The Still

Chapter 8

Casually, Rust bid me farewell, mounted Santree, his favorite bay, and trotted through the main gate with a friendly wave to the guard, while I peered down from my window high above. In his saddlebags was enough of my clothing for several days change.

Uncle Mar had no need to monitor the traffic in goods to and from the castle. His concern was that Elryc or I should escape his control, or some unknown enemy enter. To that end, he’d doubled the guard, but Rust was as well known as the alemaster whose cart was mired in the still-soggy courtyard, where sweating helpers rolled barrels round to the servitors’ entrance.

Scarce two hours later, Rust was back, and passed through the guards’ scrutiny at the gate without incident. Shortly after, he was in my room. “Done.”

“You’re sure you-”

“Everything.” He glanced at the walls, put a finger to his lips. “Think you the night will be cloudy?” A full moon would inhibit a climb down a rope from the battlements.

“Who knows.” I couldn’t abide the wait until dark.

Somehow, in our planning, it had become clear that my absence might be a protracted one. Uncle’s attitude toward princes and crown became ever more proprietary, and his physical custody of me, as opposed to the formality of a regency, was intolerable. Still, I hesitated at casting myself adrift. Events would tell.

I paced anew. When Rustin settled himself at dice, it was too much. “Let’s walk outside.” In good humor, he followed. “Sleep on, Fostrow. No need to stalk us.” The yawning guard struggled to his feet, assembled his gear.

Outside, all was as to be expected, except for the manned battlements. During my whole lifetime, and before, Mother had ruled with her foes subdued and no need to cower behind armed ramparts.

We sauntered along the walls, Fostrow bringing up the rear. As I’d feared, the only wall low enough to lower myself down was rife with soldiers from Verein. Our household troop would hesitate before firing on me; these louts of the Duke would skewer me with an arrow with nary a thought.

I hummed, barely loud enough for Rust to hear. “It looks a bit awkward.”

“Perhaps.” Rustin guided me down the stairs. “Let’s sit outside the kitchen.” We traipsed around the side of the keep, along the foundation wall. I glanced back at Fostrow, increased my pace, trying to make him sweat.

Cook gave us meat and bread, shooed us out into the damp afternoon. I settled on an overturned barrel, took a bite. Rustin let me ruminate in peace. Fostrow made a few stabs at conversation, but I ignored him with lofty condescension until he lapsed silent.

A stir, in the kitchen. Voices raised, men running about. A squad of soldiers left off their raillery with the washer-maids, loped around the corner of the keep. I looked inside. “Cook, did someone piss in the stew?”

The rotund woman wiped her face on an apron. “They’re coming! Lord of Nature!” Leaving me gaping, she rushed away.

I spotted Kerwyn, the groom. “What’s afoot?”

“The trumpets gave alarm.” His voice was uneasy. “The guards are gone to the ramparts.”

Fostrow’s rough hand grasped my arm. “To your chambers, this very moment, or I’ll bind and carry you! Move!” He shoved me along. “The Duke would have the hide off me, if anything happened to-where do you think you’re going?”

“Let’s have a look. Come on!” My pace was barely short of a run.

Perhaps it was because I was young, and could move faster. Or perhaps the old soldier’s itch to know was as great as mine. Fostrow hurried after, without protest. Rust loped past him to stride with me.

I led them around the foundation wall of the keep, past the stables, to the main gate and the west ramparts.

In the courtyard, red-faced brewer’s men struggled to free their cart from the muck. Empty return barrels, ill-tied, rolled in the wagon bed. Men and boys dashed about. I spotted Genard, leading a horse to gatekeeper Lanford. The battlements were a frenzy of activity.

The gates were open. A stream of folk were making their way up the hill from town. Townsmen trickled into the courtyard, bearing what supplies they could carry, while above on the ramparts, troops passed rocks from hand to hand to augment stacks, arranged kindling in the firepits under the cauldrons, rolled barrels of oil.

Rustin gave way to a soldier with an armful of pikes.

I raced up the steps, peered over the rampart into the setting sun.

“What is it, Roddy?”

