The Queen's Necklace (6 page)

When Blaise called his name, Will rose slowly to his feet, pushed back his hat, thrust his hands into the pockets of his gaudy coat, and sauntered over to the grating, the thin ice crunching beneath his feet as he walked. Amused by this consummate piece of play-acting, Blaise shook his head.

“I'm sorry not to have come to your rescue sooner. I was out last night when your message arrived.” Lifting his eyeglass to examine Wilrowan at close quarters, he gave a delicate shudder. “If you don't mind my asking, where did you come by that hideous coat? Really, my dear, you should never wear scarlet with that ginger hair of yours.”

Will responded with an appreciative grin. Blaise Trefallon in full dress was a creature of infinite refinement and exquisite taste, far removed from his companion of the taverns and gaming hells. “You can buy anything here. Wine, firewood—even whores, though I've not tried it. The only thing you can't buy is your way out, because the governor, they say, is incorruptible.”

Blaise smiled faintly. “He is a petty tyrant who delights in his power. And in no hurry to release you, I regret to say. If there is anything you need in the meantime—” Blaise reached for the coin purse he carried in his pocket.

“I thank you, no. Put that away, Blaise; your money would only burden me. As it is, I only barely escaped being throttled once and bludgeoned another time, all for the sake of this worthless brooch—and the ring I wear on my hand.” Will rested his right hand on the inner grating, so that Trefallon could see the silver intaglio ring.

“If I hadn't friends here to guard my back, you might have arrived here only in time to claim my body.”

And it was typical of Will, thought Blaise, that he should find some of his former cronies residing in Whitcomb Gaol. But declining to discuss what had always been a sore point between them, he focused his attention on the ring instead. It was of antique design,
heavy and intricate, the stone a great smoke-colored crystal deeply incised with ancient writing. It reminded Blaise of some of the minor Goblin artifacts—harmless curiosities all, though immensely valuable—he had seen in private collections.

The gaoler was stationed with his back to a wall about fifteen feet away from the grate, where he could watch Wilrowan's movements but not overhear the conversation. Nevertheless, Blaise lowered his voice.

“You had that from your grandmother, didn't you? I remember you once said it was the most precious thing you owned. Shall I take it away for safekeeping?”

Will hesitated. “I think not. She wore it, you know, through so many dangerous times, and yet she survived. I have an idea it brings me luck.”

All the time they were speaking, not once had Will bothered to glance behind him, though twice there had been a shuffling and a muttering among the other prisoners, and once Blaise caught a cold glimmer of sunlight on metal, the impression that something long and exceedingly sharp had passed swiftly from hand to hand. Thinking of those attempts on Will's life, Trefallon shuddered inwardly, hoping the friends who had come to Wilrowan's aid before could really be trusted.

“Are you absolutely certain they only wanted to rob you? Don't you think there might be something else—something
more
at stake?”

“I have considered that, yes. And I've thought about the duel, as well. Macquay's damnable spell of protection. The way those guardsmen arrived just when he was finally in trouble. All arranged in advance—but why? Macquay has no particular grudge against me, not any I know about, anyway.”

Will shifted his position from one foot to the other. “And there is another thing: we both know that Rufus Macquay lives well beyond his means. He hasn't paid his debts in six months. But it takes
gold to buy spells, to bribe guardsmen. You can't put them off with empty promises, as you can some honest tradesman.”

Blaise shook his head thoughtfully. “You can't put off tradesmen forever. Suppose that someone bribed Macquay himself—to provoke the quarrel? Gold in his pocket, his debts paid, men have been murdered for less.” Trefallon frowned. “The worst of it is, he has disappeared. And we can't even question the striplings who arrested you, not until Marzden returns. In the meantime, is there anyone else who might be involved? Somebody with ‘a particular grudge'?”

Will shrugged, putting his hands back into his pockets. “Beyond all the fathers, husbands, and brothers?”

Blaise raised his eyeglass again, favored his friend with a sardonic glance. “For simplicity's sake we'll confine ourselves to the male relations of your most recent conquests. No need to bring the half of—but stay a moment. What of your own father-in-law?”

A noisy argument had started up in the yard, between a pimple-faced boy and an immense brute in iron leg-shackles. Will did not seem to notice; he rocked slowly back on his heels, giving his full attention to Blaise's question.

“Lord Brakeburn? I don't doubt he wishes me dead and buried; I've hardly lived up to his expectations as a son-in-law. And he surely believes that Lili deserves a hundred times better. I think so myself. But to actually arrange my death?” Will gave a short, negative jerk of his head. “Besides, he would hardly ask Macquay to insult his own daughter.”

“A master stroke to divert suspicion?”

Will smiled contemptuously. “I doubt he is capable of any such ‘master stroke.' He tricked Lili and me into marrying with the stupidest, most transparent lie—if we hadn't been such children at the time, we'd have seen right through it. Nor would he expect me to take up the sword as Lili's champion. He can't begin to comprehend the nature of my feelings where she is concerned.”

Blaise felt a brief twinge of sympathy for the unfortunate Lord Brakeburn; the nature of Wilrowan's feelings for his wife was a continuing mystery even to Will's best friend.

Meanwhile, the quarrel in the middle of the yard had grown ugly. The pimpled youth had taken an ill-advised swing at the gigantic felon; now the big man reached out with one huge hand, took him by the throat, and dashed the boy violently to the ground. The turnkey in the passage did nothing.

“Curse that pig of a governor!” Blaise whispered through the grating. “What does he mean by delaying your release? You're in danger every minute you remain here.”

“My dear Trefallon, the only place more dangerous than Whitcomb Gaol is on the streets of Hawkesbridge.” Will laughed softly. “You may not be so intimately acquainted with the denizens of the streets as I am, but you should know
that
. The governor may be doing me a favor by keeping me locked up.”

