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  Matelon was no poet, either, but he got the job done.

  “And yet you ran?”

  “Aye,” he said. “I ran. My family is in danger. My sister . . . she’s just thirteen. If what your queen says is true, she’s in the gaol at Ardenscourt. I’ve seen it.” His face was a mask of worry.

  “Our lives are at cross-purposes,” Lyss said. “It’s time we recognized that. But I hope that we can still be friends.” For once, she took no joy in scoring a point on Matelon.

  “Is this how you treat your friends in the north?”

  “This is war,” Lyss said. “We are soldiers. I wish things could be different.” She wondered if this new pain in her gut was her heart breaking.

  Matelon gripped both her hands. “We are soldiers,” he said. “We are not game pieces on a board. Don’t let them play us. Give this thing a chance.”

  Lyss gently pulled free. “You’re wrong, Captain,” she said. “We never had a chance. At the end of the day, that is all that we are—game pieces. If you don’t know that by now, you soon will.”

  The rest of the way to Chalk Cliffs, Lyss put Matelon’s pony on a lead line, where he could be towed along amid a group of Wolves. Every night, she ordered Matelon shackled to a tree. She’d already decided that there would be no more private conversations. She’d always been as easy to read as any book, and she didn’t want to offer him any encouragement. Her life was complicated enough as it was.

  Then why did she feel this desperate sense of loss?

  She also ordered Bosley to have no direct contact with Matelon. He didn’t take it well.

  “What do you mean, no contact? I am the commander of this squadron, and, as such—”

  “And, as such, you report to me,” Lyss said. “My only regret is that I didn’t act on this sooner.”

  “Is this about when we had to subdue him? Did he lodge some kind of complaint against me? If so, he—”

  “I have eyes, Bosley. As a prisoner of the crown, Captain Matelon is under the charge of the queen’s Gray Wolf guard. I’ve already spoken with Corporal Greenholt and instructed her to that effect.”

  “But—”

  “Further, if anything happens to my prisoner between here and Chalk Cliffs—if he falls off a cliff, or dies in his sleep, or mysteriously disappears—I’ll see you brought up on charges.”

  “How do you expect me to—?”

  “You’re done, Lieutenant. Now, go.”

  All through the rest of the trip, Lyss imagined that she felt the captain’s eyes on her. But it was probably swiving Bosley. If he kept on the way he was going, he was going to end up falling off a cliff.

  Everything taken together, she was relieved to descend the long slope to the stark white cliffs of the northern coastline and to see the angry gray Indio beyond. She looked forward to seeing Sasha again, someone she could actually talk to.

  The plan was to stash Matelon away in the keep and send word via Julianna’s operatives in the south to see if contact could be established with the thane his father. Otherwise, they’d keep his presence quiet in order to prevent any possible attacks on the city in an effort to free him. That was diplomacy—a mixture of friendly faces and veiled threats.

  Lyss had visited Chalk Cliffs several times in the past. The town had once been a bustling, prosperous port—but it was hard to believe it now. Blockades by Ardenine warships and attacks by Carthian pirates had reduced commerce to a trickle. Warehouses stood empty, since little to nothing was coming in, and clan crafters and vale farmers were forced to find other routes for their trade goods. The high street was lined with taverns and bawdy houses and little else.

  The keep was perched on a cliff-faced bluff that thrust out into the ocean. The waves crashing on three sides meant that Lyss never slept well under that roof. But, except for the fact it was on the coast and so vulnerable to attack from the sea, it was as secure a place as any in the queendom. To meet the seaward threat, large cannon had been mounted on the clifftops overlooking the harbor.

  Lyss knew Matelon would try to escape again, the first chance he got. She didn’t blame him, given the situation with his family, but she couldn’t let that happen, not after she and her mother had argued over it.

  She didn’t want to throw him in the dungeon, either. When she explained the situation to the duty officer, he recommended that the Ardenine captain be quartered in a suite of rooms isolated on the seaward side.

