Around the carriage, Uellodon’s citizens moved about in apparently contented clumps, or ones and twos. The driver was taking a route that Hobb had prescribed, of course, and Robe had seen to the foot traffic. Bureau men stood here and there, watching.
“All in good time, Mrs. Hunter,” Hobb replied with a thin smile.
He rode with her to the Academy and left her with its bumbling Chancellor.
“Take her to see some classes once she’s settled in, Pearsy,” he instructed, as a servant led Mrs. Hunter away to her quarters. “Some of the new model. And show her the children’s instruction. Mrs. Hunter is quite interested in children, I believe. I’ll be by in the morning to take her to the Old High Court.”
The Chancellor nodded obediently, his generous beard and wild hair waggling in the lamplight at the gates. He turned away.
“And Pearsy,” added Hobb, “I’ll want a copy of your translation of the Balthan volume. There are one or two matters on which it may be helpful to me. Get someone started on it tonight.”
Pearsy raised a quizzical eyebrow, but simply nodded again. “As you wish, First Minister. If thirteen-hundred-year-old fairytales can solve the problems of the Republic, then you shall have them.” He walked away into the grounds of the New Academy.
“Since the problems of the Republic now include fairytales,” Hobb muttered to himself, “I shall need some contemporary reference material.”
???
Mr. Robe joined him at the Academy, and together they rode back to Palace Naridium. The carriage rattled through the streets of Uellodon, with Robe droning on about the squabbling in the Assembly and the difficulties of acquiring and distributing food. Hobb’s eye caught a large squad of red-clad soldiers standing around the outside of a townhouse, fending off a small crowd of onlookers.
“Stop here,” he instructed the driver through the slat in the compartment. Then he stepped out and walked wearily over to the Guardsmen. Mr. Robe got out and followed.
“What’s this?” he inquired of a soldier at random.
“Good evening, First Minister,” replied the man, straightening his posture and gesturing hurriedly at his comrades, who did the same. “Nothing to trouble you, sir. There was a crime here. We’re taking care of it.”
“What was the crime?” asked Hobb.
“Murder, sir,” answered the soldier darkly. “Another one of this new sort. Some fella just walked into this house and started laying about with a knife and club. Four dead, sir—two children. Not a pretty scene; not something you’ll want to look at, I’m sure.”
“Did you catch the man?”
The Guardsman nodded. “Aye. Some of the neighbors heard the noise, grabbed him as he was leaving, and sent for the Guard.”
“Bring him to me,” said Hobb.
A man in chains was led from across the street. He wore a simple brown smock and hose, and a wool overcoat. His hair was cut short, and he was clean-shaven. His face was ordinary; pleasant, even. The front of his shirt and pants were splashed with blood, and there were drops of it on his face as well. The man looked at Hobb steadily, even as a pair of burly Guardsmen held his arms firmly in place.
“You killed the family who lived here?” asked Hobb. He found the sound of his own voice dry and curiously emotionless.
“I did,” said the man.
“What’s your name?”
“Hollen.”
“You know the penalty for murder?”
Hollen nodded. “Noose. Or the axe, if they’re feeling like a change of pace that day.”
Hobb looked at him closely, trying to read something in his face. There was nothing.
“Why did you do it?” Hobb asked.
“I wanted to,” replied Hollen.
“But why?” pressed Hobb. “Normal, well-adjusted, sociable people don’t walk into a stranger’s house and start killing. What went wrong with you?”
Hollen shrugged. “Nothing left to do,” he answered.
“Do you have a wife? Children? A family?”
The man looked into the distance. “No,” he said. “Just as well.”
Hobb peered closer. The face moved, but the eyes were dead and cold.
“What do you do, Hollen?”
“I was a carpenter,” he said, “before the work dried up. Now I stand in line for bread.” He brought his dead, distant gaze back to Hobb. “I’m no one important, like you, First Minister. No one with a story, or a reason, or a motive, or some great sorrow lurking in my past. If you’re looking for an explanation, you won’t find it here. I’m nobody, and I have nothing. I killed that family because it was the only thing left to do.”
Two Guardsmen emerged from the house carrying a long bundle on a sling. It was covered with a blanket, but an arm slipped out and dangled toward the ground. It was the arm of a child. Hobb looked back at Hollen.
“Take him to Hoel,” he instructed the Guardsmen. “The Commandant will need more test subjects for the Yute Device.”
