Chapter Nineteen
The Chain
‘A versatile stitch for running, outlining, or filling in large sections, so called because its intricate links resemble chain mail when used as coverage and shackles when in a straight line.’
—An Exhaustive Compendium of Stitches
Dwale looked just as startled as I was by the sudden appearance of armed men.
“Patrick,” he said, sounding wary. “What is this?”
“Not to worry,” Patrick said smoothly. “King Colin is providing us protection while we are in Mirthwater, that’s all. I sent him a raven on the way to Spire, when I contacted you.”
“The king?” I stared at him.
“Who better to find us a way into forbidden places than the king?” he said. He spoke with a smile, but it did not reach his eyes.
I do not believe him, said Baldbeak.
“Do you think he means us harm?” I whispered to him as Dwale and Patrick busied themselves with loading our things into the carriage.
No, it doesn’t feel like that. He fluffed his neck ruff in frustration. But there is something.
I was making rather a habit of riding in fine coaches since leaving the Tower, but the king’s coach was the finest of all. Clearly he favored gold, because everything that could be either made of the metal or gilded with it had been. Even the cushions had gold braiding at their edges.
The four of us piled in and made ourselves comfortable, Dwale and Patrick on one side and Baldbeak and I on the other.
Dwale took up most of the space on the men’s side, squashing Patrick against the door.
I lay back in the blessedly cushioned seat and closed my eyes, while Baldbeak made himself useful tidying my Hair—or, at least, picking the worst of the mud out of its strands.
“We will have to get the rest of that dye out of your hair when we arrive at the palace,” said Patrick. “And clean up in general,” he added with a grimace, flicking dried mud from the tops of his boots.
Dwale said, “So are you going to tell us why we’re really in the king’s carriage?”
“I told you why,” said Patrick blandly.
“It smells fishy.”
“It’s the eels,” said Patrick. “I didn’t want to mention it, but their … juices left rather an odor on your doublet.”
Dwale snorted. “I’ve known you for a long time, Patrick Foley, and your tricks don’t work on me. You have some other reason for taking us to the palace.”
“I told you: The king will help us get into the catacombs. Even the Pontiff is answerable to the monarchy.”
I wondered if I could push open the carriage door and jump out into the street. The shadow of the footman’s head through the glass told me that wasn’t going to work.
Dwale told me as we rode that Mirthwater sat between freshwater and salt, where the Mirth emptied itself into the ocean in a spreading stain of brown against the blue.
It was a grand city, but a harsh one, in appearance as well as nature.
Winds rough as a cat’s tongue blew off the sea and had worked like sandpaper on the rock and wood, rubbing every building raw and giving the city a rather scruffy, beleaguered look.
As we rattled towards the palace, the buildings became larger and more ornate.
Terraced houses of pale stone lined the street.
We finally came to a halt outside a building that had to be the palace, because only a palace could look so much like an elaborately iced cake.
“So we’re about to meet the king?” I said. I gestured at my filthy dress. “Looking like this?”
“Tonight. We have time to wash. Come on.”
We piled out of the carriage, Baldbeak taking the opportunity to stretch his wings and flap about in the crisp breeze.
The king’s guard watched as another set of guards, these ones on foot, escorted us up the staircase and into the palace.
Patrick walked into the place as confidently as if he lived there, and Dwale followed suit, while Baldbeak and I followed with significantly less confidence, looking about.
Spotless black-and-white tiles covered the floor, and the walls were papered with creamy flocked velvet.
A gigantic gilt-framed mirror startled me for a moment, making me think there were other people in the room.
I stepped over to it. The reflection of the chandeliers and candelabras was quite dazzling in the silver.
I, on the other hand, looked like something recently dredged out of a bog.
“We’re getting mud on the nice floors,” said Dwale in mock concern.
A servant scurried up to take Patrick’s coat and another his gloves.
“Lord Foley,” they said, bowing, and then, “Lord Skarnesh,” to Dwale as they divested him of his heavy coat, too.
“I’m sorry, Lord Skarnesh?” I exclaimed.
“Patrick bought me a peerage a few years ago. I would have preferred the cash, but …”
“Lady Edevane,” said a servant, bowing and reaching to divest me of my cloak.
I clutched it about me about me until Patrick hissed, “It’s all right, they’ll give it back.
