Troubled Waters (55 page)

Now to deal with the consequences of what she’d done.

She found a pair of trousers and a tunic that fit her well enough to wear in public, wrapped her head in a scarf so she could conceal her face in its shadows, and stepped out of the apartment to see what she had wrought.

The Cinque was chaos; it turned out to be faster to walk than to try to ride an omnibus. Despite the cold, the Plaza of Women was filled with crowds, though no one appeared to be buying. Instead, visitors stood in small clusters, gossiping, exclaiming, and repeating their stories of the night before. Zoe moved through the splintered crowd, catching snatches of conversation.

“—water down the street, but it never got as far as our house, for which I am everlastingly grateful—”

“—the wagon lost in the flood, and the horses were terrified. But only one of them was injured, a gash on his right foreleg, and we think he’ll be fine—”

“—mud as deep as my ankles in every room—”

“—a complete loss, but I can salvage the linens—”

She overheard no story of children drowning, old men being swept away, water rising so high it brought down a house. She might have caught it in time; she might have destroyed nothing except the palace.

Though the palace was not actually
gone
. By daylight, she could see it limned against the mountainside, looking curiously hollow. For the longest time, she could not identify exactly what seemed different about it from this distance, since it still stood as tall as ever, flags at its turrets, ivy on its walls, the bend of the river making a placid pool beside it. Then she realized—every door and window of the lower level was gone, leaving behind the skeletal remains of the foundational pillars and crossbeams. If she stared hard enough, she thought she could make out swarms of human shapes at work on every aperture, cleaning away mud and making repairs.

She imagined even more of that work was under way inside the
kierten
, where the damage was no doubt the worst.

She didn’t linger long at the Plaza of Women and went nowhere near the Plaza of Men. It was too close to the palace, to the wealthy districts where the Five Families lived. She was too likely to encounter someone she knew, and she could not bear to face any of them. Well, she was also likely to be arrested for wanton destruction of municipal property, so she didn’t want to encounter a palace servant or a royal guard or anyone who might recognize her face and call the nearest authorities to take her into custody.

She kept on walking toward the river.

About a mile inland, the effects of the flooding began to show, as streets and alleys were caked with mud left behind by the receding waters. The closer she got to the Marisi, the higher the waterline on the buildings that had been affected when the river escaped over the lowest point of its banks. Most of the damage appeared to be centered in a neighborhood about halfway between the flats and the palace, midway between the Marisi and the Cinque. Here the waterline was about four feet above the ground. A few tumbledown buildings—which didn’t appear to have been too steady even before the waters came rushing in—had buckled against the river’s insistent pushing. A public well had been contaminated, and a small city park had turned into a quagmire of matted grass and fallen trees.

Residents were organizing themselves into teams to haul branches out of streets and to clear away the broken lumber of the ruined houses. Zoe paused at the tainted well and rested her hand on the low stone wall, rimed with ice on this chilly morning. She spent a few moments sifting the dirt and rubble out of the reservoir and calling on clean water to come bubbling up from below.

Then she turned toward the nearest crew finishing demolition of a small house and threw herself into the task of cleaning up after the flood.

Z
oe was walking back through the Plaza of Women that night, sore and exhausted, when she heard the first whispers about Vernon.

It wasn’t quite dark yet, but there was a sense that the workday was over. Those who had been engaged in hard labor had simply quit; those who had tried to keep shop and carry out normal commerce all day had given up pretending. As they had this morning, people gathered in knots all along the Plaza, sharing shards of gossip.

“Did you hear? The king has collapsed.”

“Vernon is sick. They say he can’t even move from his bed.”

“At first someone said he was injured in the flood, but now I hear he’s had a serious illness for some time now.”

“My mother’s cousin’s son works at the palace, and he says the king has a terrible disease—so bad it can’t be cured—”

“The king is dying!”

“The doctors have been giving Vernon a strange drug, but they say it’s dangerous—anyway, it’s stopped working—”

“Who will be queen if Vernon dies?”

Zoe kept walking, catching the bits of tangled conversation like buzzing insects, then releasing them and moving on.

The king was sick; the king was on his deathbed. That had been true for a year now, but apparently he had been so distressed by her theatrics yesterday that his body had lost whatever strength it had been able to conserve. She had not intended to reveal his secrets; she had only thought to thwart his mad plan. But she found she was not entirely sorry to have his lie exposed. He was dying, after all. His subjects deserved to know. Welce deserved a chance to prepare for what would come next.

Who will be queen if Vernon dies?

T
he next day, and the next, were much the same. In the mornings, Zoe wound through the Plaza of Women to catch the day’s gossip, and then headed toward the river to help the cleanup and restoration effort in whatever way she could. There turned out to be more than one contaminated well, though each of them was functional again once Zoe sauntered by. There were a dozen houses to tear down, and two dozen to shore up with boards and beams and makeshift measures. There were dead shrubs to clear out of the parks, sidewalks to sweep, benches to scrub. There was a whole city to put to rights.

The evening of that third day, Zoe threaded her way through the Plaza of Women again, spending a few of Barlow’s coins to buy a wrapped meat pie to take home with her.

“Any news about the king?” she asked the vendor, a middle-aged woman with
torz
blessings embroidered on her overtunic.

“No change in
his
condition, but now all the talk is about Romelle!” the vendor exclaimed.

“Romelle? The queen? What about her?”

“She’s pregnant! And nobody knew!”

“That’s good news, isn’t it?”

The woman threw her hands into the air. “Who knows? Three princesses and a baby that’s not even born yet, and we still don’t know who the king wants as his heir. How hard can it be to make that decision? Pick one! Settle this! I can’t imagine what they do all day up at the palace. I really can’t.”

