After they’d ridden hard for several hours, the small path the Fetch had showed them fed into the Mort Road, a broad avenue some fifty feet wide. This road took the bulk of trading traffic between the Tearling and Mortmesne, and the dirt was so tamped down that there was barely any dust. The path was crowded, and Kelsea thought it fortunate that she was wrapped in the deep purple cloak the Fetch had given her. Mace’s Guard grey was gone, replaced by a long black cloak, and if he still had his mace (she hoped he did), he’d prudently tucked it somewhere out of sight. Most of the people traveling in the direction of the Keep were also cloaked and hooded, and all seemed to want to keep their business to themselves. Kelsea kept her eyes out for figures that might be the Caden, or any trace of the grey worn by her Guard. But after a while, they saw so many people that Kelsea was unable to concentrate on any one for very long, and she thought that Mace would have a better sense of hidden danger. She trusted his eyes and concentrated on the road ahead.
The Fetch had told her that it would be an easy two days’ ride to New London. Kelsea considered trying to take the journey in one jaunt, but rejected the idea by sundown. She would need to sleep, and her wound was beginning to ache. She mentioned this in a low voice to Mace, and he nodded.
“I don’t really sleep, Lady. Therefore, you may.”
“You have to sleep sometime.”
“Not really. The world’s too dangerous to fall asleep in.”
“What about when you were a child?”
“I was never a child.”
A man jostled against Kelsea’s horse, muttering, “Sorry, sir,” before moving away. The road had become densely packed. People rode or walked on all sides of Kelsea, and the stench of unwashed flesh hit her nostrils like a slap. But of course this road came from the south, where there was no water for bathing.
Ahead was a cart containing what appeared to be an entire family: parents and two small children. The children, a boy and girl no older than eight years, had gathered a pile of grasses and roots and were playing a cooking game on the floor of the cart. Kelsea watched them, fascinated. All of her imaginary games had been solitary; she had always been the hero, having to invent the cheering masses around her, and even the friends by her side. Still, the urge to see other children, to be with them, had never faded. Kelsea watched the two children so long that the mother began to look back at her with a suspicious lowering of the brows, and Kelsea whispered to Mace that they should fall back a bit.
“Why is the road so crowded?” she asked, once the wagon had passed out of sight.
“This is the only direct road to New London south of the Crithe. Many footpaths feed it.”
“But this is a trading road. How does anyone get a caravan through?”
“It’s not always so crowded, Lady.”
They rode past sunset and well into the night, long after most other travelers had made camp. For a while, fires dotted the sides of the road, and Kelsea could hear talking and singing as they passed, but soon the fires began to go out. From time to time, Kelsea thought she heard hooves far behind them, but she could never be sure, and when she turned around there was only darkness. As they rode, she asked Mace various questions about the current state of her government. He answered each one, but Kelsea sensed that he was being very circumspect, each answer heavily edited. Still, the little information she got was grim.
Most of the Tear population was hungry. The agriculture that Kelsea had seen spread out across the Almont Plain was subsistence farming at best; all extra food went to the landowner, who then sold the produce on for profit, either in the markets of New London or, via the black market, to Mortmesne. There was little justice to be found for the poor. The judicial system had largely broken down under the weight of corruption, and most of the honest judges had been conscripted into other government jobs. Kelsea felt her own poor preparation, almost a physical weight now upon her shoulders. These were problems that needed to be fixed, and quickly, but she didn’t know how to do it. Carlin had taught her so much history, but not enough politics. Kelsea had no idea how to wrangle anyone to do her will.
“You said we were fey, Lazarus. I don’t know that word; what does it mean?”
“My ancestors were pre-Crossing Scottish. ‘Fey’ means seeing your own death and exulting in it.”
“That doesn’t sound like me.”
“Perhaps it’s only something in your eyes, Lady.”
As they rounded another bend, Kelsea thought she heard hooves again. It wasn’t her imagination; Mace halted his horse abruptly and twisted around to stare behind them.
“Someone’s back there. Several riders.”
Kelsea couldn’t see anything. There was only a hint of moon in the sky, and she’d never had very good night vision; Barty could run rings around her in the dark. “How far?”