  “If you don’t want to put him in lockup, that’s the best place,” he said. “Put a brace of bluejackets outside of the door, and he’s not going anywhere, and nobody’s getting to him, either.”

  Lyss ordered a fire laid on the hearth, refilled the lamps with oil, and had a variety of books brought in. Warm clan-woven blankets were piled on the bed. There was a desk with writing materials, and a small table for private dining. French doors led to a balcony overlooking the sea.

  Do you think Matelon’s going to be any happier if he’s kept in a gilded cage?

  Would she be content in any Ardenine prison, even if it were plush?

  Or is this supposed to make you feel less guilty?

  When Lyss showed Matelon into his new quarters, he paused just inside the door and took a good look around. He’s doing the same as he did at Queen Court, Lyss thought. The same as I would do—surveying the defenses and how to break through them. The southerner had said little since his escape attempt, but she was under no illusion that he’d given up.

  He walked farther into the room, setting down his bag with his belongings. He’d been forced to give up his ruined mudback uniform coat after his escape attempt. Rather than put him into Queen’s Guard blue or Highlander spattercloth, Lyss had found him a warm sheepskin coat and a linen shirt, both clan-made.

  That would likely set tongues to wagging.

  She handed him a bundle of clothing. “Since the ones you’re wearing seem to fit, I brought you two more shirts and a pair of breeches in the same size. I’m thinking you’ll want to get into a hot bath before dinner.”

  “Dinner?” he said, glancing at the table and chairs.

  “Dinner’s at seven in the dining hall,” she said. “I’ll have you escorted down when it’s time.”

  At first, he looked as if he might refuse, but then he nodded. “All right,” he said.

  “I have some business to attend to now. Is there anything else you need, Captain?”

  When he looked at her, it was like a sword rammed through her gut. “No, ma’am.”

  “When you’re ready for your bath, just knock. The guards are right outside.” She left him standing alone in the center of the room, the bundle of clothing in his hands, the sound of the crashing waves all around.

  35

  THE BUSKER

  Lyss found Sasha in the garrison house, where she was helping the new arrivals settle in. Most of the Highlanders who had been stationed there had been deployed to help with the attack on Delphi. Now Bosley’s squadron would stay to reinforce the garrison here.

  Lyss embraced her friend—reassured by the solid feel of her in the quicksand of her life. “What’s the news?” she said. “Have you wrung any more information from the busker?”

  Sasha shook her head. “If you ask me, it’s a waste of time, your coming all the way out here,” she said. “Finn used wizard persuasion to try and get the truth out of him, but it didn’t work. Then he set himself on fire, and—”

  “Finn?”

  “No. The busker.”

  “What?” Lyss stared at her. “Was he badly hurt?”

  “It burned his arm pretty bad before we could put it out. It’s looking a lot better now.”

  “Was he trying to kill himself?”

  Sasha shook her head. “I don’t know what he was thinking. But we stripped everything out of his room that we thought he could harm himself with, and he hasn’t tried it again, so maybe he learned his lesson. He keeps begging for a mouth harp, a drum, a set of pipes—something he can play music with. It’s l
ike he’s starving for it.”

  There had been a time when being without music would have broken Lyss’s spirit. But that was a long time ago. “Or he’s playing you,” Lyss said. “You haven’t given him anything, have you? Anything to play, I mean?”

  Sasha shook her head. “That seemed like a bad idea after what happened in Ragmarket. He fancies himself to be a charmer, but it’s all a big show. Now he’s pretending to be sick.” Sasha snorted in disgust.

  Lyss squeezed Sasha’s shoulder. She knew that much of her anger stemmed from Lyss’s close call the night of the concert, the fact that Sasha hadn’t been able to prevent it, and the fact that nobody had been held accountable for Staunton and Carew. Yet.

  Still, it almost seemed like Sasha was trying to convince herself.

  “Have you heard any news from Arden? Any signs that they might come after the busker?”

  Sasha hesitated. “All’s quiet as far as Arden is concerned. But people in town are on edge. They say they’re seeing a lot of strangers on the streets. Me, I’m thinking, it’s a port town, what do you expect?”

