She started to close her shutter. A man grabbed the edge of it, shouting that he must be allowed to pass. Other people surged forward, some shaking carved wooden passage chits at her. Motley lifted her wings, cawing a warning. I feared a riot, and then I heard the rhythmic tread of soldiers coming at a steady trot. ‘Move back to the edge of the crowd,’ I urged my charges. Lant spearheaded our exit. We came behind him and shoved our way to the edge of the packed people. We found a small alcove between a booth that sold fruit and beer and one that sold meat on skewers. We crammed into it.
‘At least three dozen,’ Lant observed as the guards arrived. They carried short staffs and moved with the edgy precision of people trained to be ruthless. They formed into a double row, inserting themselves between the mob and the guards at the gate. Once in position, they lifted their short staffs and began to force people back from the causeway. People gave way, some grudgingly, others turning and trying desperately not to be facing the soldiery. The muttering of complaints and pleas reminded me of a disturbed beehive.
‘The gates! The gates are opening!’ Someone shouted. Across the causeway, the immense white gates of the castle opened slowly. Even before they had swung fully apart, a mob of folk poured forth from the opening and moved in a thick line across the causeway toward us. They moved like herded cattle, with some running along the edges of the road to pass others. Everyone seemed to be hurrying, and as they approached the gate on our end, the guards swung it open. The soldiers pushed back those who had hoped to enter, crying out that they must make room for those departing from the castle. The two crowds met like clashing waves, and there were angry shouts from both sides.
‘What does it all mean?’ Spark asked.
‘It means the Fool is over there, and has done something,’ I suggested. I thought of the missing Silver and felt ill.
As if in response to my words, I heard a chorus of wordless cries from the gathered folk. A forest of pointing hands gestured at one of the tall, slender towers. Long black banners had been unfurled from the tower windows. Weighted, they hung straight and still despite the breeze off the water. ‘It’s for Symphe!’ someone cried out. ‘That’s her tower of residence. She’s dead! Skies above, Symphe is dead! One of the Four has died!’
That one shout freed all the tongues in the crowd, provoking a cacophony of shouting, wails and cries. I strove to pick information from the uproar.
‘… not since my father was a boy!’ one man exclaimed, and a woman cried out, ‘It cannot be so! She was so young and beautiful!’
‘Beautiful, yes, but not young. She has reigned in the north tower for over eighty years!’
‘How did she die?’
‘When will we be allowed to cross?’
Some people were weeping. One man declared that he had come yearly to have his fortune foretold, and that three times he had actually spoken with Symphe herself. He described her as being as kind as she was lovely, and I watched him gain that aura of fame that comes to one who has touched greatness. Or claims to have done so.
On the far shore, past the causeway gates, a single figure emerged from the castle gates. He was tall and pale and dressed in a long, loose robe of pale blue. He did not hurry as he crossed the bared causeway that had begun to steam and dry in the summer sun. He walked gracefully, and his bearing reminded me of the Fool as he had been in his days as Lord Golden. The crowd’s noisy complaints became a chorus of folk calling attention to him, and then became a murmur. I heard someone say, ‘Is that not Lingstra Wemeg, who serves Coultrie of the Four?’
The man reached the far gate and the guards, troops and pikemen stepped aside to give the crowd a clear view of him. He lifted his voice and shouted something that no one could make out. The crowd went silent. He lifted his voice again. ‘Disperse now, or face the consequences. No one will be admitted today. We are in mourning. Tomorrow, on the afternoon’s low tide, those who hold passes will be admitted.’ He turned his back and walked away.
‘Is Symphe truly dead? What happened to her?’ a woman cried after him. He did not even twitch as he walked on. The troops and pikemen resumed their barricade.
The crowd milled, consulting among itself. We waited where we were, hoping a riot would not break out. But the mood of the crowd became more one of mourning and disappointment than frustration. As chaff is blown away by the breeze, so the people slowly dispersed. The conversations I overheard were disgruntled or sad but none seemed to doubt they would be admitted on the morrow.
I fought down the panic that tried to rise in me. ‘Oh, Fool, what have you done?’ I muttered to myself as I stared across the empty causeway.
‘What will we do now?’ Per asked as we slowly fell in with the departing pilgrims.
I said nothing. My thoughts were with the Fool, probably inside the castle. Had he killed Symphe? Did that mean he hadn’t found Bee and had taken his revenge? Or that he had been discovered and forced to kill? Was he captured? Hiding?
‘We won’t be getting into the castle today,’ Lant observed. ‘Should we return to Paragon and wait there until they allow folk in again?’
‘Stop!’ Per exclaimed suddenly. ‘Here. Come over here.’ He led us away from the crowded roadway, onto the verge that overlooked the water. He motioned us to draw close to him and then said in an excited whisper, ‘We can’t get in!’ Per explained. ‘But Motley can!’ We looked at him in surprise. The crow was sitting on his shoulder. Per offered Motley his wrist and the bird stepped onto it. Holding her level with his face, he spoke to her earnestly. ‘Amber told us that the walls of the cells on the top level have holes in them, shaped like flowers and things. Can you fly up there and look through the holes? Could you see if Bee is up there? Or Amber?’ His voice began to shake; he pinched his mouth shut. Motley turned one bright eye to stare at him. Then, without a word, she lifted off his arm and flew away.
‘She’s going straight there,’ Spark exclaimed.
But as we watched, the crow flew past the castle and out of sight behind it.
Per sniffed and said, ‘Maybe she wants to fly all around it before she tries to land there.’
‘Maybe,’ I agreed.
We stood, waiting. I stared out to sea until my eyes watered from the glare.
THIRTY-ONE
* * *
The Butterfly Man
Your eagerness to be efficient and thrifty is praiseworthy. You are managing Withywoods well in my father’s absence. For it is an absence; I am confident he will return.
But as to the changes you suggest, no. Please do not empty my sister Bee’s room. Her possessions are to be tidied, and cleaned if necessary, and then restored to their proper locations. Do not put them into storage. I wish them to be left as they should be. I believe that her tiring maid Caution will know exactly how things were kept. Nothing is to be discarded. Let the doors then be closed and locked. That is my wish.