The Winter Long
Page 56
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“That would be swell if we were staying here, but we’re not,” I said. Tybalt frowned at me. So did Raj. Quentin was looking away, watching the fire, expression blank. I shook my head. “Look: you can’t pull everyone I give a damn about into the Court of Cats while we wait to see what, if anything, Evening is planning. May and Jazz are still at Arden’s Court. The Luidaeg is still asleep. Sylvester doesn’t know why his brother is . . . oh, root and branch.” I stopped mid-sentence, a wave of bitter understanding washing over me.
“October? What’s wrong?” demanded Tybalt.
“Simon admitted to me—admitted—that he was responsible for kidnapping Luna and Rayseline, but he said he did it because he was hired to by the person who’d geased him. She offered him something he said he ‘couldn’t resist,’ and so he agreed. But whoever hired him also wanted me dead.” I raked my hair away from my face with one hand, feeling strangely numb. “She wanted me killed. That was part of the deal. And Sylvester doesn’t know. He knows Simon did it, but he has no idea that it was Evening who hired—we have to get to Shadowed Hills. We have to warn him.”
“We don’t even know that Evening is going there,” said Tybalt. “And even if you’re sure, can’t we call? Sylvester will listen to you. He’s learned the value of your words, even when what you say is a seeming impossibility.”
“Yes—yes!” I seized on the suggestion, digging my phone out again and dialing the number for Shadowed Hills. It was ringing when I raised it to my ear. And it kept ringing, and ringing, until dread gathered in the pit of my stomach, whispering to me of disasters and double-crosses. We didn’t know where Simon was. He could have doubled back, he could have—
The ringing stopped. “Hello?”
The voice was Sylvester’s, and wasn’t Sylvester’s, all at the same time. The dread solidified into a hard ball of anger. “Simon. Why are you answering this phone?”
“Why hello, October. It’s lovely to hear from you. I was hoping you would call. You don’t call nearly as often as I would like. You should really move back home.”
I hesitated. I’d identified him by name. If it had been Sylvester on the phone, he would have corrected me, and probably been horribly offended. So why was he talking to me like I didn’t know who he was? “What the fuck, Simon?”
“Yes, I’d really like it if you could bring Quentin to lunch next week. That seems like a fair compromise.”
“Simon . . .” The anger was thawing back into fear. It wasn’t an improvement. “Are you in trouble? Is Sylvester in trouble?”
“Yes, absolutely.” His tone didn’t waver, remaining absolutely genial. It was the sort of tone someone would use if the threat was in the same room.
“Okay. Got it. We’ll be right there.” I hung up the phone, looking back to the others. “Simon’s answering the phone at Shadowed Hills, and for whatever reason, he can’t speak freely. It could be a trap. I have to go anyway. We need to get to Sylvester.”
“Next time you have need to choose a liege, I beg you, select one closer to your place of residence,” said Tybalt. He rubbed his face with one hand. Then he nodded. “All right. We stay together. We’ll travel through the Court for as long as we can, to shorten the time spent in shadow.”
“I don’t think we can walk from San Francisco to Pleasant Hill,” I objected.
“You won’t need to,” Tybalt said. “If the Summerlands are smaller than the world they encircle, the Court of Cats is smaller still. Those who walk here may as well be wearing seven league boots, for all the distance we will cover.”
“How far can we get?” I asked bluntly. “Name a place, please.”
Tybalt sighed. “There is very little poetry in precision.”
“Yeah, but there’s a lot of accurate risk assessment. How far?”
“To the coast. My Court ends at the water—but from there, we should be able to use the Shadow Roads with less strain. Even if it’s only a few miles, those miles are ones where we will not be running through the darkness, unprotected.”
I paused, really looking at him for the first time since I’d hung up. “This is about protection. You don’t want to leave the Court until we have to.”
“I’ve lost you once today,” he said quietly. “Please forgive me, but I’m in no hurry to repeat the experience.”
“No forgiveness needed,” I said. “Lead the way.”
So far as I know, there’s never been a real map of the Court of Cats: it’s an essentially impossible place, made up of pieces of so many other places that you’d need a genius cartographer to devote his life to mapping the Court as it is now, and you still wouldn’t have a map of the Court as it will be tomorrow. Tybalt and Raj pulled slightly ahead, scouting as they made sure that we were walking into stable hallways, places that were firmly connected to where we needed to go. Tybalt walked with the tight-shouldered prowl that I recognized from all the times I’d upset or annoyed him over the years. He was worried. I couldn’t blame him.
Quentin lagged, bringing up the rear of our little procession. I caught Tybalt’s eye before jerking my chin very slightly back toward my squire. Tybalt nodded understanding, and I slowed my steps enough to let Quentin catch up to me.
We walked side by side like that for several minutes, falling into the easy rhythm of one another’s steps, before Quentin abruptly said, “She brought me here.”
“What?” I glanced at him, sidelong, as I kept walking.
“The Countess Winterrose. She’s the reason I’m in San Francisco.”
I frowned. “But you were fostered at Shadowed Hills. Evening’s never been connected directly to Shadowed Hills. She and Sylvester have known each other for centuries, and he thought of her as a friend, but she was an ally at best, and a political opponent at worst.”