Dozens of black sails were silhouetted against the sun-flecked water. A chill stabbed at my spine. “Tantroth’s fleet is athwart the bay!”

Fostrow’s face puckered with dismay. “Tantroth of Eiber? We’re in for a siege now, let me tell you.”

Slowly, inexorably, the laden ships glided on the gentle breeze, toward the beach south of the docks, far from Llewelyn’s keep.

“You’ve seen, my lord. Now, to your chambers!” Fostrow, with a firm grip on my upper arm, hauled me to the steps. “Young Rustin, go home; your father will have need-”

“I stay with my prince.”

“Then you’ll stay in his rooms for the duration. It’s a lock and bolt I’ll warrant Margenthar will want for the guarding. Hurry, laddie.” With a flick of my dagger I could have sliced the tendons of his wrist and left him screaming in helpless rage, but this was not the time or the place.

I let Fostrow lead me into the castle and deposit us in my rooms. The moment the door was shut I ran to the window, peered past the walls to the warming harbor below.

“What now, Rust? Quick, before Uncle Mar locks us in!”

He said, “Confusion reigns, and will for hours. How can we dispose of Fostrow?” I pulled my dagger; Rust looked shocked. “Imps and demons, Roddy. I didn’t mean it literally.”

A few moments later he looked out the door. “Fostrow, help us with the trunk, would you? Roddy’s leather jerkin and shield are inside, and the hasp’s stuck.” Rust strode to the trunk room.

Fostrow bent over the trunk, grumbling. “What need have you of shields? You’re well guarded, and high in-”

I emerged from behind the cupboard, clubbed him with my upraised chair. With a cry, he sank to his knees.

Rust kicked shut the door, threw himself onto the fallen guard. “His blade!” With effort, he held the man’s hand clear long enough for me to snatch the sword from its sheath.

“The dagger also.”

“I know.” I clawed for the blade, tossed it across the room out of reach.

Fostrow arched his back, threw Rustin half off. He took breath, let out a shout. Rust elbowed him in the stomach; Fostrow oofed silent. I swarmed onto the guard’s back, helped Rust subdue him.

With belt ropes and curtain ties, we soon had Fostrow bound. I asked, “What about a gag?”

“Use a shirt.”

I grabbed one from the floor.

“Not an unwashed one; you’ll smother him!” I glared, but Rust paid no heed. He peered at the soldier’s scalp. “Water, and a cloth.”

“Are you serious? He’s our enemy!”

“Water!” Rust’s tone was peremptory. Sighing, I brought it; he dabbed at Fostrow’s forehead. “The Duke is our enemy, my prince. This man is a guard, doing his duty.”

“Which is to gaol me.”

“His duty.” Rust finished his ministrations.

Fostrow chewed at the gag. His voice was muffled, but distinct. “Let me go. Mnpff. What are you boys about? There’s no place for you to hide.” He tried to twist free of his ropes. “The castle’s secure, Prince; we’re all trapped together. Untie me and I’ll say nothing of-”

“Some gag.” I joined Rust in dragging the protesting guardsman across the tiles.

“Into the wardrobe.”

I helped him bundle Fostrow into the closet. “We can’t leave him alive. Listen to his caterwauling! If you tied his knots like you stuffed his mouth, he’ll be free in minutes.”

“They’ll hold long enough. Or would you slit his throat?”

Fostrow was abruptly still.

“Where’s my dagger?” I looked about, found it on my belt, its accustomed place. A tug, and it was unsheathed.

Rustin stood aside, his eyes on my face.

I brought the dagger to my gaoler’s throat. Fostrow whinnied. “Lord of Nature, laddie! What did I do that-”

“Shut thy mouth.” I took a deep breath, steeled myself for my slash, waited for Rustin’s inevitable objection.

Silence. Very well, then, I’d do it. Yet my arm seemed paralyzed. I looked past Fostrow’s terror, concentrated on the blade.

At last, I sighed, sheathed the knife.

Rustin sagged in relief.

I said sourly, “I stopped only for you, vassal. You’d have nagged and badgered until-”

His hand flew to my lips. “Shh. I feared for you, but you passed the ordeal.” Without waiting for answer he strode to my door, opened, peered both ways. “Hurry.”