  Lyss laughed, but she couldn’t help feeling a prickle of unease. Chalk Cliffs didn’t see near the shipping traffic that it once did. Why would there be a sudden influx of strangers?

  The guardhouse wasn’t exactly a dungeon by castle standards, but it was relatively secure, being built of stone and lodged within the stone walls of the keep.

  Maybe we should move the busker into the cliffside tower with Matelon, Lyss thought, since that’s the most impregnable part of the keep. Most of the cells they passed by were empty, save those occupied by a few local thieves and street fighters. With less commerce, there were fewer sailors getting into the kind of mischief that happens in port.

  As they neared the end of the hall, Lyss could hear a faint sound—like moaning—that grew louder until they stood before a heavy cell door.

  “Well, he’s still at it,” Sasha said. Then she banged open the door. “You, there! Wake up. Someone’s here to see you.”

  Lyss followed Sasha into the cell and scanned the room. A washbasin on a stand; a chamber pot; a narrow pallet on the floor, piled with blankets, someone huddled underneath. That was it.

  Sasha marched over to the bed and shook its occupant roughly. “I said get up!”

  “I’m getting ready to get up,” the person muttered. “Just give me a minute. It’s just so bloody cold here that it’s hard to get out from under the blankets.”

  The bed’s occupant sat up, shivering, shoulders hunched. It was the busker, but he’d changed for the worse since he’d charmed her in the street. His face had gone from finely etched to hollow-cheeked and haggard. Though he’d claimed to be cold, his face was shiny with sweat and his damp hair was plastered to his forehead. He scratched himself in a rude place. “What time is it, anyway?”

  “Time to get up.”

  “Time to take a piss, you mean.” Walking on his knees to the edge of the pallet, he was fumbling with the buttons on his breeches when he looked up and spotted Lyss. Swearing, he dove back under the covers.

  “You should of told me somebody was here,” he said, his voice muffled by blankets.

  “Who’m I, nobody?” Sasha shook her head in disgust, giving her an I told you so look.

  “Busker!” Lyss said sharply. “Don’t waste any more of our time. Take a piss if you need to and let’s talk.”

  He sat up again, the blanket draped over his head like a Voyageur’s cowl, and blinked at her like an owl in daylight. And, then, somehow, he slipped over the edge of the bed and down on one knee on the floor, arms spread gracefully, head bowed—a genuflection worthy of any up-and-comer at court.

  “Your Munificence,” he said. “Please forgive me. My p-p-piss and I are at your command.”

  Lyss tried to think of what she should command his piss to do.

  But then she took a second look. He was so bloody thin, and the outstretched hands were trembling, and when his eyes met hers, the bottomless hunger in them broke her heart.

  Sasha was not amused. Grabbing the busker’s outstretched arms, she twisted them behind his back and shoved him flat on his face on the floor. Planting a knee at the base of his spine, she growled, “Do you think this is some kind of joke? The princess doesn’t have time for your nonsense.”

  “Hang on,” Lyss said. “Let him go, Sasha.”

  Sasha looked up at her, a warning in her eyes. “He’s a chameleon, Your Highness. He knows how to play you.”

  “I know that,” Lyss said. “And you may be right, but, still.”

  Reluctantly, Sasha released the busker and sat back on her heels, hands on her thighs, waiting.

  Pale as eggshells, the boy lay on the cell floor, gasping for breath. Then he rolled over, tried to sit up, then doubled over again.

  Lyss knelt next to him.

  Sasha put her hand on Lyss’s arm. “Your Highness. Don’t get too close to him. If he’s really sick, it might be something catching. And if he’s not, he might witch you. At least wait until we can have a wizard in here with us.”

  Lyss had no gift for healing, no instinct for diagnosis, but she couldn’t help thinking the boy’s distress wasn’t a sham. Not entirely, anyway.

  “What’s the matter with you?” she said.

  This time, the busker came up onto his knees. “I’m sorry, Your Highness, to be in such a state. I—” He retched, then threw up onto the stone floor, spattering Lyss’s knees.

