The Fanged Crown tw-1 Read online

  “What is your name, soldier?” Cardew asked, trying to keep an amicable tone as he stared down at the glowering dwarf. As a Knight-Confident in the Order of the Dark Sparrow, Cardew knew appearances were crucial. For instance, it gave him an air of gentility to act congenially toward anyone he encountered, no matter the person’s station or birthplace-or how unreasonable they were being.

  “Amhar, sir,” the dwarf replied, his dark eyes flashing with contempt.

  “And you are stationed in …?” Cardew probed, taking a close look at the dwarf’s regimentals in the hope that there was some irregularity that he could call out. But the dwarf’s quilted acton was perfectly appropriate for guard duty within the castle grounds, his sheathed sword was belted at his hip, and the insignia of his order was displayed proudly on his shoulder. Most infantry carried an ash spear, but certain orders allowed dwarves to carry axes instead.

  “In Darromar. I am a member of the Order of the Tempest Stahl. Queen Anais’s Court of the Crimson Leaf,” Amhar recited tonelessly.

  “Really? Why aren’t you with your queen?”

  “She’s your queen too,” Amhar replied.

  Cardew prided himself on his tolerance, but the dwarf was pushing him perilously close to his limit. A caravan of high-ranking dignitaries had arrived just before an abnormally thick fog had settled on the countryside. The guests had requested to see someone, and as ranking officer in the palace, Cardew was the man to talk to. Or he would be if Amhar weren’t blocking his way to the guests’ quarters in the Griffon Wing of the palace. It wasn’t the first time he and the dwarf had crossed paths that night. But if Cardew had anything to say about it, it would be their last.

  “I am well aware that Anais is ruler of the realm,” Cardew said tersely. “My question is why are you separated from your regiment?”

  “Didn’t you hear?” Amhar asked in disbelief. “A scout arrived with the news a while back. The queen and her entourage were forced to stop in the village of Celleu due to the fog. The horses lay down on the ground and refused to continue blindly.”

  “If it’s so bad, how did the scout make it back without peril?” Cardew said testily.

  “Listen to me,” the dwarf growled. “There’s something wrong. There’s a plot underway, and you’re too stupid to see it.”

  As Cardew looked down at the angry dwarf, he had an unpleasant thought: if Evonne were traveling with the queen’s entourage, she would be delayed as well.

  “Your concern has been noted,” Cardew said brusquely. He wanted to be away so he could check on the status of Evonne’s arrival.

  “You’re risking everyone’s lives,” Amhar said harshly. “I told you about the groundskeeper-”

  Cardew cleared his throat, interrupting Amhar and giving himself time to consider what punishment would be acceptable for a soldier who so brazenly insulted a Knight-Confident. But it would have to wait until morning. The number of soldiers at the palace was unfortunately small. If Cardew locked up the dwarf for insolence, it would mean one fewer soldier on duty. And Cardew intended to dine with the dignitaries, not spend the night on watch.

  At that moment, a door behind them burst open, and three young girls barreled out the door. The blonde cousins were nearly identical except for their size and the fact that the youngest, Ysabel-Evonne’s daughter-still toted a grubby poppet.

  The redheaded governess followed close on their heels- the same redhead that Cardew had enjoyed in the stable loft earlier that afternoon. The flustered woman barely had time to give Cardew an appreciative glance before hurrying down the corridor after her charges.

  “Girls, come here,” she called, waving a pair of silk slippers while Cardew tried to recall the governess’s name. Lilabeth or Lizabeth, or something else entirely. Cardew had never been good at remembering women’s names.

  The girls paid no attention and scampered down the hallway like spoiled little brats. Cardew had the same trouble with his own charge Teague, Evonne’s only son.

  Cardew turned his attention back to the dwarf, who was gripping the handle of his axe like he was about to chop down a tree. Cardew raised an eyebrow.

  “If the night’s festivities will continue without Queen Anais, it’s safe to assume that they will continue despite the mysterious disappearance of your groundskeeper,” Cardew said.

  “It’s not just him,” Amhar said. “There’s the load of wood, delivered unexpectedly. In a fog such as that outside-”

  “Did you check the wood?” Cardew asked sarcastically. But Amhar took him seriously.

