The Exiled Queen

Reid stared at Amon for a long moment. Then turned to Raisa and inclined his head. “Of course, Your Highness. I just wanted you to know that you have options. Naturally, we would be honored to escort you back to your camp.”

He swung around to Digging Bird, who was watching this exchange with intense interest and not a little surprise.

She’s probably never seen anyone say no to Nightwalker before, Raisa thought.

“Round up the loose horses,” Reid ordered Digging Bird. “Find suitable mounts for Princess Raisa and Corporal Byrne.”

Reid Demonai would be happy to see a war, Raisa realized. It’s what he lives for.

Chapter Four Delphi

Mountain towns are all different, Han thought.

Mountain towns are all the same.

Geography drives architecture in a mountain town. In Delphi, the houses and other buildings were jammed together, like they’d slid down the slopes and jumbled into the available space along the river.

Houses built onto a hillside are deceiving: short one- stories at the back, and tall four- stories at the front. They reminded Han of brightly painted fancy girls that had seen better days. They backed into the mountainside and spread their long skirts down to the valley floor, their dirty petticoats in the gutters. The streets were narrow and tangled and cobbled with stone— a material plentiful and cheap in the mountains.

Forced into the rocky Kanwa canyon, the streets veered drunkenly around the smallest obstacles— sometimes losing their way entirely.

It was fully dark when they finally descended into the town. A choking pall of smoke thickened the air, requiring extra effort to breathe.

“It stinks worse than Southbridge,” Han said, wrinkling his nose. A different, unfamiliar stink, at least.

“They burn coal for heat and cooking here,” Dancer explained. “The smoke gets trapped in the valley. It’s worse in winter— the fires burn night and day.”

There was money in town. Intermingled with stores and businesses and more modest dwellings were street- front palaces and rich- looking row houses. Some of the houses occupied entire city blocks, faced with kilned brick and carved stone.

“Mine owners,” Dancer explained. “But even the miners make good money. The war in Arden has stoked the market for iron and coal, and prices are high. Lightfoot says the Delphians don’t mind the stinking air. They say they’re breathing money. It’s allowed them to keep their own army and stay independent of both Arden and the Fells.”

As they neared the center of town, the streets clogged up with people, reminding Han of Fellsmarch on market day.

It was a diverse crowd— black- skinned men and women from Bruinswallow, clad in the loose, striped clothing of the southerners. Southern Islanders with their dark skin, elaborate jewelry, and tangles of black hair. Leggy Northern Islanders with fair hair and blue eyes, some haloed with auras. Multiple languages collided in the streets, and exotic music poured from inns and taverns.

There was more evidence of wartime prosperity— elegant shops with all manner of trade goods; jewelry stores with glittering displays, take- away food stores with exotic offerings and intriguing, spicy smells. Han’s stomach rumbled and his mouth watered.

“Let’s find something to eat,” he said, resisting the temptation to nick a twist of salt bread from a street vendor. Hunger always seemed to bring out his old habits, but he knew better than to do slide- hand in unfamiliar territory, with no escape route laid out.

You don’t need to steal to eat, he reminded himself, touching the money pouch tucked inside his leggings as if it were a talisman.

Farther south, the city seemed darker than Fellsmarch. Everything was layered with a veneer of soot that soaked up light.

“Don’t they have lamplighters here?” Han asked, as their tired ponies plodded through a splash of light spilling from a narrow storefront church skirted on three sides with tall steps. A black- robed cleric with a golden rising sun emblazoned on his robes swept leaves and dirt out of the doorway, sending debris raining down on their heads.

Dancer shook his head. “No lamps, nor lamplighters,” he said. He fingered his amulet, conjuring a blossom of light on the tips of his fingers while Han looked on enviously. Han touched his own flashpiece, and power sizzled down his arm, exploding in flames that rocketed halfway across the street, startling passersby.

Embarrassed, Han tucked his offending hand under his other arm.

“Demons!” someone shouted in the Common speech. “Sorcerors! Blasphemers!” Han looked up in surprise to see the black- robed priest charging down the steps, swinging the broom over his head like a weapon, his face contorted with rage.

Ragger skittered sideways, rolling his eyes and showing his teeth to the irate priest. Han dug in his heels, and the pony lunged forward, carrying him out of danger. Dancer ducked his head and wrenched Wicked to one side as the broom whistled past.

