22 – 3
The wind worsened while I was in the stables; a deep-biting, snow-blowing keen that skipped in from over frigid lake-waters. There are scarce few people on the streets, most of them in city watch tabards. They stand in pairs at corners and patrol in groups of five, stomping their feet and viciously complaining to each other. I count thirty-two before I reach the docks.
There were at least twice that many when I was here last. I've no doubt they number beyond even that, now. I can't fight them, I can't flee them; my only recourse is to stay hidden from them and do what I came to without their ever learning I am here.
Head down, hood up. To the docks.
I don't think Pike will be there, nor Merigold. I'd be surprised if anyone is, given the increasingly foul weather, but I go anyway. It's as good a place to start as any, and they've been there before. Why not start hunting them where last I met them? It's not because of a sick and morbid curiosity that I can't help but indulge; a nauseating need to return to the place Juliana died, to see for myself if her blood still stains the splintered pier.
It does. The wood is marked darkly by it, a shapeless spread half buried beneath a layer of frost and half obscured by wind-blown bands of loose snow. I stare at it, fixate on it, with a knot in my stomach and bile in my throat. I'm back there – back then – and all I can see are her empty, empty eyes. The knot rises, riding a tide of a curiosity sated. I'm going to be sick. I stagger to the wall and spatter an empty stomach onto the frozen ground and the toes of my boots.
I haven't eaten in days. Can't stomach the thought of it, let alone the act itself. It's been almost as long since I slept. It's as if there's no more room in me for anything other than my hatred for them, for Merigold and for Pike.
Sounds pierce the keening wind: the ringing strike of metal on ice and the gruff shouting of men. I wipe my mouth on the back of my glove, smearing snow and spit across the leather, and follow it. Maybe I'm wrong. Maybe one of them is at whatever is going on, and I'll get my first chance at them.
I bring the crossbow into my hands, fumble a bolt into the groove. The wind's blowing hard, so I'll have to get close; but all this loose snow will help keep me hidden.
If one of them is there.
Sounds get louder. So does the wind. Through the howling gray I see a group of men holding long metal poles, using them to break the ice built up around the piers' support pillars and those vessels too large or ungainly to bring out of the water. Eight of them do this work, dressed in clothes unsuited to a mild winter's day. In this, no matter how fast they work – and they work swiftly indeed – they freeze.
The four men who watch them, on the other hand, are not. Their garb is well-suited to the weather, identical to the guardsmen at the gate and those I passed by on the streets. The wind parts their cloaks long enough to spy the tabards they wear beneath.
Twelve men, none of them Pike. What are they doing here?
I slip closer, holding tight to the crossbow. The watchmen huddle together in the lee of a warehouse awning. I slip through curtains of driven snow to press my shoulder into the nearby wall and slide down it to the corner. There, I do my best to filter out the keening wind and drop eaves.
“Wish they'd hurry up!” one says to the other. The gray takes the reply, but not the supercilious laughter that follows.
You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.
“True enough,” shouts another, as if a great truth has been observed. A keening gale comes in off the lake, so I get only snatches of what comes after. It sounds like, “They wouldn't – honest day's – full in the face!”
More laughter. The men at work descend on a fat-bellied, net-laden scow, its masts weighed down with iced lines and frozen sailcloth. They break crushing, inches-thick ice into pieces with only a few strikes from their metal poles. None of them wear cloaks; most don't have gloves. The watchmen, who do nothing, have both. They have more: thick vests and trousers, fur-lined boots and woolen scarves. They look down on the men at work and act as if they're better.
“Oh, gods-damn this snow,” They've moved on to griping, it seems, even though the wind's died down a little, “cuts right to the bone!”
A chorus of agreement. Then, “One good thing's come of it, at least: 'erself won't be givin' any speeches 'til it blows over!”
“Means the next one'll be twice as long, boys, you mark my words!” Comes the retort, to groans and grumbling. No one disagrees. It emboldens the speaker, who goes on, “There's nothin' Her Majesty loves more'n herself, eh? I'll wager she's got a mirror over her bed, so she can look at herself while ol' Rolly tumbles her!” He laughs. The sound dies alone on the wind.
