“Good. Well, my Lord Shaso, you wished to speak with me and here I sit, at your command. I am very pleased, of course, simply to see you free, and amazed by your story.” The merchant turned to smile at Briony. “Your bravery was, it need not be said, a large and impressive part of Lord Shaso’s tale.”
Her mouth was full; she nodded her head carefully. She was also the person who had locked Shaso up in the first place and she was not entirely certain whether this small, amiable man might not be mocking her.
“I need information,” Shaso said, “and I wished the princess to be here since it saves me the work of repeating it.” He saw her irritated look. “And of course it is her right to be here, since she is heir to her father’s throne.”
“Ah, yes,” said Dan-Mozan gravely. “We all pray for King Olin’s safe and speedy return, may the gods give him health.”
“Information,” repeated Shaso, a bit of impatience coloring his voice. “Your ships go everywhere up and down the coasts, Dan-Mozan, and you have many eyes and ears on the inland waterways as well. What have you heard of the fairy-invasion, of the autarch, of anything I should know? Assume I know nothing.”
“I would never be foolish enough to assume that, Lord Shaso,” said Dan-Mozan. “But I take your meaning. Well, I will make as much sense of it as the Mother grants me to make. The north is all confusion, of course, because of the strange d’shinna army that has come from behind the Line of Shadows.” He nodded, as though this was something he had long predicted. “The great army of Southmarch has been broken—I crave your pardon for saying it, estimable princess, but it is true. Those that have survived but could not reach the castle have scattered, some fleeing south toward Kertewall or into Silverside—they say that the streets of Onsilpia’s Veil are crowded with weeping soldiers. Many others are heading on toward Settland or down into Brenland, convinced that the north will fall, hoping to find shelter in those places or take ship for the south. But the southern lands, they may find, will soon offer no safe harbor, either...”
Barrick, Barrick...! She tried to imagine him free and alive, perhaps leading a group of survivors toward Settesyard. Her beloved other half—surely she would know if someone she had known and loved like a part of herself were dead! “What of the city and SouthmarchCastle itself?” she asked. “Does it still stand? And how did you discover all this so quickly?”
“From the boats that fish in Brenn’s Bay and supply the castle goods from the south, many of which belong to me,” said Dan-Mozan, smiling. “And of course, my captains also hear much in port from the river-men coming down from the other parts of the March Kingdoms. Even in time of war, people must send their wool and beer to market. Yes, SouthmarchCastle still stands, but the city on its shore has fallen. The countryside is emptied all around. The place is full of demons.”
It all suddenly seemed so bleak, so hopeless. Briony clenched her jaw. She would not cry in front of these older men, would not be reassured or coddled. It was her kingdom—her father’s, yes, but Olin was a prisoner in Hierosol. Southmarch needed her, and it especially needed her to be strong. “My father, the king—have you heard anything of him?”
The merchant nodded soberly. “Nothing that suggests he is not safe, Highness, or that anything has changed, but I hear rumors that Drakava’s grip on Hierosol is not as strong as it might be. And there are other tales, mere whispers, that the autarch is readying a great fleet—that he might wish Hierosol for himself.”
“What?” Shaso sat up, almost spilling his cup of gawa. Clearly this was new to him. “The autarch surely cannot be ready for that—he has only just pacified his own vassals in Xand—surely half his army must be garrisoned in Mihan, Marash, and our own miserable country. How could he move so soon against Hierosol and its mighty walls?”
Dan-Mozan shook his head. “I cannot answer you, my lord. All I can tell you is what I hear, and the whisper is that Sulepis has been assembling a fleet with great speed, as though something has happened which has pushed forward his plans.” He turned to Briony, almost apologetically. “We all know that the Xixians have desired greater conquest on Eion, and that taking Hierosol would let them control all the OsteianSea and the southern oceans on either side.”
Briony waved away all this detail, angry and intent. “The autarch plans to attack Hierosol? Where my father is?”
“Rumors, only,” said Dan-Mozan. “Do not let yourself be too alarmed, Princess. It is probably only these uncertain times, which tend to set tongues wagging even when there is nothing useful to say.”
“We must go and get my father,” she told Shaso. “If we take ship now we could be there before spring!”
He scowled and shook his head. “You will forgive me for being blunt, Highness, but that is foolishness. What could we do there? Join him in captivity, that is all. No, in fact you would be married by force to Drakava and I would go to the gibbet. There are many in Hierosol who wish me dead, not least of which is my onetime pupil, Dawet.”
“But if the autarch is coming...!”
“If the autarch is coming to Eion, then we have many problems, and your father is only one of them.”
“Please, please, honored guests!” Effir dan-Mozan lifted his hands and clapped. “Have more gawa, and we have some very nice almond pastries as well. Do not let yourself be frightened, Princess. These are the merest whispers, as I said, and likely not true.”
“I’m not frightened. I’m angry.” But she fell into an unhappy silence as Dan-Mozan’s nephew Talibo returned and served more food and hot drinks. Briony looked at her hands, which she was having trouble keeping decorously stilclass="underline" if the youth was staring at her again, she was not going to give him the satisfaction of noticing.
Shaso, though, watched with a calculating eye as the young man went out again. “Do you think your nephew might have some spare garments he could lend us?” Shaso asked suddenly.
“Garments?” Dan-Mozan raised an eyebrow. “Rough ones, not fine cloth. Suitable for some hard labor.” “I do not understand.”
“He looks as though clothing of his might fit the princess. We can roll up the cuffs and sleeves.” He turned to Briony. “We will put that anger of yours to some good work this afternoon.”
“But surely you will come,” Puzzle said. “I asked for you, Matty—I told them you were a poet, a very gifted poet.”
Ordinarily, the chance to perform at table for the masters of Southmarch would have been the first and last thing solicited in Matt Tinwright’s nightly prayers (if he had been the sort of person to pray) but for some reason, he was not so certain he wanted to be known by the Tollys and their friends at court, both old and new. The past tennight things had seemed to change, as though the dark clouds that these days always clung to the city across the bay had drifted over the castle as well.
Perhaps I am too sensitive, he told himself. My poet’s nature. The Tollys have done nothing but good in an ill time, surely. Still, he had begun to hear tales from the kitchen workers and some of the other servitors with whom he shared quarters in the back of the residence that made him uneasy—tales of people disappearing and others being badly beaten or even executed for minor mistakes. One of the kitchen potboys had seen a young page’s fingers cut off at the table by Tolly’s lieutenant Berkan Hood for spilling a cup of wine, and Tinwright knew it was true because he had seen the poor lad being tended in a bed with a bandage over his bloody stumps.