“It’s so exciting!” bubbled Agnes. “A royal baby!”
Miss Margaret got her finger under the puppet’s leash and pulled a little slack. “And after … after the last…” She beamed.
Marra considered screaming but settled for turning sideways to pass the innkeeper and her rider.
“Relax,” said Agnes, as they emerged into the alley. “It’s normal. Gossip about the royal family is the only real benefit to having one. You have to let people enjoy it.”
“They’re gossiping about my sister,” grated Marra. “And my niece. My dead niece.”
“Who is also my great-great-niece,” said Agnes calmly. “But it doesn’t feel that way to them. And if you go around listening to this news with a face like thunder, people will think you’re not happy, and that will seem suspicious.”
Marra took a deep breath. That much, at least, was true. She schooled her expression to one of polite interest and followed Agnes through the alley, Bonedog tugging on the leash.
“This is hopeless,” said Marra, after ten minutes and as many stories. The queen was dead. The queen was alive but dying. The queen had died and her dying wish was that the prince take religious orders. The queen was alive but the baby was drinking her blood mixed with breast milk and would not survive. The queen was fine but tired. The baby was alive. The baby was dead. There were two babies. There was one baby. The queen had given birth to a school of fish.
At last, they found a crier in the market, surrounded by a crowd. The crier wore the livery of the palace and shouted, “Rejoice! Rejoice for the heir is born! The queen has borne an heir to the throne!”
“And the queen?” called Marra, jostling through the crowd. “How does the queen fare?”
“She has borne an heir,” bellowed the crier. “A son to take the Northern throne!” Scattered cheers erupted from the crowd.
“But is she alive? Is she well?” The crowd surged and Marra could not be certain that the crier had even heard her. He didn’t answer. She looked around at the crowd and saw only mouths, opening and closing, as if they were biting off pieces of her sister’s story and devouring it.
You have to let people enjoy it, Agnes had said. This did not feel like enjoyment. This felt wicked and terrible and strange.
She started to push forward again, but Agnes took her arm. “Let it lie,” the godmother said. “We’ll find out soon enough. There’s nothing we can do either way.”
“I can fret,” snapped Marra. “And I intend to!”
“And I won’t stop you.” Agnes patted her arm. “A good fret is balm for the soul. Just don’t overdo it.”
Marra ground her teeth. If I go to the palace and demand to see the queen … No, no, I can’t. My mother might be here, and if she’s here, she’ll see me. And this is all far too much to explain. She took a deep breath and let it out again. She walked back to the boardinghouse, with the woman who had a puppet at her throat and the girl sitting on the steps who missed more meals than she ate and who was crowing about babies that weren’t quite right.
You have to let people enjoy it.
This is not right. This is not fair.
And what is fair? Marra snarled to herself. How is it fair that you grew up and ate meat at every meal and were never expected to shovel a stable because your mother married a king? How is it fair that Vorling cannot be brought to justice? How is it fair that some women wear themselves out in bearing and others cannot have a child? How is it fair that Fenris can never go home again because he killed a terrible man? How is it fair that gods punish starving people in the blistered land?
Nothing is fair. Nothing is right.
She took a deep breath and stared at the wall, dry-eyed. Agnes touched her arm, concerned.
Nothing is fair, except that we try to make it so. That’s the point of humans, maybe, to fix things the gods haven’t managed.
The front door opened. The brown hen squawked.
“We know how to get in,” said Fenris.
Chapter 17
“There’s always a haunted quarry,” the dust-wife explained. “People moving giant blocks of stone around like they do there, someone’s bound to get crushed sooner or later.” She waved her hand dismissively. “I don’t know how long it’s been abandoned, but there’s definitely an opening to the catacombs there. There are a couple of curses and some bars on the entrance. The ghost who told me said that the bars have been there as long as he could remember, and he’s been dead longer than he was ever alive.” She sniffed. “Nice fellow. Chief stonemason once upon a time, one of those people who has to keep checking up on everything. That sort never lets death stop them.”
“What sort of curses?” asked Marra.
“Oh, they’re all ostentatious ones. Very impressive looking but nothing that will stick.” She scowled. “Once we’re inside, there may be real ones.”
“Do you think we can get to the old king’s tomb from there? The one who bound the godmother?”
“It’s as good a chance as any.”
“We have to go soon,” said Agnes. “Tomorrow night at the latest. They’ll be holding the christening in a few days, as soon as they’re sure the child will live. Three days is usual. She has to be unbound before that. Then I can go and … well, I have an idea.”
Marra barely heard her. A christening. A few days. It was happening. It was happening right now. All the talking and fretting and standing around and everything was suddenly falling together.
“How will we get into the palace itself?” asked Fenris. “The christening will be full of nobles and nobles come with guards. Are they just going to let us walk in, because we’ve got the queen’s sister with us?”
“Maybe,” said Marra. She looked over the other three, wondering if a princess, even a princess who was sister to the queen, would be able to sweep inside with a large dog and a woman with a chicken on her staff. After they treated us as poor relations the last time … No, it might not be that easy.
Agnes cleared her throat.
“I can get in,” she said.
“What?”
“How?”
“I’m a godmother,” said Agnes.
All three of them looked at her blankly.
“I know I wasn’t invited,” said Agnes. “That’s the point.”
“Eh?”
She smiled gently, that tiny, frazzled woman. “There’s only one story about godmothers that’s always true. Bad things happen if you don’t invite us to the christening.”
* * *
“Try to sleep,” said the dust-wife. “I don’t know what’s going to happen, but I suspect we’ll be glad to be well rested for it. We’ll go tomorrow night.”
“What about Miss Margaret?” asked Marra. “Don’t we have to…?” She trailed off, gesturing at her throat.
“Oh, that. Yes. We’ll offer before we go.”
Marra tried to sleep that night and couldn’t. She tossed and turned, her mind roiling. Agnes thought that she could do … something … at the christening. The dust-wife seemed to agree. Marra would have been much happier if she knew what, but Agnes had waved her hands and said that if it didn’t work, it would be better if nobody worried, and the dust-wife just folded her arms and said that Marra had come to her for help, not an education in magic. “Free the godmother and the protections go away,” she said. “That’s all you need to know. And once the protections are gone, there are a thousand magics that can … rectify … the situation.”
“You can’t tell me more?”