The priest screamed after them, “Abominations! Harlots of evil! Begone, you wicked tools of the Breaker!” He shook the broom at them, seeming to think he’d driven them off.

“Shaddap, ya nasty crow of Malthus, or I’ll break you!” a bulky, bearded miner shouted at the priest, to general laughter. The priest retreated back inside, driven by a chorus of catcalls and threats.

“What was that all about?” Han said, when they were a safe distance away. “I’ve been called a lot of names, but never a harlot of evil before.”

“Meet the Church of Malthus,” Dancer said, grinning. “The state church of Arden. They have a foothold in Delphi, but I guess they’re not especially popular up here.”

Speaker Jemson had talked about the Church of Malthus at the Southbridge Temple School. After the disaster of the Breaking, the ancient empire of the Seven Realms had fractured. In the Fells, the old faith had continued, anchored by the temples where speakers taught about the duality of the Maker and the Breaker, and the Spirit Mountains, where dwelt the dead and sainted queens.

In Arden, after the Breaking, there arose an influential speaker who had pruned and shaped the ancient faith in a new direction. Saint Malthus attributed the Breaking to the Maker’s displeasure with the charmcasters that had caused it. Magic, he’d taught, was not a gift but the tool of the Breaker, and wizards were demons in his employ. Seduced by wizards, the queens of the Fells were equally to blame. Queen Hanalea in particular was seen as a kind of beautiful witch— a wanton totally without scruples.

Ever since, Church of Malthus had thrived as the state church in Arden.

“Do you think this is the kind of welcome we’ll get in Arden?” Han mused.

Dancer grinned wryly. “I think the less jinxflinging we do in Arden, the better.”

This was new to Han— the notion that magic was somehow sinful. The clans despised wizards, but it was more an issue of history and abuse of power. The clans, after all, had their own magic.

It was only the Demon King— Alger Waterlow, Han’s ancestor— who was thought to be unequivocally evil.

“This place looks good,” Han said, pointing out a two- story building with a broad front porch crowded with locals and soldiers. The tavern was called The Mug and Mutton, and the wooden sign out front bore a grinning sheep hoisting a mug of ale.

Han had an eye for taverns and inns. They’d been a second home for him since he was small— where food, drink, and easy pickings came together. He could tell which places were worth a visit by the smells spilling from them and the custom on hand.

He and Dancer dismounted. Dancer stayed with the horses while Han fought his way through the crowd onto the porch and into the noisy interior.

The clientele inside mirrored those on the porch, except for several families seated around tables. Some had come straight from the mines, their clothes black with soot, and their eyes shining against their grimy faces. Soldiers leaned against the walls, clad in a motley of uniforms— the sober dun colors of Delphi, the scarlet of Arden, unemployed mercenaries who showed no colors, and a few Highlanders and stripers.

Otherwise there were students, tradespeople, and fancies.

Han parted with a few of his precious girlies, booking a room and spending a couple of extra coppers on a chance at a bath. Delphi was pricy, all right.

Han and Dancer led their horses down a narrow alley to the stable behind the inn, ordered extra grain rations for the ponies, and entered the tavern by the back door.

Dinner came with the room and consisted of pork stew (not mutton), a hunk of brown bread, and a tankard of ale.

Han claimed a table in the corner with his back to the wall but close to the back door. That way he could see all the comings and goings without being obvious about it.

The serving girl hovered, flirting. At first Han put it down to personal charm until he realized with some surprise that, despite their days on the road, he and Dancer were as prosperous-looking as anyone in the room.

Han had been booted from plenty of taverns in Ragmarket and Southbridge on suspicion of slide- hand and cheating at cards. That and his chronic inability to pay. He found he rather liked sitting at a table to eat until his stomach was full, chatting up pretty girls without fear of being chased off.

“What’s the news of the war in the south?” Han asked the plush, apple- cheeked server. He touched her arm. “Who’s winning?”

She leaned close to Han. “There was a big battle outside the capital last month, sir. Prince Geoff ’s armies won, so he holds Ardenscourt. He’s declared himself king.”

“What about the other brothers? Have they given up?” Han asked, wondering if the war would soon be over, and what that would mean for his future.

