Flametouched Read online

  Queen Filippa had lived longer than the impatient Lords of her own Kingdom wanted, and certainly longer than the leaders of his own nation, Creetis, had expected. The old regent’s stubborn refusal to die and apparent intractable good health had, however, created the opportunity in whose service he now operated. Discontent in Bittermarch rarely reared its head. This surprised many Creetisian scholars who had believed that a nation based on such a silly superstition as the Eternal Flame would do as their distant ancestors—the Aua’Catan—had done: disintegrate into squabbling, primitive tribes.

  Creete, the founder of Creetis, had united those tribes and enthroned reason, abolishing the ancient worship of the fictitious Primal Forces. Humanity flourished as a result. When Joris Pulsipher claimed to have found the Primal Fire again, he gathered followers and created unrest. That so many had flocked to Joris’s resurrected religion had shocked the Creetisian parliament of two hundred years ago. They acted swiftly and brutally, driving Joris and his cult south and west and across the Ice Fire Mountains as winter descended in its wrath.

  Only the ragged outcasts didn’t die and they didn’t disband. The western side of the Ice Fire Mountains had proved a haven for them with a better climate and a richer soil than the empty plains of Creetis that were so often swept by bitter winds and driving snow. So against all expectations to the contrary, Joris and his people thrived. While they claimed their success as a gift and blessing of the Eternal Flame, Horace knew better. Strong leaders, not mystical powers, had lent them success despite their ridiculous beliefs and utterly chaotic form of government.

  But Queen Filippa had at last committed enough critical mistakes for him to attempt to take by stratagem what Creetis needed: the wealth and crops of their western neighbors. Creetis, for all of its logic and reason, was no match for the whims of nature, and a long drought and severe chill had sent the food prices of his nation soaring. The hungry populace grew more discontent with every belt pulled tight. Creetisians needed a distraction to keep their minds off their bellies until he and his long germinating plan could get them food.

  The Ambassador downed his toast slowly, savoring it. Bittermarchians had excellent food. The streets of Bellshire, Bittermarch’s capital, swelled with lines of plump faces. The Bittermarchians’ bellies hanging over belts reminded him he needed to do whatever it took to fill in the hollow cheeks of his countrymen back home. Of course, an ambassador couldn’t afford to appear as a sickly stick in front of a Queen, the House of Lords, and the House of Light. His own belly protruded a respectable distance in front of him, and he had forsaken the traditional plain clothes of his fellow political officers to appear in finery. Fashion was everything in Bittermarch, and he would not let the Queen or her court think less of him simply for his dress. He needed their attention squarely on his accusations, not twittering in corners about his lack of taste.

  Of his three presentations that day, the Queen would be the most difficult. While he wasn’t disillusioned enough to believe that the Eternal Flame had granted her some magical gift of discernment, the fact that she had survived as a female on the throne in a Kingdom long dominated by men showed she had some shrewdness. He would need to work himself into a good fury before he attempted his ruse with the Queen.

  The House of Lords would be easy. They were, by all reports, an excitable lot that Filippa had offended when she had raised the House of Light and its Flame fanatics above them. All he had to do was play to their prejudices, show them that the Queen was taking rash actions without their approval, and they would fall into line. Many already had. Horace had hatched his plan when the agricultural problems had first started years ago. Now that plan had to bear fruit, literally and figuratively.

  He checked his watch, pulling it from the pouch on his vest and flipping open the golden lid. Fifteen minutes till eight. The Queen would see him first thing that morning. But there was one matter to attend to first, perhaps the most important one in the short term.

  “Excuse me,” he said to the servant at the door, no doubt a Bittermarchian spy. “But could you fetch my personal attaché for me? He should be in the next room over to the west.”

  The servant bowed. “Of course, Ambassador. I know who he is.”

