The Queen's Consort (2 page)

Two

              Southern Reach was a typical port city. It straddled the Sheepkill River just above the point where it exited the land and flowed into the harbor. Walls and towers and a huge, impressive gate guarded the entrance to the river.

             
The soldier in Ansel started looking for weaknesses immediately. Infantry from the Queen's army manned the landward gates, of course, but they didn't impress Ansel. There were far too few men to make an effective defense against a surprise attack.

             
The city had some impressive fortifications. Ansel studied them shrewdly. If he was attacking, he'd try to avoid a siege. He'd sneak his army in, mixed with the traffic, and station them around the city. He'd load a ship or two with explosives, sail it up the river, and let the tide carry it right into that gate. A few brisk explosions and he'd open the river to his invading forces. And his professional soldiers would own this city.

             
Satisfaction soared through him. With two legions—hells, give him
one
legion of the King’s Corps—and a dark night, and he'd be lord of Southern Reach by dawn.

             
It was a lovely city, well situated to benefit from the fertile land around it as well as the deep-water harbor. But, of course, it had gone soft under a woman's rule. It would benefit from a man's stern hand. 

             
Like any other port city, sailors and merchants and craftsmen mingled in the streets. Unlike other port cities Ansel had visited, however, there was a surprising degree of order. Despite the fact that a woman ruled, the city was tidy and well-maintained. Ansel shrugged to himself. The city must have a strong overlord to impose such order.

             
The roads within the city proper were neatly paved. The buildings were tall and regular, set back from the street and not hanging haphazardly over it. The fragrance of fresh bread and raw spices perfumed the air. And, most shocking of all, the people seemed well-behaved and peaceable.

             
He didn't see any parties of nobles making their way down the centers of the streets, trampling peasants or brawling with enemies. No one threw raw refuse out of the windows onto passers-by below. The people here drew to the side of the road to let the Queen's carriage pass.

In Kingsford the citizens scrambled out of the way out of deference to the King's quick temper and penchant for flogging anyone his men-at-arms could catch. Here, the people seemed motivated by respect. It surprised him again.

              Vandau, Ansel reminded himself, did not have a feudal system. They had no serfs and kept no slaves. Everyone he saw was a free man. Or woman, for that matter. It grated on him.

             
It also annoyed him that the people looked well-dressed and healthy. Then again, they probably wore their best to go to town. And perhaps they didn't let their poor and disfigured beg on the streets. It wouldn't look pretty.

             
Ansel walked down the street and kept his eyes straight ahead. He was desperately aware that almost everyone on the street was better dressed and cleaner than he was. He could only be grateful that these ordinary citizens didn't know that they had captured a disgraced prince.

             
After the prisoners were paraded through the streets they were led to the barracks along the wall facing the sea. Surprisingly, they were not immediately tossed into the dungeon. They were pushed into an antechamber and told briskly to strip and bathe.

             
A bath was welcome but Ansel and his men were confused. They did as they were instructed and then given clean, plain clothes to dress in.

             
“What's going on?” Ansel asked a soldier.

             
“Queen's command.” The soldier narrowed his eyes. “She was probably offended by your stench.”

             
Probably. Ansel didn't really care why she was doing it. It was just another female weakness. But he was glad for the bath and clean clothes.

             
After the prisoners were clean and dry their hands were shackled with a short length of chain and attached to another chain around their waists. It was effective at preventing any proper escape attempt but, considering the circumstances, it wasn't all that uncomfortable.

             
To his further surprise, Ansel soon discovered that Southern Keep didn't even have a proper dungeon. The prisoners were locked into rooms in the armory that were usually used for storage. The rooms were stone, small and windowless, but clean and vermin-free. They were even allowed light—the guards considerately set beeswax candles in gated recesses beyond the reach of the prisoners.

             
It was a disgrace to proper dungeons everywhere. Ansel was disgusted. It was just another indication of how weak a people became when they were led by a woman.

             
Ansel prowled the small space. The other men talked quietly among themselves. Ansel ignored them. He wondered if their fresh clothes meant that the Queen would summon them.

             
He paced off the dimensions of the cell. Ten paces wide, ten paces deep. Small for nine men, but adequate. Like everything else here.

             
If he'd succeeded in capturing the Queen, if he had her in his power right now, he'd have shown her a proper prisoner-jailer relationship. He allowed himself a brief, satisfying fantasy of the Queen in chains before him, at his mercy.

             
“My lord,” one of his men, a youngster named Cordy, spoke up. “I heard one of the Guard say that the Queen was at Renshaw, not at Fairview like we believed.”

             
“Obviously, our information was wrong.” But the wheels in Ansel's mind started turning.

             
“From Renshaw here to Southern Reach is eight days' hard ride,” Cordy continued.

             
“Perhaps the Queen was already on her way.”

             
“Perhaps.” Obviously, the boy agreed only to humor his superior. “But why would she leave Renshaw in such haste?”

             
“I don't know.” Ansel paced. Ten strides, turn. Ten paces back.