  “Yes, I checked it. There was no writ of sale. And there’s the question of the fog itself. In all my years, I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  Before Cardew could reply, a young soldier hurried around the corner. Unlike Amhar, the soldier wore the hauberk and helm of a guard on perimeter duty. The crest on his shoulder was a white and green diamond, an insignia Cardew didn’t recognize. There were soldiers from too many regiments at the palace that night. It was causing havoc with the lines of authority.

  “There’s a disturbance on the road, a mile north from the gate,” he told Cardew breathlessly. There was a wet sheen on the young man’s face and hands as if he’d been outside during a heavy rain.

  Cardew sighed. “What happened? Did a goat cart run off the road?”

  Amhar shot Cardew an angry glance and turned to the soldier. “What kind of disturbance?”

  The soldier shrugged helplessly. “The patrol sent a single scout. He caught me at the North Lion’s Gate and told me to find the ranking officer. I sought you out right away.”

  “How many soldiers are at North Lion’s?” the dwarf inquired.

  “Only seven on the gate, sir. We sent a dozen to meet the Queen on the road before the fog set in. They haven’t returned.”

  “What about the southern and eastern gates?” Cardew asked.

  The soldier looked pained. “Unmanned, sir. The orders were to secure the ballast-doors and group in the north field.”

  “There’re only eight guards in the palace itself,” the dwarf reminded Cardew. “We should cancel dinner and set a guard on the guests.”

  That was the worst idea Cardew had heard all night. Even if Evonne was delayed, Captain Landon Bratherwit had already arrived and was, in fact, the man who had requested to see Cardew. There were rumors that the Captain was looking to fill a post in Darromar. Cardew had never met Bratherwit face-to-face before. And face-to-face was Cardew’s specialty. If he wanted to have any influence on the maneuverings between Evonne and her sister, Queen Anais, Cardew had to be awarded the Darromar post, not escorting Evonne’s son to lesser nobles’ estates in backwater provinces and seeing to overturned goat carts.

  “It is worth checking out,” Cardew said to the soldier, ignoring the dwarf’s suspicious glance in his direction. “I’ll bring the guests to the Grand Library. We’ll keep it quiet until you get back.”

  The dwarf hesitated, obviously not sure what to make of Cardew’s sudden change of heart, but he followed the dripping soldier out of sight. There was no way Cardew was going to cloister such important people in the library or terrify the children with such nonsense. As Cardew headed down the corridor to the Griffon Wing where Captain Bratherwit and the other guests were lodged, his mind flitted away from the annoying dwarf and back to Evonne.

  In the four years her son had been his charge, she had barely cast her topaz-colored eyes in his direction. He had always believed that if he just had the chance to spend a relaxed evening in her company, she would find him as intriguing as he found her.

  A month before, Cardew had chaperoned Teague to the Masque of the Siren, a costume ball for children at Queen Anais’s palace. When he had brought the boy home, the doorjack told him that Evonne wanted to see him in her private study. His heart pounding, he had climbed the grand staircase and rapped lightly on the door.

  “Come in,” she said in her distinctively low voice. She was seated behind a desk carved from dark wood. Boo
kshelves filled with leather-bound tomes lined ther walls, and a fire burned brightly in the open fireplace. Cardew had never met a woman who had a study of her own, but then he’d never met a woman who’d lead a revolt against the throne either.

  “Lady Linden,” he said, bowing. “You requested me.”

  “Yes, Master Cardew,” she said, gesturing to the chairs in front of the desk. The cut of her black dress was casual, but she wore blue silk gloves that covered her slim arms up to her elbows. “Please sit.”

  “Thank you,” he said, choosing a chair covered in supple red leather directly across from her.

  “You escorted Teague to the palace?” she asked. She had been writing something on a scroll, which she rolled up and placed in a drawer. Evonne had a reputation as a powerful wizard, and as a man with a martial bent, Cardew had little use for the arcane arts. But Cardew never underestimated the potential of an intelligent woman. Under the right circumstances, self-confidence could be as pleasing in a lover as innocence. “How were the festivities?”