  Just a hint of a snotty tone, Horace noted. Not a regular servant, to be sure. He would order him out of the room as soon as his attaché arrived. Of course, to call Melchor Raines an attaché almost made him laugh. Melchor was the deadliest man Horace knew. Like the others who were part of the Fist—the elite guard of the Creetisian Parliament—Melchor possessed a categorical knowledge of how to stop a human heart, whether it was with poison, weapons, or bare hands. If the Fist had existed two hundred years ago, Joris Pulsipher and his silly fire would have been extinguished before he’d taken one step onto the streets to proclaim himself chosen.

  The door snapped open and Melchor entered. Horace stifled a laugh and waved the servant out of the room. Melchor grinned humorlessly back. The spy and assassin had dressed as an effeminate Bittermarchian courtier. Powdered wig, powdered face, high stockings, tight white pants gilded with silver, a coat to match, and a fluffy cravat. He’d even gone as far as to paint a vanity dot on his face. Horace found the outfit positively revolting, though absolutely appropriate for their needs. Melchor executed a perfect bow and Horace clapped in appreciation.

  “I should hardly recognize you, Melchor,” he complimented, signaling for him to sit across from him. “I’m sorry if the necessity of your costume causes you any mortification. Bittermarchian nobles all look like fools in their frilly getups. At least the food is good.”

  Melchor nodded in agreement. While Melchor could act otherwise, he was, Horace knew, a taciturn, grave man. Horace had requested a different member of the Fist, but the Parliamentary committee insisted on Melchor, and Horace could hardly refuse. Melchor had a perfect service record and had never failed a mission. While an ambassador could have wished for a more jovial companion with whom to enjoy Bittermarchian largesse, he would put up with Melchor for the sake of success.

  “Are our men all quartered and our contacts aware of our presence?” Horace asked.

  “They are in place if there is a need. Another shipment went north this morning.”

  “Good, good.”

  Horace stood and scooted his chair closer to his spy; he couldn’t afford for this next part to be heard by the servant whose shoes cast a shadow on the crack at the bottom of the door. “We’re going to be wintering here to show how ‘serious’ we are about the awful events I am about to relate. Your mission during this time is to learn whom the Queen intends to appoint as the next ruler of Bittermarch upon her death. Speculation runs wild, but our people here have no idea who it is.

  “The best we can do now is assume that it will be someone friendly to the Eternal Flame, and there are too many of those deluded souls to name. The House of Lords favors Duke Longford, but I have my doubts the Queen tends in that direction. If tradition holds, the answer is in her will, but that, of course, is hidden and locked away somewhere. I know it will be difficult, but we need to know who it is.”

  “I will start an investigation immediately,” Melchor replied, eyes dead and disconcerting. “Am I to accompany you to your presentation before Queen Filippa?”

  Horace gulped the last of his tea, finding it difficult to meet Melchor’s eyes and feeling a bit intimidated. “Yes. People need to get used to the sight of you. It will make your assignment easier. Well, we should get to it. If you could leave me for a few minutes, I need to prepare. Please wait for me outside the doors to the Hall.”

  Melchor nodded and left without a word. Horace closed his eyes and ran through his presentation in his mind, trying to invest himself with the outrage he would feel had the fabricated event actually occurred. His lips had to be turned down. His face a little red with anger. His eyes alight with indignation. How could Bittermarch claim to be a civilized nation? The blood of his countrymen demanded action! Sustained but controlled fury. He
gathered it up inside himself, grabbed the bag with his theatrical props, and strode to the Main Hall in a pretended huff he could almost believe.

  Melchor awaited him there, now fully in character. His eyes were alight and empty with child-like curiosity, his pose perfectly formal. “I shall take that for you sir,” he said, grabbing the worn leather prop bag. “Let me know if there is anything else you require.”

  “Very good, Mr. Raines. I am fine for now.”

  At long last guards on the inside pushed the tall, darkly stained doors open. The Chamberlain motioned them forward. Horace had to smile. The entrance to the main audience hall had a small antechamber in which stood a giant bronze ox, proudly displayed, representing the beast that had hauled Joris and the cooking pot he claimed held the Eternal Flame across wintry plains and mountains. The ox was situated so that the head faced the throne, meaning that all who entered the main hall immediately found themselves staring at the beast’s arse. No doubt the Bittermarchians considered it symbolic: their ancestors had followed that arse to their refuge and new home. For a Creetisian, it was a matter of humor.

