"Thought of what?" He had no money of his own. When he had been Baron Haunder, he had owned an estate somewhere a long way rightward on the Range. He had never been there--the rents had come in regularly, and he had relied on the manager.
"Why Vindax looks so like Alvo."
Great Ark of God! "Majesty," he said, "whydoesyour son look so like the duke of Foan?"
"Because I was so in love," the queen sobbed. "All the time I was carrying the king's son I was thinking of Alvo, Alvo my love. I made a baby that looked just like him."
Balls! Shadow thought. It wasn't love that made babies, it was balls.
"Er...did the king know this?"
"Yes!" she sobbed. "I just told you I just told him because I just thought of it--too late. After he had sent Vindax away to die. And he said of course that was why it was and not to worry about it."
Even King Shadow did not get to hear all the private conversations within the family itself.
"That was why he sent a letter to call Vindax back," the queen explained, wiping her eyes with a lace handkerchief that had appeared from nowhere.
No, it wasn't. It was because of Jarkadon.
The former Baron Haunder dragged himself back from his planning. Was it possible that Aurolron had been sending Vindax to his death? He had claimed as much to Jarkadon. Or had he been leading Jarkadon on to see how much infamy the young man was capable of suggesting? Did it matter at all now, especially to a fleeing traitor? He held up the parchment, and some of the words could be made out, some guessed at.
"No, I still can't see well enough," he said. He lowered the letter and looked down at the queen.
"Lies!" she snapped, and reached up to rip it from his hands. She tore it in half. "It was WindStriker! She wanted revenge. She has never forgiven me for escaping from Allaban. The eagles have never forgiven me." She ripped the document in four.
Shadow leaned back wearily against the end wall. He could think of no way he could use this madwoman--she would merely be a ball and chain on him.
Money? The queen wore jewels; he could take those, and if he could get into town, he could cash them in. But what in hell did he do with her? He shivered. He would have to kill her. She was the only one who had always smiled to him.
Now she had stopped ripping the whole letter and was working on it one fragment at a time.
He needed clothes first, obviously. But from where? Perhaps down in the kitchen cellars he might find some discarded rags. He might club down some servant from behind. The trouble was, most of them would be hulking lunks who could turn right around and break him in half. Then he'd have to head out into the city.
Then?
Then nothing. Even if he knew where his former estate was, he could never get to it, and it would not be a safe place anyway. When Baron Haunder had become King Shadow, his estate had been put under royal wardship--which meant that the crown had plundered it, of course. The men there would never have heard of Haunder and would have no interest in him anyway.
"Clever eagles!" the queen muttered, reducing sixteenths to thirty-seconds.
And who was king now? If the queen recovered her wits and both of them testified against Jarkadon, then who was next in line? He had no idea--one of the decrepit royal dukes probably, if he did do the honorable thing--return the queen and testify against Jarkadon--would the successor be grateful enough to pardon him? Somehow the chances did not seem very encouraging.
He would have to hide out. Now he recalled the bolt hole under the royal quarters. It had been built for just such a purpose. It was never used, and he had not even shown it to Prince Shadow; he had not even seen it since his first day on the job, five kilos ago. Perhaps even Aurolron had forgotten it. But it was furnished with two cots and a chair, water, and even books. It had three entrances, one of which led into the larders of the royal kitchens, so a fugitive could hope to sneak in there during third watch and steal food. It had spy holes. Perfect! It would be a prison, but a comfortable one, and he could vanish for ages, until long after he had been forgotten. Then he could make his escape to Piatorra.
"Come, madam," he said. "We must go." The guards might start taking sledges to the walls of the cabinet soon, seeking the secret passage.
"Where to, dearest?" she said, holding up a hand. Now he was the king again.
"Let us go and find Vindax." He helped her up.
"Good idea!" she said, and walked obediently along in front of him. He guided her down the stairs, fearful she would stumble in her long dress. At the bottom the passage ended, but there was an opening in the wall, with a massive metal door. He slid this into place and shot the bolts. Pursuers would have to break through that from a space almost too narrow to move in--the long-ago genius had planned well. He found flint and steel and ancient dried-out candles.
This way was long and complicated, and he would have to take care not to get lost or sidetracked, but his first problem, obviously, was the queen. He was not man enough just to strangle her.
The solution proved surprisingly easy. They were stumbling along a dusty underground passage, and he found a massive door standing open. Flickering candlelight showed a small empty cellar, apparently carved out of the rock itself. A dungeon, perhaps? He did not know.
"In here, Madam," he said.
She smiled thanks, thinking he was following, and then stopped in surprise. He pushed. He heaved the door closed and shot the bolts as the echoes rolled away. Then he shivered uncontrollably. Hunger would kill her? No, thirst. He would come back for the jewels--after a long time, hectodays. Poor woman! But it was her fault that he was in this mess. He stumbled away down the corridor, expected to hear screaming or banging behind him, but there was only silence.
Passages and trapdoors and concealed panels...he detoured through cellars and once through shrubbery, scuttling along like a hunted rat. But no one saw him or heard him, and all he saw of the search was once when he looked out through another spy hole and saw a band of men running. The whole palace must be in turmoil, and even the cellar areas and kitchens were stripped of people, which made his journey easier. It was the middle of third watch, too--those who had not heard the news would be in bed.
At last he reached the royal quarters and began to advance more carefully than ever. One entrance to the bolt hole was from the king's bedroom--he could forget that one. Another was from the larders, and a third from a cloakroom off a public corridor. The larders were the best bet.
He had to leave the secret ways and enter a wine cellar through the back of a cluttered and apparently useless closet. He tiptoed in the dark around great fragrant barrels, wondering if he was leaving marks in the dust. He crept up steps and peered around the corner. He scurried through a deserted kitchen and down more stairs.
The larders were pitch-dark. Wearily he went back up and found another candle and lit it. Then he descended again and picked his way cautiously between the racks and bins to the far corner. Damn! A great stack of boxes stood in the way. Sweating with fear and exhaustion and effort, he moved the whole pile forward one row, leaving a narrow space behind. With luck, no one would notice and the pile would conceal the door, for he would be coming back this way many times in the future.
At last the job was done and he could slide behind the pile and find the panel. It creaked like a clap of thunder, at least to his ears. Then he was through it, had closed it. There were no bolts or fastenings; on this side it looked like a boarded-up passage, and perhaps once that was all it had been.