just so completely shocking one can’t help but dream up all sorts of explanations. People are still jolly upset about it, too. I heard the kitchen staff arguing this morning. Cook still doesn’t believe it. She was going on about some vast government conspiracy, which I suppose makes some sense, seeing as how the High Council was—well, you know—and who’s to say she’s wrong? And then there’s Lord Pallaton, getting himself killed like that. He seemed much too clever to get caught up in anyone’s plots or schemes. He must have known something was up. They’re going to name a college after him, you know. Somewhere near Orthys. After his victory at the Diamond Court, I thought for sure he and Lady Seherene would be tying the knot sometime soon, but of course that’s no longer an option. I know the papers say she killed him, but I can’t bring myself to believe it. It just doesn’t feel right, if you know what I mean. I certainly don’t believe she had anything to do with the Council House getting blown up. It doesn’t make any sense! Not after all the work she’s done fighting for justice and all that. She may be a traitor, but she’s no mass murderer. Not her! I don’t care what the papers say. They can’t even agree on what story to tell about the new consul. There’s an awful lot of confusion over that, you know. Lots of people angry that a new set of Elders weren’t elected, and how the whole business was awful underhanded . . .”
Riva never said anything during these long rants. Not that she could have anyway. She only focused on turning the crank and making sure her fingers were well away from the rollers.
“Mr. Farrow says that people are starting to vie for Consul Madara’s favor. Get their families in good with her and such. He thinks it’s stirring up grudges and bad blood between the old clans. Mr. Cork said that Dr. Tyrus’s clan—that’s the Uldasar clan—were in terrible straits with the Montisado clan down the road. He said he didn’t know any more about it but I think he just didn’t want to tell me. Then there’s the rumors about war, of course. But if it does come to that, I reckon we ought to be perfectly safe here. The doctor’s got a high-ranking position, after all, and he’s always been a good friend of the Atturias family—that’s the Lady Madara’s family—as well as being her personal physician. She relies on him for everything. Always has! I’ve seen her once or twice, you know. Just a glimpse in her carriage, but oh, she’s a proper lady. Everything about her just looks very regal, you know what I mean? I never saw her daughter but people say she’s the same way. Has that look about her. I wish I had it. Then maybe I’d get promoted up to the kitchen instead of being stuck in the laundry day and night. Still . . . better to have some work than none at all, eh?”
“Depends on the work,” Riva replied, grunting as she turned the crank against a stubborn piece of clothing. Tara, meanwhile, had already set the kitchen towels to soak in the copper and was giving them a good stir.
A knock came at the door. Michael, the third gardener, stuck his head into the room.
“Afternoon, Miss Tara. Miss Charlotte.”
Riva kept her head bowed but nodded. Tara turned to him with a hand on her hip.
“Afternoon, Michael. Surprised to see you in here. Cook’ll have your head if she catches you, you know.”
“I’m here on approval, actually, with a delivery of strawberries. Just popped in thinkin’ you’d like to know whose carriage pulled up at the gate a few minutes ago. But maybe you’re right. Maybe I ought to be going . . .” He started to withdraw.
“Michael Trent, you get back here and tell us what you know!” Tara cried. Her eyes went wide. “It’s not the Lady Madara, is it?”
Riva stiffened, almost losing her grip on the crank.
Michael grinned. “Nope. Even better. To you, anyways.”
“Well, go on! Don’t make us waste half the day guessing! Whoever it is will be gone by then!”
“All right, then. All right. It’s your precious Lord Drystan. Come to visit the doctor.”
Tara put both hands to her face. “Lord Drystan!”
“See?” Michael said. “I knew you’d be pleased.”
Tara rushed over to Riva. “Oh, Charlotte, you have got to see this man for yourself. He is beyond gorgeous! Come on! He’ll probably be in the doctor’s study by now! We can catch a glimpse of him there!”
Riva felt the blood drain from her face. She wanted nothing more to do with Lord Drystan. He’d been tasked with defending her at her trial, despite never believing she was innocent. He’d also done nothing to help her parents through the terrible situation. He was self-serving. False and insincere. Certainly a stark reminder of the worst months of her life. It was upsetting enough merely to hear his name spoken again. She shook her head.
“No, Tara. We ought to get on with our work.”
“Oh, don’t be silly! We’re not slaves, after all! And we’re a due a break for tea, anyway! Come on!”
“We’re not allowed outside the service wing!”
“We’ll be quick! No one will even know we’ve gone!”
Before Riva could protest further, Tara grabbed her by the hand and pulled her toward the door. Michael, still grinning, opened it for them and wished them good luck.
Riva had no choice but to let Tara drag her along. Fortunately, they met no one else on their path, and they were able to reach the second floor with relative ease, though with every step Riva dreaded they would round a corner and run straight into Kieran—or even Drystan himself.
“In here,” Tara said quietly, pushing through a door.
Riva found herself in Tyrus’s filing room, which adjoined his private study. It was filled with all manner of medical charts and diagrams meticulously organized in cupboards and cabinets. Tara pulled her to the other door on the far side of the room and knelt by the keyhole.
“Tara, I think we should go back,” Riva whispered.
“It’s only for a minute!” The girl put her eye to the keyhole. “Look! There he is! Oh, if he is not the most handsome man you could ever hope to lay eyes on . . .”
“All right, you’ve seen him! Now let’s go before someone catches us!”
“Not before you’ve had a look, too! Come on!”
Tara pulled on her arm again, urging her towards the keyhole. Riva sighed. She supposed the quickest way to be gone was to humor the girl, and so she reluctantly knelt before the door and glanced into the room. She recognized Drystan at once, dressed in his fine clothes and sitting in a plush chair with a glass of wine in his hand. The very sight of him made her want to run in the opposite direction.
What she heard, however, rooted her to the spot.
“And what of the girl’s parents?” Tyrus asked. He had just taken a seat across from his guest with his own glass of wine.
“They have been moved to a small house on the edge of town,” Drystan answered.
“Do you truly believe she would be so foolish as to go to them?”
Drystan looked reluctant to answer, but eventually conceded the point. “No. I do not. I understand the consul’s reasoning, but I think it’s only a matter of time before she loses patience and has them arrested.”
Riva’s heart sank. Once her parents were taken to Stalikos, there would be no chance of ever getting them out again.
“What about the miners who abandoned Harroway?” Drystan asked. “Any word of them? They can’t have disappeared into thin air.”
Tyrus arched an eyebrow. “Well, they were convicted criminals, and such people usually have a talent for evading the law. They likely fled from the mountains as soon as they heard what was happening in the town. I should be very surprised if we see any of them again. In any case, they pose no threat to our reclaiming those lands. The first wave of soldiers we sent have met no opposition. I believe our only real challenge will be convincing the Assembly to grant us jurisdiction over the citizens of Harroway already in their custody.”
“Yes. They are sending Commissioner Marlas as an ambassador to speak with the consul on the matter, but if he comes only to tell her what she doesn’t want to hear I believe it will be the death knell for our relationship with the Assembly. Good riddance, I say. Time and time again, they have proved reluctant to show us even the slightest good will.”
“They certainly can’t have been ignorant of Harroway. Marlas owning the deeds for the mines all but proves they’ve been profiting from the theft of our property.” Tyrus glanced down into his wine glass. “And yet . . . consider the great drain on our time and resources if we were to conduct the trial of an entire town. The investigations alone could take a year, if not longer. Perhaps it’s best to leave them where they are.”
“The consul might agree with you . . . if she trusted the Cassrians to judge them rightly.”
