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  Davon nodded and began, retelling the lie about his fabricated past and then relating the entire affair. The Queen and the Lord High Sheriff listened intently, and halfway through his tale, the audience in the gallery started to swell, owing, he supposed, to news of the incident spreading about town. Davon spoke with confidence but also with growing discomfiture as the weight of more and more eyes bore down upon him. Hardly anyone in the gallery breathed as he told of the final scuffle between Dales and his thugs, and once finished, he thought his ordeal and his actions had earned him a bit of respect all around.

  “As for my motives, Your Grace,” he finished, “I had no other object than the welfare of the Kingdom and righting a clear wrong perpetrated by base and vile men. As I stated previously, I stand ready to give my testimony to any court where this case will be heard.”

  The Queen smiled now, head resting on her hand. “This is the only court necessary for this particular matter. Since the Aid Society was a cause I supported, I wished to hear this case personally. My gift of discernment tells me you are in earnest, Mr. Harper. Indeed, such a man of principle and courage is a rare find these days. Forgive me if we keep you cooped up for a while longer while the matter is more thoroughly investigated, though I promise you better accommodations than those Couric will enjoy.”

  “I am at your service, and thank Your Ladyship for your consideration,” he said, genuflecting.

  “Very well,” she replied, “but one last question. Now that your employment is at an end, what will you do for your own support?”

  “I have yet to resolve that matter as my previous employment ended rather abruptly.”

  She smiled. “I am glad to hear it.”

  “Your Grace?”

  “Why, you shall work for me. Once we have fully settled on your innocence—and I am sure it will take but a few days—you will report to my Head Clerk, Mr. Lambert, and serve there as an underclerk. It may not surprise you that the underclerk who handled the Aid Society funds has up and vanished, and thus a position has opened up. We could use a suspicious set of eyes during these treacherous times. Does this please you?”

  He thought to ask if he might serve under the Huntsman or even the Carriage Guard instead, but he didn’t wish to jeopardize his unexpected good fortune. “You are very generous, Your Grace. I will accept, if you wish it.”

  “Very good. Sheriff, find a nice room for Mr. Harper to stay in for a few days. One with a window, I think. Afford him every comfort.”

  The Lord High Sheriff bowed. By his countenance, Davon could tell he wasn’t as convinced as the Queen of ‘Mr. Harper’s’ credit and character.

  “As you wish, Your Grace,” he replied before signaling Davon and the remaining soldier to leave the Hall.

  Davon followed obediently behind, grateful to escape the curious gaze and excited comments erupting from the gallery. Once out of the hall, he reaffixed his hat.

  An underclerk. Davon shook his head. Not ideal, though it did afford him one opportunity. When he had left Frostbourne behind, he thought he would have little opportunity to aid the Queen in rooting out what she clearly believed was a burgeoning conspiracy in the North. Now, here in Bellshire, it appeared that he might be of some use to her still. And he had a good place to start nosing about.

  At the very least, he wouldn’t be sweeping up pecan shells and swabbing up Dales’s spit.

  Chapter 11

  Davon spent a scant two days in his pleasantly appointed prison, and as nice as his accommodations were, the absolute lack of anything useful to do nearly drove him mad. Not to mention being forced to watch for hours as the glorious spring days marched by outside his window while he paced back and forth, chewing on the mystery of the Boot and Wheel Caravan Company.

  The only bit of news he could pry out of the guards who brought him his very filling meals was that Couric Masterson had hung himself in his cell mere hours after being confined there. Davon didn’t believe it, not for a second. How convenient that someone with intimate knowledge of the Aid Society fraud would kill himself before the sheriff could wrangle the information out of him.

  So when the Lord High Sheriff let him go, and after he had paid a visit to Mr. Lambert in the accounting office, Davon paid a personal visit to the Queen’s anatomist, a Mr. Breakman. While the man seemed a little unhinged, he certainly knew his way around cadavers. Mr. Breakman had found nothing unusual about Couric Masterson’s corpse. The wretch had died by hanging, and that was that.

