CHAPTER FOUR

Knock Knock

There was a game Leta and Dagna used to play in the castle before they split into queen and quarry—it was called Knock. Each girl would hold a coin between the middle and ring fingers of their right hand—a full gold stay, the highest denomination of common coin and the only hard currency Leta had seen before she entered the ‘Roc. She’d not seen one since. The two would sit across a poseur table and take turns hitting the table with their open hand, each time creating a “knock” of gold against dark oak. They would go faster and faster, nearly hypnotized by the rhythm, until one would make her move, dropping the coin into her left hand and hitting the table with a slap instead of a knock. If caught, the other girl would yell, “Knock!” in a chastising tone, like yelling “shoes” at a child running unshod through mud. One point was awarded for catching the cheat before slapping down one’s own hand, and two points if the cheat got away with it. Three, if she managed to get the coin back into her hand and knock it back into play.

Dagna was always better. She had a knack for slipping her coin back between her fingers that Leta could never match. That was what rose in Leta’s gut as she paused two steps from her doorway, stock still in her worn-down boots and ash-stained jeans: the sound of a knock against oak and the feeling that the game was over.

“Knock, knock.”

There was no gold in that sound but no malice either. And the voice, more proper than anyone who’d been in the ‘Roc longer than a month, was familiar.

The Cattoleirin?

Shifting her weight to her right leg, she slowly pulled up her left in front of her and grabbed her knife. There was no way she could get the drop on him the way her rooms were arranged, but she thought she was quicker than he and more cunning. He certainly had the size advantage, but Leta had made up for that before with ruthlessness.

She didn’t answer his call. The main door opened into a small antechamber containing the kitchenette (a sturdy metal box for non-perishable food and a grate covering an old tophra pot she used for cooking) and two wooden chairs with six and a half legs between them. On one side of the antechamber was a room leading to Leta’s dead mother, and on the other, Leta herself. She had to get him out of her quarters before he discovered the body. She didn’t want a fight.

Leta managed to get two steps toward the Cattoleirin before he noticed her and backed up a step, almost into the hallway now. Their eyes met, and his flashed something, but it wasn’t fear.

“Can I help you?” she said, her voice flat, nearly dead.

His broad smile returned to his face. “I think you already have done quite enough of that. I came to thank you for having that nice young man set me up in my own quarters. They’re not as large as yours, but they will serve for little old me.”

“You’re welcome. Now, if you don’t mind—”

“I brought you something to say thank you. Spent more than I probably should have off a nice lady who certainly swindled me out of an extra clang, but the smell—I couldn’t say no.” He reached into the front pocket of his uniform. Leta tensed her grip on the knife held at her hip. But what he pulled out was nothing with a point, only a small, sweet-smelling ball wrapped in waxed paper. “I think she called them sugar bombs.”

“Bulbs,” said Leta automatically, “sugar bulbs. Like a seed.”

“Ah, noted. Either way, I thought we could—” he gestured at the sad-looking chairs. For a moment, Leta thought of inviting him to sit and letting him fall on his fat ass. She could make a run from there, but it would be better to be incognito as long as possible.

“I wish I could. But I have somewhere to be, and I am already running late.” She reached out a hand; the bulbs would go a long way in bulking up her sad food rations.

The Cattoleirin, however, pulled them back, just out of her grip, while adjusting his bulk to block the door. Leta’s heart began to pound harder. The feeling of being trapped itched at her animal brain.

“I’m not sure what you’re trying to pull here, but if you’re looking for a woman to have your way with, you’re better off at the bedrooms, or I’ll be the one poking you.”

Color drained from his face. “Oh, Leta. I mean you no harm.”

There was a softness in the way he said her name, and she relaxed a bit against her better judgment. She was just so tired. To her horror, tears flashed into her eyes.

“What has happened?”

Leta let out a mirthless laugh, then sat on the chair with four legs. Let him share in her horror. Let her rest. Perhaps he’ll believe her a deranged matricide, like everyone else will, and run screaming from her quarters. “See for yourself since you can’t seem to mind your business.” He probably wouldn’t even last long enough in the ‘Roc to tell another soul. Leta wondered if she could let him leave this room. Did she have it in her to keep fighting? She certainly didn’t have a life worth killing for.

The Cattoleirin—Clark, that was his name—strode past her and straight into her mother’s room. Leta wondered how he could tell where to go, then noticed small splatters of blood in front of her door. She leaned back with her eyes closed and her head against the cold stone and waited for the screaming. It never came. Instead, she heard a soft song emitting from the room, it was A Beginning Song, sung properly and in its entirety. Tears fell hot and salted down her face, she didn’t wipe them away. This would be the only funeral her mother would have. Someone should cry.

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

There was a drag and then the knock of the door closing in its frame. The man moved quietly for one of his girth. “I’m so sorry, Leta.”

It wasn’t what she had been expecting. A flush rose to her cheeks and she realized she was preparing to defend herself. To scream that she didn’t kill her mother! But things weren’t playing out how she thought they would. But of course, that could be said of nearly everything that had happened to Leta for the past six years. Six years.

