The Godspeaker Trilogy (175 page)

“A toymaker,” she said, abruptly exhausted. “I've known him all my life. He raised a child from the dead. Marlan touched him, and died. God sent him dreams of Mijak so he could bear witness to the truth.”

Even as Gutten turned away, his face twisted in ugly rejection, Voolksyn of Harbisland stroked his fingers down his beard. “Dreams, you say?”

She nodded. The swordcut on her back was burning, and there was a slick wetness beneath the silk brocade of her dress. In her passion, in her anger, she'd torn open Ursa's stitches. But what did it matter? There'd be more blood where that came from if she failed to win this fight.

“Dreams can be powerful,” said Voolksyn. “Dreams can come from the mother.”

The people of Harbisland worshipped a goddess. They called her nanatynsala , mother spirit of the earth. Helfred said it was more heathenish nonsense, but right now she'd take any help she could find.

“The toymaker's dreams are powerful beyond imagining,” she said. “And on Eberg's grave I swear, they show him the truth.”

“Voolksyn?” said Gutten, incredulous. “You cannot listen to her. This is Han, this is Tzhung, our masters will not have it!”

Voolksyn shook his head. “If she lies, the mother will break her. Queen, you say this toymaker dreams to bear witness?”

She nodded. “Yes.”

“Then let him bear witness. Let him speak, and we will judge.”

Rhian swallowed. Oh, God. Dexterity… “Of course. Commander Idson—”

Idson bowed. “Your Majesty?”

“Fetch Mister Jones. Bring him here, quickly.”

Another bow. “Yes, Your Majesty,” said Idson. And then he was gone.

She nodded at Voolksyn, turned and walked back to the dais. Kept her head high and her spine straight, even as her heart pounded painfully in her chest.

Dexterity…Dexterity. Please. Don't hold a grudge.

Dexterity was pottering in the vegetable patch at the bottom of the cottage's back garden when Commander Idson came for him.

“Mr. Jones?”

He turned round so fast he overbalanced and fell over, squashing a very fine tomato plant. Dripping red pulp and seeds, heart thudding, he stared at Kingseat's garrison commander. “Yes? What? What have I done wrong now?”

Commander Idson's breastplate was too bright to look at. The unclouded sun dazzled the polished steel, transforming him into a man of white fire. Marlan, burning, mouth wide in a scream …Dexterity closed his eyes and averted his face.

“I'm not privy to that information, Mister Jones,” said Idson. “Her Majesty requires your presence at the castle.”

He unscrewed his eyes and peered cautiously at Idson, then past him. Where were the other soldiers? They didn't usually send just one man for an arrest. Was this a trick, then? Or some cruel method of luring him into an uncautious utterance?

Carefully he stood. “I'm not dressed for royalty.”

Idson looked him up and down, taking in the compost-smothered gardening clogs, the baggy trousers, the shirt that had certainly seen better days. And, of course, the remains of squashed tomato.

“Nevertheless, Mister Jones. Your presence is required.”

A tiny bubble of resentment rose to his throat. “Why? I haven't done anything wrong. Unless weeding is counted a crime these days.”

Commander Idson's mouth tightened. “Mister Jones, I don't care to lay hands on you, but I will if I must. Her Majesty has given me an order and I'll obey it.”

“An order to escort me to the castle.” He wiped his hands on his trousers; sweat was turning the dirt to mud. “What bit of the castle?”

“The Grand Ballroom,” said Idson, after a moment. As though saying that much was a betrayal of state secrets.

Not the dungeons, then. She's not putting me back there, to keep company with Zandakar.

The bubble of resentment persisted. “She needs me, does she?”

“What Her Majesty needs or doesn't need is not for me to say.” Idson took a suggestive step backwards. “The queen is waiting, sir.”

And that was that. The queen is waiting …so who cared what a nobody toymaker might need, or how busy he might be, or what other plans he might have for the rest of his day.

I don't care what Hettie said, I'm not mixing myself up in this business again. Whatever I do it'll end up being the wrong thing and I'll find myself locked up a second time.

Even to himself he sounded sulky…and didn't care.

“All right,” he said, grudging. “I don't suppose I've a choice.”

“None, sir,” said Idson.

He was perversely pleased the matter was so important, apparently, that he wasn't even to have a moment to change into clean clothes.

Even if I could change I think I'd stay like this. I think that young lady needs to know not everyone thinks the sun rises in her eyes.