“I know. Sir Etienne told me about her when I showed up on Duke Torquill’s doorstep—not literally, the fosterage process takes longer than that—but she was the one who started the process. My father had decided I needed to be fostered in order to make me a better king,” he stumbled slightly over the word, which had only recently entered our shared vocabulary, “someday, and in order to protect me and Penthea. I was declared his heir before they sent me away. That way there was no point in somebody threatening or subverting her if they couldn’t find me.”
“October? What’s wrong?” demanded Tybalt.
“Simon admitted to me—admitted—that he was responsible for kidnapping Luna and Rayseline, but he said he did it because he was hired to by the person who’d geased him. She offered him something he said he ‘couldn’t resist,’ and so he agreed. But whoever hired him also wanted me dead.” I raked my hair away from my face with one hand, feeling strangely numb. “She wanted me killed. That was part of the deal. And Sylvester doesn’t know. He knows Simon did it, but he has no idea that it was Evening who hired—we have to get to Shadowed Hills. We have to warn him.”
“We don’t even know that Evening is going there,” said Tybalt. “And even if you’re sure, can’t we call? Sylvester will listen to you. He’s learned the value of your words, even when what you say is a seeming impossibility.”
“Yes—yes!” I seized on the suggestion, digging my phone out again and dialing the number for Shadowed Hills. It was ringing when I raised it to my ear. And it kept ringing, and ringing, until dread gathered in the pit of my stomach, whispering to me of disasters and double-crosses. We didn’t know where Simon was. He could have doubled back, he could have—
The ringing stopped. “Hello?”
The voice was Sylvester’s, and wasn’t Sylvester’s, all at the same time. The dread solidified into a hard ball of anger. “Simon. Why are you answering this phone?”
“Why hello, October. It’s lovely to hear from you. I was hoping you would call. You don’t call nearly as often as I would like. You should really move back home.”
I hesitated. I’d identified him by name. If it had been Sylvester on the phone, he would have corrected me, and probably been horribly offended. So why was he talking to me like I didn’t know who he was? “What the fuck, Simon?”
“Yes, I’d really like it if you could bring Quentin to lunch next week. That seems like a fair compromise.”
“Simon . . .” The anger was thawing back into fear. It wasn’t an improvement. “Are you in trouble? Is Sylvester in trouble?”
“Yes, absolutely.” His tone didn’t waver, remaining absolutely genial. It was the sort of tone someone would use if the threat was in the same room.
“Okay. Got it. We’ll be right there.” I hung up the phone, looking back to the others. “Simon’s answering the phone at Shadowed Hills, and for whatever reason, he can’t speak freely. It could be a trap. I have to go anyway. We need to get to Sylvester.”
“Next time you have need to choose a liege, I beg you, select one closer to your place of residence,” said Tybalt. He rubbed his face with one hand. Then he nodded. “All right. We stay together. We’ll travel through the Court for as long as we can, to shorten the time spent in shadow.”
“I don’t think we can walk from San Francisco to Pleasant Hill,” I objected.
“You won’t need to,” Tybalt said. “If the Summerlands are smaller than the world they encircle, the Court of Cats is smaller still. Those who walk here may as well be wearing seven league boots, for all the distance we will cover.”
“How far can we get?” I asked bluntly. “Name a place, please.”
Tybalt sighed. “There is very little poetry in precision.”
“Yeah, but there’s a lot of accurate risk assessment. How far?”
“To the coast. My Court ends at the water—but from there, we should be able to use the Shadow Roads with less strain. Even if it’s only a few miles, those miles are ones where we will not be running through the darkness, unprotected.”
I paused, really looking at him for the first time since I’d hung up. “This is about protection. You don’t want to leave the Court until we have to.”
“I’ve lost you once today,” he said quietly. “Please forgive me, but I’m in no hurry to repeat the experience.”
“No forgiveness needed,” I said. “Lead the way.”
So far as I know, there’s never been a real map of the Court of Cats: it’s an essentially impossible place, made up of pieces of so many other places that you’d need a genius cartographer to devote his life to mapping the Court as it is now, and you still wouldn’t have a map of the Court as it will be tomorrow. Tybalt and Raj pulled slightly ahead, scouting as they made sure that we were walking into stable hallways, places that were firmly connected to where we needed to go. Tybalt walked with the tight-shouldered prowl that I recognized from all the times I’d upset or annoyed him over the years. He was worried. I couldn’t blame him.
Quentin lagged, bringing up the rear of our little procession. I caught Tybalt’s eye before jerking my chin very slightly back toward my squire. Tybalt nodded understanding, and I slowed my steps enough to let Quentin catch up to me.
We walked side by side like that for several minutes, falling into the easy rhythm of one another’s steps, before Quentin abruptly said, “She brought me here.”
“What?” I glanced at him, sidelong, as I kept walking.
“The Countess Winterrose. She’s the reason I’m in San Francisco.”
I frowned. “But you were fostered at Shadowed Hills. Evening’s never been connected directly to Shadowed Hills. She and Sylvester have known each other for centuries, and he thought of her as a friend, but she was an ally at best, and a political opponent at worst.”
“I know. Sir Etienne told me about her when I showed up on Duke Torquill’s doorstep—not literally, the fosterage process takes longer than that—but she was the one who started the process. My father had decided I needed to be fostered in order to make me a better king,” he stumbled slightly over the word, which had only recently entered our shared vocabulary, “someday, and in order to protect me and Penthea. I was declared his heir before they sent me away. That way there was no point in somebody threatening or subverting her if they couldn’t find me.”
