The crowd began to murmur, a buzzing that grew louder with each passing second. Javel felt the mood shifting around him. The shipment ran like clockwork each month: the check-in, the loading, the departure, Arlen Thorne at the head of the Census table in his usual fashion as though he was the grand emperor of the New World. Even the inevitable screaming parent eventually quieted down and left the lawn, weeping, when the cages had vanished into the city. It was all part of an orchestrated piece.
But now Thorne leaned over and began speaking urgently to one of his deputies. The entire Census table was moving, like rodents who scented danger. Javel was pleased to see that the soldiers around the cages were eyeing the crowd uneasily, that most of them had their hands on their swords. The priest from the Arvath had leaned in as well, his jowls shaking with each word as he argued with Thorne. The priests of God’s Church preached obedience to the Census, and in return, the Arvath received a healthy tax exemption from the Regent. The Arvath’s head bursar, Cardinal Walker, did a lot of drinking down in the Gut, and he wasn’t particular about who he did it with; Javel had heard several reminiscences about the Holy Father’s dealings that chilled his blood.
But like most of the Holy Father’s moves, this had been a shrewd one. Church doctrine did seem to make the Census run more smoothly. Javel could almost pinpoint the devout families by the resignation on their faces; long before their loved ones ever went into the cage, they had accepted it as their duty to country and God. Javel himself had attended the Church, long ago, but he had only done it to keep Allie happy, and he hadn’t been back since the day she shipped. The priest’s face grew more choleric the longer he argued with Thorne. Javel imagined going over and giving the fat man a good kick in the gut.
Suddenly a man’s voice rose above the low hum of the crowd, pleading: “Give me back my sister, Majesty!”
Then they were all shouting at once.
“Please, Lady, pity!”
“Your Majesty can stop this!”
“Give me back my son!”
The Queen held up her hands for silence. At that moment, Javel knew for certain that she truly was the Queen, though he never knew why or how he knew. She stood up in her stirrups, not tall but imposing nonetheless, her head thrown back combatively and her hair streaming around her face. Even raised in a shout, her voice was dark and deliberate, like syrup. Or whiskey.
“I am the Queen of the Tearling! Open the cages!”
The crowd erupted in a roar that hit Javel with the impact of a physical blow. Several soldiers moved to obey, pulling keys from their belts, but Thorne barked sharply, “Hold your positions!”
Javel had always thought Arlen Thorne the scrawniest human being he’d ever seen. The man was a collection of long, sticklike limbs, and the deep navy of the Census uniform did nothing to augment his girth. Watching Thorne rise from the table was like watching a spider uncoil itself and prepare to hunt. Javel shook his head. Queen or no, the girl was never going to get those cages open. Thorne had grown up in the Gut, raised by whores and thieves, and he’d clambered his way to the top of that particular shitheap to become the most profitable slave trader in the Tear. He didn’t see the world in the same way that most people did. Two years ago, a family named Morrell had tried to flee the Tearling when their daughter’s name came up in the lot. Thorne had hired the Caden, who found the Morrells in a cave within a day’s ride of the Cadarese border. But it was Thorne himself who tortured the child to death before her parents’ eyes. Thorne made no secret of these dealings. He wanted the world to know.
Vil, braver than the rest of them, had asked Thorne what he hoped to accomplish, reporting back: “Thorne said it was an object lesson. He said you couldn’t underestimate the value of a good object lesson.”
The object lesson had worked; so far as Javel knew, no one had tried to smuggle out one of the allotted since. Both Morrells had gone to Mortmesne in the next shipment, and Javel remembered that departure well enough: the mother was one of the first to march into the cage, docile as a rabbit. Looking into her blank eyes, Javel had seen that she was dead already. Much later, he’d heard that she’d succumbed to pneumonia on the journey, that Thorne had left her body for the vultures on the side of the Mort Road.
“The Queen of the Tearling has been dead these many years,” Thorne announced. “If you claim to be the uncrowned princess, this kingdom will require better proof than your word.”
“Your name, sir!” the Queen demanded.
