“Three sets of iron doors and a portcullis, each of which requires teams of draft horses to move,” said Fenris grimly. “That’s leaving aside the honor guard and the fact that it’s on the main square opposite the living palace, where anybody can see us trying to get in.”
Fenris had spent two days lurking outside the palace, scouting the main entrance to the palace of dust, occasionally with help from Agnes and the dust-wife, sans chicken. Marra couldn’t go in case she was recognized, but she remembered the place well enough. When members of the royal family were interred, the horses wore black caparisons and were blessed by the priests of seven temples. Marra remembered the solemn pacing of the great beasts as her niece’s coffin was carried through the iron doors, the thudding of drums.
“There must be a way in that doesn’t require horses,” said Marra. “People have to go in first to prep the tomb. You couldn’t get a bunch of horses in every single time.”
“It’s theater,” said Agnes.
Fenris looked puzzled, but Marra nodded. “Yes, exactly. A royal funeral is like a wedding. And the christening is the same way. You need set dressing and staging and schedules. Horses don’t just show up spontaneously in the right outfits and march.”
Fenris considered this. “I suppose you’re correct. Though it is not work I had considered. The coronations I have overseen mostly involved getting someone to a point of being crowned. Actually setting up the feasts and the clothes and the priests was someone else’s problem.”
Marra thought privately that it was probably mostly a woman’s problem, but at least Fenris was acknowledging it was work.
“So there must be a way to get in and out of the tomb,” said Agnes. “Without all the horses.”
“It might be inside the palace, though,” said Marra. While she was reasonably confident that no one would recognize her in the city, going into the palace itself seemed like tempting fate.
“It’s a tomb,” said the dust-wife. “There are always entrances. If they are hollowing out new areas, or building new rooms, there must be an entrance for masons that does not involve tracking brick dust through the palace.”
“Do the dead know?” asked Fenris.
The dust-wife rolled her eyes. “The dead are already there. They don’t worry about how to get in and out. They’re corpses, not cat burglars.”
Fenris leaned back, tapping his thumb against his lower lip. “Bricks. Hmm. Could there be a quarry? Or an entrance from a quarry? How can we find out?”
“Put out that you want work as a stonemason,” said Agnes.
“A stonemason?” He raised his eyebrows. “I don’t know the first thing about stone.”
“Take off your shirt,” said the dust-wife, poking Fenris with her staff, “and I suspect you won’t have nearly as much trouble as you think.”
* * *
In the end, Fenris did not have to take off his shirt. Apparently he was sufficiently well muscled that no one questioned a history of chiseling stones into shape. (Marra tried not to act disappointed. Agnes didn’t even bother to try.) He came back from his first day, drenched in sweat and covered in white dust, and went immediately to the well to dump water over his head. (“Almost as good,” said Agnes, elbowing Marra. The dust-wife’s chicken cackled.)
“It’s not terrible,” he said. “I’m the low man on staff, so nobody’s handing me a chisel. I’m just moving things around and trying to memorize the jargon. I don’t know how long I can keep it up before they realize I’m a complete novice, though. They may fire me tomorrow.”
“Hopefully it won’t matter,” said Marra. A knot of excitement was forming in her chest. This is it. We’re on the way. We’re actually doing something. “You just have to last long enough to find the way in.”
Fenris was a quick learner, and apparently he picked up the specialized speech of the trade at a good enough pace that he wasn’t sacked the next day, or the day after that. But there were also a number of connected quarries and no way to know which one might lead to the palace of the dead unless the dust-wife went along and asked the dead, and so for about five days, she and Fenris wandered through the quarries at night, dodging guards and talking to spirits, while Agnes made friends with the neighbors and Marra bit her nails down to the quick.
This was exactly what she had always feared. They would get to the city and then no one would know what to do and they would talk and talk and talk and nothing would get done and whatever they tried would fail and eventually they would run out of money and Fenris would probably get a job cutting firewood and Agnes would want to go home and check on her chickens and Kania would take a mysterious fall just as Damia had and eventually Vorling would die of old age and all of Marra’s efforts would have come to nothing. Except now that she knew that if Kania had a living child, that child would also be cursed and grow old before its time.
She sat in the tiny, dilapidated courtyard of the boarding house and tried not to scream. I did three impossible tasks—well, two—and went to the goblin market and now I am just sitting here while my friends break into quarries. Oh, Lady of Grackles, this is hard.
Maybe skipping the third task was where I went wrong. Maybe that was the one that makes you a hero. The first two were just gritting my teeth and beating up my hands. She rubbed her thumb over the numb line of skin along her little finger.
She wondered if all the old stories of heroes slaying monsters and maidens locked in towers had involved long, tedious stretches of trying to find the monsters or build the towers in the first place. Probably. No, almost certainly. Who wants to hear the dull practical bits?
Me. I do. It would make me feel less like I am failing.
She sighed and sat back on the bench. It was midafternoon, just barely warm enough to sit outside. The view in the courtyard wasn’t much. One bench, three walls, one door. A half dozen pots that had probably held flowers once but now held sticks. There was a climbing rose that had died back for winter and shed curled greenish-brown leaves across the bricks. It looked like it had seen better days and was only holding on out of habit. Marra found herself identifying a little too much with the rosebush.
Agnes had befriended a woman next door and was doing laundry with her. Marra could hear her laugh drifting over the wall from time to time. And did the great heroes do laundry? I don’t remember hearing about it. You’d think after slaying a hundred men, they’d need a good wash.
Bonedog watched a bird hopping through the dead rosebush, his illusory ears twitching. Marra started to stand up and then Agnes burst through the door and gasped on one breath, “Thequeenhasgivenbirthtoaboy.”
* * *
“She can’t have,” said Marra blankly. “It can’t have been that long. Surely.”
Agnes shrugged. Her face was pink with exertion. Finder was tucked into her generous cleavage, presumably dreaming the dreams of small warm chickens. “It’s all anyone is talking about. There are criers in the marketplace, announcing that Vorling’s heir has been born.”
Early? thought Marra. And then she remembered Kania kneeling uncomfortably, her belly on her knees, and it had been months after that that she left the convent and another month before she came back to the Northern Kingdom. It could easily have been nine months. You never asked how far along she was.
“Kania?” she croaked. “Have they said anything about Kania?” She snatched up her cloak and grabbed Bonedog’s leash. It’s not as if they’d send out criers if they weren’t sure. The babe must be expected to live. But Kania—how is Kania? How is my sister?
They were halfway down the corridor when the innkeeper stepped in front of Marra. She gestured to the outside and rasped, “Have you heard? The queen … the queen—” Her eyes were wide with delight. The puppet on her shoulder chattered its jaw and glared. “A boy, they say. A b—” The puppet decided that this was enough words and yanked the cord. Miss Margaret hung her head, but her eyes still danced.
“We heard,” said Marra. “Going to get more details.”