The Queen's Poisoner
Page 107
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Her hand slipped down. She had no strength left.
“Ankarette!” Owen moaned, taking her hand and squeezing it.
Her eyelashes fluttered. She stared at him, blinking dreamily. The sad smile was gone. Her expression was full of peace.
“I love you,” he whispered, kissing her cheek.
“I . . . love you, my little prince,” she whispered back thickly. Then her eyes shut and her last breath sighed out.
“Where is that little brat?” Mancini muttered from the doorway.
When Owen heard the voice, his little heart shriveled like a prune. “Down here,” he called, pulling himself from under the bed. He rose disheveled, but the tears were all gone now.
“You’ve been crying?” Mancini said aghast. “After all the king has given you, you’ve been crying?”
“Ankarette is dead.”
Mancini frowned. “It’s a miracle she was not dead hours ago. She was knifed several times after she snuck into Ratcliffe’s room at the inn. To think, it was all part of her plan.”
Owen glared at him. “She’s under the bed, Mancini. I need your help. I can’t lift her on my own. She needs to go back to the Fountain. We need to get her into a boat.”
Mancini sighed. “Lad, that’s just out of the question. I just became the temporary head of the Espion. I’m not about to lose it on some risky gamble with a corpse!”
“No!” Owen said. “She needs to go back to the Fountain. A boat, Mancini. You need to arrange for a boat. She needs to go back to the Fountain!”
Mancini stared at Owen as if he were being childish. “I am not superstitious, boy. All this talk of gurgling waters and dreams is a bunch of nonsense. We both know that. Ankarette Tryneowy was the most cunning woman living, as far as I’m concerned. But she’s dead now, and I wash my hands of her.”
Owen was furious. He wanted to command Mancini to obey him, but he knew that people forced against their will were not persuaded. He needed to outthink Mancini, to maneuver his actions as if this were a game of Wizr. He felt a little trickle rippling through him. An idea came.
“If you will do this for me, I will give you a stipend from my duchy independent of the king,” Owen said flatly, folding his arms.
The fat man stared at him in surprise. “A stipend, you say? How much would this stipend entail, to be precise?”
A number came to Owen’s mind. “Fifty florins a year. In Genevese coins.”
Again Mancini looked startled. “My young man, you have yourself a bargain. I like how you think. You and I are going to be great friends from now on.”
It was a tender farewell between the Kiskaddon brat and his family. Even I found myself dabbing an eye with a kerchief. The Assizes were a dreadful affair, with evidence brought, witnesses testifying, and verdicts rendered. There was a collective gasp of fearful breath when Duke Horwath read the guilty verdict against Lord and Lady Kiskaddon, followed by much weeping and anguish. They were beloved in Westmarch. But they gambled that King Severn would fail when they supported the pretender before Ambion Hill. When you gamble, you often lose. Now imagine, if you will, how the despair turned to joy when the king pronounced the punishment. Lord and Lady Kiskaddon and their sons and daughters would be banished from Ceredigion instead of meeting their fate at a river like Dickon Ratcliffe. And then the king proclaimed that their youngest son, the little brat, would inherit the duchy at eight years old. The tears of anguish turned to tears of rejoicing. Not a dry eye when the lad hugged his parents and kissed them in farewell. Except for Horwath—that man is made of stone! But what was even more pleasurable was knowing the outcome before the masses did. This is the way of politics and power. This is what I was born for!
—Dominic Mancini, Master of the Espion
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
The North
Owen had never been to the North before, and he was unprepared for the sights awaiting him. He rode on the back of the duke’s horse, as he had many times before, clutching the duke’s cloak. Owen’s toes were freezing in his fur-lined boots, and despite several layers of tunics, he still felt like shivering. His cheeks were pink, his nose hurt, but he stared in awe at the snowcapped mountains that rose in majestic plinths as far as the eye could see. This was a land with few farms, many rocks, and wild goats. And waterfalls! Owen was amazed at the huge waterfalls that roared down from the icy peaks, the sound a welcoming anthem to his senses.
The horses of the duke and his men lumbered into a mountain valley, wedged between colossal shelves of rock and ice, exposing a huge castle and town in the heart of it. A mammoth waterfall cascaded from behind the castle, spellbinding in height and majesty. Even from their position, Owen could see a bridge at the crest of the falls, putting him in mind of a story Evie had once told him.