Thorne stood up straight and drew in a deep breath; even from twenty feet away, Javel could see his pigeon chest expand. “I’m Arlen Thorne, Overseer of the Census!”
While Thorne was speaking, the Queen had reached up behind her neck and begun fiddling there, in the way a woman did when there was something wrong with her hair. It was a gesture Allie used to make, when the day was hot or when she was exasperated about something, and it pained Javel to see it on another woman. Memory cut infinitely deeper than swords; that was God’s truth. Javel closed his eyes and saw Allie for the last time, six years ago, that final glimpse of her bright blonde hair before she vanished over the Pike Hill into Mortmesne. He’d never wanted a drink so badly in his life.
The Queen held something high in the air. Javel squinted and saw a flash of blue in the last of the dying sunlight, there and then gone. But the crowd erupted again in bedlam. So many hands went into the air that the Queen was momentarily blocked from view.
“Jeremy!” called Ethan from up the bridge. “Is it the Heir’s Jewel?”
Jeremy, who had better eyesight than any of them, shrugged and called back, “It’s a blue jewel! Never seen the real one!”
Several groups of people had begun to push forward toward the cage of children. The soldiers pulled swords and turned them back easily, but the area around the cage was in a tumult now, and none of the swords returned to their scabbards. Javel grinned; it was good to see the army forced to work for once, even if the small rebellion was doomed. The troops who guarded the shipment were entitled to a bonus from the Regent. They didn’t reap as much reward from the shipment as the nobles who took toll from the Mort Road, but it was a fair chunk of money, from what Javel had heard. Good money for bad work; it seemed fitting to Javel that they should meet with some difficulty along the way.
“Anyone can hang a necklace around a child’s neck,” Thorne replied, ignoring the crowd. “How do we know it’s the true jewel?”
Javel turned back to the Queen, but before she could react, the Mace was shouting at Thorne. “I am a Queen’s Guard, and my word has been bonded to this kingdom! That is the Heir’s Jewel, just as I last saw it eighteen years ago!” The Mace leaned forward against his horse’s neck, his voice carrying an undercurrent of ferocity that made Javel recoil. “I’ve bound myself to this Queen, Thorne, to guard her life! Do you question my loyalty to the Tear?”
The Queen sliced the air with her hand, and the gesture silenced the Mace immediately. The Queen leaned forward and shouted, “All of you down there! You’re part of my government, and my army! You will open the cages!”
The soldiers looked blankly at each other and then turned back to Thorne, who shook his head. And then Javel saw something extraordinary: the Queen’s jewel, almost invisible moments ago, now flared a bright aquamarine, so bright that Javel had to squint, even at this distance. The necklace swung, a glowing blue pendulum over the Queen’s head, and she seemed to grow taller, her skin lit from within. She was no longer a round-faced girl in a worn cloak; for a moment she seemed to fill the whole world, a tall, grave woman with a crown on her head.
Javel grabbed Martin’s shoulder. “Do you see that?”
“See what?”
“Nothing,” Javel muttered, not wanting Martin to think him drunk. The Queen had begun speaking again, her voice angry but controlled, reason on top and fury underneath.
“I may sit on the throne for only one day, but if you don’t open those cages right now, I swear before Great God that my sole act as Queen will be to watch every one of you die for treason! You will not live to see another sun set! Will you test my word?”
For a moment, the scene before the cages remained frozen. Javel held his breath, waiting for Thorne to do something, for an earthquake to break the Keep Lawn wide open. The sapphire above the Queen’s head was now glowing so brightly that he had to raise a hand to shield his eyes. For a moment, he had the irrational feeling that the jewel was looking at him, that it saw everything: Allie and the bottle, the years he’d spent with the two of them tangled inside his head.
Then the soldiers began to move. Only a few at first, then several more, and more after that. Despite Thorne, who had begun to hiss at them in a furious undertone, the two commanders took keys from their belts and began to unlock the cages.