  Cardew hesitated. He felt an odd tension running between them. In the presence of another woman, he would have dismissed it as attraction and begun calculating the steps to get her into bed. But with Evonne, the standard formula was too prosaic. Besides, he wanted her to come to him.

  “Enjoyable,” he said carefully. “There were a few surprises, but most seemed satisfied with the affair.”

  She tipped her head to the side and scrutinized him openly. He could see her eyes travel over his face and down his body. It was a brazen move, and after an uncomfortable moment, Cardew found himself very much enjoying her attention.

  “I’ve been watching you,” she said with a little smile. “I believe you have a … good eye for detail. I was hoping you would be able to be more specific.”

  Cardew knew exactly what she meant. While the children stomped around the dance floor dressed like animals and mutilating the simplest dances, Cardew spent the evening analyzing every nuance of conversation and connivance of the adults in the hall. Most of the members of court thought like sheep, bestowing loyalty on whoever was popular among the rank-and-file nobles. But Cardew knew that the power struggle between Queen Anais and Evonne still simmered. And he knew which nobles were smart enough to be waiting patiently in the proverbial middle ground between the sisters to see who would ultimately prevail.

  “Rase Lahame talked to Captain Yohns for quite a while on the portico,” he began. “The Captain was most uncomfortable and kept checking over his shoulder.” Cardew talked for a long time. When he finally finished, Evonne gave him a bright smile that made him shiver pleasantly.

  “You do not disappoint, Master Cardew,” she said, standing up.

  “Please, call me Declan,” he said.

  “I look forward to another discussion sometime soon,” she said. Unexpectedly, she slipped off her glove and extended her bare hand. He stepped forward and grasped it, noticing a faint network of red scars branching across the back of her hand and up her wrist. They fascinated him, but he was clever enough not to let his eyes dwell on them too long. He let himself briefly enjoy the touch of her warm fingertips, bowed formally, and hurried down the stairs. The scars stayed in his mind for days. It was the first time that something other than perfection had appealed to him.

  The night’s festivities at the Winter Palace would be the first time they had seen each other since that tantalizing encounter. He sincerely hoped Evonne had arrived ahead of the fog.

  CHAPTER THREE

  29 Kythorn, the Year of the Ageless One

  (1479 DR)

  The Marigold, the Coast of Chult

  Harp crossed the gangplank alone and stood on the deck of the Marigold. Looking at the thick grime coating the deck, the yellow mold growing up the walls of the main cabin, and the barrels leaking white slime, the seeds between the Crane’s planks seemed like a minor sin.

  Harp looked back at the deck of his ship, at his crew busy with their chores. While Kitto secured the knots on the mast ropes, Llewellyn sewed a small tear in the bottom of a golden sail. The ship’s tailor, Llewellyn was a quick-witted man in his fifties who wrote fiery philosophical treatises by candlelight and left copies at the various ports where they set anchor. Most of Llewellyn’s ideas exhausted Harp, but Kitto seemed to enjoy them. He was listening intently to Llewellyn as they worked side by side, a small knowing smile on the boy’s impish face.

  On the other side of the deck Verran held a spare board steady while Cenhar sawed it in half. The loose plank had splintered when it smacked Bootman in the face and needed to be replaced. Without being asked, Cenhar was showing Verran how to fix it so the boy would know what was expected of him if he wanted to find a place among the close-knit crew.

  Harp’s family.

  Perched on the top of the railing, Kitto spotted Harp and raised his hand in a silent offer of help. Harp shook his head slightly, and Kitto nodded. The boy turned and walked along the narrow railing as the rhythm of the choppy waves rocked the ship up and down. His arms hung loosely at his sides while his body effortlessly adjusted to the motion of the Crane. Harp had known Kitto since he was small and scrawny, indentured on the Marderward. Even then, the boy had had an uncanny sense of balance and coordination that amazed Harp.

