Supreme Councillor Vagyia paced her apartments. Against the queen's wishes, she'd given the order that could very well mean her exile. Not to mention the women of the legion whose lives were now forfeit if her sister learned of their mission.
When
, not if. Strangely, the notion of having signed her own death warrant did not trouble her. Not after having seen the innkeeper's daughter. The miracle had nearly taken her breath away.
The girl had been found in an inn near the Ridge Gates. Her father, a former mayor in a wisp of village at the foot of the Semicass'en Mountains, had greeted the royal caravan beaming with pride. The girl—Liga?—she'd rubbed her swollen tum and spoke reverently of the dark-haired boy she'd led to the tall grass at the edge of a river. Spoke of taking his cherry and the gentle way in which he'd plied himself into her—impressive for a man wetting his wick the first time. The tale had left Vagyia overawed. Overstimulated.
Liga's description of the emptying village brought reality crashing back. The boy's family had left at first light. Headed for the capital by village's northern wayroad. The innkeeper had gone a short time later, but more directly along the southern wayroad. The Inquisitor's eyes and ears had so far uncovered no evidence that the boy or his family had arrived in Ladd'ar. Nonetheless, they continued to scour the outlying villages. Vagyia's instincts gnawed at her. Perhaps the only way to find the boy would be to retrace his footsteps from Ta Glen.
That's where Vagyia had sent the Women's Legion riding with all possible haste. They were to reach the village before the Queen's Guard, learn what had become of the boy breeder, and track and secure him at all costs. Should the Legion encounter any trouble once they had the boy, they were under explicit instructions to stand fast, extract his precious seed, and retreat to Vagyia's stronghold in the mountains.
The Supreme Councillor ground her teeth with rage. If not for her sister's proclamation, the commoners would be where they were supposed to be.
In their villages!
Instead, they had lost precious time. What if they lost the breeder? The roads were crawling with highwaymen. Suppose he was dead.
No!
Vagyia would not believe it. Queen Tagyia may have bungled the decree, but Vagyia would be cursed by every god before she'd let the woman drive the realm
and
humanity to ruin.
Vagyia stood before her looking glass and pressed a hand to her abdomen. Eighteen years since she had beheld the bump that signified life. A flutter lit in her belly at the whisper of hope. The corners of her mouth twisted into a fragile smile. Something else. She felt hunger. Calling for her personal messenger, she ordered that the Court Apartments be made suitable to receive a noblewoman later in the evening. They did not know that she was referring to herself. She could access the Court Apartments by tunnel. That was one rumor she would not allow to flourish.
***
Anton wiped the blood from his eye. His vision was doing its best to double the burly pair of men wielding short swords and closing to either side. At Anton's feet lay the first one they'd sent at him. The man's arrogance had felled him. But the others now knew that his weapon was more than a walking stick.
The iron they wielded had no hilts and no crossguards. Just a cloth at the base, tied and tree-tarred for grip. When one of them lunged, Anton barely sidestepped in time. He could hear the whistle of metal and saw it flash past his chest. Without thinking, he slid his quarterstaff down the man's blade shaft. With nothing to protect the man's hand, there was a sound of bone cracking as wood met knuckle. The brute howled as the blade fell at his feet. The other charged, hacking and slashing. Anton lurched backward, thrusting for length. There was a loud crack as the man's nose exploded and he crumpled to his knees in the mud. Before the other could fetch his blade, Anton drove the staff down hard on the back of his head. The quarterstaff fractured, but so did his attacker's skull. The body went limp and he fell face-first in the mud. Anton sighed. So much for travel companions.
He reached the shabby inn shortly after dusk. The atmosphere inside was lively, full of song and warmth and light. Drunken laughter spilled into the square, stealing Anton's hunger for a moment and replacing it with bone-weary homesickness. Without no pair of coins to rub together, he'd have little chance of acting the proper gentleman. So, he made his way around the back and stood by the kitchen entryway until he could make himself noticed. He didn't beg. Instead, he kept his back straight and offered to trade a night's labors for a single meal. The cook, a stout man with burn scars running the length of his arms looked him over once, then nodded. With a gesture, he set Anton to scrubbing in a pool of greasy pots and pans. He didn't look up until well after his fingers were raw and peeling.
The smell of stew and hard rolls gnawed at him the whole time. A few of the serving maidens spotted him up to his elbows in suds, whispering and passing furtive glances. He'd not seen girls his own age in quite some time. Like him, they must be quite the novelty.
The inn had quieted and the music had died by the time the cook put a hand on his shoulder. "Done fair," the man said. "Folks was hungry. All I have for you is a bowl of fat broth and some burned heels. Take yourself to the fire in the common room and get warm. You can try the innkeeper about a pallet in the stables," he said shaking his head, "but we're right overcrowded as it is. Least offer's a fireplace before you make your way."
Anton gratefully gathered the bowl of stew and hunks of rye. Hustling through the kitchens, he slipped quietly along the edge of the common room, careful to keep to the shadows as he made his way to the fire. He cursed himself for forgetting his cowled cloak on a peg in the kitchen. But hunger had emptied his mind of anything but the need to fill his belly.
The common room was quiet but by no means vacant. Tables and booths held all manner of lurking characters, some drinking by themselves, others sharing quiet gossip. Tucking into his meal, Anton paid them little attention. The broth was almost all fat. The heels of bread were nearly inedible, but set to soak in the grease they ended up being as good as anything he'd put his in stomach for weeks. Tipping the bowl, Anton peered over the lip and spotted a woman at the far side of the common room, staring at him from a private booth. He'd glanced her the moment he'd nestled beside the hearth but didn't give her gaze much thought. This time, it was clear. She
