Tomorrow's Kingdom (26 page)

M
ANY MILES TO THE EAST
, Mordecai and Lord Atticus were, at that very moment, cresting the hill that overlooked the New Man training camp north of the Syon.

“Oh, thank the
gods
we've arrived at last!” brayed Lord Atticus, wiping the back of his dripping nose with the sleeve of his rain-soaked doublet.

As he slouched in his saddle, gazing down upon the sea of grey tents that surrounded the wooden ramparts of the training camp nestled in the valley below, Mordecai did not thank the gods. Mordecai never thanked the gods, for it was the gods that had cursed him with his ruin of a body and, as a consequence Mordecai cursed
them
.

He cursed them—and at this particular moment, he also thumbed his nose at them.

And that was because he'd done it.

He'd done it!

He'd travelled all the way from the black stone castle to this place that was to be the gathering point for his great army—and he'd done so riding on horseback alongside his men like Bartok or Murdock or any other commanding officer would have done. He'd not even brought along a carriage or litter in which he might rest if riding proved too much for him. Indeed, he'd lashed out at the soldier who'd suggested that he do so!

He was now a military commander, after all, not some
woman
.

To be sure, it had been an arduous journey—arduous almost beyond endurance. After just a few hours, the rolling gait of the horse had begun to take a toll, as Mordecai had known it would. After a few hours more, the temperature had dropped so low that his gloved fingers had grown stiff, his muscles had seized up, and each laboured breath had hung in the icy air like mist. Then it had begun to rain, and it had not stopped raining in the six days since.

Admittedly, the journey had taken twice as long as it might otherwise have because galloping had been out of the question and they'd had to make camp early each evening that he might have time to recover, but no matter.

He'd done it.

Most ironically, it had been Lord Atticus who'd given Mordecai the strength to carry on whenever he'd thought he could not bear the rigours of the field a moment longer. From the outset, the perpetually inebriated young lord had complained—of the cold and the rain and the muck, of the size of his tent and the thinness of his mattress, of the poor quality of the food and the ineptitude of his attendants and the absence of women. He'd complained so shrilly and so incessantly, in fact, that under normal
circumstances Mordecai would have given in to the urge to have his tongue cut out—both to shut him up
and
to give him something worthwhile to complain about.

But under these particular circumstances, Mordecai had relished hearing him blubber like a woman—and had relished knowing that the men in their company were hearing him do so—for it had surely made Mordecai look all the more stoic and
manly
by comparison.

For a fleeting moment, Mordecai wondered what Queen Persephone would think if she could see him now.

Then, shaking his heavy head to rid himself of all thought of her, he gritted his beautiful teeth, straightened his back as best he could and called, “Forward!”

Eagerly, Lord Atticus lashed his riding crop across the dripping flanks of his horse. Rearing up with a startled squeal, the beast lunged forward into a gallop that nearly sent its drunken rider flying headfirst into the muck. Half a second later, the four soldiers who'd been assigned to guard against Lord Atticus's escape or rescue were hurriedly galloping after him.

Mordecai gave a bark of mirthless laughter at the thought that a broken neck caused by a fall of his own making was the far more likely fate of his imbecile captive than escape or rescue. Then, tersely gesturing for the rest of his escort to follow, he slapped the reins against his own horse's neck and started down the hill.

Word of Mordecai's arrival had apparently spread like wildfire because by the time he'd reached the valley and caught up with Lord Atticus, the mucky path before him was lined with black-clad soldiers. Many looked excited or awed; some seemed nervous or even fearful. Here and there, however, Mordecai thought he also spotted men who appeared unable to believe that a cripple like him had made the journey he had.

Instead of being enraged by these furtive, fleeting looks of amazement, as he normally would have been, Mordecai was buoyed by them.

Let them see that I do not need to be well and whole to lead them as Murdock would have led them!
he thought jubilantly.
Let them be reminded that doomed kings are not the only ones who can ride out among them like majestic young—

“You know, I thought there'd be more of them,” complained Lord Atticus with a loud sniffle.

“What?” snapped Mordecai.

“Soldiers,” said Lord Atticus, flicking his wormy fingers toward the throngs of black-clad New Men. “I thought there'd be more of them.”

Jolted by these words, Mordecai took another look at the crowds of soldiers lining his path and at the sea of grey tents behind them, and he realized that there
were
fewer than he'd have expected. He could not say how many fewer, however, because before he could make a proper count, he and his men were being ushered through the gates of the camp and into the central courtyard. A swarm of soldiers immediately tumbled out of the nearby stables and ran over to see to their horses. They did not even have a chance to greet Mordecai before Lord Atticus had flung his reins at one man and grabbed for the outstretched arm of another that he might use it to steady himself as he dismounted.

Mordecai watched with disgust
and
disdain. Though stiff and so sore he could barely sit upright,
he
would not have been helped down from his horse for all the diamonds in the Mines of Torodania. Imperiously waving away the soldier who would have done so, he clutched the pommel of the saddle with both gnarled hands and awkwardly dragged his leg over so that it was dangling next to the foot still tucked into the stirrup. Then, even more awkwardly, he dropped down to the muck, grunting and staggering wildly as he did so.