“Keep that shit 'tween y'ears,” a new voice warns coarsely, “Talk like that's got legs, see, an' it'll run righ' to 'er. Y'know what'll happen then, don' yeh? If y'lucky, she'll 'ang yeh. If y'not...”
“Was just jokin',” the chastened protests, nearly too quiet to be heard, “Didn' mean anythin' by it.”
“Well, it weren' funny,” the coarse answers, “Now, get that lot back t' th'prison 'fore they freeze solid.” There's a chorus of aye, sirs, then boots crunching snow. The watchmen descend on the men at work, shoving and shouting and hitting until they feel that they're sufficiently heard and obeyed. The swirling snow swallows them whole, leaving me alone with the coarse, who snorts and says to himself, “It – will – be twice as long, though, won't it?” before he also leaves.
With one last look to the shapeless stain, I slip away to the stable, to shelter and safety, to wait.
- - -
I make a nest of straw in the furthest corner of Peanut's stall and collapse into it, wrapped in my winter cloak. After seven nights in the open, wholly at the mercy of a tempestuous winter, sleeping no longer than a handful of minutes at a time, I pass out the moment I settle down. I don't dream; I don't remember the last time I did. When I wake, it's to the rattling creek of the stable doors rolling open and the pale morning that invites itself in.
The stable-hand wheels a barrow down the lane between the stalls, greeting the eager, hungry horses with pats, soft words, and scoops of feed. I'm on my feet by the time he reaches Peanut's, brushing the golden horse's massive flank. The hand slides open a slot in the stall door, reaching through to pat Peanut's huge head. “'lo there, biggun.” Feed pours through into a bucket, into which Peanut sticks his snout. “Got a bit extra there for yah, 'cause y'so damned – shittin' moonlight! What're y'doin' in here?!”
I have to duck under Peanut's neck to see him, wide eyed and holding the feed scoop like a shield. He's young and pale, curly haired and red-cheeked from the cold. “Brushing my horse,” I answer, my voice sleep-rough.
“Shittin' moonlight,” he puts his hand to his heart, “Scared th' hell out o' me, y'did!”
I shrug, apologetic. He breathes in deep, lets it out slow. Before he can do more than that – say, notice the nest of straw in the stall's furthest corner – I ask, “Is there anywhere I can buy some food? The square, maybe?”
He drums the scoop with his fingertips, then shakes his head. “Nah, not there. Mayor's in th' square, see, and shops there're like t'stay shut 'til after she's gone. I were you, I'd head over to Dutton's just down th' way. He does a good spread in th' morn: warm an' fillin', like. Good for th' day's work, y'know?”
“My thanks,” I nod. “Excuse me.”
He steps aside and I slip through the stall door, hurrying out of the stable and into the winter morning. Dutton's was where Clarke and I had holed up while Juliana recovered from the gate crush. Even if I was looking for food, I wouldn't go there; he'd recognize me in an instant. We hadn't gotten along.
I turn towards the square; head down, crossbow bumping my back with every step. I'd slept with it in my arms. When had I started doing that? I don't remember.
There's even more watchmen around, now that the weather's calmed. They're stationed at almost every corner, patrolling nearly every street. People won't look at them, won't speak to them without being spoken to first. They shy away like they're afraid, like they haven't gotten exactly what they asked for. Merigold promised them security. She promised they would be safe. How did they think she would do it?
How did they think she would do it?
I hear her before I see her. She was loud before. It would seem that experience has only made her louder. She talks of values, family, and tradition; how these things are threatened by an enemy she's yet to name. She talks about the good people of her beloved city, how much she cares for them, and how hard she works for them. She stands above them on a platform in the center of the square, surrounded by her watchmen, and talks about how like them she is, how she is a woman of the people.
Some applaud her. Some cheer her words. Most watch in silence. She eats it up, a feasting glutton, her golden hair gleaming in the winter morning sun and her green eyes alight. The would-be queen looks out at her subjects with a smile stretching her face. She doesn't know I'm here. She's no idea her killer looks back.