“Sir, come. Now.”
Galen stood and grabbed his cloak. This was a thing Javel had learned to admire about the Queen’s Guard: no arguing, not even petty bickering, all questions cleared to one side in the expedience of the moment. He wanted to ask about Allie, but Galen’s professionalism had shamed him into silence. No one had invited him, but he followed them anyway, carefully locking the door of their rooms behind him. He was forced to hurry, for the two guards pounded past the glaring publican and did not slow until they reached the street. The rain had reduced to drizzle again, almost a mist. The air was rank with the acrid smell of steam from the steel foundries. Above the buildings to their right, Javel could just glimpse the topmost turrets of the Palais, the crimson flag that flew over all, lest the people of Demesne forget that the Red Queen’s reign had begun in blood.
The two Queen’s Guards maintained a steady jog, brisk enough to make Javel feel as though his lungs would collapse, but after a mile or so their progress slowed. They were nearing the Rue Grange, the enormous boulevard that bisected Demesne. Javel enjoyed exploring the city, but he tried to avoid the Rue Grange when possible, for it was the main entry through Demesne’s western gate, the beginning of the Pike Road. Javel could not forget that Allie must have gone down this very boulevard in a cage, years ago. But Dyer led them in that direction, and Javel had no choice but to follow. The crowds intensified as they closed on the Rue; a throng of people seemed to be stuffed down every side street, but the two big Queen’s Guards were able to push through easily, Javel trailing in their wake.
When they emerged onto the Rue itself, they were forced to halt; there was simply no more room. The middle of the boulevard had been cleared of people by the approach of hundreds of heavy horse, all marching in neatly ordered lines toward the Palais. The ground shook with the impact of their hooves, but Javel could hear nothing over the roar of the crowd.
“What is it?” he shouted in Dyer’s ear. He half expected Dyer to turn and clout him in return—it had happened before—but Dyer paid him no heed. His eyes were fixed on the endless columns of horse, searching.
“There!” he cried.
Javel stood on his tiptoes, trying to see over the big men’s shoulders. After a few seconds, he spotted something: an open wagon, buried deep in the center of the Mort column. Hopping slightly to peer over Galen’s shoulder, he saw a figure seated inside the wagon, facing the rear, a hood drawn low over his face.
“What is it?” he shouted again, and this time Dyer deigned to notice him, though his lip curled in disgust as he spoke.
“It’s the Queen, you fucking drunk.”
Javel wanted to shout back that he wasn’t a drunk; he had been sober for six months now. But then Dyer’s words struck him.
“The Queen?”
“Yes, the Queen,” Dyer snarled, “taken prisoner while we were stuck here playing at nonsense with you.”
Javel stood on his tiptoes again, staring at the wagon, which was now nearly in front of them. The line of the shoulders did suggest a woman, and so did the thin wrists, chained to the wagon. As she approached, the roar of the crowd increased, and a piece of what looked like raw meat flew from the other side of the Rue, narrowly missing her head.
“What do we do?” Dyer shouted at Galen.
Javel felt the lightest of touches at his waist. He looked down and found a pickpocket, little more than a child, busily exploring beneath his cloak. He shoved the boy away.
“Ah, Jesus!” Galen cried.
Javel looked up again and found the wagon past them now, far enough that they could see under the prisoner’s hood. Someone had worked her over; her lower lip was busted and the mother of all shiners adorned her right eye. But those green eyes could not be mistaken; they darted over the crowd, even as the people cursed her and clods of mud landed almost in her lap. For one interminable moment, Javel was certain that her gaze had swept across the three of them, her good eye fixing on his. Then the wagon dropped out of sight.
Dyer began to draw his sword, and Javel felt panic clutch his heart. Was Dyer really going to bring the Mort army down on them all? Now? What about Allie?
A hand snaked from behind them to clamp Dyer’s wrist, and a voice hissed in Tear, “Do nothing!”
They whirled to find a group of dark-garbed men standing behind them. The leader was not big, but he was surrounded by larger men, one of them far too big for either Dyer or Galen to take. If this was a Mort patrol, they were all likely dead. Javel considered begging Dyer to tell him where Allie was, in case there was no other chance.
Galen had pulled a knife, but the stranger only marked it for a moment before returning his gaze to Dyer.