  The main hall was large and circular, with marble floors and walls of granite. An upper gallery ringed both sides, a place where those who wished to observe the Queen’s dealings could sit. Above this were tall windows rising up to the domed ceiling. A central window in the middle of the dome allowed a warm yellow light to fall on a raised dais where an ornate tripod stood. From that tripod hung the Primal Fire burning in its two-hundred year old black iron kitchen pot. Such a ridiculous thing. It burned silently and without smoke in its homely receptacle, flames dancing naturally about. Some trick of the House of Light and its Flametouched cultists. Horace wished he could contrive a way to bring in a bucket of water to douse it with or a club to knock the whole contraption down. Two guards stood at attention near the holy object, unfriendly eyes fixed upon him.

  He focused his gaze elsewhere, gaging his audience. Few of the Bittermarchian nobility occupied the seats in the gallery. Unfortunate, Horace thought. The Bittermarchians hardly considered him a novelty anymore. He had considered letting his invented accusations leak to attract more interest, but in the end he decided that surprise would be a more favorable ally against the Queen than an audience that would likely jeer every word he said. The Queen sat at the far end, and the Ambassador and his attaché strode purposefully forward. The hall, Horace thought, did not serve its regent well: it was decidedly functional and masculine, and it dwarfed rather than aggrandized its monarch.

  “Well, Ambassador Clout,” the iron haired, wrinkly woman said with her sharp voice. “You must have a very particular complaint to trouble yourself to come all the way to Bittermarch so close to winter. Did our cows cross the mountains and eat some of your grain again? I hear you’ve little to spare these days. Or perhaps some of our soldiers were philandering with the farmers’ daughters along the border? Maybe you just needed a good meal?”

  Horace concentrated, the Queen’s barbs stoking real fury to use for his fake accusations. “How dare you make light, Queen Filippa! I am here on the gravest of matters. An outrage! I would not have come at all if the situation were less dire, but I cannot let this grievous offense pass. You bring us to the brink of war!”

  She hardly blinked and the ambassador worried. She had always been a hard woman to read. Some excited mumbling broke out in the gallery, so he hoped that the Queen’s lack of concern did not stem from a poor performance on his part.

  “You don’t say, Ambassador,” she said tonelessly. “It’s been a long time since war has rolled off anyone’s lips in this Hall. Pray, tell us what dire accusations you have. I sense they must go beyond your regular parade of complaints.”

  Horace visited Bittermarch at least once a year to gripe about something, so he knew he had to overcome the seeming pettiness of his previous outrages. Straight and powerful. “You ordered soldiers from Touray across the Cloud River to attack one of our villages. You killed nearly one-hundred twenty of our people! Some in our Parliament already call for war!”

  “Ridiculous, Ambassador. Utterly ridiculous. As if your starving nation has anything we would attack you for. We simply have no motivation to do such a thing. What evidence do you present?”

  Her placidity was killing him. Horace signaled for Melchor to retrieve the props from the bag. “We have eye witnesses, your Grace, that saw nearly a hundred Bittermarchian soldiers storm into Rontag just as the sun came up and begin slaughtering everyone. Shooting. Stabbing. Looting. All the while shouting ‘For the Flame’ while committing these atrocities. Here are the uniforms of two of the men some of our brave countrymen managed to fell.”

  Melchor handed him two sets of bloody coats, shirts, and breeches, eliciting a gasp from the ladies in the gallery.

  “And where are the bodies that go with the uniforms?”

  “I have ordered them to be returned to Captain Hargrave in Touray. You may write him, if you wish, to confirm their return.” The bodies were, in actuality, Bittermarchian soldiers Melchor had shot while the two were riding patrol.

  “I shall. And what of witnesses?”