“Sometimes I can’t begin to figure you. Where to?”

“Below.” We raced down the stairs.

Just above the landing, I caught Rust’s arm. “What if Uncle sees us?”

“He’ll be directing our defenses, not pacing the hall.” Nonetheless, Rust peeked over the rail. I joined him. In the entry, sentries stood watch, with greater vigilance than usual. We tiptoed back upstairs.

“Now what?” Dazed by the press of events, I was content to let him lead.

For a long moment, he thought. Then, “Roddy, what welcome, when you return?”

We’d planned on my jumping the wall and making a brief journey to Hester’s cottage. Instead, we’d clubbed and bound a guard. Uncle’s wrath would be formidable. I’d be lucky to be sent to the Chamberlain; more likely, I’d be cast into a cell.

My eyes were bleak. “Shall I never come home?”

Staring at the rush-covered flooring, he shrugged. Then, his gaze met mine. “As King.”

I swallowed. “I’ll need the Still.”

“The vault? There’s no way to …”

“The castle is in an uproar. If ever we could, now.” I felt a tingle of fear, and with it, welcome excitement. I would risk all, on a throw of the dice. “We’ll need to break the lock.”

“What you need is Willem’s key.”

“I don’t dare be seen in the Chamberlain’s wing. Everyone knows by now I’m supposed to be guarded.” I felt an unaccountable exultation. I commanded, and Rustin but followed. “Mother’s key opens one lock. All we must force is the second.”

“A spear, perhaps? But the guards …”

“The armory is nearby. We’ll manage one, somehow. For the guards, a distraction.”

He paused. “Tell them we’re under siege?”

“Yes! No, too unlikely. They’ll know Tantroth can’t have landed yet.” I took a deep breath. “Fire.”

“Roddy!”

My expression was grim; I knew, well as he, that fire was the bane of every stronghold. Woven floor covers, timber supports, and cotton and damask curtains would burn like pitch. Worse, the keep was full of vents and cubbyholes; it would draw like a chimney. If our blaze got out of hand, we’d destroy Castle Stryx.

On the other hand, the vault was at the end of a long corridor with no other exit save the passage we’d use. The guards would realize that if they remained at their posts they’d be roasted like autumn chestnuts. Fire was our best, if not our only way to get to the strongroom.

“We’ll make smoke, so it looks like a bigger fire than it is. A barrel.” My mind cast about. “One from the winery. A wet blanket, soaked in oil.”

“Where?”

“The kitchen. Run.” My speed was urgent, lest my courage falter. I ran headlong into the kitchen, bustling to provide food to our defenders. “Cooking oil! Where do you keep it?”

Cook gaped. “What are you-”

“Quick, tell me!”

“The scullery.”

I dashed past the tables where Genard sat lapping a bowl of stew, ran out onto the grounds, made for the scullery. A kitchenmaid loomed in the doorway. I thrust her aside, looked about for a bowl, such as Cook used.

“Not there; it’d be in a cask. Aha!” Rust seized one, wrenched out the cork, sniffed. “Fresh-pressed olives.”

“That’s plenty. Can you carry it?” The cask was but a tenthweight of a barrel. I grabbed the biggest jug I could find, filled it with water from the barrel by the door.

“Roddy, are you sure you’d risk burning-”

“For the Still itself? Do you jest?” I trotted back to the kitchen, leaving Rustin to shoulder the cask.

Beyond the kitchen, steps to the cellars. I seized a doused torch from its place on the wall, lit it from a taper in a niche. I glanced behind, waited impatiently for Rust to catch up.

The tunnel to the winery was deserted, the winery’s gate securely locked. Outside, empty wine barrels waited to be cleaned. I stood atop one, smashed at it with my boot until the lid splintered.

“What do you here?” A harsh voice echoed.

I whirled. Stire, the Duke’s man, in full battle gear. His half-sword was drawn.

Rust giggled, swayed. “It’s hard to get the dregs, m’lord.” He gestured. “Have to open the barrel; it’s too heavy to tip and suck at the bung.” He staggered toward me, recoiled as if I’d pushed him away. “P’haps you can help us with the nexsht?”