Zoe shook her head. “I can’t, either.”

She could, though, and as she sat on the tattered couch and ate her dinner, she tried to picture the chaos that must be roiling through the palace walls. Vernon moaning on his bed in the men’s wing . . . Seterre and Alys pacing through the women’s wing, frantic to know the whereabouts of their daughters . . . Elidon and Darien trying to impose an iron calm . . . Romelle alternating between throwing up in her own quarters and tending Vernon in his. Meanwhile, workmen sawing and hammering in the
kierten
and the primes arguing over who should be ratified as heir.

She took a bite of the meat pie—spicy and flavorful and very filling—and thought it over. She still couldn’t be sorry she’d done it.

O
n the fourth morning, as Zoe tossed through cheap fabric at a booth in the Plaza of Women, someone slid in place beside her and tapped her wrist. Zoe gasped and jerked back, then laughed out loud when she realized who had approached her.

“Annova! It is so good to see you! I have been wondering how I can get in touch with you.”

“I knew you would come to the Plaza eventually,” Annova said. “I thought I saw you yesterday, but I couldn’t catch up in time. Are you all right? Where have you been staying?”

Zoe supposed she ought to entertain the idea that Annova had turned spy for Darien Serlast—or the royal army—but she didn’t even hesitate before answering. “In the lodgings Ilene’s son, Barlow, shares with his partner.”

“Are the princesses with you there?”

Zoe shook her head. “Gone. With Barlow. I didn’t know how else to keep them safe.”

Annova glanced over briefly, raising her eyebrows at that definition of
safe
, but made no comment aloud. They both continued to pick through the fabric remnants as if the scraps of cloth held their full attention. “Calvin and I are over in the pavilion on the west edge of town where the river folk were relocated when the viceroy arrived,” she said. “The flats are still covered with mud, but they’ll be cleared off again in a nineday or two, and we’ll move back there.”

Zoe shook her head. “I’ve been afraid to try to get to my money, in case the royal guards are watching,” she said. “But if I ever do have access again, I’ll give you so much you can buy your own place. You won’t have to sleep on the river anymore.”

Wearing a sweet smile, Annova held up a bolt of sunset scarlet as if to offer it for Zoe’s inspection. “I like sleeping on the river,” she said. “I’ve missed it.”

“Has anyone come looking for me?” Zoe asked.

“Yes. Men from the palace, sent by Darien Serlast. They were polite, however. They didn’t arrest or threaten us. They seemed to believe us when we said we had no idea where you were. But every day we’ve seen one or the other of them lurking outside the pavilion. Watching us. Waiting for you to show up.”

Zoe had to resist the urge to look over her shoulder. “Do you think some of them may have followed you here?”

“I walked around the Plaza for a long time before I approached you,” Annova said. “If they followed me, I think they have lost track of me by now.”

“I’ve heard whispers,” Zoe said. “Gossip spreading through the Plaza. Vernon is dying and Romelle is pregnant.”

Annova nodded. “Change is coming to everything. The gift of a
coru
woman.”

Zoe gave a faint laugh. “I’m not sure anyone at the palace considers my recent actions to be a
gift
.”

Annova had moved to the other side of the vendor’s table to examine a translucent sheet of fabric spangled with bits of silver. She lifted her head to give Zoe one quick, level look. “I’m sure the princess felt her freedom was a gift beyond measure.”

Zoe glanced around to make sure no one was close enough to hear them discussing royalty, then she replied in a low voice. “Yes, I believe so, too. And that makes this whole maelstrom I have created much easier to accept.”

“What will you do now?” Annova said. “You cannot live in Barlow’s place forever.”

“I know.” Zoe shrugged. “Once the king’s men finally catch up with me, I’m sure I will be punished in some fashion. Banished, perhaps. Denied my place as prime, assuming they’re able to take my power away from me. I wanted to stay in the city a few days to do what I could to atone, but I think it’s time for me to go. Tomorrow or the day after, I will return to my grandmother’s house on the river and wait there to see what fate will befall me next.”

Annova nodded. Such a fatalistic plan of action appealed to a
coru
soul. “Meet me here tomorrow,” she said. “I have your mother’s shawl and the few things I was sure you’d want. I left everything else in the hotel room.”

Zoe felt a rush of gratitude and relief. She would have safety of a sort; she would have shelter, as long as her mother’s shawl was around her shoulders. “Gladly,” she said. “You have been the dearest of friends. I hope someday to do half as much for you as you have done for me.”

Annova smiled. “What makes you think you have not?”

THIRTY-THREE

Z
oe arrived at Christara’s house at midnight on a bitterly cold Quinnelay night. She had cut a gold coin from her mother’s shawl and recklessly offered the whole piece to the driver she had hired on Calvin’s recommendation—a cousin or son or nephew of a friend of the river, and wholly to be trusted. He had a small
elaymotive
and a son of his own, and they took turns driving as day turned to night and back to day. They made the long journey in a remarkable four days.

Hoden had greeted her at the door, as unruffled as if she had just returned from an afternoon’s shopping in the village. Her bedroom had been readied for her—a fire in the hearth, fresh sheets on the bed, subtle incense released into the air—as if he had known she was coming. Perhaps he had. Perhaps the wooden timbers of the house had told the
torz
man that the prime was on her way. She had stumbled into bed and didn’t wake up until the following afternoon.

She slept for most of the next four days. Whenever she woke—to eat, to bathe, to exchange a few words with Hoden—all she could see out of any window was rain. Though she had not consciously wished for wet weather, she was sure her presence had called the storms.