             
“And why,” the boy persisted, “did she ask 'Is it true?' when she rode up to the carriage? She'd heard her sister was dead.”

             
Ansel rolled his eyes. “She must have heard it on the way.”

             
“We came from the west, my lord. She came from the north.”

             
Ansel stopped his pacing and turned to face the boy. He gave him a withering stare. “Perhaps you should ask the Queen. I'm sure your invitation to tea with her will arrive at any moment.”

             
“She's more likely to have our heads on a platter,” Cordy said with a distinct lack of respect. Ansel scowled. “My lord,” he added hastily.

             
“Oh, I don't know.” A grizzled sergeant spoke up. “She's a lady. She won't like all that blood and gore. She'll probably have us smothered with fluffy white pillows.”

             
“Findle, don't be an idiot. She wouldn't ruin her pillows with a snot like Cody.” The third man dodged Cody's awkward kick. “Maybe she'll have us drowned. Nice and neat.”

             
Ansel tuned out the conversation as it continued down this path. The men were trying to make light of a desperate situation. He preferred to not speculate on how they were going to die.

             
Ten paces up, ten paces back. Was she going to summon them—him—or not?

             
She didn't summon him that night, and he stayed up long after the others had fallen into restless dreams. He'd barely fallen asleep when a heavy hand hauled him to his feet and out the door. “I didn't ask for a wake-up call,” he grumbled.

             
The soldier ignored him and concentrated on shackling his feet.

             
“Are we going somewhere?” Ansel yawned. He didn't have to feign unconcern. Pacing all night while everyone else was asleep had worn him out.

             
The soldiers hustled the prisoners out into the yard and into a closed carriage. “We're traveling in style today, boys,” Ansel said, finding a seat on the wooden bench.

             
“Beats walking,” Cordy agreed.

             
Ansel sighed. He wished he could administer a swift kick to the boy to remind him of the social order and military protocol.

             
“My lord.” The boy grinned. “I'm kinda glad that we're keeping up appearances. My lord. Makes me feel like I'm home.”

             
Ansel leaned his head back and closed his eyes.

             
Cordy settled himself. Of course he wasn't through talking. Ansel sighed. Oh, for a whip to flog this boy silent.

             
“Of course,” Cordy continued, “if we were home I wouldn't be sitting next to someone like you, my lord. You'd never have noticed someone like me.”

             
Very true. And Ansel preferred it that way.

             
The boy refused to be discouraged by Ansel's silence and show of indifference.

             
He leaned closer. “That's why I volunteered for this mission,” he said earnestly. “It was a chance to serve with you.”

             
Ansel opened his eyes. Cordy couldn't be more than seventeen years old. And, because the boy had volunteered to serve with Ansel, he was going to die.

             
Ansel was a soldier. He'd faced death, and he'd ordered other men to their own deaths. But he'd never looked in the earnest face of a boy who was going to die because of him. Because of his failure.              

             
Cordy blinked at him, waiting for a response.

             
Ansel studied the young soldier's smooth, babyish face. And, for the first time in his life, he thought
this isn't fair.

             
He made an effort to smile. “It's been an honor to serve with you.” He raised his voice to include the rest of his men. “With all of you.”

             
“It's an honor to die at your side, my lord,” they chorused the traditional response.

             
The smell of the sea grew stronger. The men tensed, waiting for the carriage to stop. Instead, they listened as the horses' hooves moved from stone to wood before the carriage rolled to a halt.

             
The door opened and soldiers pulled them out. “We're on a ship,” Cordy breathed.

             
“We're in the hold,” Findle observed. “Travelling steerage.”

             
“I've never been on a ship before,” Cordy said.

             
Everyone else groaned and moved as far away from the youngster as they could.

             
“What?” he asked innocently.

             
“Do us all a favor, boy,” the sergeant said, “don't eat anything but bread, okay?”

             
The soldiers pushed the men into a large cage. From the smell, it had recently held some large animal. There was still a bunch of relatively clean straw on the floor.

             
Ansel settled into the straw and rested his back against the hull. The soldiers passed out rations of water, bread, and salt fish.

             
Cordy drank the water and ate the bread. “Why can't I eat the fish?” he asked.

             
“'Cause, as bad as it tastes now, boy, it'll taste much worse on the way back up.”

             
Sadly, the old sergeant was correct. Although it was a relatively smooth trip, five of Ansel's men were violently, miserably sick as soon as the boat began to sway.

             
The soldiers watching them were amused at first. Their amusement faded rapidly as the condition of their prisoners failed to improve.

             
“The smell in here is gods-awful,” one of them complained to their guards.

Eventually
permission was sought and received to bring all the prisoners to the deck. “They should have to clean this mess,” the guards groused, half-dragging Cordy up into the air. “Come on, lad. Being able to see the horizon is supposed to cure you.”

             
A tight knot of soldiers guarded them carefully, even though only four of their prisoners were able to stand. “Don't get any ideas,” one of the soldiers growled, staring at Ansel, “I'm more than half-inclined to toss you—chains and all—over the railing.”