  Kitto had been with him the night they’d fled the Marderward with Liel, an elf who was being held prisoner by the brutal captain. It was Kitto and Liel who had rowed the little skiff away from the burning ship. Delirious from pain, Harp curled up on the bottom of the boat with a broken hand and a split face watching the showers of hot cinders spark across the night sky. Kitto had been with him during the halcyon months hiding on the Moonshae Isles when the three of them-Kitto, Harp, and Liel-had lived in a safe haven and formed the closest thing to a family that Harp had even known. Then he’d lost both Kitto and Liel.

  It was several years before he saw Kitto again, when the boy miraculously showed up in the derelict port town where he and Boult had found lodging in the months after they were released from the Vankila Slab. The sight of Kitto’s small, dirty face on his doorstep made Harp weep. Finding the boy was the first thing he’d planned to do, just as soon as he had enough coin to buy a ship. Harp never got the full story on how Kitto managed it: an eleven-year-old kid walking barefoot from Tethyr with just Harp’s name scrawled on a piece of paper.

  Kitto gave his last coin to the beggar on the corner who pointed him in the direction of Harp’s decrepit hovel, just one of many in a street of hovels. He’d been so quiet that it had taken Harp and Boult a tenday just to get him to talk about the weather, or the gruel, or anything at all. Those were the days when a strong wind could split Harp’s scars open, and he wondered if he’d ever stop feeling like a walking dead man.

  At least they had a plan: to buy the Crane. The ship had given them a singularity of purpose, probably the last time in Harp’s life that was true. Every night after smashing rocks or killing rats or whatever petty job they took instead, they counted their gold and went to sleep hungry under a roof that provided only slightly more shelter than sleeping rough under the stars. They might have lived out their days in the waterfront district, never earning enough to get out-the plight of most of the denizens that shared the refuse-slick streets with them.

  But the day Harp showed up at the dingy tradeshop with his latest payment on the ship, the owner of the Crane met him at the door. The man must have been the last honest person at the port, because he refused Harp’s coin and gave him the writ of sale, saying a mysterious benefactor had paid the debt. He wouldn’t say who had done them such a favor, not even when Boult, suspicious of the good deed, returned to the shop and offered him a reward for the information.

  They sailed away from the port on the Crane that very day, with Boult, who had never been on a ship before, heaving into a bucket. Harp leaned on the railing beside Kitto, who was actually smiling at the sight of the wretched city disappearing in the distance. The scars on Harp’s arms had split that mornin
g, and there he stood, leaking blood onto the boards. As long as he never saw the inside of another prison or had anything remind him of a copper-haired elf named Liel, maybe everything would be all right.

  But it hadn’t been, of course. Boult and Kitto had hauled him out of more than one cell where’d he’d been tossed after a night in the wrong pub or the wrong bed or the wrong whatever he couldn’t remember. And Liel was the first thing he thought of when he woke up in the morning and, unless he was drunk enough, she was the thing he couldn’t put out of his head at night.

  Some days, he burned with anger at Liel for letting Kitto set out on the road by himself, although there was little she could have done to stop the boy if he had his mind set on it. But she had promised to take care of Kitto even after she married Declan Cardew. Hatred didn’t come naturally to Harp. He’d give a man more chances than he deserved. But the power-hungry, ambitious Cardew had been a thorn in Harp’s foot for years. No, that was too gentle a comparison for the role he’d played in Harp’s life. Cardew was poison in an already mortal wound.

  “What a dump!” Boult’s voice came from behind him.

  “Nine Hells!” Harp swore. Engrossed in thought, Harp had wandered down to the lower deck, moving aimlessly between crates and barrels as if answers would be waiting for him in plain sight. He was so distracted that he hadn’t heard Boult come down the ladder into the hold. “Who knew dwarves could sneak like cats?” Harp said.

  “I could’ve cut your throat, and you wouldn’t have seen me coming,” Boult said. “Lingering in the past like a pig rolling in slop. You get that look in your eye, you’re thinking about a certain ambitious, underhanded elf named Liel. When are you going to start using your head?”

  “I’ve made it forty-two years so far,” Harp replied. “No use starting now.”

  “Did you find anything?” Boult asked, lifting the lid of one of the crates and closing it quickly when the smell of rotting meat drifted into the air. “Bitch Queen, spare us. They must have been waiting here a long time.”