“You’re drunk, lout?” Stire’s lip curled.

My voice came in a squeak, not from mummery, but real fear. “He is not!” I stumbled, in Stire’s direction. “No more’n I. We came down to-”

He sheathed his sword. “I see what you came-”

As one, Rust and I tackled him. Uncle’s henchman went down, cursing and struggling. Rust’s eyes were wild. “Roddy, the sword!”

I let go Stire’s legs, dived for the hilt of the half-sword, pulled it loose. Rust’s hand shot out, beckoning.

I dropped the sword into his fingers. “Run him through!”

Stire’s knee came up; Rust grimaced. His arm shot out. Using the jeweled hilt like a club, he smashed the sword into Stire’s temple. The man went limp.

“Oww.” Rustin rolled off, crouched with knees pressed together, his face red. A deep breath, then another. “Why are you gawking? There’s your cloth for burning.”

“Huh?”

“His clothes!”

Unconscious, Stire was almost too heavy to move. But, grunting and panting, I rolled him over and about until I’d stripped off his garments. “Loincloth too?”

Rustin leaned against the wall, recovering. “As you wish.”

“He mocked me.” With a flick of the sword I parted his loincloth, dropped it in the barrel. Rustin emptied the water jug into it. I poured in a measure of oil. “Now for a spear.”

“Stire leaned his against the doorsill.” He gestured. “Roddy, if this doesn’t work, they’ll hang us.”

“I suppose.” No time for that now. I rolled the barrel into the corridor. It made a ghastly clattering.

We stopped short of the armory gate. I tiptoed along the corridor, peered in. The armorer, his apprentice, and two soldiers were gathered, tying sheaves of arrows.

There was no way to roll the cask past them without discovery.

Rustin’s hand fell on my shoulder; I stifled a shriek. He tugged me back to the winery passage. “Wait here a moment.” He handed me Stire’s sword. “Use it, if needs be.” He loped along the corridor toward the safety of the kitchen.

I fumed, my valor ebbing with each breath. Ours was the most harebrained, unthought, foolhardy scheme ever to-

“Come.” Rustin dragged me from the dank barrel on which I sat. We made our way back to the armory and peeked in. None watched us. Rust flitted across the entryway to the safety of the other side. After a moment, I followed.

“What good does this do?”

“Shh.” He waited. Of necessity, I waited too, every nerve strained.

A clatter. Banging, a scrape. A flickering torch, beyond the bend.

“We’re found!” I hefted my sword.

A barrel advanced down the corridor, on its side. Behind it, a castle workboy, torch raised against the gloom, head bent to his onerous task.

I peered toward the armory. A soldier glanced up, went back to his selections.

The boy rolled his barrel past the armory, found the alcove in which we huddled. “Now what, m’lord?”

“Garrond!” I saw the curl of his lip, corrected hastily. “Genard. You’d better run along.”

“Is this about Lord Elryc?” He searched my face. “You’d best tell me.”

I cast prudence to the winds. “Yes.”

“I’ll help.”

I nodded. “From here, we’ll have to carry it”

Thank Lord of Nature, the iron gates in the strongroom corridor were open. We lugged the barrel as close to the far end as we dared, set it down. I glanced at the torch. The flame wavered, as if pulled both directions.

It would have to do. I poked the torch into the barrel, waved it about until the contents caught. An acrid aroma. Sputtering. I prodded the soggy clothing, until at last I was rewarded with a few wisps of smoke.

Genard frowned at our efforts. “You need straw, and lots of water.” He scampered off, before I could grasp his arm.

“Rustin, this is madness.”

His voice was calm. “A trifle disorganized, I’ll admit.” He leaned against the wall, arms folded. “Wait upstairs, if you’d rather. The boy and I will-”

“Arghh.” I fanned the barrel.

In a surprisingly short time Genard trotted back, staggering under a load of straw. I thrust a handful into the barrel; he slapped my hand away. “Not yet! Would you have smoke, or the castle in flames?”

“Sorry.”

He ran off. Rustin shook his head.

