Chapter 24 Among These Cabbages
Agatha
Duke Mansfield has me escorted to the dungeons.
Well, escorted is generous. The same thug that’s been hovering since he first kicked our door down this morning—I still haven’t heard him referred to by name—shoves me none-too-gently down a different hallway that leads to a door opening to the backyard.
And dungeons is generous, too, because it’s really nothing more than a glorified root cellar dug into a mound behind the house.
We stored carrots and apples in ours, but perhaps we simply weren’t thinking big enough.
If only we had some enemies to toss about, we could have called our cellar a dungeon, too.
Although that would have left us with no storage for the carrots, so it’s just as well.
The cellar—excuse me, the dungeon—is dry and cool, and actually fairly refreshing after the humidity of the last few days traveling in the mountains.
The thug prods me past an open doorway, through which I catch a glimpse of crates and brown sacks.
The duke requires vegetable storage, after all.
We halt before a heavy wooden door flanked by a pair of lanterns—the only light in the area.
A small, grated window offers a glimpse into a dim room beyond.
The thug produces a set of keys and unlocks the door, which opens inward. He chuckles as he pushes me through and re-locks the door behind me. “I warned you the master had plans, didn’t I? Should have watched your tongue.”
I’d like to say something snippy, but I’m sure the dull-minded cretin will only go tattle to “the master,” so I give him my most sarcastic, superior smile just to be annoying.
I don’t know if it works, and it doesn’t really feel as gratifying as hurling insults at his retreating back, but I’m trying not to get myself into a worse situation.
There are still many humiliating, unpleasant things Mansfield could do to me; I’m trying to remember that, and not inspire vengeance deeper or more creative than being shoved into a cobwebby room in his root cellar.
I could actually probably nap down here.
I turn to see if there’s anything in here besides a pile of cabbage heads by the door.
Thanks to Melusine’s Poise, I don’t scream when I glimpse the man sitting in the far corner of the room. I do, however, suck in a sharp breath and press a hand to my chest.
A second’s reflection is all it takes to make me see the logic of companionship down here; the duke must have many people he longs to oppress and limited room in which to store them. He can’t put us with the produce, or we might eat it, so together we must be.
I suppose my companion could be a dangerous criminal, but it’s more likely that any enemy of the duke’s will turn out to be a friend of mine, so I speak. “Who are you?”
The shadowy figure in the corner makes a noise somewhere between a huff and a yawn before replying in a language I don’t understand.
“I want to know if you’ll be useful when I escape, or if I should plan around you,” I say coolly, even though he probably doesn’t understand me either.
There’s a low bench along the wall nearest to me, so I sink down to rest for a bit.
If only the walls were dirt, like the cellar at our manor, I could probably tunnel out. Eventually.
Unfortunately, this cellar is set with stone walls—refreshingly cool to the touch, but more difficult to work around.
The stranger in the corner moves forward a little.
I can’t make out his features by the flickering lantern light that filters through the window grate, but he looks to be a tall man, leaner than Lem.
Strong enough to dislodge a stone and help tunnel, probably; also strong enough to hurt me if he wanted to. I watch his shadowy figure with unease.
Pursing my lips, I begin wiggling the stones, trying to find some that are loose enough to remove. “You already checked these, I suppose?”
The man leans closer to inspect me in the gloom and mutters something. Wait. That sounded like something Lem muttered once. Is this man speaking … Rhylorrian?
We’re not that many days’ distance from the border. There are probably lots of foreigners here in Candor. But what if …
“Are you Henry?”
The man starts in the darkness. “You know my name?”
I laugh humorlessly. “I’ve heard nothing but your name since my exile. We’ve been looking for you.”
I can hear the frown in Henry’s voice. “We?”
“And you speak Candori, after all,” I say. I tilt my head to the side.
“Who is we?” Henry says. His Candori isn’t as good as Lem’s, but I can understand him just fine now.
“Lem and I. He used to be Prince Limplemoyne, but he somehow lost the title to a fairy godmother.”
Henry curses, I presume, but it’s not a word I’ve ever heard before. “You don’t mean that you’re that blasted Lady Agatha!”
“Yes.” The irony of the situation twists my lips into a bitter smile. “I am Lem’s wife.”
Henry is, understandably, perturbed by my revelation.
“If you’re Lady Agatha, where is my—where is Lem?”
“He was still at the inn when I left. By now, he’s either looking for you—although, with his sense of direction, I doubt he’ll get very far”—I fiddle with the hem of my sleeve—“or sitting in the inn, waiting for you to rescue him.”
“You left him?”
I bristle at Henry’s accusation. “Not by choice, obviously. Why are you here?”
“I’ve been looking for you—well, for Lem, really, but it was easier to give out your description. Apparently, your duke’s been interrogating anyone who might have a clue to your whereabouts, so he dragged me here for questioning.” Henry snorts.
I narrow my eyes, ignoring the ridiculous my duke comment. “Wasn’t he worried about your connection to the crown?”
