“Hell and damnation!” Rebozo swore. “Can you not find a single assassin who is competent?”
The secretary cowered away from his master’s anger-Rebozo was, after all, a sorcerer, and a powerful one. Now was not the time to remind him that, so far, he had chosen all the assassins himself.
“First that fool of a knightling in Merovence, then that debacle of a manticore, followed by a ghost who proved to be as easy to bribe as any clerk-and now this! Two tavern brawls in a row, and neither slays him? Are your assassins all fools and oxen, or is this wizard of Merovence proof against any assault?”
The secretary grasped at the last phrase. “Perhaps, Lord Chancellor. He is, after all, Queen Alisande’s Lord Wizard-and her husband. Perhaps he is invulnerable to all but the mightiest spells.”
“Yes, perhaps he is.” Rebozo calmed with amazing speed, gazing off into space. “Her wizard-and her husband! Ah, if we could capture and hold him, we could bring that proud queen to her knees, and all of Merovence with her, at our mercy!”
The secretary shivered at the audacity of it-and the danger. “How could we hold so mighty a wizard?”
“With sorcery,” Rebozo told him, “sorcery of the foulest sort. The king might have to join with me in such an effort, if the wizard proves too much for me alone-but we shall attempt it! Send word to that chowder-headed reeve that he has tried the wrong man! Bid him arrest this wizard for the murder of your agent!”
“It shall be done, Lord Chancellor.” LoClercchi scribbled out a quick note, then passed it to Rebozo, who sealed it-carefully not signing it-then worked his magic over it until it disappeared in a flash. He leaned back and nodded, satisfied. “The note shall appear by him, no matter where he may be. He shall lead forth his men to capture and hold that wizard forthwith! If all goes well, he will be in our power by dawn!”
But the secretary knew better than to think all would go well-at least, if the minstrel really was Matthew Mantrell, Lord Wizard of Merovence. And if he was, it might be better if they did not capture him-for rather than ransom him by money or deed, Queen Alisande might very well march south against Latruria, with all her armies behind her.
The secretary found himself wondering if King Boncorro was really ready for a war. Alisande was ready for a war, and growing more ready with each passing minute. The only problem was that so far, she had no one to fight. Of course, they were still in her own country…
As they rode, peasants working in the fields looked up to see the marching army and the silver figure at its head with the glitter of sunlight on her crown. They shouted to one another and came running, to cheer their queen and bow as she passed. No one rode out to command them, none forced them-they came to catch a glimpse of her of their own free will. Alisande’s heart expanded within her at the sincerity of their devotion. Perhaps she was doing right by them, after all. She turned to watch them straggling back to their work as the vanguard passed… and saw a flutter of wings beating upward, a bird launching itself into the sky. Launching itself? Surely not! It sprang up too smartly for that, lofted too high as it was still unfurling its wings. Was some loyal peasant releasing his tame pigeon to honor her? A crossbow quarrel sprang up to meet the bird-sprang up from her own army, behind her, and a soldier broke ranks to run and catch the tumbling, bloody ball of feathers as it fell from the sky! Alisande stared, outraged, frozen by the sudden, callous stroke. Then anger broke loose. “Bring me that man!”
The soldiers looked up, startled, then amazed by their queen’s wrath. Red with anger they might have understood-but pale with rage? Over so little a thing as a pigeon? A squadron hustled the luckless crossbowman out of the field and up to the queen, where he stood like the Ancient Mariner with a very small albatross, while his queen sat fuming above him. “For shame, sirrah!” she cried “Are you so starved that you must seize upon every tiniest scrap of meat? For surely, one pigeon cannot make a pie! Do I feed you so poorly that you must devour every feather that floats by? Is there not enough food in my wagons to feed an army, that you must seek your own provisions from the countryside?”
It was her tone that did it, more than the words-the sheer icy rage that daunted the crossbowman and made his hands tremble. Again and again he tried to protest, but he was so terrified that no words came. “Royal rage” was no empty phrase, not now! “Surely there was but little meat on its poor tiny carcass-but there was as much life in it as in you or me! By what right do you deprive a fellow creature of breath? What need was there for killing?”
In answer, the soldier held out the tiny carcass with shaking hands-but two fingers held up a foot, so that Alisande could clearly see the capsule tied to its leg. She stared, taken aback. Then she glanced at the sergeant and nodded. He plucked the capsule from the bird’s leg and passed it up to her. Alisande opened it, shook out the scrap of parchment inside and read. Her face settled into hard, grim lines. Nonetheless, she looked down at the crossbowman. “You could not have known this was there.”
“Nay, Majesty.” The man swallowed thickly. “I am countrybred, and saw only the escape of meat that might help feed a peasant’s family.”
“Give it to the next peasant we pass, then!” Alisande commanded. “For now, get you back to your sergeant! Good fortune has saved you-but see to it that you shoot no more birds without reason!”
“Yes, Majesty! I thank you, your Majesty!” The crossbowman ducked his head, then ran off, relieved. Alisande sat staring after him, amazed at her own reaction. Why had she taken the death of a mere pigeon so hard? She had killed hares, even deer, for her own supper, and never thought twice about it! She had flown hawks to seize just such birds as this, and never given it a thought! Where had this sudden concern for even the tiniest life come from? And what did it bode for her prowess as a general? “What was it, Majesty?” asked Lady Constance. The woman was right-she should have been far more concerned about the message, than about the messenger. “A spy’s report, to the Chancellor of Latruria,” Alisande replied. “Some one of my peasants has learned to read and write, and taken the pay of another sovereign!”
“Or is not truly one of yours at all?” Lady Constance said quietly. “If that is the case, he is a most brave man,” Alisande said grimly. “Sergeant! Alert the home guard to seek out a peasant who keeps pigeons and can read!”
The man ducked his head and ran back along the ranks. “What did it say?” Lady Constance asked, eyes wide and round. “Only that the Queen of Merovence rides south with her army.”
“Why, that is not so damaging!” Lady Constance said in surprise. “There is no secret in this-every peasant in the parish knows it, and rumor will spread the word almost as fast as that pigeon could fly!”
‘True,“ Alisande agreed. ”It is not the news itself that angers me, but the simple fact of a spy living so close to my castle.“
“Small wonder in that,” Lady Constance said with irony. “Again, true-we must expect that every monarch about will set spies upon us, even those who are our friends. But to know that we will be shadowed every mile of the way, that the Chancellor of Latruria will not only know of our coming, but will surely know our exact strength, down to the man! And what the chancellor knows, King Boncorro shall know!”
“We could not hope to take him by surprise, I suppose.” Lady Constance sighed. “No, we could not,” Alisande said with regret. “I suppose it means no more than that King Boncorro is competent, or has competent men about him-but it serves notice on me to brace for a true battle.” She turned to her adjutant. “Give orders to shoot down any pigeons that we see flying near.”
The man nodded and turned away, but that odd pulse of pity welled up in Alisande again, the lament that any living thing should die without need, and she called out, “No, stop! It is ridiculous to even attempt it, when for every bird we see, there will be five that we do not! Let them go, mine adjutant-it is better that we know how much King Boncorro knows, than that we believe he knows nothing.”