  “I—I’m sorry.” Taking hold of his shirttail, he tried to swipe the sick from her trousers.

  “Leave off,” Sasha growled. “Don’t touch her, you murderous, gutter-swiving—”

  “I’m all right,” Lyss said. “I’ve been smeared with worse. Never mind.”

  The busker licked cracked lips. “I’m sorry about the mess. I’m just not at my best in the morning, is all. Perhaps, if you . . . came back later . . .”

  Behind her, Sasha snorted in derision. “You’d think he was coming off a binge, wouldn’t you? I guarantee, he hasn’t been drinking in here.”

  Lyss stared at the busker, who lay, sucking in shallow breaths. “How long has he been like this?”

  “He looked pretty good when he arrived,” Sasha said. “It’s only been today that he’s been complaining that he’s sick. Maybe he heard you were coming and knew the jig was up.”

  “Call in a healer,” Lyss said.

  “With all due respect—”

  “Do it,” Lyss said wearily. “He may be faking, but we can’t take the chance that it’s something serious, or something catching. He needs to stay alive.”

  The healer, Grace, looked too young to have much experience, but she’d practiced under Willo Watersong at Marisa Pines Camp, so she must have had some chops.

  She studied the busker, her eyes narrowed. Then checked his pulse, brushed the backs of her fingers across his clammy skin, and peeled back his eyelid to have a look, ignoring his weak protests and a series of vile oaths, followed by the usual litany of apologies.

  She leaned in toward him and said, “Did you take something, boy?”

  “No,” he said quickly, as if he’d anticipated the question.

  “No?” She raised an eyebrow.

  “Well, not for a long time.”

  “What do you call a long time?”

  The busker didn’t respond, only lay there in a heap of misery.

  “We can’t help you if you don’t tell the truth,” Lyss said.

  “You’re not here . . . to help me,” the busker said.

  “Maybe we can help each other,” Lyss said.

  The busker rolled onto his back, shading his eyes against the light with his forearm. “All right. I do use the leaf, now and then,” he said. “But I can take or leave.”

  “How long’s it been?” the healer asked.

  “This morning.”

  “This morning?” Sasha would have said more, but Grace raised her hand to hush her.

  “So you’ve
used it in here?”

  He nodded. Then twitched as tremors rolled through him.

  “There’s no way you smuggled anything in here,” Sasha said, looking personally offended. “Or smoked it if you did. I don’t believe you.”

  The boy cracked a smile. “Maybe,” he said, “I outsmarted you. Maybe some people aren’t as hard-hearted as you are.” He gasped and doubled up, clutching at his middle. “Only this seems to be . . . unusually . . .” He didn’t seem to know how to finish the sentence.

  Sasha began tearing the cell apart, pawing through the busker’s meager belongings. “Where is it?” she demanded. “Where’d you hide the rest of it?”

  “There wasn’t much,” he said. “It’s all gone. I wouldn’t—aaahhhhh!” His face twisted, squeezing out tears, and he rolled into a ball.

  “I think you might have smoked some bad leaf,” Grace said. “It would help if I could have a look at any that’s left.”

  For a long moment, the busker didn’t respond. Then he reached into his breeches and pulled out a small pouch. “Here.” He swallowed hard. “But I hope you’ll . . . see your way clear to . . . give it back . . . when you’re done looking.”

  Grace didn’t reply. She yanked open the drawstring neck and shook a dark wad out onto her palm. She rubbed it between her fingers and took a sniff. Her eyes widened, and she took another. Then she dumped the leaf back into the bag, crossed to the washstand, and scrubbed her hands thoroughly.

  “Whoever sold you that leaf was no friend,” she said. “It’s been soaked in oil of moonflower.”

  “I’ve never . . . heard of that,” the busker gasped.

  “That’s because it’s a poison,” Grace said.

  For a long moment, nobody said anything. Sasha in particular looked like she’d been run over by a cart.

  “Well,” the busker said, with a hollow laugh, “that explains a lot.”