  The next day he had formally taken his position as underclerk in Mr. Lambert’s office, and by the time introductions and training were over, he barely had a chance to peruse the Aid Society ledger before some of the sheriff’s men requisitioned it. It didn’t seem helpful, anyway, unless the fact that northern nobles contributed twenty-percent more to the fund than southern ones was relevant. He was sure the northern nobles took every opportunity to pat themselves on the back for their charitable superiority.

  And then information seemed nearly impossible to get. For two months he learned the trade of clerking from Mr. Lambert. The Queen’s Head Clerk was kind but fidgety. He was older, in his sixties or so, round face decorated by shallow wrinkles and age spots. The thick, circular lenses of his spectacles magnified his smallish brown eyes just past a normal size.

  And he was a task master. Mr. Lambert kept Davon so busy that he had little time to continue his investigations. Any chance encounter with the sheriff and his men yielded nothing save increasingly rude admonitions to mind his own business, and he hadn’t quite worked up the courage to engage any nobles for news for fear they would see through his disguise.

  And so life in the settled and predictable clerking office started to feel a bit confining and more than a little boring until a message arrived from the Queen. When Davon had accepted the parchment colored envelope from Queen Filippa’s secretary one week ago, he had thought little of the invitation inside, extended to himself and Mr. Lambert, to attend the Queen’s first of summer party in nearby Harrickshire. Of course he would accept; any chance to get out of doors and to explore unfamiliar country was welcome.

  But to his surprise, Mr. Lambert was horrified. The man was smart, but did not like any deviation from routine, and the invitation had nearly thrown him into a panic. What Davon had not understood, and what Mr. Lambert’s reaction informed him of, was that clerks were never invited to the annual event in Harrickshire. The glorified picnic in one of the more scenic valleys in Bellshire was always strictly the domain of nobles and aristocracy.

  Of course, servants to serve and to pack and to drive the carriages went along to offer their necessary services, but Mr. Lambert wondered how his skills and the skills of one particular underclerk among many would be of use in fields, forests, and the thick of those well above their station. For the next week, Mr. Lambert dissected every word of the invitation. It distinctly referred to him and David Harper as guests, indicating they were “required” to enjoy themselves rather than engage in any useful task.

  “Perhaps she means to have some business done,” Mr. Lambert speculated and dismissed and re-speculated. “Or to have us take an accounting of exactly how much is spent or used.”

  Davon thought that the same detail oriented, hound dog of a mind that served Mr. Lambert so well in the concrete world of numbers and sums completely failed him when the unexpected arose. The closer the date for the party, the more nervous and fidgety Mr. Lambert became about the whole affair until Davon feared the man would sicken himself to the point of being unable to attend.

  Fortunately, when the morning of the party arrived, sunny, pleasant, and full of promise, Mr. Lambert had resigned himself to his fate. While clearly not looking forward to the event, he had donned his white pants and blue jacket and chosen a book to read for pleasure. “I’d suggest you bring along some reading, too, Mr. Harper,” he advised. “The Flame knows the nobility won’t have a word to say to either of us.”

  “I’m rather counting on that,” Davon
replied. Donning his familiar and comfortable hunting garb that morning affixed a long overdue smile on his face. He considered bringing his rifle but thought better of it; it would attract too much attention in the hands of a clerk.

  “Counting on it?” Mr. Lambert asked. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean that I don’t intend on mingling with anyone. I’ve never been to Harrickshire and want to wander around a bit. You could come along. I doubt we’ll be missed.”

  “Faugh!” Mr. Lambert exclaimed. “I’m hardly spry enough to go clomping about in the rocks and branches, Mr. Harper. I warn you, the Queen might take it amiss if you traipse off. She would have only invited us if she had a particular reason.”

  Davon shrugged and hoisted his leather bag over his shoulder. He had purchased a book to amuse himself, but he certainly wouldn’t be reading it surrounded by noise and games and noble foppery. He pictured himself by a cold mountain stream, leaning against and old pine while the sun warmed his legs. A nap in the outdoors, a hike up an unfamiliar hill, the clean air in his lungs—everything he had ever wanted.