“Maybe a mile.” Mace tapped his fingers on his saddle for a moment, debating. “There isn’t enough foliage here to provide good cover, and it’s safer for us to travel most of the night and then rest in the morning. We’ll go on, but if they begin to close the distance, we’ll leave the road and take our chances. Let’s speed up a bit.”
He started forward again, and Kelsea followed. “Couldn’t we leave the road now and let them pass by?”
“Risky, Lady, if they’re tracking us. But I doubt they’re Caden or even Mort. I’ve seen no hawks, and I think our trail is cold. Your rescuer, whoever he was, did the job admirably.”
Mention of the Fetch jolted Kelsea, and she realized, not without some self-satisfaction, that she hadn’t thought of him in at least a few hours. Her wish for more information about him warred with the desire to keep his identity a secret for her alone, a brief battle before she crushed the second impulse, furious at herself. “He told me he was called the Fetch.”
Mace chuckled. “I had my suspicions, even blindfolded.”
“Is he such a great thief as he claimed?”
“Greater, Lady. Tear history boasts plenty of outlaws, but none like the Fetch. He’s stolen more goods from your uncle than I’ve owned in my lifetime.”
“He said there was a high price on his head.”
“Fifty thousand pounds, at last count.”
“But who is he?”
“No one knows, Lady. He first appeared some twenty years ago, mask and all.”
“Twenty years?”
“Aye, Lady. Twenty years precisely. I remember it well, because he stole one of your uncle’s favorite women when she went shopping in the city. Then, several months later, your mother announced her pregnancy.” Mace chuckled. “Probably the worst year of your uncle’s life.”
Kelsea mulled this information over. The Fetch must be far older than he appeared. “Why hasn’t he been caught, Lazarus? Even if he has the luck of the devil, that sort of flamboyance should have brought him down long ago.”
“Well, he’s a hero to the common people, Lady. Anytime someone manages to rob the Regent, or one of the nobles, the world assumes it’s the Fetch. Every piece of rich man’s fortune lost endears him to the poor.”
“Does he distribute the money to the poor?”
“No, Lady.”
Kelsea settled back into her saddle, disappointed. “Has he stolen a great amount?”
“Hundreds of thousands of pounds worth.”
“Then what does he do with that money? For certain, I saw none of it in that camp. They were living in tents, and their clothing had seen better days. I’m not even sure they—”
Mace clamped a hand on her arm, silencing her midsentence. “You saw?”
“What?”
“You weren’t blindfolded.”
“I’m not such a fearsome warrior as you are.”
“Did you see his face? The Fetch?”
“I’m not blind, Lazarus.”
“You misunderstand, Lady. They didn’t blindfold me for the ferocity of my reputation. The Regent can’t catch the Fetch because he’s never been able to procure a likeness of him, nor any of his men. The Fetch has nearly killed the Regent twice in my memory, but even he couldn’t get a glimpse of the Fetch’s face. No one knows what the man looks like, unless it’s those who wouldn’t betray him for any number of pounds.”
Kelsea looked up at the stars, bright points blanketing the sky over her head. They gave her no answers. She’d been growing sleepy, swaying in her saddle, but now she found herself wide-awake again. She should create a likeness of the Fetch at the earliest opportunity, or describe him to someone who could truly draw. And yet she knew that she would do neither of these things.
“Lady?”
Kelsea took a deep breath. “I wouldn’t betray him for any number of pounds.”
“Ah, Christ.” Mace halted his horse in the middle of the road and simply sat there for a moment. Kelsea could feel his disapproval; it was like being in the corner of Carlin’s library, where Kelsea used to curl up and try to hunch into as small a ball as possible when she didn’t know the answer. How Carlin would react to this latest development? Kelsea decided not to imagine it.
“I’m not proud of it,” she muttered defensively. “But I see no gain in pretending it’s not so.”
“Do you know what a fetch is, Lady?
“A retrieval.”
“No. A fetch is a creature of ancient myth, a harbinger of death. The Fetch is an extraordinary thief, but many of his other deeds won’t bear close scrutiny.”
“I have no wish to hear about the Fetch’s other deeds at this time, Lazarus.” Suddenly all she wanted to hear about was his other deeds. “I told you only because we should have an understanding about this.”