  “I will summon some if my word is not good enough for you. I surveyed the town myself not two weeks ago. Your skepticism dishonors me! Surely you are not so callous as to treat such an atrocity lightly!”

  The Queen shifted forward in her throne, the first movement she had made. She held Horace’s eyes for a while. Using her gift, the Ambassador mused. She smiled when she finished and leaned back in her throne, resting her arms on the golden arm rests. “No need for witnesses, Ambassador Clout. Your word is enough for me to go on at present. I shall initiate an investigation. I assume you will stay until its conclusion?”

  “I will. I refuse to leave until this matter is put to rest and the people of Rontag receive justice! I demand that—”

  “No demands, Ambassador, none at all until I have thoroughly reviewed the matter. I will be thorough, and I warn you that it could take some time. I must give this accusation all the respect you seem to think it is worth.”

  She wasn’t worried or flustered and could barely be called interested in his accusations. Had she seen through him? Did she really consider him just a Creetisian clown? He had to push her out of his mind. He would find a much more receptive audience in the House of Lords where he would paint the creaking Regent as an old woman losing her grip on reality. He exhaled sharply, still trying to project impatience and anger.

  “Very well, your Grace. I expect regular updates and I will in turn inform my parliament of your progress.”

  “Will that be all, Ambassador?”

  He thought for a moment. “My people in Parliament are curious as to whom you will appoint as your successor. We haven’t heard if you have chosen or made your choice public.” It was worth a try.

  “I’m afraid I’m not quite thinking of the grave, Ambassador. I feel quite fit, actually. I think I may be able to hear your complaints for several years to come.”

  Arrogance. If she only knew her danger. She might not be ready for the grave, but the grave waited for her with open arms. He would push her into its welcoming embrace soon enough.

  Chapter 5

  Couric Masterson, founder of the Boot and Wheel Caravan Company of Bellshire, stared at his clerk. Couric had hired Samwell because he was young in his profession, thoroughly docile, and as malleable as bread dough. But after only a year of work the young employee had said the words that signaled that Couric would need to find another clerk to replace him: “Mr. Masterson, you should look at this immediately!”

  As two other clerks before him, Samwell had noticed discrepancies he shouldn’t have noticed. At least the poor lad had the innocent nature to assume the irregularities were the result of error or neglect and bring them up to his boss for immediate attention.

  Couric used his gnarled hands to pull his gray hair—stringy, long, and greasy—into a ponytail. He smelled of market broiled meat and last night’s ru
m, and Samwell involuntarily flinched as the bony face and beady eyes of his employer squinted in the dim light of the records room and reviewed the evidence spread out for him peruse. Couric didn’t need to look but put on a fine show of it anyway. The Aid Society’s funds poured in regularly once Queen Filippa had added her stamp of approval. None of the nobles who contributed even thought about the money anymore; the funds simply purchased them a sense of their own goodness. No need to wonder where it went.

  “I can see what you mean, Samwell,” Couric praised him disingenuously. “That was very sharp of you to catch.”

  The young clerk beamed back, proud of himself, and Couric had to stifle the urge to grind his teeth. Finding another clerk was going to be tedious. Couric needed someone who could do actual clerking, but at the same time he required a simple soul who was stupid enough not to notice some fairly obscure gaps in the bookkeeping.

  “It’s late, Samwell,” Couric said. “Let me buy you a drink and send you home.”

  The Caravan Master had left two days ago so Couric was going to have to do this little housecleaning chore himself.

  “Thank you, Sir!” Samwell said, still basking in the glow of his discovery. Couric regarded him. The year spent hunched over in the dimly lit records room of the warehouse had bent the young man’s frame and bleached his face to an unhealthy white hue. Dark raccoon circles framed his bloodshot eyes.

  Maybe I should cut a window into the room, Couric thought as he grabbed his shabby brown coat off the hook near the door. If his clerks had something to stare at besides books, perhaps they might enjoy longer tenures at the Boot and Wheel Caravan Company. Perhaps one of the spicy paintings of pretty ladies sold in the Bristol Market would have the same effect at lower cost and effort than a window.