The girlie shrugged. “All I know is what I hear in the tap-room. I believe Prince Gerard and Prince Godfrey are also still alive, and as far as I know, they’ve not given up.”

“There aren’t any princesses?” Han asked.

She squinted at him. “Aye, there’s one princess. Lisette. But princesses in Arden are just for show. And marrying off.”

Han glanced at Dancer, who shrugged. How would you even tell if a king’s blooded heirs were really his? Flatlanders were peculiar, for sure.

Han watched as the server walked away, wondering when she’d be off work.

He continued his study of the other patrons. It didn’t take long to figure out who was armed and who wasn’t, what weapons they carried, and who toted a heavy purse. A while longer, and he knew who was skilled at cards, who at nicks and bones, and who was cheating at both.

This was courtesy of Han’s brief stint as a card hustler. That kind of thievery was harder to prove, if you were any good at it. The bluejackets weren’t so likely to toss you in gaol for picking pockets at cards.

But he’d learned it was easy to get cornered in a taproom full of sore losers. Also that angry gamblers aren’t above smashing your head in, whether they know how you’re cheating or not. Especially when you’re only thirteen, and haven’t got your growth.

Dancer was edgy and restless all through the meal, flinching at sudden noises— the clatter of pots and pans on the hearth or two drunks shouting at each other. Despite his knowledge of Delphi and Delphian ways, he didn’t care for cities in general and crowds in particular. As soon as he finished eating, he stood. “I’m going up,” he said.

“I booked a bath,” Han said generously. “You go first.”

Dancer eyed him suspiciously. “Stay out of trouble, will you?” he said.

“Yes, Dancer Cennestre.” Yes, Mother. Han grinned at Dancer’s back when he turned away. Han motioned to the server and ordered cider. He meant to keep his wits sharp and his hand off his amulet.

Han idly surveyed the next table, where a foursome played royals and commons, a Fellsian card game Han knew well. The man facing Han was cheating— a needle point for sure. An over-plush man in Ardenine flatlander garb, his round face was cratered from some ancient bout with the pox. Though it was cool in the common room, he mopped at his sweating face with a large handkerchief. Coppers and girlies and notes of promise were stacked in front of him, evidence of his success.

It didn’t take long for Han to figure out his system. The sharp was a busy man for someone so large, always flailing his hands around in a distracting way. He used the distraction to second deal, bottom deal, and palm cards. He won nearly every hand he dealt, and a good number of those he didn’t— losing just often enough to kill suspicion.

Han wasn’t impressed. The sharp was just your standard hand mucker with a rowdy, aggressive style of play. The smart players came and went, soon perceiving that they were at a disadvantage. But one player stayed throughout, stubbornly trying to win back her losses.

She sat with her back to Han, a brimmed hat pulled low over her head, collar turned up, shoulders hunched. Han guessed she was a girlie close to naming age, a Southern Islander from her dark skin and curls. Under her overlarge coat, she wore the brilliant colors Southern Islanders favored, but her clothes were ill-fitting, as though they had been borrowed, begged, or stolen.

Something about her seemed familiar— the way she tilted her head and danced in her chair, jiggling her leg as if she couldn’t quite sit still. Han craned his neck, but couldn’t get a good look at her face under the hat.

Han drank his cider and tried to ignore the drama playing out in front of him, but his eyes kept straying back to the girl and her increasingly desperate wagers. She ran out of money and continued with scrips for payment.

She should know better, Han thought. Anyone who wins that much is cheating.

Finally, the flatlander drained his mug of ale and slammed it down on the table. “Well, I’m cashing in,” he said loudly. “Mace Boudreaux knows enough to quit while Lady Luck’s still smiling.”

Two of the players scowled, collected their depleted stakes, and left.

The island girl did not rise. She sat frozen for a moment, then leaned forward. “Nuh- uh. Let’s keep playing. You got to give me a chance to win it back,” she said. Her voice was soft and musical, carrying the familiar cadence of the Southern Islands.

Han’s skin prickled in recognition.

“Sorry, girlie, I’m done,” Mace Boudreaux said. “Guess luck’s running against you. Time to pay up.” He raked in the money in front of him and secreted it in several hidey places on his person. Then pushed the payment notes across the table to the girlie.

She stared down at the scraps of paper on the table in front of her.

She doesn’t have it, Han thought. She’s done.

