“Nor I,” Miles admitted.
“Well, at least Williams will not have the advantage over us any longer.”
They turned toward the corpse. The floors in the Creche were nowhere near level; blood had run from the seer’s cut throat to end up almost halfway across the room. Her white eyes stared at them, truly blind now, and yet Miles did not like to meet her gaze, any more than he had before.
“Do you think they’ll find the girl?” he asked Gayel.
“I don’t think it matters. She was poppied out of her mind, and even if she did remember anything, who would believe her? She was just a pigeon from the Alley.”
“But surely someone will want her back.”
“No. Ellens bought her outright.”
Miles nodded, relieved. His only worry was that the story might get back to Queen Arla somehow, but Gayel was right; no one cared about the words of a Creche whore.
“Come on, Marshall. Let’s get out of this place. The Andrews bitch was right about one thing: it reeks.”
Miles nodded. But he could not resist a last look back at the body on the floor. The seer’s head was thrown backward, her eyes still seeming to stare across the room. Miles turned quickly, following Gayel into the tunnels.
Gayel knew his way; he came down here to watch the fights, and Miles followed him confidently through the tunnels as they branched, met, and then branched again. The two of them talked of home, of the drought, of Lord Doleran’s problems with his new wife, who was known to have an eye for young servingmen. But even as he gossiped and laughed, Miles was thinking of the old woman, trying to remember exactly what she had said. She had talked about the True Queen, he knew that, and about ships, and something about the queen of spades. Miles was a good poker player, and he knew the spade queen well . . . but somehow he did not think that the crone had been talking about cards. He and Gayel climbed the great staircase and emerged into the sunshine—early-morning sunshine, bright and cheerful—but Miles did not feel it, for his entire body had gone suddenly, inexplicably cold.
“Thunderclouds on the horizon!” his father had liked to shout toward the end of his illness. “Right there on the horizon, Miles!” And Miles could not calm him, not with whiskey or books or the foul-smelling medicine from the local apothecary. Until the day he died, Robert Marshall remained convinced that the storm was already upon them, a storm so strong that it would shatter the kingdom in two.
Right there on the horizon, Miles repeated to himself. The familiar landscape of the Gut passed around them, pubs and card hells and brothels, but he was not comforted, for he could only think of the seer’s milky eyes, her gloating mouth. Beneath the raucous life of the Gut around him, he could still hear her voice.
“The True Queen! She comes now! I have seen it!”
She wasn’t talking about Arla, Miles thought. Queen Arla was a ruler like her mother, Queen Elaine, and Elaine’s mother before her, a queen who did what was expected . . . and with a sudden start, Miles wondered whether the woman might have been talking about Elyssa. The Crown Princess was already a subject of some unease among the nobility, for she did not mingle with them, not even with the noblewomen her own age, preferring instead the company of servants. Rumor said that Princess Elyssa had sympathies for the poor; Lord Dillon, who spent plenty of time at court, even claimed that she believed in redistribution of wealth. The Princess was young, only twenty-one, but stubborn. Even Queen Arla had not been able to tame her. A collectivist on the throne would be a disaster for the Tearling.
And for me, Miles thought. And then, looking at Gayel beside him: For all of us.
Then he told himself not to be ridiculous. Queen Arla had many years to live yet, and the old woman had only been a village seer. Good at forecasting the weather, perhaps, but telling the weather and telling the future of a kingdom were two very different things. Miles was out a hundred pounds, but Williams had made Lady Andrews whole, and having done so publicly, he would have to reimburse everyone; in the end, Miles would have his hundred back as well. The drought would end soon, and the crops rebound, but even if not, there were still fortunes to be made in a time of need. All would surely be well, but even so, Miles could not stop thinking of stars rising and moons falling, of prophecy, and though he was a good Christian who lent no credence to such things, he could not repress a chill.
Distantly, not with his ears but with his mind, he seemed to hear thunder.
CHAPTER 2
THE WOMAN IN THE CLOAK
Elyssa Anne Raleigh—Sixth Queen of the Tearling. Also known as the Shipper Queen. Mother: Queen Arla Raleigh (Arla the Just). Father: Lord Devin Burrell, fourth lord of the Burrell seat (predeceased).
—The Early History of the Tearling (Index), as told by Merwinian
Elyssa hated her mother’s court.
She supposed she should be thankful that this wasn’t a full audience. More than six hundred people crowded the Queen’s throne room, but that was only a fraction of the number the room could hold. It was late May, but the hot weather had already come on, and many of the Tear nobles had retreated from their New London manses to the country. Elyssa supposed she didn’t blame them—well, no, she did blame them, for a whole host of other things, but not for decamping. New London stank in summer. Sewage, piss, rotten animal flesh . . . the city never smelled of roses, but in hot weather the stench could not be escaped. Even here, on the fourth floor of the Keep, some hundred and fifty feet above the rest of the city, Elyssa could smell it.
Or maybe what she smelled was right here in this room.
The man from the Blue Horizon had been beaten within an inch of his life. His visible flesh was mottled with bruising: face and arms and even bare feet. His arm appeared to be broken; it hung limply at his side. When the two jailors released his arms, Elyssa saw that at least three of his fingernails had been ripped out. It wasn’t her first look at Welwyn Culp’s work, but she had never seen it so vicious before. Several ladies of the court had screamed at the man’s appearance. Even Niya, Elyssa’s own head maid, who reacted to all upset with a face of stone, had not been unmoved, hissing under her breath as Culp pulled the man’s hood off.
But Elyssa’s mother was not one to be moved by pity. A long time before, when Elyssa was only a child, a singer had composed an ironic song about the Queen, a ballad called “Arla the Just.” The singer had died in the Queen’s dungeons, but the nickname had stuck, and Elyssa’s mother was no more merciful now than she had been then. Queen Arla the Just sat easily on the throne, drinking her tea, apparently unperturbed by the bruised and bleeding man before her. The entire court stood waiting, silent, while the Queen took small sip after small sip, the sapphire crown twinkling on her head. After several minutes she placed the mug back in its saucer, and then set both carefully on the table beside her.
“Who is he?”