“I didn’t disclose it, obviously.” Henry folds his arms. “You think I’d be so careless with Lem’s identity? Anyhow, now that you’re here”—he stands and paces to the door, pressing his face to the grating—“hopefully I’ll be out soon.”
“Not much of a gentleman, I see.”
He shrugs. “It’s not my fault you’re here.” He rattles the door. “If I’d known where you were, I would have told Mansfield immediately. Lem doesn’t deserve to be stuck with you.”
“I knew I wasn’t going to like you.” I suck in a breath and resume my inspection of the stones.
“I don’t know what you and your father were playing at,” Henry says. “Trying to trick Lem into making you a princess, because you could tell he didn’t want you otherwise?”
“What a stupid idea. Though I should have expected it—you were the one who told Lem to seek out a godmother, weren’t you?”
“What’s stupid is that I’m wasting away here, and Lem’s alone—which is probably better than being saddled with you—but he doesn’t have anyone taking care of him—”
“He’s not a child,” I say with a sniff. “No wonder he acted so helpless all the time, if this is how you babied him!”
“Babied—! What do you know about Lem?” He crosses his arms in front of his chest. Very Lem-like, I note.
“I am his wife.” I use my sweetest voice, the one that always rankled Lem.
It works the same on Henry.
“Not—I mean, I know your father is some sort of magistrate, but he couldn’t actually—there’s no way that was a legal marriage, and I imagine—I’m sure Lem wouldn’t have—”
“We’re going to annul it,” I say. It’s very kind of me to share this information and put him out of his misery. “You don’t have to worry about me tagging behind you and your precious prince.”
He scowls, and when his brows pull together, I see it.
“You’re not Lem’s servant.”
“What?” He leans away, guarded surprise in his tone.
I try to remember what Lem looked like before Melusine altered his face.
Not very much like Henry, I don’t think, although I don’t have a clear view in this dim cellar, and Lem’s pre-minstrel face was scarred.
But the mannerisms—that wrinkled scowl—I’m quite familiar enough with those.
“I’d bet my right foot that you’re brothers,” I say.
Henry’s silence is enough to confirm it. “Or half-brothers, perhaps?”
If Father had ever dreamed that the Rhylorrian prince would be a serious contender for my hand, he would’ve made sure I knew something about their customs. Since his highest aspirations were this Duke with his moldy little dungeon, I know only the most common of Rhylorrian knowledge: the name of the royal family, the broad geography, the general disdain for fairies, and that they produce the best green tea.
A cup of which, by the way, I’d happily sacrifice all my Gifts for.
“My knowledge is incomplete,” I say, when Henry’s sullen silence persists. “But I presume your king is as generous with his attentions as most men of his station. Odd that he kept an illegitimate son around, but what do I know?”
Henry makes a frustrated noise in the back of his throat. “That’s not how any of it works,” he says in a tight voice.
I wait for him to explain further, but he doesn’t elaborate. “As communicative as Lem, I see.” I purse my lips and sit back down on the bench. I remember belatedly that Lem said the inheritance wasn’t by blood, so I suppose accusing him of being illegitimate was probably off-base.
However, since I find him annoying, I don’t apologize.
Henry retreats to the far side of the room. “Women,” he mutters. “Why don’t they have any common sense?”
“Do I sense a tragic love story in your history?” Perhaps that’s why he’s so bitter. “Please spare me the details.”
“Lem was right about you,” Henry murmurs.
I won’t take the bait and ask what he means. I won’t.
Henry gratifies my curiosity anyhow. “Rudest woman he’d ever had the displeasure of meeting,” he supplies. “If my memory is correct, which it is.”
I raise my eyebrows. “And you think I’d care because …?”
“Actually, leaving him was probably the kindest thing you could have done. I’m sorry for snipping at you earlier.”
I sigh. Though Henry is much more obnoxious than Lem ever was, I have to help him escape, because Lem cares about him.
And since I’d already determined to get away from the duke, I suppose that means we’re in this together.
An awkward silence reigns. Regretting my hasty speech, which is no longer a new feeling, I acknowledge to myself that Henry probably isn’t all bad.
Finally, I let out a deep sigh. “We can’t stay here,” I say, startling Henry out of his sullen reverie. “We’re of no use to Lem imprisoned among these cabbages, so we’ll have to find a way to escape.”
“There’s no we,” Henry says flatly.
I ignore this, which is very kind of me, and I think I deserve some sort of accolades.
None are forthcoming. “What are we working with?” I ask.
“I have Cleverness, and Charm as long as I don’t talk too much, and Grace, though I can’t see how that would apply at the moment.
Do you have any hidden talents, or perhaps a set of lock-picks secreted among your garments … ?”
Henry paces back and forth, kicking a half-rotten cabbage across the dirt floor. “They took my knife,” he grunts, “but I’m a decent wrestler.”
I settle myself on the narrow bench to think. I’ll get out of here and deliver Lem’s precious brother back to him, even though it means for certain that Lem will be leaving me.
I deserve accolades for that generosity, too, but I doubt anyone will notice.