The Orphan Queen (16 page)

“Did you know that King Terrell Pierce the Second was the one to declare mirrors the answer to wraith?” Melanie didn't look up from her book as I let the door fall shut behind me. “One of his men returned from the wraithland claiming a mirror had scared off a wraith beast, because it saw itself and was terrified, so Terrell the Second had mirrors hung on every west-facing surface in the city. He declared the mirrors would frighten the wraith into never invading Skyvale. At first it was just polished tin, but eventually they moved on to glass and the wards grew more extravagant. Lots of people use them as displays of wealth.”

“I did know that, but thank you.” Sunshine lit the sitting room, all honey gold and warm. Books and invitations and
half-finished drawings of the view lay scattered on the table. Peeking out from the bottom was the beginning of a black-and-white drawing of a gloved hand gripping a black-hilted sword. I hurried to stuff it back under the others.

“What about this? Terrell the Second was called the ‘Mirror King.' The Third and Fourth didn't use it, though they could have.”

“I didn't know about that. It doesn't seem like a very special title if they all get it.” The window drew my gaze, but all I could see from here were mansion rooftops, the clock tower, and the cathedral spires. The wall rose up behind them, blocking the rest of Skyvale from view.

Melanie snorted. “No, it's not. I think it's not supposed to be special, though. It's another name passed down. Not like ‘Terrell the Scum' or ‘Terrell the Sloth.' Those names are earned. This one doesn't have to be, I suppose. There are mirrors. And there's a king.” She flipped to the next page. “Tobiah's older brother would have been yet another Mirror King when he inherited, but—”

“He died when he was an infant.” I crossed the room and sat down by her feet.

“I wonder if Tobiah will get the title, too.” She shrugged and set aside the book. “What happened to you?” Amusement and worry twisted her face as she smoothed back a lock of hair. “Did the king turn into a glowman and try to bash in your skull?”

“Not quite.” I let my head drop back.

Melanie sat up and scrambled over the sofa so her shoulder bumped mine. “Did you learn anything from Terrell?”

My stomach turned over. I'd completely forgotten to ask the
king about Aecor. Instead, I'd been lost in emotions and confusion.

I forced my voice steady. “Unfortunately, he didn't have much to say about Aecor. Not beyond a few details about the One-Night War, which we already knew. Terrell is a very sick man. He just rambled about wanting to be a good king and giving his son the best chance to rule. He didn't leave much opportunity to question him.”

“That's too bad.”

I closed my eyes, haunted by Terrell's earnestness, and Tobiah's determination to rid the world of wraith.

They were good lessons for a future queen.

If I ever made it that far.

“What about you?” I asked. “Did you do anything useful this morning?”

“As a matter of fact, while you were off breakfasting with the enemy, I was busy working.” She pushed herself up and began to pace, her green day dress fanning about behind her. “We've received a number of invitations for dinners and dances. We should respond yes to the most prestigious ones. Meredith Corcoran has been particularly solicitous, which I'm beginning to find suspicious. No one is that nice when her best friend seems to despise you. But I've organized the invitations by date.”

Ugh. More social engagements. “Meredith isn't that bad. Just . . .
friendly
.”

“Maybe she's keeping an eye on you for Chey.”

“Wouldn't surprise me.”

“I also did a little snooping.” She winked and swiveled around to pace back the other way. “Our letter recalling the Aecorian troops went out, just as planned. I added a few more
details to our map, which I did in your room—you have the desk—so no one would notice if they barged in.”

“Good. Is that all?”

“No.” She halted and stuck out a hip. “General Fredrick Goldberg's office held the very thing we've been searching for.”

I raised my eyebrows. “The list?”

“Yes, indeed, Your Highness.” She curtsied deeply. “A list of resistance groups in Aecor, just waiting to hear of your triumphant return.”

I sat back and grinned. “The list is real.”

“Yes.” She withdrew a sheet of paper from her pocket. “I took the liberty of copying it and lifting a few blank pages of his stationery. The list is in Fredrick's handwriting, which we already have samples of, and regular black ink, so you should be able to write the false list this afternoon. I'll go back to plant it when you're finished.”

“Excellent. Melanie, you are amazing.” I stood and hugged her tightly.

“Yes, I do try.”

I bounced on my toes as giddiness surged up inside of me. We were on the verge of completing our objectives. The draftees. The resistance list. The map. The intelligence on opposing forces. Soon, we could return to the old palace and begin contacting the resistance groups in Aecor. Patrick would tell them that I was alive. That I was coming to save them. Aecor would be mine.

But what about the lake in Liadia? It might be nothing—just a rumor, as Clint had said—but if the rumor were meaningless, why wouldn't he tell me more about it? What was so secret there
wouldn't even be a record of it in the crown prince's desk?

Once we returned to the old palace, Patrick would initiate the next phase of his plan. I'd be taken to Aecor to meet with various groups, giving them hope and confidence and inspiration to fight the overlord's rule. I'd be spirited from place to place, quietly igniting a revolution among my people.

And then, on the tenth anniversary of the One-Night War, we'd strike against the Indigo Army. There'd be no time to investigate rumors once we left Skyvale Palace.

Let alone rumors that might take me to the wraithland.

“I also took the initiative of writing tonight's report for Patrick.” Melanie held her hands behind her back and flashed a pert smile. “I've told him that we've accomplished all of our goals, except for the map in progress, but I don't think that will take much longer. If you'll write an addendum with details about your meeting yesterday and breakfast this morning, I'll deliver everything tonight.”

I leaned my hip against the table and watched Melanie flutter about the room, pointing out the most valuable books and trinkets she wanted to take when we returned to the old palace.