“I’ll be right back with the rest of it,” she said, jackknifing to her feet and turning toward the door.

The sharp’s hand snaked out and grabbed the girlie around the wrist, jerking her toward him. “Oh no you don’t,” he growled. “I’m not letting you out of my sight until you pay up.”

The girl tried to yank her hand free. “I don’t carry that kind of money around. I got to get it from my room.”

Boudreaux stuck his face in close to the girl’s. “I’ll just come with you, then,” he said, licking his lips and looking her up and down with a greasy smile. “If you don’t have the money, there may be a way you can earn it out.”

The girlie spat in his face. “In your dreams, you scummer-sucking, limp- nippled, gutter- spawned—”

“Do you want to go to gaol?” Boudreaux growled, brushing away the spit and giving her a bone- rattling shake.

The girl stiffened. Han could tell from the ropy scars on her wrists and ankles that she’d been in gaol. He guessed she didn’t want to go back.

“I’ll call the guard,” Boudreaux threatened, his voice rising. “I got rights.”

Before Han could put two thoughts together, he was standing next to their table. “Hey, now. Just a friendly game, right? No need to get the guard involved, is there?” He slapped the sharp on the back and punched him in the shoulder, grinning like a country boy deep in his cups.

Boudreaux glared at Han, unhappy with the unexpected intrusion. “It’ll be friendly as long as the girlie pays up. I got rights.”

“You can work something out.” Han swung around to face the girl, and nearly fell over from surprise.

It was Cat Tyburn, who’d replaced Han as streetlord of the Raggers. She stared back at him, frozen. Han blinked, looked again, and she was still Cat. She’d changed, and not for the better. No wonder he hadn’t recognized her at first.

She’d always been thin, but now she was skin and bones, like a razorleaf user. Her eyes seemed to take up half her face, and they were cloudy and dull— likely from drink and leaf. She’d always been proud, but now she looked beaten down. There were holes in her ears and nose where her silver had been, and her silver bracelets and bangles were gone also. All of it lay in front of the sharp.

Her face said that the last person she expected to see in the world was Han Alister.

Han grabbed Boudreaux’s arm to steady himself and cover his amazement. As he did so, he slid a spare deck off the table and into his pocket, his mind working furiously.

What was she doing there? Cat had been born in the islands, but as long as he’d known her, she’d never strayed far beyond the few blocks that made up Ragmarket. Why would she leave when she had a good gang, good turf, and a good living?

More important, how could he help her out of the mess she was in? It sure wouldn’t do her any good to land in a Delphian jail.

He could accuse Boudreaux of cheating, but he’d long ago learned to keep his mouth shut in a tavern unless he knew the clientele. For all he knew, he was surrounded by Boudreaux’s best mates.

Cat still stared at Han like he’d crawled out of the grave and given her a cold cadaver kiss.

“C’m over here, girlie,” Han slurred, taking her elbow. “Le’s you and me talk.” Her body went rigid under his hand, but she allowed him to tow her out of earshot of the pock- faced sharp.

When they were at a safe distance, Han suddenly sobered up.

“What are you doing here?” he hissed.

“I could ask you the same question,” she retorted.

“I asked first.”

Cat’s face shuttered tight. “I had to leave Ragmarket.”

“Who’s streetlord, then?” Han asked, stumbling into speech. “What about Velvet?”

“Velvet’s dead,” Cat said. “They all are— or disappeared. No need for a streetlord in Ragmarket now.” She shivered, her ragged nails picking at her coat. “They came right after you left. Killed everyone. I’m alive because I wasn’t there.”

“Who came?” Han asked, because it seemed expected, though he already knew.

“Demons. Like the ones that did the Southies.” She wouldn’t meet his eyes.

Han’s mouth was dry as dust. “Did they . . . were they looking for me?”

“Like I said, I wasn’t there.” Not an answer. “I didn’t know where you’d gone. I thought they’d hushed you too.”

Bones. He left death behind him even when he went away. No wonder Cat was jittery.

“I’m real sorry about Velvet,” Han said. “And . . . everything.”

She just looked at him, eyes wide, shaking her head no.

“Come on, girlie!” Boudreaux roared. “You two gonna talk all night or what? I want my money.”

Han waggled his hand at the sharp to quiet him and leaned in close to Cat. “How much do you owe your friend over there?” he whispered.