A few agonizing moments, and Genard was back with two buckets of water. “Cook is boiling mad,” he advised us. “We’d better get on our way.”

He poured half a bucket onto the mound of straw, felt it, considering. “All right.” He gathered armfuls and tossed them into the barrel. “Just wait. There. Now, that’s smoke.”

Billows of black smoke rose from the barrel. Obligingly, Genard added another armful of wet straw.

The ceiling was barely above our heads; the smoke had to dissipate outward. More went toward the kitchen than inward.

“Well?” Genard glanced between us.

“It’s not … they need more-”

“Nobles.” He spat his contempt. In one quick motion he stripped off his shirt, began fanning the smoke toward the vault. “All they need is a sniff, m’lord.”

“He’s right.” Rustin. “I’ll go first, shouting. Duck into that alcove, out of sight. Hopefully they’ll flee.”

Genard stared in dismay. “You? An outsider, and a friend of Prince Roddy?” He panted from the exertion of fanning. “Here, do this.” He handed me the grimy shirt, darted bare-chested toward the strongroom.

“Fire! Save us!” His child’s voice came shrill. “The castle’s ablaze! Fire! Help, before we burn! We need buckets!”

Beyond the black curtain of smoke, the boy capered. A moment, then the thud of footsteps.

Eyes tearing, I cowered back in the alcove, stifling coughs. The steps receded.

Silence.

“Hurry, Lord Rust!” The voice came near the ground. “They’ll figure out something’s not right.”

A hand tugged at my ankle. “Stay low, m’lord.”

Anything, for relief. I got to my knees, found the air more bearable. I sucked in a breath. “To the vault.”

“Shouldn’t we put out-”

“Let it burn; we need more time.” I scuttled along the floor, until the smoke lessened, and we found ourselves outside the great bronze doors.

“Mother’s key!”

Rust peeled it from his neck, thrust it into my hands. “But which lock?” I stared at the deep entry holes.

I swallowed. A false key, and the offending hand would be severed. Or so the whispers had said.

“Genard, open it” I handed him the key.

“Hah.” He tossed it back. “Your Powers, your fingers.”

I lifted the point of my sword to his throat. “Open!”

He swiveled to Rustin. “Is he that wicked, my lord? Would he?”

“He thinks he would.” Rust took the key from him, placed it in my hand. “Roddy, you’d best hurry.”

I kept my arm rock-steady as I extended it toward the lock, into the gaping hole. They would have been persuaded I was fearless, had I not moaned and kept my eyes glued shut.

I felt for the keyhole. Nothing. I probed farther, yelped as something sharp pricked my fingertip. I yanked out my arm, sucked my fingers. “Give me the torch!” Trying not to singe my ear, I peered in the hole. “Demons of the lake!”

“What, Roddy?”

“It’s been forced!” The iron of the lock was bent and broken. I pressed on the door; it didn’t budge.

In the distance, shouts.

I ran to the second lock, squinted. It was whole. I thrust in my key.

It didn’t turn. With all my strength I twisted. It moved not an iota. I withdrew the key, stared. “What means this?”

Rustin waved away a puff of smoke. “That your key fit the forced lock.”

“But if they didn’t force both …”

“We’ll know when we get in.” He took Stire’s spear, thrust it into the hole, twisted. Outside, the cries grew nearer.

Rustin strained, to no avail. In fury, he withdrew the spear, rammed it into the lock, over and again.

“Here, let me.” I slammed the spear into the long keyhole, smashed it against the lock. Something caught. I twisted hard. Rust seized the shaft, added his own weight.

A snap.

I pulled out the spear, pressed tentatively on the door.

The top of the door glided away from us, as the bottom rose and whacked my shins. I cursed, stepped aside, raised it the rest of the way.

A few chests were overturned in the corner; I ran to one, flung it open. Moldering scrolls of state. In the others, trinkets and gifts. I stood, perused the shelves.

A cushion. My breath hissed. I remembered that bolster. I hurried to it.

Still impressed in it were the hollows where long the Chalice had lain, and near it the Receptor.

They were gone, and with them, my Power.

A groan escaped my lips.