She opened her eyes to look at him, head still lolled against the wall, the ancient stone only thing anchoring her to this world. “Who are you?”

“My full name is Clarkson von Handel. The rest is a long story that we do not have time for. We must leave here—immediately. It’s too soon. Something is wrong.”

We…must…leave? The combination of words was so odd that Leta wasn’t sure she’d heard correctly. She pulled her head away from the wall to look him full in the face. His skin was thick, with deep-set wrinkles in contrast with his bright eyes, a man who’d lived more than a few hard years. He’d grown a stubble since she’d last seen him, and his mouth was set in a line, determined, and without a hint of callus mirth. He looked like a man who did what he said: more Western horse rider than pansy from Bellemeade.

“What did you see in there?”

“Unfortunately, I believe I saw exactly what you saw. Your mother, she was murdered.”

“And who do you think did it?” Leta’s voice sounded too defensive to her own ears.

“I don’t know, but I have some suspicions, none of them good for you.”

“So, you don’t—you don’t think I did it?”

“Did you?”

“No!” The word snapped from her mouth, a knee-jerk reaction.

“Well, I believe you. I don’t think you did it. If I thought you’d killed your mother, I would leave you here to face your just punishment. But I don’t think you did, so we have to get out of here. Quickly.”

“And go where? The Order will just send out a notice and troops. Maybe I could hide for a few days in Merin’s tower, but I’m not exactly anonymous in here.”

“You misunderstand me. We need to leave the Sjlunroca. It is not safe for you here anymore.”

Anymore? She hadn’t exactly lived a life of leisure and security for the past six years.

“Wait,” she said. It seemed like Leta had more questions than there were words in the Cattoleirin’s sentence. She didn’t know where to start. “What?” She thought about resting her head back on the hard wall and closing her eyes until she woke up from her fever dream. Maybe she’d accidentally inhaled too many tophra fumes again.

Clark took a knee before her, hands resting on his opposite leg. “I think you’re in shock, I saw what you saw in there. I know I’m adding to the confusion, and for that, I am truly sorry. I can’t imagine what you’re going through. But I need you to hear me, Leta. You’re not safe in here anymore. There has been talk in the streets, talk about you. The people are not happy with what is going on.”

“What’s going on?”

Clark sighed and looked down at his foot, then looked up at Leta, reluctance clear on his face. “There is talk about overthrowing the queen. Obviously, you would be the next obvious choice.”

Leta barked a laugh. “Me? The Baroness of Tophra?”

“No, Leta. You, the rightful heir to the throne.”

“And what’s the problem with the current set-up? Do the people not love their queen?” The lip snarled involuntarily at the mention of the queen.

“Well—”

Leta could tell Clark was going to hedge, to soften the blow. “Just say it.”

“The queen—your sister. She’s a monster.”

* * *

It was the mention of Dagna that finally spurred Leta into motion. The thought of being strung up by Tarisof and his Order didn’t bother Leta. She thought it might just feel like going to sleep. But the idea of having to face her sister was unacceptable. And, of course, she would. It surprised her that she didn’t see it sooner. The Order wouldn’t be allowed to exact their own breed of vengeance on the once-princess of Umara, who had murdered the queen’s mother. She would be shackled and marched to the Aria. Back to the place she was raised to believe that nothing bad would ever really happen to her. Back where she was a different person, a weaker person. She had served six years already, six years of violation and indignation. But that wasn’t enough, apparently.

“Okay,” said Leta.

“Okay,” echoed Clark, relief plain on his face. His knees cracked and she caught his smell as he stood: the musk of a man only a few days from his last shower with an underpinning of burlap. It reminded Leta of the stables at the Aria, and she coughed to avoid tearing up again.

“We need to get to Alia’s tower, which unfortunately means we need to—”

“Go through Merin’s tower.”

“Quite. I tried to find something in Odin’s, but there was nothing.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“Oh, you’ll see.”

“I’m starting to think you don’t have answers to these questions I’m asking.”

“No, no answers. Only echoes from my prayers.”

“Lord Below, I’m following a crazy person.”

“I think you might have meant to say that in your head.”

“No,” said Leta. “Just trying to mark the time everything started to fall apart.”

“Oh, I quite think if you start now, you will have missed quite a few chunks of falling rock.”

“You got me there, Clark. My life is a shitting mess.”

“Well, then, let us climb out of the commode, shall we?”

“Wow, a Bellmeadian speaking of commodes. I never thought I’d see the day.”

“Yes, yes. Feel free to report me to the Man of State. But let us go before we’re lined up in front of a firing squad, shall we?”

A merry flurry of curses flew through Leta’s head, bringing her back to her present situation. She was becoming delirious with stress and lack of sleep. She wouldn’t be able to make an escape plan if she had an hour’s time. “Fine then. After you, Clark.”

He doffed a bow that contained no sarcasm. She found herself dropping a quick curtsy back, not deep, but true. And they were off.