” Shooting him a look, I shrugged it off and watched it disappear, no doubt to be hung in some elaborate closet in this vast, echoing hall.
“You told them who I am?” I said.
“I told you, you don’t need to hide here.”
“Yes, because Patrick and King Colin are bosom friends,” drawled Dwale.
I looked up at the ceiling, which was painted with an elaborate mural resembling the sky at sunset. “It’s like something out of a fairytale,” I said.
“Hardly,” said Patrick. “The roof leaks.” He rubbed his hands together. “I find myself urgently in need of a bath and a meal. We will need to be ready in just a few hours. The king is holding a soirée, and the Pontiff will be there.”
“A soirée? A party?” I stared at him in disbelief. “You don’t expect me to actually attend a party in the middle of all this?”
His eyes widened. “Of course I do. You need to talk to the Pontiff, after all, and see what you can find out about accessing the catacombs. Parties for the high society of Mirthwater aren’t meant just to be revels—”
“Well …” said Dwale.
“—they’re a way to meet people. Form alliances. Persuade people to give you what you need.”
“And here I was hoping we would be able to enjoy ourselves a little,” grumbled Dwale.
“All those things are me enjoying myself,” said Patrick.
“But …” I gestured at myself.
“I’ll take care of all that.” Patrick eyed me critically. “Green or gold, I think. Or perhaps a rich blue. I’ll send something up. And we’ll need to get that dye out of your Hair.”
“But if they recognize me …”
“It doesn’t matter now,” he said. “We are under the king’s protection.”
He crossed the tiled floor to take my hands. “I know it seems strange—parties and palaces—but this is how things are done here. Please. Trust me.”
“I suppose I have to,” I said neutrally.
A servant led me to a room just as luxurious as the foyer had been, where I scrubbed off what felt like several layers of skin along with the dirt.
A troop of maids had offered their services in the bathroom, but after my experience at Milady’s, I wanted to bathe alone.
The Corpse Roads mud was stubborn, leaving a greenish tinge, and it took me a long time to return to my usual color. Baldbeak preened on a bedpost.
There was a fur robe laid out on the bed, and I slipped into it, just in time to hear a knock at the door. I opened it to find Patrick standing there.
“I have brought the soap for your Hair,” he said. “Would you like me to …”
I remembered how he had dyed it in the first place—the firm, sure movements of his hands. I wasn’t ready to do that again—not yet.
“I can do it,” I said quickly.
“Very well.” He placed the bottle on the chest of drawers by the door and hovered. “I will have some clothes brought up. You can select your dress for the evening.”
He bowed formally before retreating. He was behaving a little oddly, I thought.
True to his word, he sent up a box containing several gowns and a maid to help me dress.
I tried to send her away, but she was dogged in her persistence, and so I gave up and let her stay.
Having her in my rooms made me miss Mieka and desperately wanted to talk to her.
I resolved to demand that Patrick contact her as soon as possible.
No, not Patrick—Lord Foley. Who now seemed quite a different person from my traveling companion.
I washed my Hair with the abrasive soap, and it was soon back to its flame-red self.
“What beautiful hair you have, my lady,” said the maid, preparing a tray of brushes and pins as it dried. “Such a lovely color.”
“Ah, I should warn you.” I said. “It … doesn’t really like being dressed.”
The maid paused, her fingers hovering over the tray. “Beg pardon, my lady?”
“Um, perhaps it is best if I do my own Hair.”
The maid’s eyebrows practically disappeared into her hairline.
“You can help me dress,” I added, as a consolation prize.
“As you wish, my lady,” said the maid, lips pursed.
She bustled about, laying out the selection of gowns on the bed.
They were all very grand, in rich fabrics.
In different circumstances, I would have been delighted to have such an array of beautiful clothes to choose from, and I would have spent a while examining the cloth and their construction, but that night I couldn’t bring myself to care.
I knew I should just choose one, any one—it didn’t matter—but could not make up my mind.
None of them seemed just right. Finally, I selected a dress of green velvet.
It had bell sleeves with points that hung almost to the floor.
“Arms up, please, my lady,” said the maid, glad that I had made my choice at last.
“You know …” I paused, gazing at the dress, forming a plan in my mind. I could see the maid fighting the urge to roll her eyes. “I think I shall also dress myself tonight. Thank you for your help.”