“Why?” Cat demanded with her usual charm. “What business is it of yours?”

“I don’t got all night,” Han said. “How much?”

She looked around the room, as if seeking escape from the question. “Twenty- seven girlies and some change,” she said.

Hanalea’s blood and bones. Han had money, but not enough to pay off her debt and still get to Oden’s Ford. And he didn’t mean to beggar himself paying off a cheating needle point.

Han tilted his head toward Boudreaux. “He’s cheating, you know.”

“He is not!” Cat hissed, looking over her shoulder. “I’m cheating him.”

Han knew not to smile. “Well.” He rubbed his chin. “He’s doing a better job.”

Cat’s hand crept to the blade at her waist. “The thieving dung- eater. I should’ve known. Well, we’ll see how he looks without his—”

“No.” Han put his hand on her arm to stay her. “I’ll play for you and win it back.”

Cat jerked away from him. “Leave off, Cuffs. I don’t want your help. I got into this myself, and I’ll get out of it my own way.”

“By cutting his throat?” Han shook his head. “In Ragmarket, maybe. You don’t want to get into trouble so far from home.”

She shook her head. “I don’t want to owe you,” she said.

Well, that he could understand. “You won’t owe me. I’m the one owes you a blood debt.”

Again, she shook her head wordlessly, swallowing hard several times.

“Let me do this,” Han said. “Please.”

“Anyway, the needle point’s done,” Cat said. “He won’t play. He said so.”

“He’ll play me,” Han said, pulling out a bulging purse and waving it under her nose.

Cat’s eyes went wide again. She swept back her hair, trying to act offhand, like she saw that kind of plate every day. “What if you lose?”

“Trust me. I won’t. I’m better than him,” Han said, looking into her eyes and willing her to believe him, though he had no idea why she would. “Just play along with me, all right?” he said. Facing away from the gambler, he prepped for the game, moved money around, stacked and stowed his cards while Cat watched, all squint- eyed.

“All set. Come on,” he said, possessing her arm and strutting back to Boudreaux’s table like he was the cock of the yard. “I’ll cover the girlie’s debt,” he said to the sharp. “If you play me.”

“Play you?” Boudreaux said disdainfully. “Nuh- uh. I told you I was done. If you want to pay what the girlie owes, go ahead, boy. If you even got the money.”

“My da’s a trader,” Han said, conjuring an aggrieved expression. “I got plenty of money. See?” He plunked his full purse on the table, in the process knocking over the sharp’s glass of ale, spilling the remains. “Oh, sorry,” he said. “Don’t know m’own strength.” He plucked Boudreaux’s handkerchief out of the sharp’s pocket and mopped clumsily at the spillage.

Boudreaux’s greedy eyes fastened on the purse. It was much more than Cat owed. “Well,” he said, wedging himself back in his chair, “mayhap I can stay a little longer.” He snapped his fingers at the server. “Bring me another ale,” he said with a toothy smile.

Han handed the sopping handkerchief back to Boudreaux and settled into the chair opposite the sharp. It figured. He had no trouble swaying a mark these days, now that he was out of the game. It was easier to believe in a sixteen- year- old with a wad of cash than a twelve- year. It was that lack of respect as a lytling that had forced him out of sharping into slide- hand and rushing on the streets.

Now he was better suited to the con. He could play the role of the son of a trader, out on his own for the first time. A warm and loaded mark for sure.

“You sit here, girlie,” Han said, patting the seat of the chair next to him and leering at Cat. “Bring me luck.”

Cat perched on the edge of the chair, angled away from Han like she might catch the itches. Her hands twisted together in her lap, her face hard and inscrutable.

“You deal first, boy,” Boudreaux said blandly. Typical sharp. Let the mark win first, to encourage him to bet bigger on the next round.

Han shuffled the cards, at one point losing hold of them, spilling them onto the table. Careful, he thought. Don’t overdo it. He scooped them up and reshuffled them with the bleary, intense attention typical of the very drunk.

It was easy enough to win the first round. Boudreaux folded, shaking his head mournfully, before there was much money on the table.

“Ha!” Han crowed, closing his hand over Cat’s. She flinched as if stung, and he let go. “You’ve brought me luck already.” She just looked back at him, unsmiling.