“Look, m’lord!” Genard’s eyes were wide. He pointed.

The crown of Caledon, Mother’s formal diadem. It lay carelessly on a cedar stand, as if discarded, and without value.

After all I’d risked, the agonies I’d endured, my nights of shame, the Still was gone.

“Take it!” Rustin.

I stood as if made of stone.

Genard snatched up the crown, wrapped it in his grimy jerkin.

Rust poked among the chests. “Roddy, there’s no coin here.”

“I know. Mother had Willem keep most …” My voice trailed off. Not only had I lost the Receptor and Chalice, the most valued objects in Caledon, but now they could be wielded against me. If, in all the realm, another virgin could be found to mount the throne.

“Hurry.” Rustin tugged. When I resisted, he wrapped his arm around me, guided me down the hall toward the smoke. “Genard, guard the crown and meet us outside.”

“Aye, sir.” The stableboy took a handful of deep breaths, plunged into the swirl.

“He’ll steal it!”

“No.” Rust pressed me into a kneel. “Keep your head low, for the air.”

“Fire! Save us! Hakkk!” Genard coughed and wheezed. “The castle burns!” His voice faded.

Rust pushed and prodded, forcing me through the smoke. Rivulets of water, in the passage. Voices shouting, near.

I’d lost the Still.

Amid bellows and frenzy, we thrust through a milling crowd, fought our way clear to beyond the scullery.

Rust seemed a madman, his hair awry, blue eyes shining from a filthy mask. “Do I look as awful as you?” He led me to a well. “Rinse-no, perhaps not.” He stayed my hand.

“They have my Power.” I couldn’t focus my thoughts.

With what might have been compassion, Rust took my hand, steered me along the foundation wall. Moments later we were in the cool of the stables. A flickering taper was wedged in its sconce.

He swung shut the doors. “Sit. No, there by the water pail, out of sight.” He disappeared.

Outside, in the dusk, excited shouts faded to unheard whispers.

Tantroth sought Caledon, and might yet have it, but the Still was beyond him. And so was the crown. The demon’s imp who served as stableboy would sell it for a song, if he wasn’t gutted and tossed in the offal by a thief larger than he.

Something rough jabbed at my lap. I pushed it aside, my eyes on the beams above, my thoughts awhirl. A fly buzzed at the bucket of water, rippling it.

My fingers toyed with the tight-bound hay on which I sat. What now, Mother? I’ve lost the Vessels, a guttersnipe has your crown, Elryc and Hester are gone, Pytor’s imprisoned, and we’re under Tantroth’s siege. Uncle Mar has me at his mercy.

All is lost.

A figure crossed the anteroom. Rustin.

I asked, “Did you find the brat?”

“He sits at your feet, my prince.”

I looked down. “Where’s my crown, thief?”

Genard flushed at my epithet. “Where you dropped it.”

I stared past him, at the gold bauble in the dust.

“Genard, we need horses.” Rustin seemed strangely impatient. I no longer cared.

“Aye, m’lord. How many?”

“Can you ride? Of course, you work the stables. Where can we find soldiers’ garb?”

Genard bit his lip. “Each day the washerwomen take garments to boil, and dry them on the rocks by the well.”

“Do the soldiers haul back their own clothes?”

“No, m’lord. The women bring them the next-”

“Come along, I’ll need help. Roddy, stay here.” They went.

Perched on my hay, I dangled the crown, from time to time twirling it on my finger. No coronation. No Power.

If Tantroth my cousin, Duke of Eiber, had his way, no realm either. Time would soon tell; by now he’d have landed at least his first force, and would be racing to secure the Castle Way.

I stared at the bucket. No need any longer to hide my face; I could wash off the grime, meet my fate like a king. Placing the crown on my head, I reached toward the still water, half-mesmerized.

“Who goes?” A familiar voice, which I couldn’t place.

My voice came from far away. “Rodrigo of Caledon, Prince and heir.” Again the fly buzzed at the bucket, and I shivered. I thrust out my hands, palms down, to guard the water.

“What do you in my stable?” The old man. Griswold.

“I hide, from the Duke.”