Javel released his breath, staring at this phenomenon. He’d never seen the cages opened once they’d been locked; he supposed no one but the Mort had. He knew of several people, including himself, who had followed the shipment all the way to the Argive Pass. But few dared to cross the Mort border, and no one followed the shipment all the way to its final destination in Demesne. If the Mort army found any Tear hanging around the cages, they would kill him outright as a saboteur.
One by one, men and women began to clamber out of the cages. The crowd received them into what seemed to be an enormous embrace. An old woman ten feet from the Census table simply collapsed and began weeping on the ground.
Thorne braced both arms on the table, his voice acid. “And what of Mortmesne, then, Princess? Will you bring the Red Queen’s army down on us all?”
Javel turned back to the Queen and was relieved to find that she was simply a girl again, just a teenager with an unremarkable face and disheveled hair. His vision, if that’s what it had been, was gone. But her voice had not diminished; if anything, it was louder now, clear anger ringing across the Keep Lawn. “I haven’t named you a foreign policy adviser, Arlen Thorne. Nor have I ridden halfway across this kingdom to engage in pointless debate with a bureaucrat on my own front lawn. I consider the good of my people first and foremost in this, as in everything.”
The Mace leaned over to whisper in the Queen’s ear. She nodded and pointed at Thorne. “You! Overseer! I hold you responsible to see that each child is returned to his family. Should I hear complaint of a lost child, it will rest at your feet. Do you understand me?”
“Yes, Lady,” Thorne intoned colorlessly, and Javel was suddenly very glad that he couldn’t see the man’s face. The Queen might think she’d leashed this particular dog, but Arlen Thorne had no leash, and she’d find that out soon enough.
“Praise for the Queen!” someone cried from the far side of the cages, and the crowd roared its approval. Families were reuniting in front of the cages, people calling joyfully to each other across the expanse of the lawn. But most of all, Javel heard weeping, a sound he hated. Their loved ones were being returned; what the hell did they have to cry about?
“There will be no more shipments to Mortmesne!” the Queen shouted, and the crowd answered in another incoherent roar. Javel blinked and saw Allie’s face floating just behind his closed eyes. Some days he feared he had forgotten her face; no matter how hard he tried, it wouldn’t come clear in his mind. He would fixate on one feature he thought he remembered, something easy like Allie’s chin, and then it would shimmer and blur like a mirage. But every so often would come a day like this, when he could recall every angle of Allie’s face, the curve of her cheekbone, the determined set of her jaw, and he would realize that the forgetting had actually been a kindness. He looked up at the sky and saw, relieved, that it was purpled with dusk. The sun had disappeared behind the Keep.
“Vil!” he called across the bridge. “Aren’t we off duty?”
Vil turned to him, his round face astonished. “You want to leave now?”
“No . . . no, I was just asking.”
“Well, hold it together,” Vil replied, his voice shaded with mockery. “You can drown your sorrows later.”
Javel’s face flamed, and he looked at the ground, clenching his hand into a fist. A hand clapped on his back; he looked up and saw Martin, his friendly face sympathetic. Javel nodded to show that he was all right, and Martin scuttled back to his position.
Two Queen’s Guards, one large and one small, both cloaked in grey, were moving around the cages with a bucket. Elston and Kibb, most likely; the two of them were inseparable. Javel couldn’t tell what they were doing, but it didn’t really matter. Most of the cages were empty now. Thorne had instituted some sort of careful procedure at the children’s cages, releasing the children one at a time and questioning parents who came forward before handing off a child. Probably a good idea; there was a loose confederacy of pimps and madams down in the Gut who catered to all tastes, and they weren’t above snatching a child from time to time. Javel, who spent plenty of time in the Gut, had thought more than once about trying to find the people who did these things, trying to bring them to some sort of justice. But his resolve always weakened as night fell, and besides, that was a charge for someone else. Someone brave.
Anyone but me.
Kelsea was exhausted. She clutched the hilt of Mace’s sword, trying to look regal and unconcerned, but her heart was hammering and her muscles felt drawn with fatigue. She reclasped the necklace around her throat and found that she hadn’t imagined it: the sapphire was burning, as though it had been heated in a forge. For a few moments there, arguing with Arlen Thorne, she had felt as though she could reach out and break the sky in half. But now all of that power had gone, drained away, leaving her muscles slack. If they didn’t get inside soon, she thought she might fall off her horse.