By the time he'd recovered, the commander of the training camp had emerged from the main building of the camp. Flanked by a pair of particularly burly New Men, he strode forward and briskly saluted Mordecai.

“It is an honour to welcome you, Your Grace!” he called over the splash and splatter of the driving rain. “Let me be the first to say how thrilled we all were when we received the letter informing us that you intend to personally lead us into battle against the treacherous, traitorous lords of this realm!”

Immediately despising the man for being at
least
a head taller than he was, Mordecai called back, “Why were you so thrilled, commander? Did you lack confidence in General Murdock? Did you fear that he would be unable to lead you to victory?”

The commander—who had the General to thank for his new post, insofar as Murdock had sawed off the feet of the man who'd held the post before him—fleetingly looked as though he'd just been informed that
he
was about to have his feet sawed off.

“It was a jest, commander,” muttered Mordecai, despising the man all the more for his brief but unmanly display of fear. “Now, are you going to invite me inside or do you plan to make me stand here in this stinking muck all night?”

THIRTY-TWO

A
S PERSEPHONE LUNGED
for the open door, Lord Pembleton's widowed daughter-in-law did the same. Unfortunately, a fraction of a second before Persephone's hand closed around the doorknob, Lord Pembleton's widowed daughter-in-law yanked the door shut.

Flinging herself against the locked door, Persephone fought to sound reasonable as she said, “Alice? Alice, I don't know what you're doing or why but … but if you release me at once so that I can tend to Azriel, I'm sure we can come to an understanding.”

Alice made no reply. Persephone heard her stamp her foot several times—presumably extinguishing the embers that had been scattered when she'd hit Azriel with the fireplace shovel. Then she heard her grunt softly as she began to drag Azriel's body down the hall.

“What are you doing, Alice? Where are you taking him?” called Persephone. Then, unable to contain her exploding panic for Azriel an instant longer, she hammered on the door with her fists and screamed, “
ANSWER
ME
!”

But Alice did not answer her. Persephone heard a nearby door open and close, then heard the sound of Alice descending the stairs. Feeling dangerously light-headed, Persephone staggered over to the bed and sank down onto the lumpy mattress. Squeezing her eyes shut, she pressed her forehead hard against the bedpost and forced herself to calm down for the sake of the baby.

By the time she'd managed to steady her breathing, Alice had returned to stand outside the chamber door. “Well. I have sent my one remaining servant to the nearest New Man outpost,” she informed Persephone. “Within the hour, the commander will know you are here. And the Gypsy too, of course.”

At these words, Persephone felt the blood drain from her face. All at once, she remembered Mordecai threatening to offer a thousand gold pieces to the freeman or slave who captured Azriel—or brought in his scalp.

Bolting to her feet, she flew to the door. “Alice, you
cannot
mean to do this,” she pleaded.

“It is already done,” replied Alice with an almost resigned tone.

Suddenly furious, Persephone slapped her hand against the door and shouted, “For gods' sakes, Alice, Mordecai murdered your husband!”

“Yes,” replied Alice. “And my child too, I think.”

“Then why are you giving him what he wants?” cried Persephone.
“Why are you helping him?”

“You saw what he did to my husband, who was a good and innocent man,” replied Alice placidly. “If he were to find out that I gave aid to the queen he'd intended
to marry—and to the hunted Gypsy who married her instead—I cannot think what would become of me.”

“Nothing will become of you, Alice, because Mordecai need never know,” said Persephone, thinking fast. “Let me and Azriel go—now, before it's too late! And when I have defeated Mordecai I will return and—”

“Mordecai will never be defeated,” interrupted Alice. “I fear him more than I hate him. He will look well upon me once I have delivered you and the Gypsy's scalp to him. I will be safe then.”

“Scalp?” gasped Persephone, sinking to her knees. “Oh … oh god, Alice, please, tell me you haven't—”

“Scalped the Gypsy? No, I haven't. Scalping is New Men's work, and I am a lady,” said Alice primly. “I will collect my reward all the same, though.”

Recoiling slightly, Persephone said, “If this is about the gold, I can promise—”

“I have to go now,” said Alice.

As Persephone listened to Alice start to walk away, she slapped her hand against the door again and shouted, “Your father-in-law would not want this, Alice!”

At these words, the footsteps halted. “Perhaps not,” called Alice. “But there is nothing he can do about it, for he cannot move or even speak. And I lied when I told you that he yet has friends. He has no friends. He has no one but me.”

As soon as Alice left, Persephone ran to the wall that separated her chamber from the one into which she believed Alice had dragged Azriel.

“Azriel, wake up,” she begged. “Wake up! Please!”

He did not reply, so Persephone pressed her ear against the wall and held her breath, hoping to hear a snore or a groan or
anything
that would prove that he was at least alive. When she heard nothing but silence, she gritted her teeth and backed away from the wall. Then she turned and ran to the window. Flinging it open, she leaned out, desperately hoping that she'd discover that there were hand- and footholds enough to safely make it to the window of the chamber in which Azriel was lying.