Not any more, anyway.

Idson had come in a light cart pulled by a strong fast horse and driven by one of his subordinates. It had an uncovered back, which meant everyone in the street could see Mister Jones was in trouble again…

As the young soldier whipped up the horse and guided the cart into a swift about-face, Dexterity sat on the hard wooden seat and scowled at the curtained windows of his neighbours' cottages.

Yes, yes, I'm in trouble again…

Idson said not a word during the journey to the castle. Dexterity wanted to ask him about Rhian's judicial combat with the dukes, but the commander's expression was so forbidding he didn't dare. How frustrating. Ursa hadn't been precisely forthcoming with details. Even though he was still so hurt and angry, he couldn't help but feel worried too.

I remember her a little girl, trailing a lambswool-stuffed dolly behind her. Now she's killing grown men with a sword. And is that God's plan too, Hettie? A young girl slaughtering men old enough to be herfather?

Not that Rhian had been given much choice. The dukes had practically slaughtered themselves, so stubbornly had they refused to yield.

Even so, Hettie. What has the cost been to the girl? All very well to say they deserved it. But does she deserve a life crowded with those kind of memories?

A pang went through him, remembering how she'd suffered over the death of Ven'Martin. And then he remembered he was angry and hurt, and what Rhian might or might not be feeling was none of his business. He folded his arms, ignoring Idson and glaring at the back of the younger soldier's head for the rest of the journey.

They reached the castle without incident. The cart halted in one of the rear courtyards and Idson gestured him out. In silence he followed the commander inside and through a maze of ground floor corridors until they reached a set of magnificently carved, gilded and painted double doors guarded by a full skein of Idson's finest men. They saluted when they saw their commander.

“The Grand Ballroom,” said Idson, with a sideways glance. “Her Majesty waits within. Are you prepared, Mister Jones?”

No, of course he wasn't. But there was no point in saying that, so he shrugged. “Yes. I suppose.”

“All right then,” said Idson, and nodded.

Two of his soldiers flung open the doors.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

T
he Grand Ballroom was breathtaking, and full of ambassadors. Well, not full , the hall was an enormous space that could fit three hundred dancing couples, at least. But it felt full, with all those people staring incredulously at Commander Idson and his scruffy companion.

“Dexterity!” said a guttural, familiar voice as the soldiers pulled closed the ballroom's wide doors.

Dexterity looked left and saw Zandakar. It was most disconcerting to see the Mijaki warrior dressed like an Ethrean in linen and wool. His blue hair, so long now, gleamed in the bright candlelight. He looked well-fed. Not ill-treated, despite the six soldiers flanking him. His pale blue eyes were warm with pleasure.

Despite everything, he smiled. “Zandakar.”

“Mister Jones,” said Idson, coldly.

Of course. Greeting anyone before making obeisance to the queen was a glaring breach of protocol.

And you know something, Hettie? I could not care less.

Idson left him to walk to the dais alone, where Rhian sat on a throne surrounded by so many important men. There was Helfred, splendid in crimson. There was Alasdair, with such dark, shadowed eyes. Ah yes, and the king's cousin Ludo, the new Duke of Linfoi. A bright, merry young man – when he wasn't caught up in terrible happenings. Duke Edward. Duke Rudi. And Rudi's son Adric, so recently elevated.

The privy council as it is now. She's got so many courtiers to give her advice, she doesn't need me.

He felt a particular cool gaze upon him and looked sideways. Emperor Han . There was a man to chill a toymaker's bones. The gathered ambassadors, well, they meant little or nothing to him. But Emperor Han and his witch-men were frightful. Memory battered him, of being held in that prison cell below the castle's foundations, being confronted by Han's merciless Sun-dao. The man had winnowed his soul without hesitation or mercy.

And was that a part of your plan too, Hettie?

No doubt about it, his unkempt appearance was making an impression. On the dais the privy council frowned, to a man. The gathered ambassadors inched backwards in case his dirt was contagious.

But Rhian just waited for him to reach her on the dais. Magnificent in black brocade and those savagely carved rubies, she looked pale and exhausted and in quite a lot of pain. Was he the only one here who could see that? In their crowded weeks together he'd come to know her so well.

“Mister Jones,” she said, as he reached the foot of the dais and stopped. “It seems you have been interrupted.”