He got back in the carriage, and rode in silence with Mr. Robe back to the palace.
“Put a Bureau team on Mrs. Hunter,” he instructed Robe after they arrived. “And have them work on the citizens in the neighborhood around the Academy. When she goes about the city, she must see only the best us. I don’t want her meeting another Hollen.”
???
The following night, Hobb stood alone in the cold November rain. The wind was sharp and piercing, and made uncomfortable sounds as it swirled among the rocks of the old quarry. Somewhere, perhaps a mile to the south, was Hoel; but in the cold and dark, Hobb’s whole world consisted of the pressure of the wind, and the noise of air moving around rocks.
A new figure entered his world, moving out of the darkness. It was tall, but only tall for a man. It wore a cloak and hood against the rain. Hobb’s lantern reflected from a smooth metal surface beneath the hood, and he shivered.
“Good evening, Herald,” said Hobb, loudly, fighting to be heard over the wind.
“I return your greetings, First Minister of Uelland,” replied the tall man. His voice cut through the noise, its tenor suggesting no more effort than if he were speaking in a quiet room. “It is a good evening for our purpose. Is this the location you described when we parted?”
Hobb nodded, clutching his oiled cloak tightly around him. His other hand held in place the broad-brimmed hat, which the wind threatened to remove.
“The mine entrance is this way. From there, it’s a walk of about a mile through the tunnels to the sub-basement of the fortress. We use this entrance for sensitive prisoner transfers.” By this, Hobb meant that it was used from time to time for the sort of prisoners that even wasn’t supposed to have imprisoned. But the demands of equality, equity, and representative government justified all ends—and if the old mines had any opinion of the people who passed through them, they were suitably demure in expressing it.
“Will my servants be able to fit?” asked the Herald.
“Yes,” shouted Hobb in reply. “The tunnels were enlarged to permit prisoner carriages to enter. Your people may have to stoop once we reach the sub-basement, but they can pass through. I’ve had the prisoners moved out of that level, and ordered the guards out.
The Herald made no sound or motion. Behind him, out of the darkness, towering shapes emerged. The Giant-men said nothing to Hobb, but stood behind their leader, waiting. He counted at least a score of them.
“Where is your… other servant?” asked Hobb. “It will certainly not fit.”
“I have sent the dragon back to the north,” answered the Herald. “It will return at the proper time.”
“When will be the proper time?” asked Hobb over the wind, leading the party toward the mine entrance. The Herald and his entourage followed close behind.
“When I require fear and fire,” replied the deep voice of the Herald behind him. “Then let my allies rejoice, and my enemies despair.”
They passed into the darkness of the mine. Hobb raised his own lantern, and behind him he saw lights emerge at shoulder height from the Giant-men.
“There have been rumors in the villages near here,” said Hobb, looking over his shoulder. “My agents report that sheep and cattle have disappeared. People as well. They are being investigated as murders.”
The Herald did not break his stride, nor did his body give any hint of reaction.
“My servants must eat,” came the deep voice.
The rest of the journey was spent in silence.
The passage was long and straight, and Hobb had no need of a guide. He’d known of it for many years, in fact, though until recently he’d had no need to use it himself. At the end of the long tunnel was an open space in the rock, and a sturdy door of oak. Hobb drew out a heavy iron key, unlocked the door, and gestured the Herald inside.
Within the sub-basement, he led his new guests to the abandoned wing, and the stairs leading down. There was no sign of guards or prisoners, as he had arranged. The only living things nearby could kill him without the slightest physical effort or, presumably, twinge of conscience.
He looked back at the Herald.
“We have an arrangement,” said the metal-faced diplomat, as if reading Hobb’s thoughts. “So long as you honor it, we would inconvenience ourselves by harming you.”
They descended the stairs. In the tall, square, regular passage at their bottom, the Giant-men straightened up with obvious relief. The twenty-foot tall ceiling was more than adequate for their hulking frames. Hobb saw that the oversized steps, which he had descended so laboriously, were perfect for their legs as well.
, whispered a voice in the darkness.
There was a movement behind him, and he turned to see that the Herald had raised his head sharply. There were no features to read, but he stood still, as if listening—or perhaps speaking, in some unheard fashion.
“We are close,” he said. “I know the way.” He pointed his smooth, featureless face at Hobb. “You may follow if you wish.”
The Herald moved past him into the darkness. Hobb delayed only a moment; his desire for knowledge was greater than his fear. He fell in behind the Herald, hearing the heavy, dense footfalls of the Giant-men behind.