  As the hour of eight approached, they left the palace through the back entrance and circled around to the courtyard. A sea of brightly colored women in light shawls milled about chattering with each other, while the men compared guns and dogs and got a head start on the drinking. The number of carriages and wagons commissioned for the event was truly staggering, stretching for nearly a quarter mile from the palace round to the Flame Cathedral. Among the throng of Lords and Ladies were some acquaintances he had formed during his brief visits to court before his faked death. Davon worried they might recognize him on sight, but as had proven true during his previous weeks of service in Queen Filippa’s court, the lack of a title and a change of clothes quickly rendered one invisible to the noble eye.

  “Are my clerks ready to enjoy a little holiday?”

  Davon startled, as did Mr. Lambert, who had already delved into his reading while they waited off to one side of the palace steps. Queen Filippa, having approached from behind them, smiled at them both as they rendered their proper genuflections. She was hunched and frail, her gray hair in a bun on top of her head.

  As Davon straightened and reaffixed his broad-brimmed hat, he glanced up and stiffened; next to the Queen, staring off into the crowd, was the raven-haired Lady Arianne Hightower. He had killed her husband, the Viscount of Hightower, in a challenge after the viscount had insulted Emile’s honor. If anyone would recognize him, no doubt the Lady Hightower would. Davon, unable to control the sudden shock, felt the blood drain from his face. Fortunately, Lady Hightower seemed to be searching the crowd for someone.

  Mr. Lambert cleared his throat. “Your Grace, is there some task you wish us to perform for you during this outing? The invitation was most unexpected.”

  The Queen didn’t blink. “Why, enjoy yourself, Mr. Lambert, if you can remember how. Mr. Harper, may I present to you the Lady Arianne Hightower. Lady Hightower, this is Mr. David Harper, the one I spoke to you about that uncovered the corruption in the Aid Society.”

  Davon’s throat went dry as the Lady Hightower regarded him briefly, but to his great relief, no spark of recognition bloomed in her eyes.

  “We thank you for your service,” Lady Hightower said perfunctorily. She was a beautiful woman, the darkly complexioned opposite of Emile with a kinder, more sober face. After her brief offer of gratitude, her gaze again traveled to the bustling crowd. Davon’s color returned, and he thanked the Flame for whatever preoccupation pulled her attention away from him. Another reason to excuse himself from the day’s proceedings.

  “Um, Your Grace,” Mr. Lambert asked as the Queen started to move off. “What travel arrangements have been made for us?”

  “Ah, yes,” the Queen answered, remembering something. “Mr. Lambert, you will ride with my steward. Mr. Harper, if you will go to the stables I have arranged a horse for your use. Have you ever been to Harrickshire?”

  “No, Your Grace.”

  “Well then, use the horse to good advantage. There is hardly a prettier place in this country of ours than Harrickshire. Try not to run afoul of the gentlemen and their guns.”

  Davon smiled. Perfect. “Your will, Your Grace.”

  Uticus Longford. What a dreadful name, Lady Arianne Hightower thought as she finally located him amongst the throng. The Earl and heir of Longford had written her and expressly invited her to ride in his luxurious coach and four. As she feared, it appeared that his parents were absent and that she and he would ride alone for the hour-long trip to prettier country. Uticus, a blond, handsome man, had increased his attentions of late, and even though he could certainly find a young woman of large fortune who had never married, he had—for some reason Arianne could not fathom—settled his attentions on her, a widow two years his senior.

  While the differences in their respective situations and expectations called into question the amorous Earl’s motives, the prospective marriage would unite two powerful families and fortunes. Arianne was well aware of all the twittering, behind-the-fan whispers of the noble ladies who speculated when the Earl might, at last, ask for Arianne’s hand despite her “advanced” age and widowhood. The Gentlemen of Bittermarch, if they gossiped at all, agreed that their union would at the very least strengthen the country.