“Well,” Mace replied after a moment, his voice resigned, “the man is a disruptive influence. Perhaps we shouldn’t speak of him again.”
“Agreed.” Kelsea tugged lightly on the reins, guiding her horse forward. She cast around for some other topic besides the Fetch. “My uncle has no wife, Carlin told me. What’s this about one of his women?”
With some reluctance, Mace explained that the Regent had set himself up in the manner of the Cadarese rulers, with a harem culled from young women sold to the palace by poor families. On top of the fact that her kingdom was now steeped in corruption, Kelsea had inherited a brothel into the bargain. She asked Mace to teach her some foul words such as soldiers used, but he refused, so she could find no language bad enough to vent her rage. Women bought and sold! That particular evil was supposed to have been eradicated in the Crossing.
“All of my uncle’s actions as Regent reflect on my throne. It’s as though I sanctioned this traffic myself.”
“Perhaps not, Lady. No one really likes your uncle.”
This didn’t help Kelsea’s anger at all. But beneath her anger, there was also a deep sense of unease. From Mace’s description, this practice had been going on since before Kelsea was born. Why had her mother done nothing? She began to ask Mace, then stopped. Of course he wouldn’t answer.
“I will have to get rid of the Regent,” she said decisively.
“He’s your uncle, Lady.”
“I don’t care. The minute I’m on the throne, I’ll throw him out of the Keep.”
“Your uncle is high in the favor of the Red Queen, Lady. If you simply kick him out of power, it could destabilize relations with Mortmesne.”
“Destabilize? I thought we had a treaty.”
“We do, Lady.” Mace cleared his throat. “But peace with Mortmesne is always fragile. Open hostility could be disastrous.”
“Why?”
“This kingdom hasn’t the trained fighting men to deal with any army, let alone that of Mortmesne. And we don’t have the steel.”
“So we need weapons and a real army.”
“No army will challenge Mortmesne, Lady. I’m not a superstitious man, but I believe the rumors about the Red Queen. I chanced to actually see her some years ago—”
“How?”
“The Regent sent a full diplomatic embassy to Demesne. I was in the guard. The Red Queen has held her kingdom for well over a century now, but I swear to you, Lady, she looked no more than your mother’s age when you were born.”
“And yet she’s only one woman, ageless though she may be.” Kelsea’s voice was steady, but she was unnerved all the same. Discussions of a witch queen were a poor idea on a deserted road in the deep of night. The campfires that had dotted the sides of the road had disappeared entirely, and now it felt as though she and Mace were truly alone in the dark. A sickly-sweet stench of rot had begun to overtake the road; there must be a marsh nearby.
“Be very careful, Lady. Good as your intentions may be, the direct way isn’t always best.”
“And yet here we are on the road, Lazarus.”
“Yes, for want of a better option.”
They made camp not long before dawn, still some four or five hours’ ride from the city. Mace forbade Kelsea to build a fire, and as a precaution he situated their camp behind a large blackberry thicket that blocked the view from the road. The riders behind them must have finally made camp themselves, for Kelsea heard no more hooves. She asked Mace if she could shed her armor for sleep, and he nodded.
“But you’ll wear armor tomorrow, Lady, since we’ll enter the city in high daylight. Armor’s not much without a sword, but it’s better than nothing.”
“Whatever you say,” Kelsea murmured, already half asleep despite the insistent throb in her neck. She must sleep. All things narrowed toward tomorrow. Fey, she thought. Riding toward death. She slept and dreamed of endless fields, the fields she had seen running out before her across the Almont Plain, covered with men and women, ragged scarecrow figures working the land. Beyond the fields the sun was rising, and the sky was on fire.
Kelsea moved closer to the nearest of the farm women. The woman turned and Kelsea saw that she was beautiful, with strong features and dark, tangled hair, her face surprisingly young. As Kelsea approached, the woman held out a bundle of wheat, as though for Kelsea’s inspection.
“Red,” the woman whispered crookedly, her eyes bright with madness. “All red.”
Kelsea looked down again and saw that the woman was holding not a sheaf of wheat but the broken, bleeding body of a small girl. The child’s eyes were torn out, the sockets filled with blood. Kelsea opened her mouth to scream and Mace shook her awake.