The True Queen, she thought again . . . the idea not detached now, but threaded with longing. If only I could do that, be that for them! If only I really could save them all!
Then she told herself to stop thinking like a child. She was well past nineteen, the Tear age of ascension, but her mother was not yet fifty, and healthy as a horse to boot. The Tear throne would be Elyssa’s one day, yes, but that day was as distant as dreams.
At the door of her chamber Elyssa dismissed Niya and went inside, relieved to have a few minutes to herself. She fell on her bed, curling her hands beneath her pillow, meaning to nap, to gather her strength for the inevitable moment when her mother’s summons came. But she found she could not rest. She kept seeing Gareth’s mottled skin, the ragged red wounds where his fingernails had been. Elyssa admired the Blue Horizon, for they wanted the same things she had always wanted: everyone taken care of, and justice for the low as well as the great. William Tear’s dream had failed, but it still lived, and Elyssa wanted it for her kingdom, wanted it with all her heart.
At times such as these, she missed Lady Glynn. Lady Glynn had a blessedly practical ability to get to the heart of the problem, and she had a knack for finding solutions in history books. Since her disappearance, there was no one for Elyssa to talk to about these things, about the broader vision she saw for her kingdom. Barty would listen, but his mind had too narrow a focus on Elyssa’s safety; he tended to dismiss all ideas, all courses of action, that would open her to greater danger. Her other guards were too young and, with the possible exception of Carroll, not serious-minded enough. Niya would listen; she always did. But she would not engage. Whatever Niya’s opinions of the future of the kingdom, she guarded them like a miser with his hoard. “I see it all the time,” Gareth had said, and Elyssa envied him. She wanted a better world too, but she could not envision it. After a few fruitless minutes spent trying to sleep, she got up and opened the door.
Niya was still waiting in the hall, talking with Elyssa’s Guard. Niya was not required to wait; technically, after being dismissed, she was free to go to her own room down the hall. But she always waited. As Elyssa emerged into the hallway, the maid and guards stopped gossiping and stood at attention.
“Highness?” Niya asked. “Did you need something?”
“Where have they put that man? Gareth?”
“In the infirmary, Highness.”
“Come on.”
The pack of guards followed them down the hall to the infirmary, a large room near the guard quarters. Elyssa had been quartered in there when she broke her leg riding, and Thomas had once been quarantined for pneumonia when he was little, but most of the time the room catered exclusively to the Queen’s Guard, and it showed. There was a pile of dirty laundry in the near corner. The far wall was clearly being used for overflow from the arms room; it was lined with fletches full of arrows, and several swords covered with nicks and scars leaned there, waiting for the armorer.
“Highness.”
Beale, her mother’s senior medic, bowed before her, and the other two followed. Coryn didn’t bow, but that was only because Elyssa had ordered her own guards not to.
“How is he?”
Beale shook his head, his mouth pinching in disapproval. He might be her mother’s man, but he was still a medic, and none of the medics cared much for Welwyn Culp’s work.
“He has been badly beaten, Highness, and not just with fists. I have found two broken ribs. A broken arm. Three fingernails torn out. He has burn marks on his forearms, and both kneecaps are badly swollen. I have not yet determined whether any of his internal organs are seriously damaged. We will have to watch his digestion.”
Elyssa moved up to the side of the bed, nudging in as Coryn made room for her. Seen up close, Gareth wasn’t so old as Elyssa had first thought; he might even have been close to her own age. He appeared to be sweating, though his face was so swollen that it was difficult to tell. Thinking of the wooden board, the manacles, Elyssa felt anger well inside her, not only for what went on in the dungeons but for all of it: her mother’s heavy-handed reign, her reliance on force. Elyssa placed a light hand on Gareth’s brow, then jumped as his eyes opened. They were light grey, and they seemed overly bright, almost feverish, as he stared up at her.
“The True Queen,” he said weakly. “Are you her?”
Elyssa stared down at his bruised face, thinking of her mother taking delicate sips of tea. Of Welwyn Culp’s watery eyes. Of well-fed nobles laughing in the throne room. Of the tenants facing starvation in the Almont. Last and most of all, of Lady Glynn’s histories: tales of good, but much more of evil, of humanity’s vast suffering, a suffering that could have been averted at so many turns if only there had been someone of true heart, of good intent. . . . If only that person had stepped forward at the right moment. . . .
“Yes,” she replied. “I am.”
Chapter 3
TAPESTRY
To call the Creche merely a series of tunnels is to call the wide world a simple sphere.
—James Benedict, Lord Evans the Ninth
Most visitors to Whore’s Alley gained entry via a set of stairs that led directly down into the Creche from the center of the Gut. These stairs had been specially built more than twenty years before by a loose confederation of bookmakers and pimps who had been smart enough to recognize the mutual interdependence of their wares. Win or lose, the culls wanted to fuck afterward, and the staircase had been a good investment.
Christian had never needed to use the stairs. When he was seven, he had discovered a small opening at the east end of the Alley, a tunnel that ran steadily downhill all the way to the third level of the Creche. The tunnel was mercifully dry, but so low that now he was forced to crawl through on his hands and knees. An uncomfortable journey, but he was Lazarus, the best fighter in the Creche. He didn’t like having his comings and goings observed, and he had a vague idea that the fewer people who knew he visited Maura, the better. This particular tunnel had the added benefit of emerging just outside Mrs. Evans’s stables, close enough to provide him with some measure of privacy.
The Alley was a broad tunnel, perhaps fifteen feet across, which bisected the southern section of the Creche. The tunnel’s walls were broken by many doorways, entrances to the various stables. As Christian passed the Sessions stable, he saw a jumble of letters painted in blue on the wall, and beneath them a crude drawing of a sun rising on the ocean. Like most denizens of the Creche, Christian had never learned to read, but he knew what the letters said: “The Better World.” The drawing of the sun was the calling card of the Blue Horizon, the revolutionary group. They would post themselves in the tunnels, babbling about the better world to anyone who would listen. Preaching in the Creche was a good way to get killed, but the Blue Horizon were nothing like the frocks from the Arvath; they came armed and armored, and they knew how to fight. Even the enforcers were no match for them. But Christian still didn’t understand what the fools were doing down here, preaching love, kindness, and, most laughably, an admonition to take care of each other. Whenever Christian saw the symbol of the Blue Horizon, or heard one of them blathering on about William Tear, he wanted to grab the whole bloody movement and shake them by the shoulders. Didn’t they know where they were?