  Of course, the Earl had not asked for her hand as yet, but Arianne couldn’t help but think that the tall forests and gurgling streams of Harrickshire would provide the somewhat ostentatious Earl with the setting he needed to make public his offer. Arianne liked him well enough, though she had enjoyed her independence much more than she had anticipated; being mistress of her household and accountable to none provided a straightforward life where she could prosper or fail according to her own genius. As soon as Uticus—what a name!—took her to wife, he would drag her off to Longford and her beloved estate of Hightower would fall to one of her dead husband’s obscure cousins.

  “And theeeeere you are, dear Arianne!” Uticus gushed as she approached. “I had almost despaired of you or thought you had recanted your acceptance of my offer. But what a fetching blue dress! The color of the sky. Well come, let me kiss your hand.”

  Arianne noted his familiar tone; he didn’t have the right to call her by her first name until they were properly engaged. She extended her hand and he planted an overlong kiss upon the back of it.

  “And how are you, Earl of Longford?” she returned formally.

  As she anticipated, the Earl—always ready for a challenge— was hardly deterred by her impersonal greeting. “I am well, most well, Lady Hightower, and quite grateful for a beautiful day and a beautiful woman to spend it with. Come! Let us ascend immediately and get out of this cruel sun!”

  The Earl helped her in the coach. She could hardly complain about her conveyance; the Queen herself would likely not travel in anything better than the comfort she would enjoy. Oddly, however, the Earl’s enormous rifle lay propped against the other side, his gun pouch on the floor. He clambered in, all smiles. Uticus was, she had to admit, a charmer. Her late husband had a similar quality but was not as handsome as the fair Earl of Longford.

  “I see we have company in the carriage after all,” she said, patting the gun.

  “I must apologize. I do not trust that rifle to the servants. It was most expensively made and I hope to pass it on to my sons…when I have some.”

  Arianne extended her fan and cooled her face. The Earl was indeed pushing matters forward today. He stared out the window as the caravan got underway, and Arianne noted his self-satisfied smirk and hated it. He thought he was in control, but he hadn’t won her yet. For one, she had no real idea of what he valued besides the life of luxury he enjoyed to its fullest. Secondly, she had yet to see him properly drunk, and since most Lords spent half their lives in one state of drunken indisposition or another, she thought it important to know her suitor drunk and sober. Today might be the day.

  The ride to Harrickshire took over an hour. Whil
e Arianne had seen Harrickshire on numerous occasions, she never regretted the often bumpy trip. The road led away from Bellshire, the woods gathering ever thicker as they headed closer to the Ice Fire Mountains. Brilliant blue-green spruces filled the air with a sharp scent that signaled clean breathing and pleasant shadows. As they wound up the side of a steep hill, tiny yellow and blue flowers carpeted the ground where the trees pulled away to leave them room.

  Arianne smiled. Something of the wild always infected her in these places, casting all the nobility’s prim and proper stuffiness into insignificance. Spring invited a little carefree naughtiness, and the vague impulse took some time to quell. Catching the Earl grinning at her, she settled her face back into a formal frown and worked her fan until they crested the hill and began their descent into Harrickshire proper.

  The valley was indeed breathtaking. A long, narrow lake hugged a forest of dizzyingly high giant Elder Oak and Elder Pine above which rose steep red granite mountains to the east. From the top of the hill they had just crested, Arianne spied three mighty waterfalls roaring down the steep slopes to be gobbled up by the woods, swollen creeks emerging from the woody dark to join with the lake. On the west of the lake, grassy hills with scattered copses bid farewell to herds of deer scared away by the thunder of carriage wheels.

  The caravan snaked its way down the gentle slope to an open field fragrant with delicate, waving flowers and flooded with gentle spring sunshine. As they pulled to a stop, a lone horseman galloped free through the fields to disappear beneath the boles of the mysterious Elder Forest. She envied him. The ladies were rarely permitted to go into the wild places at all, but by flattering Uticus and his ample gun she thought she might be able to persuade him to accompany her inside.