The sun had disappeared, and the entire lawn beneath the Keep was bathed in shadow, the temperature sinking rapidly. But they couldn’t go yet; Mace had sent several guards out into the crowd on various errands, and so far none of them had come back. Kelsea was relieved to see so many of her mother’s Guard alive, though she’d already done a quick count and realized, her heart sinking, that Carroll wasn’t there. But several new guards had shown up as well, men who hadn’t been with them on their journey. There might be as many as fifteen guards surrounding her now, but Kelsea couldn’t be sure without turning around. Somehow it seemed very important not to look back.
Perhaps a third of the people who’d originally been on the lawn had drifted away, likely fearing trouble, but most stayed. Some families were still tearfully reuniting with their loved ones, but others were merely spectators now, watching Kelsea curiously. The pressure of their eyes was a monstrous weight.
They expect me to do something extraordinary, she realized. Now, and every day for the rest of my life.
The idea was terrifying.
She turned to Mace. “We need to get inside.”
“Only a moment more, Lady.”
“What are we waiting for?”
“Your Majesty’s rescuer said a true thing, and one that’s stayed with me. Often the direct way is the right way, for reasons that can’t be foreseen.”
“Meaning what?”
Mace pointed to the edge of the circle of guards, and Kelsea saw four women and several children waiting there. One of them was the woman who had been screaming down in front of the cage. A small girl, perhaps three years old, was clutched in her arms, and four other children surrounded her. Her long hair fell over her face as she bent to her daughter.
“Your attention!” Mace called.
The woman looked up, and Kelsea’s breath caught. It was the madwoman from her dream, the one who had held the destroyed child in her arms. She had the same long, dark hair and pale complexion, the same high forehead. If the woman spoke, Kelsea thought she would even recognize the voice.
But I’ve never been able to see the future, Kelsea thought, bewildered. Not once in my life. As a child, she’d often wished for the sight; Carlin had told her several stories of the Red Queen’s seer, a truly gifted woman who had predicted many great happenings that eventually came to pass. But Kelsea had only the present.
“The Queen requires a service corps!” Mace announced, and Kelsea jumped, refocusing her attention on the scene in front of her. “She’ll require—”
“Hold.” Kelsea held up her hand, seeing the sudden fear in the eyes of the women. Mace’s idea was a good one, but if he mishandled that fear, all the bribes in the world would be of small use.
“I will command no one into my service,” she announced firmly, attempting to look each of the four women in the eye. “However, for those who join my household, I promise that you and your loved ones will receive every protection at my disposal. Not only protection, but all that my own children will one day receive. Education, the best of food and medical care, and the ability to learn any trade they choose. I also give you my word that anyone who wishes to leave my service will be allowed to do so at any time, without delay.”
She tried to think of something else to say, but she was so tired, and she’d already discovered that she loathed making speeches. A statement about loyalty seemed necessary here, but what was there to say? Surely they all knew that in service to her, they would be in a position to bring about her death, and more likely to see their own. She gave up, spread her hands wide, and announced, “Make your choice in the next minute. I can delay no longer.”
The women began to deliberate. For most of them, this seemed to consist of staring helplessly at their children. Kelsea noted the lack of men and guessed that Mace had specifically chosen women without husbands. But that wasn’t entirely true; her gaze went back to the madwoman from her dream, and then out into the crowd, searching for the husband. She found him standing some ten feet back, his feet spread and his muscled arms crossed.
She leaned over to Mace. “Why the dark-haired woman in blue?”
“If convinced, Lady, she’ll be the most loyal servant you have.”
“Who is she?”
“No idea. But I’ve a knack for these things, just take my word.”
“She may not be entirely sane.”
“Many women behave so when their young children ship. It’s those who let them go without a murmur that I distrust.”
“What of the husband?”
“Look closely, Lady.”