They reached the lip of the great, smooth chasm. Hobb half-wondered if he would see the dead prisoner rise up again out of the black pit, but there was no movement to stir the gloom. The Herald strode deliberately to the left, walking around the edge of the open space.
Presently they came to openings in the rock on their left, but the Herald ignored them. Instead, he walked smoothly and swiftly until he reached a stair leading down into the darkness, with a wall on its left and the open space of the pit on its right. The stair curved slightly with the wall, and Hobb could see that the pit must be at least roughly circular.
Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.
They descended.
Hobb could see little beyond the lanterns of the party. Even the Giant-men behind seemed small and isolated in the enormous darkness. But eventually there came faint glimmers from his right. He could make out little by the dim lantern light, but it was plain there were structures of metal out in the open space to reflect the light back to him. There was a smell of metal in the air, and of rust.
“What is this place?” he asked quietly. Even sotto voce, his words sounded shockingly loud.
“It is a Great Place of Change,” answered the Herald in a normal tone. Hobb quailed at the booming sound of his voice in the darkness. “It is ancient beyond your reckoning, and you would be able to make little of it on your own. But it is precious to me and holy to my people.”
“I can’t tell if you’ve slipped into being a god again,” remarked Hobb sardonically.
“I have always been God,” replied the Herald, without a hint of irony.
They reached the bottom of the stair. The floor around them was smooth and hard.
“Let there be light,” said the Herald solemnly, reaching out to touch one hand to the wall. And there was light.
It was not a great swell of illumination. Rather, it was a vast ocean of tiny pinpricks, scattered in the darkness around them and above them like stars in the night sky. They seemed random at first, but as Hobb looked carefully, he began to see that there was a pattern and order. The lights described the outlines of structures in the darkness; great towers and embankments whose size and shape could just about be guessed by the placement of the lights around them. As his eyes adjusted, he began to pick out the shapes beneath the lights, illuminated by the fairy fire above and around where they stood.
“My people will set about our task,” announced the Herald. “We will see to our own supplies. Instruct your soldiers not to interfere, or to visit this place. It will be fatal for them and unhealthy for you. We may take some time to extract what is required. Return here from time to time, and I will tell you when we have completed our task.”
The Herald turned to face Hobb squarely.
“And we will discuss, when you visit, our access to the valley in the north.”
???
Two days passed, and events did not improve Hobb’s mood. Mrs. Hunter’s initial visit to the Old High Court produced no signs of the desired capitulation; rather, she returned with fresh demands from the recalcitrant jurists. The King showed no signs of recovery from his torpor. And the Crown Prince showed numerous signs of being a thirteen-year-old boy.
“Your man Pigmunk lost me again yesterday,” announced the prince with a faintly sneering smile. “I went for a jog around the courtyard of the palace and passed him twice trying to catch his breath. When he couldn’t be bothered even to try to keep up, I went to visit a friend of mine whom Pigmunk wouldn’t like me to see.”
Hobb, who was rewriting one of the young Prince’s letters to his rebel mother so that it conformed to political truth, laid down his quill and stared up at Leeland over his spectacles. They sat together in Hobb’s study.
“Mr. Pigmunk is charged with your protection, Highness,” said Hobb acidly. “There are dangerous elements in the city; they might find a way into the palace. The death of the Crown Prince would be most destabilizing.”
Young Leeland frowned.
“Why do you even want a King, Hobb, if you have a National Assembly?”
Hobb nodded approvingly. “An essential question,” he said. “The Assembly is sovereign, but someone must be charged with executing its will and enforcing its laws. We have chosen to retain the office of the Crown for this purpose. The King serves, too, as the moral and public leader of the nation, as well as a symbol of continuity with its history and culture. None of these duties is incompatible with popular sovereignty in a Republic.”
“Sounds like a sham to me,” remarked the prince. “You want to call someone a King so everyone will swallow what comes out of the National Assembly, but you don’t want to actually a King. It’s theatre.”
Hobb shrugged. “Don’t mistake cynicism for wisdom, Highness. No one ever loved a committee. People need a focus for their loyalty and affection.”
“You’re asking people to love a lie,” retorted Leeland. “I think the Uellish are smarter than that.”
