“Yes,” March said, though he wasn’t sure how.
“And we need to remove Regan from the game, and get hold of the prince’s ring. If we have that, Edyon will believe we’re sent by the prince. Oh, fuck.” Holywell nodded toward the tents. Edyon was being dragged away by the two guards. “They’d better not kill him or no on will be getting anything,” Holywell muttered. “Follow them. I’ll watch for Regan.”
The guards took Edyon into the woods just beyond the tents, and March followed as casually as he could. It seemed unlikely they were going to hurt him too badly, as they made no attempts to hide the fact they were taking him, but once they were alone they let go of Edyon and he collapsed like a sack of grain. Then they started to kick him.
March wondered if he should step in, but the kicking wasn’t that bad and March wasn’t inclined to rescue a prince’s son. So he watched as the men cursed Edyon, calling him a thief, a bastard thief, in fact, and Edyon responded by curling up in a ball, which seemed to irritate them. March couldn’t help but smile as the guards laughed, then unhitched their front flaps and pissed on him. When they were finished, they turned and ambled back to the fair.
March waited until the guards were out of sight and checked no one else was around, but the woods were deserted. Then he walked over. Edyon didn’t move. There was some blood on his jacket along with a lot of piss. His face was dirty with mud, but March was struck by how similar Edyon was to his father: the same light brown wavy hair, the same mouth, and the jaw that same strong jaw. Their build was similar, though Edyon was not heavy with muscle—in fact, he seemed to have no muscle at all—but he was tall, with long legs, and hands like the prince’s, with long, slim fingers.
Edyon groaned.
“Oh, thank goodness you’re alive!” March tried to sound relieved.
Edyon continued to groan as he moved his hands from his groin to his jaw. Blood dribbled from his mouth. His eyes fluttered open—the same pale brown eyes as his father.
Finally Edyon stopped groaning and began to sit up, and March caught a glimpse of a thick gold chain round his neck through a rip in his shirt.
“Here, drink,” said March, holding out his water bottle, at the same instant realizing that he was once again serving water to a prince. He shuddered and took a sip himself before offering it again to Edyon, who drank, spat, and then said, “Thanks.”
“Did they rob you?” March asked.
Edyon looked blank.
“Your attackers,” March repeated. “Did they rob you?”
“No,” Edyon replied, but he still patted his jacket, presumably for his purse, and also the middle of his chest. March suppressed a smile; whatever was hanging at the end of the gold chain was precious to Edyon. He made a mental note to tell Holywell.
“So, if they weren’t after your money, can I ask—and I apologize, I don’t speak your language so well—why did they beat you up and piss on you?”
“It’s an old Pitorian custom.”
March smiled.
“You’re from Calidor?” Edyon asked, speaking in Calidorian.
“What makes you think that?” March replied, also in Calidorian, which was so much easier.
“Your accent.” Edyon looked at March properly now, and his eyes widened. “A new man enters your life,” he murmured, almost too quietly to be heard. “A foreign man. Handsome.”
“What?” Had Edyon just called him handsome?
“The words of my fortune-teller,” said Edyon. “She didn’t mention amazing eyes, though.”
It was always the eyes. “I’m from Abask. It’s a small region between Calidor and Brigant.”
“I know,” Edyon said. “They make good carpets and fine silverwork.”
“Used to,” March corrected.
“Of course. The war.” Edyon paused for a moment and March braced himself for an insensitive question, but then Edyon asked, “Are you here to trade in carpets and fine silverwork?” His eyes twinkled with a spark of mischief.
March shook his head. “I’m here to travel and to learn.”
Edyon tried to smile, but winced and felt his jaw again. “Excellent pursuits. I’m a student myself. What have you learned so far?”
“That Pitoria is a pleasant enough country.”
“If you’re not being kicked almost to death.”
March couldn’t help smiling. “You’re not anywhere near death.”
“You’ve seen people closer to death than this?” Edyon indicated his filthy body.
“Yes, but they’ve not smelled any worse, even when they were dead.”
Edyon chuckled and held his gaze until March swallowed and looked away. Edyon got to his feet unsteadily.
“That we can agree on, my friend. Right now, I’m going to the bathhouse, but if you meet me for a drink afterward, when I’m smelling of rose blossom, I can repay you for your water and you can tell me your name.”
March realized that in the joking he’d forgotten about the plan to keep Edyon away from Regan. If he was going to the bathhouse now, that was probably safe, but if he went home after that there was a chance Regan might be waiting. Better to keep him out drinking. He hesitated and then said, “Yes, that would be good. My name’s March.”
“Edyon,” Edyon said, and then he bowed. He added, “Bowing is what we do in Pitoria on meeting a gentleman. What’s the custom in Abask?”
“New acquaintances bow, friends shake hands, close friends and family embrace.”
“Well, I can tell you’re relieved that we are still only at the bowing stage,” said Edyon with a wink. “Now, please don’t think I’m rude, or that I don’t want to talk to you more because I absolutely do and I will be furious if you don’t meet me later, but I really need to get out of these stinking clothes.”
“Where shall we meet?”
“The Duck. It has the best wine and the best food. I’ll come straight from the bathhouse.” Edyon leaned forward and stared at March again. “Do you get tired of people telling you your eyes are amazing?”
March wasn’t sure what to say. He shrugged.
Edyon started to limp away, but he turned to look back at March. “I hope you come. I’ll transform myself for you; you won’t recognize me.”
“I’ll be there,” March called, and added to himself, “and I’d recognize you anywhere.”
CATHERINE
BRIGANE, BRIGANT
Catherine, daughter of Aloysius II of Brigant and Isabella Birkbeck, was born on Sunday, May 24th at 2 a.m. The child was healthy. The mother was tired after the birth, which had been continued through the night.
The Family Record of the Royal Household
CATHERINE WAS in the castle library, making her farewells to the books—things she was more familiar with and felt fonder of than most of the people in Brigane. She had wept and cursed her frustration on hearing that Ambrose was killed. Part of her knew that it could be a lie, but she would never know for sure, would always wonder; only they would know the truth. And the way Noyes had smiled let her know he knew this. He knew that she would never be certain, could never know for sure if Ambrose was dead in a ditch or had escaped to freedom. That was Noyes’s power and he abused it as he abused everything else.
Men and power. They loved it and were addicted to it more than she could understand. And her love for Ambrose, her addiction to him, well, it was still there. She had him in her head, in her memory, and there he would stay, alive in her memory.
She ran a fingertip over the words that marked her birth, words that were as old as she was, and even in those scant lines she could feel the influence of the king. He was everywhere; it even felt like he was watching her now, though that was ridiculous, but still she looked around.