Catherine had no tears, at least not yet. She remembered Lady Anne, and stood straighter and forced out some words, though she wasn’t even sure of what she was saying.
“It saddens me to hear of another death. Perhaps I’ll find a more peaceful life in Pitoria.”
Boris actually snorted a laugh, then cut it short.
“If you want a peaceful life,” grunted the king, “make sure you follow my instructions. Now, get out.”
MARCH
WESTMOUTH, PITORIA
MARCH AND Holywell had landed in the bustling port of Westmouth and immediately begun to inquire about Lord Regan. He hadn’t been hard to trace. The ship on which Regan had traveled was still in port, and the captain provided information for a small fee. The stable where Regan had bought a horse wasn’t hard to find either, but neither the ship’s captain nor the stable boy knew which direction he was traveling.
“When did he leave?” asked March in shaky Pitorian.
The stable boy replied. “Two days ago, in the morning.”
March said to Holywell, “So Regan spent a night here. Maybe he told the innkeeper where he was going.”
Holywell shook his head impatiently. “Regan is clever and cautious. He will not have given such information away. We’ll get horses from that stable and take the road south. If we find no news, then we try the east road and then the north.”
March considered this a poor plan—they were already two days behind Regan—but he didn’t have a better one. He didn’t know how many roads there were or how they might lead to other roads. He asked Holywell, “Do you have a map of Pitoria?” And then, saying that, a new idea emerged: “Does Regan have a map of Pitoria?”
Holywell smiled. “Clever, brother. Find the nearest mapmaker.”
Soon they were in a small shop in a narrow cobbled lane just off the harbor.
“Yes, the gentleman you describe was here,” said the shopkeeper. “But he didn’t want a map. He was after something else.”
It took the purchase of a map before the man revealed what Regan had wanted.
“Ah yes, the gentleman took the schedule of the summer trade fairs. A full schedule costs two kroners. They are pieces of art, really.”
“They’re bloody expensive,” muttered March, but Holywell just smiled at the mapmaker and said, “I’m sure they are.”
“Did our friend say where he was going?” asked March.
“No, but if you look at the schedule you can see where the fair is at present.”
“Can I see the schedule?”
“Can I see two kroners?”
Holywell slammed the money on the counter.
The schedule was simple. From April to September the fair moved every three weeks to a new town in northern Pitoria. It was now at Dornan and would remain there for another two weeks.
Holywell and March set off back to the stables.
“Now we know where our man is bound. We’ll have to ride hard, but we can catch him.” Holywell glanced at March. “How is your riding?”
Like all the people of Abask, March had been brought up riding small, stocky mountain ponies. But that was a long time ago.
“Servants don’t get to do much riding.”
“Much or any?”
“Don’t worry. If I fall off, I’ll get back on.”
“Oh, of that I’m sure, my determined friend. But our future together doesn’t just depend on being able to climb back onto a horse. You need to be able to learn quickly and act decisively.” Holywell grinned. “Time to try out your training.”
“My Pitorian?” March asked. He had been spending every spare moment going over words and phrases he’d learned, and was always asking Holywell about new ones. “I managed well enough with the stable boy. And I followed most of what you said to the mapmaker.”
“No, not that. I showed you how to take a purse, didn’t I?”
Holywell had been teaching March to pick pockets because “it’s a useful skill to be able to deprive someone of something they value.” It was a lot harder than learning a language.
“You know I’m not good enough,” March objected. “Why waste time on this now? If I get caught, we’ll be delayed and Regan will get to the prince’s son before we do.”
“If you get caught, you’ll get more than delayed: you’ll be lashed and you’ll be imprisoned. And I’ll follow Regan alone.” Holywell was serious now. “We need the money, brother. I paid for passage for two of us on the ship, and those maps were hardly cheap. I like you, March, but you wanted to come with me. Now I need you to contribute your share.”
“But you can pick pockets better than me.”
“True. And I will if I need to. But I also need to know you will if you need to. You’re sharp enough, I’ve seen that, but I need to know your will. We’ve come to Pitoria to take a man. To do that, you need determination. You’re not going to serve wine and spy on other people’s conversations; you’re going to exert your will on others. And I need to know you can do this, otherwise you’re wasting my time, and my money.”
And March knew Holywell really would leave him there and carry on alone if he didn’t prove himself.
“Fuck it then. I’ll exert my will.” March surveyed the marketplace, looking for a likely target. “On that man there.”
“What, the old fella? His heart will give out when he finds his money is gone. We don’t want an old man’s death on our conscience.”
March frowned and said, “Well, him then,” nodding to a fat gentleman in a green woolen cape.
“No,” Holywell replied. “Pick on someone your own size. Him.”
The young man Holywell indicated was probably a few years older than March. Tall, strong. And wearing a dagger.
“Hardly anyone in this country is armed and you pick the man with a knife!” March spluttered. “I thought you didn’t want a death on your hands?”
“The man in the cape was armed too. His dagger was hidden.”
March was irritated now. He said, “Fine. The young man with the dagger.”
Without another word to Holywell, he set off, following his target through the market. March moved close and saw where the man’s coin purse sat inside his jacket. He would have to brush into him or distract him as he slid his hand inside the jacket. But there were too many people here; he knew he’d fail. March felt his chest tighten. How can I do it without getting caught?
The young man left the market square, so March set off down a backstreet, hoping to come around ahead of him. He was just speeding up when, to his surprise, the man appeared before him, taking a shortcut, no doubt.
March seized his chance, rushing into the young man and pushing him against the wall. In his broken Pitorian he managed, “I want your money.”
“What?”
“Give me your money. Now!”
March slid his hand into the young man’s jacket, but his victim grabbed that hand with his left, while his right hand went to his knife.
But the knife stayed in the scabbard.
March smiled at the man. “Why don’t you take it out?”
He wasn’t sure he said it correctly, but the young man looked terrified, his hand gripping the knife yet seeming to push it farther into the scabbard. And the thrill of it was wonderful. For once March felt like he had some power.
March hissed at the young man, “Give me your money. Now. Or I . . . cut . . .” March’s Pitorian ran out, so he gestured a slit across his throat. He wasn’t armed, but the man didn’t know that. The man had only to take the dagger from his scabbard, to run March through, but he seemed frozen still.
“You want to die?” March jolted the man against the wall.
The young man shook his head.
“Give me your money. Now.”
“Take it,” the man croaked, and he reached into his jacket and handed over his purse.
It wasn’t heavy.
“Now run,” March barked, and he pushed the young man away. His victim ran, stumbling past Holywell, who was walking toward them.
Holywell beamed and clapped his hands slowly. “Not exactly the technique I taught you, but we each have our own methods.” That he said in Calidorian but the rest he spoke in Abask: “You are quite special, March. You do know that, don’t you?”