“Why?”

“He is my enemy.”

“What makes him so?”

“He would have my birthright, and my realm.”

The old man’s voice wavered in and out of earshot. “Where go you, now?”

“I flee.”

“Whence?”

“To my brother, and the witch who raised me.”

“For what purpose?”

My arms ached from the effort of keeping them still, but the fly must not have at my pail, before I washed. “To gain their alliance, and my strength.” The words might be mine, or might not.

“And then?”

I came slowly to my feet and spoke in a tone of resolve. “I shall claim my kingdom, and seek my Power.”

The door swung open. “Roddy, we found-Oh!”

Griswold scowled. “He’s in a muddle. Where do you take him?”

“To safety.” Rustin dumped his pile of clothing; the stableboy added an armful of helmets. Rust snapped, “Genard, saddle our horses.”

“Who rides?”

“You, me, Rodrigo.” Seeing the crown on my head, Rust frowned, removed it. He plunged his hands into the bucket, splashed my face, wiped it on his sleeve. “We need more riders. Who?”

I stirred.

Griswold snapped, “Fetch Kerwyn.”

“Aye, sir.” The boy ran.

Rustin helped me dress in soldiers’ garb still damp from scrubbing. When he had my clothes arranged he wrapped the crown in my old shirt.

“How will we get out?” My mind began to work, as if awakening from long disuse.

“Through the gate.” He shucked his own garments, donned the guards’ clothing.

A time passed, moments or hours. Kerwyn, ridiculous in a trooper’s jerkin, led two horses. Behind him came Genard with two others.

Rustin adjusted his own helmet, mounted his chestnut mare. “We’ll need to show swords and shields; all we have is that half-sword of yours. I’m going to the armory.”

“You’ll be recognized.”

“Your household troops and the men of Verein still don’t know each other.” He clattered to the door in soldier’s garb and boots, reached down to the catch. “Besides, no one looks at a soldier’s face. I grew up in a soldier’s house.” He was gone.

Genard fussed at his uniform. “It overflows on me. How will I keep the arms from-”

“Quiet.” Griswold rolled the boy’s sleeves and leggings so they seemed less outlandish. “You’ll be a small young soldier. Kerwyn, keep your faceplate down; everyone knows that nose of yours. I want you both back, soon as it’s safe.”

The door swung open. Guards with torches, their swords drawn. “Stableman, have you seen the boy Prince?”

Griswold’s eyes never strayed to mine. “Not of late.”

I blinked, coming at last into the remainder of my senses. My fingers played at my guardsman’s knife. I said, “We’ve already searched, trooper.”

“Captain Stire was attacked. He’s livid.” The man’s eyes flickered to Kerwyn, and the stableboy in man’s clothing. Then past the shirt thrown casually on the hay. “I’ll try the kitchens.”

After they left I eased myself back on the hayroll, hoping the others wouldn’t see the tremble of my knees. I gathered my wrapped crown to my chest, hugged it. We waited in silence, until steps approached. Rustin.

He grinned. “Three swords and scabbards. And shields.” He distributed them. “I used Stire’s name.”

“They’re looking for me. Fostrow must be loose.”

“No matter, now.” He handed me the reins to a snorting gelding. “Up, my prince. Stay close, and let me speak. I’m the captain.”

He wheeled his mount out the door, clattered toward the gate. We spurred to follow. “Lanford!” A bellow. “The ale-man’s cart! Where is it?”

The gatekeeper frowned. “Left an hour ago, guardsman. They finally got the wheel high enough to repair-”

“And you let them through? The Duke will have your ears, if not worse!” Rustin’s horse pranced with conveyed excitement “You fool!”

“What-why shouldn’t I let-they were desperate to get down the hill and away, before Tantroth’s troops blocked the road.”

“The boy Rodrigo was on the cart!”

“We checked every barrel. And looked under-”

“He was the helper in brown, perched on the backboard! Open the cursed gate. Hurry, they can’t be far down the hill.”

Swearing, Lanford swung open the gate, and we charged through. Behind us the doors thudded shut.

The wind tore at Rustin’s exultant cry. “He’ll have your ears!”