“Ankarette!” Owen moaned, taking her hand and squeezing it.
Her eyelashes fluttered. She stared at him, blinking dreamily. The sad smile was gone. Her expression was full of peace.
“I love you,” he whispered, kissing her cheek.
“I . . . love you, my little prince,” she whispered back thickly. Then her eyes shut and her last breath sighed out.
“Where is that little brat?” Mancini muttered from the doorway.
When Owen heard the voice, his little heart shriveled like a prune. “Down here,” he called, pulling himself from under the bed. He rose disheveled, but the tears were all gone now.
“You’ve been crying?” Mancini said aghast. “After all the king has given you, you’ve been crying?”
“Ankarette is dead.”
Mancini frowned. “It’s a miracle she was not dead hours ago. She was knifed several times after she snuck into Ratcliffe’s room at the inn. To think, it was all part of her plan.”
Owen glared at him. “She’s under the bed, Mancini. I need your help. I can’t lift her on my own. She needs to go back to the Fountain. We need to get her into a boat.”
Mancini sighed. “Lad, that’s just out of the question. I just became the temporary head of the Espion. I’m not about to lose it on some risky gamble with a corpse!”
“No!” Owen said. “She needs to go back to the Fountain. A boat, Mancini. You need to arrange for a boat. She needs to go back to the Fountain!”
Mancini stared at Owen as if he were being childish. “I am not superstitious, boy. All this talk of gurgling waters and dreams is a bunch of nonsense. We both know that. Ankarette Tryneowy was the most cunning woman living, as far as I’m concerned. But she’s dead now, and I wash my hands of her.”
Owen was furious. He wanted to command Mancini to obey him, but he knew that people forced against their will were not persuaded. He needed to outthink Mancini, to maneuver his actions as if this were a game of Wizr. He felt a little trickle rippling through him. An idea came.
“If you will do this for me, I will give you a stipend from my duchy independent of the king,” Owen said flatly, folding his arms.
The fat man stared at him in surprise. “A stipend, you say? How much would this stipend entail, to be precise?”
A number came to Owen’s mind. “Fifty florins a year. In Genevese coins.”
Again Mancini looked startled. “My young man, you have yourself a bargain. I like how you think. You and I are going to be great friends from now on.”
It was a tender farewell between the Kiskaddon brat and his family. Even I found myself dabbing an eye with a kerchief. The Assizes were a dreadful affair, with evidence brought, witnesses testifying, and verdicts rendered. There was a collective gasp of fearful breath when Duke Horwath read the guilty verdict against Lord and Lady Kiskaddon, followed by much weeping and anguish. They were beloved in Westmarch. But they gambled that King Severn would fail when they supported the pretender before Ambion Hill. When you gamble, you often lose. Now imagine, if you will, how the despair turned to joy when the king pronounced the punishment. Lord and Lady Kiskaddon and their sons and daughters would be banished from Ceredigion instead of meeting their fate at a river like Dickon Ratcliffe. And then the king proclaimed that their youngest son, the little brat, would inherit the duchy at eight years old. The tears of anguish turned to tears of rejoicing. Not a dry eye when the lad hugged his parents and kissed them in farewell. Except for Horwath—that man is made of stone! But what was even more pleasurable was knowing the outcome before the masses did. This is the way of politics and power. This is what I was born for!
—Dominic Mancini, Master of the Espion
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
The North
Owen had never been to the North before, and he was unprepared for the sights awaiting him. He rode on the back of the duke’s horse, as he had many times before, clutching the duke’s cloak. Owen’s toes were freezing in his fur-lined boots, and despite several layers of tunics, he still felt like shivering. His cheeks were pink, his nose hurt, but he stared in awe at the snowcapped mountains that rose in majestic plinths as far as the eye could see. This was a land with few farms, many rocks, and wild goats. And waterfalls! Owen was amazed at the huge waterfalls that roared down from the icy peaks, the sound a welcoming anthem to his senses.
The horses of the duke and his men lumbered into a mountain valley, wedged between colossal shelves of rock and ice, exposing a huge castle and town in the heart of it. A mammoth waterfall cascaded from behind the castle, spellbinding in height and majesty. Even from their position, Owen could see a bridge at the crest of the falls, putting him in mind of a story Evie had once told him.