Blaise ground his teeth audibly. The gaol ambiance—the great weight of stone and iron on every side, the brutality of the inmates—was beginning to wear on his composure. He simply did not know how Wilrowan could take it all so lightly.

But his present unease put Blaise in mind of something that had troubled him the day before. “There was one odd thing: I saw Goblins among the spectators during your duel. An Ouph or two, at least three Padfoots, and a tall young fellow with a crooked neck.”

Will was immediately interested. “A Wryneck, do you think? I've never met a Wryneck or a Grant—they're said to be highly reclusive.”

“I don't know. Except for the angle of his head he looked Human enough, but I've never met one either. What started me thinking was the fact that Goblins
invariably
stay clear of trouble. Of anything, in fact, that's likely to attract the attention of the authorities. Yet there they were, watching what may have been for all they knew an illegal duel. Do you have any enemies in the Goblin Quarter?”

“I know a handful by name and they know me, but that's the extent of it. But supposing there
was
a Goblin with a grudge—where would the creature come by enough gold to bribe a man like Macquay? If there really is a scheme to kill me or put me out of the way, I doubt that it's motivated by personal malice. I suspect it's only a matter of policy.”

“Policy?” said Trefallon, only half attending. Behind Will's back, the big man had stooped to raise his smaller opponent, probably with an eye to inflicting further punishment. Again there was a flash of metal, and this time both men fell heavily to the ground. The gaoler remained stolid and apparently uninterested.

With an effort, Blaise refocused his attention on Will's last statement. “Do you mean that someone might envy your influence over the queen and seek to supplant you?”

“That, or someone might think there are still too many Rowans left in the world,
especially
in a position to influence Dionee.”

Blaise groaned softly. “The Rowans. I was forgetting those notorious relations of yours. What were your parents thinking when they named you after them? But tell me this: Is there no
end
to the number of people who might be thirsting for your blood?”

A shadow passed over Wilrowan's face, and Blaise suddenly realized that his annoying air of careless insouciance was largely affected.

“I really don't know,” he replied with a wistful smile. “But I should imagine the list is a damnably long one.”

The room was oppressive, so small and dark it might have been a cell, with its one high square window barred in iron, its stone-flagged floor, and scarred hickory furniture. But it was not a cell; it was the room where prisoners, their papers already processed, awaited release from Whitcomb Gaol.

At the present time, there was a single occupant, pacing the floor through a long, cold night, while a trencher of oysters and a tankard of ale sat untouched upon the table. Though the hour of Will's re
lease remained uncertain, Trefallon's gold had bought him this one indulgence, removing him from the common wards and the prison yard to this place of comparative safety, procuring him this meal which he had not tasted.

As the first pale light of dawn crept through the window, there came a fluttering of wings in the air outside. Wilrowan glanced up, just in time to see a large black bird land on the window ledge between the iron bars.

. Will extended an arm and the raven hopped from the ledge to his wrist.

The silver intaglio ring on Wilrowan's hand had come to life, glowing in that dreary little chamber with an uncanny blue light. To Will's heightened vision, a spark of similar light appeared deep within the raven's brain.

The raven folded its wings.

The ring was ancient, as Blaise had suspected, though not so harmless an article as he supposed. It allowed Will to communicate with the great black birds that came and went almost unnoticed throughout the city. How it had first come into the possession of his relations, the mysterious Rowan family, Will did not know, but it had passed to him from his grandmother, Lady Krogan, on the day he was appointed Captain of the Queen's Guard. “
It may prove useful
,” the former Odilia Rowan had said as she bestowed the gift, and useful it had certainly proved to be. The Hawkesbridge ravens made an effective and utterly unsuspected network of spies.

Will asked.

The bird stepped daintily up his arm.

Will ground his teeth.

Wilrowan considered. A twig or a blade of grass was the usual signal when the ravens had any information to give him, but this was important and the sign should be a clear one. He reached into one pocket and drew out a small brass coin.

The raven lowered its glossy head, took the coin in its beak.

Will created a vivid mental picture of each man's face, so there could be no mistake.

Crwcrwyl gave the images back as confirmation.

Will hesitated. Not that he doubted Blaise for a moment, but perhaps he should ask the ravens to watch as a measure of protection?

Before he had time to decide, a clatter of footsteps in the corridor outside his door, the grate of an iron key in the lock, shattered his delicate communion with the bird. Startled, the raven fluttered up from his wrist, then flew out the window.

O
nce upon a time, in the bad old times, when Men were weak and timorous and an evil race of Goblins ruled the earth, a certain small village grew into a great city of brick and marble, slate, and cobblestone
.

Men lived there, of course, as they lived elsewhere: ragged and humble, dirty and ignorant, which was just as the Maglore wished to keep them, and therefore fit only for the most grinding, laborious tasks, like working and maintaining the pumps and other underground machinery—for Tarnburgh was located in a volcanic region far to the north, and the machines brought heated air and boiling subterranean waters up through a series of pipes and radiators to heat the metropolis during the long arctic winter
.

She was just such a city as the Goblins loved: vast and intricate, startling, beautiful, and perilous. In the great maze of her winding streets and small hidden courts were many neat little shops where the tireless Goblin craftsmen (Ouphs and Padfoots, mostly) worked long hours making singing roses, clockwork dragonflies, glass slippers, and other novelties for their Maglore masters. In Tarnburgh's great libraries and universities, the scholarly Grants and Wrynecks, bowed and ink-stained after centuries of study, drew elaborate star charts and leafed through ponderous old books on history, genealogy, and etiquette—for it was a characteristic of the long-lived races in those days that they delighted to look upward and inward, sideways and backward, but rarely more than a week or two forward in time
.