He bowed. “I was gardening…Your Majesty.”

“Yes. I thought you might've been.” She nodded at the dried pulp on his trousers. “Does the crown owe you a new tomato plant?”

Her humour was brittle, with anger lingering beneath it. Oh, if only they weren't in front of an audience. If only they were on the road again, in the peddler's wagon, and he could speak to her plainly, man to woman. Friend to friend. They had been friends, hadn't they?

“Majesty, Commander Idson said you wanted me.”

Rhian nodded. “Yes.”

He let his gaze slide sideways to Helfred. Very, very slightly Ethrea's new prolate nodded, his eyes narrowing. Dexterity read the message without difficulty. This is important. Your hurt feelings can wait .

One of the ambassadors, Arbenian from the gruff bearhide look of him, pushed forward. “You are the toymaker she says is touched by your God?”

She says . Well, here was a rude fellow and no mistake. Dexterity felt his spine stiffen. All very well for him to be at odds with Rhian. She was his queen and something more, besides. But what right did this foreigner have to be rude to Rhian under her own roof?

“Sir? I don't believe we've been introduced.”

The man's eyes widened. “What?”

“Ambassador Gutten, this is Mister Dexterity Jones, House Havrell's one-time royal toymaker,” said Rhian. There was the faintest breath of amusement in her voice. “Mister Jones, you are presented to His Excellency the Arbenian Ambassador. You may address him as Sere Gutten.”

It came as a surprise to discover there was something… liberating …in having fallen so low. Dexterity shoved his dirty hands in his pockets and looked Gutten up and down, much as Idson had surveyed him in his garden. “Yes, Sere Gutten,” he said, as though the Arbenian was a shopkeeper. “There was a time, in the recent past, when I was touched by the grace of God.”

Another of the ambassadors stepped forward. Dexterity looked up and up into the man's broad, bearded face. His feet tried to step his body backwards but he over-ruled them. He had no intention of revealing weakness in front of Rhian. It was important that she not think him awestruck or in any way malleable.

My life's my own again and that's how it's going to stay.

“Jones?” The giant tipped his head to one side. “Voolksyn.”

Huge, bald and bearded? Dressed in sealskin? This had to be the ambassador from Harbisland. Ursa said she stitched up more Harbisland sailors than any other kind. They were always finding their way into trouble. Certainly this enormous fellow was a sight to strike fear in the heart of an ordinary man.

He nodded, cautiously. “Ambassador Voolksyn.”

“Her Majesty says your God speaks to you in dreams.”

“Ah…well, yes,” he replied, still cautious. “I've had some dreams, it's true.” He looked at the rest of the ambassadors, searching for answers and finding none. Lastly he looked again at Rhian. “Is that why I'm here? Because I don't dream any more.”

Which wasn't a lie. The last time he saw Hettie he'd been wide awake.

Rhian sat so still on her throne she might have been a carved statue. “They want to know what you know of Mijak,” she said. Her voice was cool and unexcited. Whatever she was feeling was hidden deep within. “I want you to tell them about Garabatsas. I want you to tell them what Hettie's told you.”

He stared at Zandakar, whose face also looked carved. The warrior wasn't in chains but the soldiers stood so close around him he might as well have been. Although six Ethrean soldiers were no match for Zandakar. If he wanted them dead they'd be dead by his bare hands. So why was he letting himself remain a prisoner? Did he think he owed Rhian his presence, unprotesting?

Perhaps he does, but I don't. I don't owe her anything.

Resentment bubbled again. He'd been sent away, he'd been put aside like a broken doll. Well then, let him stay put aside! People weren't puppets, they weren't to be played with like toys of wood and string and paint. He glared at Rhian, letting her see his resentment, not caring he showed an impolite face to the world.

“Dexterity…” Rhian almost sighed. The effort it cost her to remain upright and unaffected was palpable, at least to him. “Some of the ambassadors believe I have concocted the threat of Mijak with the aid of Emperor Han and Zandakar, so Ethrea and the empire of Tzhung-tzhungchai might dominate the world.”

What? “But that's ridiculous,” he said, turning. “Her Majesty has concocted nothing. Mijak is real. Its threat is real. You have living proof of it, there.” He pointed to Zandakar. “Ask him what he knows. What he's seen.” What he's done. But I won't tell them. If they learn the half of it they'll bay for his life, and I'll not have Zandakar's blood on my hands.