Maybe her post-delivery excursions were nothing. She was working so hard on our mission—harder than I was, it seemed. Maybe she'd just needed time to get away. To breathe. I couldn't fault that.

Maybe I could trust her with the mystery of the Liadian lake.

“I'll finish the report tonight.” I forced my tone neutral, not at all like a test. “And I'll take it to the drop.”

She spun, annoyance flickering over her face before she
smoothed it into a calmly raised eyebrow. “But if anyone comes looking for you—”

“No one visits that late at night.” I stood straight and crossed my arms. Silk slithered over silk. “Or is there another reason you need to be the one to take it?”

I just wanted the truth.

Her sour expression as she turned away said everything. There was no reason to
insist
she make the drop if she weren't intentionally hiding something.

“Fine,” she said. “Let's both go.”

“Fine.”

I SPENT THE
afternoon in my room, rewriting the report to exclude mentions of the resistance groups. Instead, I said simply that we were closer. I left in the parts about the Indigo Kingdom troops in Aecor and the Aecorian soldiers being sent home from the wraithland; their recall was already in motion and would be difficult to hide from Patrick once the men began returning to Aecor.

Besides, he needed to think we were getting something done here.

Once I sealed the new report, I wrote several copies of the false list in Fredrick Goldberg's handwriting. There was no reason to wait; the sooner the Indigo Army moved away from the real groups, the better.

As long as Patrick didn't know we'd succeeded.

Finished with the forgery work, I pulled out a fresh sheet of paper.

The palace stationery was fine paper that absorbed ink nicely, with no bleeding or feathering. I mentally sorted through the different handwritings I'd acquired over the years. The general's was fun, with lots of spiderweb-thin curls, but I'd just used that. Once, I'd used a tailor's handwriting to rewrite a delivery card—the clothes had
mysteriously
ended up at the Peacock Inn where Ospreys stayed—but I wasn't as familiar with that one, since I'd used it only that time.

After a moment's more thought, I selected a pointy, flexible nib from my collection and dipped it into thick, blue ink. The handwriting had belonged to a priest in one of the Flags. He had a fondness for wild flourishes on almost every letter; the writing always made Connor smile when I used it, and we could both use a smile now.

I folded the letter, sealed it, and wrote Connor's name on the back. Then, trying not to think about how I was intentionally delaying my return to the Ospreys, I cleaned pens and organized ink jars until the clock tower chimed an hour before midnight.

Melanie knocked. “Ready?”

I nodded, and we changed into black sweaters and trousers, armed ourselves, and slipped out into the darkness.

Without speaking, we made our way through Hawksbill and climbed over the wall, then kept to the streets in the market district. Perhaps she was working on an excuse to break away once we delivered the report.

It didn't matter. When I wiggled loose the brick at the back of Laurence's Bakery, there was already a note inside.

My heart sank. Patrick arranging a meeting in the middle of our deception—that could only mean bad news.

While Melanie fitted the brick back into the hole, I checked the area for observers.

A dark silhouette stood out against a mirror. Black Knife raised his hand in a wave, and I could almost hear him calling me “nameless girl” and his snide comments about my entourage.

“Ready?” Melanie pulled up her hood. “I guess it's a good thing we both came after all, or one of us would have had to go back and fetch the other.”

“Sure.” When I glanced up again, Black Knife was gone. I'd seen him only because he'd allowed it.

That answered the question of whether he was following me.

We'd have to be extra careful on our way in and out of the palace from now on.

“Is something wrong?” Melanie touched my shoulder. “You look distracted.”

“I'm fine. I just thought I saw someone.” Why didn't I tell her about Black Knife? Well, she wasn't exactly honest with me, either. “Let's make sure we're hard to track, just in case.”

She smirked. “As though we're ever not.”

And still Black Knife had spotted us. We'd have to change our drop location.

On our way through Thornton, we threaded through crowds, lifting hats and scarves to disguise ourselves from rooftop pursuit. I jostled someone, nicking a silver bracelet as I apologized; the Ospreys could sell it and buy the younger boys new boots. Once we entered White Flag, though, we kept our hands to ourselves. People here were as poor as we were.

There were no gas lamps in the Flags, which meant most of the decent people headed indoors soon after dark, if they could manage. Only gangs, drunks, and homeless people stayed on the streets at night, and to the latter we tossed the hats and scarves we'd picked up in Thornton. All throughout our walk, I kept an eye on the rooftops, watching for the familiar silhouette of Black Knife. But there was no one, at least as far as I could see.

That didn't mean he wasn't there.

The Peacock Inn wasn't much to look at. The brick building boasted deteriorating columns and fading peacock feathers painted on the shutters. The windows here were just holes, no
glass, so the patrons' shouts and laughter and boasting fell from the inn like punches. Along its western face, the required mirrors were cracked, their reflections distorted.

I checked the rooftops one last time as we ducked inside the hot, noisy taproom. The stench of smoke and stale beer made my stomach roll as we wove through the crowd. A man's hand strayed toward my leg, but retreated when I flicked my dagger from its sheath.

“I hate coming in this way,” Melanie muttered as we made our way to the stairwell at the back of the taproom.

“Me too.” Besides a few battered weapons and trinkets, there wasn't even anything good to steal. But with Black Knife out there, we needed to stick to the ground. We needed not to draw attention to ourselves.

The stairs groaned and creaked as we ascended. A heavy, musty scent huddled on the top floor, all dust and disuse; lots of people didn't stay the night here, but came for the cheap beer and general camaraderie.

Weariness tugged at me as I knocked in a quick pattern, then pushed open the door.

A single candle lit the room: Patrick studied a stack of papers by its light, the knifelike planes of his face made sharper in the shadows, while Theresa and Connor dozed sitting up on the bed. Tattered blankets and old clothes covered them.