“I’m afraid the world is going to disappoint you, prince,” replied Hobb, shaking his head sadly. “People, whatever their nation, believe what makes them feel good about themselves—whether it is real or not. Witness the enduring power of religion, wherever it’s allowed to take root. If you want to make the lives of the people better, you have to start by telling them a story about themselves that they want to hear. And the Uellish want a King.”
“That’s just a nicer way of saying you mean to lie to them.”
Hobb began to grow frustrated. “The bigger the lie,” he said testily, “the easier it is to believe.”
Leeland blinked. “Now who’s being cynical?” he asked. His face was troubled.
There was a knock at the door.
“Come,” said Hobb loudly.
Boris poked his head into the room. “His Majesty is awake,” he announced. “He wishes to see you both as he dresses for dinner with Mrs. Hunter.”
Hobb looked back at the Crown Prince and raised an eyebrow.
“Your father needs you tonight,” he said.
Leeland rose with some reluctance and followed Hobb from the room.
The King, when they reached his bedchamber, was pale but standing upright. Two attendants were busily working to assemble the royal dinner attire. The King would wear a starched white shirt beneath a tastefully subdued dinner suit, complete with a black waistcoat trimmed in silver. Unfortunately, the dark color highlighted the pallor of his face.
“What lies will we tell tonight?” King Leeland asked. His voice was weak.
Hobb and the Crown Prince looked at each other a bit sheepishly, as if they’d been caught plotting the theft of cookies from the kitchen.
“Only the delicate, lacy kindnesses of personal diplomacy, Majesty,” answered Hobb. “If Mrs. Hunter’s dress makes her look fat, we can lie a little and say it doesn’t.”
“He means,” added the prince, “the biggest whoppers ever told. The Republic is strong, unified, and well-funded; our foreign enemies are on the run; the ingrates at the Old High Court will come out with their hands up any day now; and everyone loves Hobb the Wise.”
King Leeland simply shook his head wearily.
“I have little strength to endure your quick tongue tonight, son,” he said, and swayed on his feet.
The prince took a step forward then, as if to catch the man he thought was his father, but the valets quickly took hold of the King’s arms and steadied him.
“How do you feel, sire?” asked Hobb.
“The wound aches, Hobb,” the monarch answered wearily, “and the fever dulls my mind. I feel weak all over. Whatever the doctor and your man Boris did to me that night, it’s only healed me halfway. I’m stuck between life and death.”
“We will not keep you at dinner long,” said Hobb. “You need only show Mrs. Hunter that you are alive and well. She will report it back to her Queen.” He didn’t add anything else. It would have been unnecessary. But Hobb, and the Crown Prince, and the King, all knew what else there was to add. Anne must not have the advantage of knowing how precarious was King Leeland’s health, and how deeply the young Republic’s future depended on one ailing man and his reluctant son.
They walked slowly to the small audience chamber, where dinner was to be served. Chancellor Pearsy was there, and Mr. Robe, both looking nervous and uncomfortable. Hobb bludgeoned the group with polite conversation until the door opened again and Boris announced Merrily Hunter.
She was slim, her back erect, and her brown hair done up beneath an elegant hat. She wore a long pink gown that showed off her shapely neck and shoulders. Her face was annoyingly perfect—authentically beautiful without the slightest hint of pretense or effort. She reminded Hobb, incongruously, of a young Beatrice Snugg. Something twinged inside him for a moment. Pearsy flushed, Robe paled, Prince Leeland shifted uncomfortably, and the King appeared not to notice her at all.
Hobb stepped forward, took her hand politely, and bowed.
“Permit me to introduce you, Mrs. Hunter,” he said.
Dinner was a trial. The King barely spoke, leaving Hobb to carry the lion’s share of the polite conversation. Despite his best efforts, and rather to his annoyance, Mr. Robe stubbornly insisted on dragging high principle and legal theory onto the table. Hobb wrenched the discussion back in a more useful direction.
“Your friend, Attorney Snort—he must have a sense of practicality. He and his friends in the courthouse are adrift from any source of real political power. The National Assembly is against them, the Republican Guard is against them, and the King and his Heavy Arms are certainly against them.” Hobb glanced for a moment at the actual King, seated at the head of the table, wondering if Leeland would react; the King said nothing, but nodded slightly. “No body purporting to be part of the State can survive without political support, and the judges have very, very little.
“But we have made progress, Mrs. Hunter, haven’t we? Their demands are a fair opening position. It is better that we discuss terms, rather than principles, Mrs. Hunter. Terms are flexible, and principles are not. Would you kindly convey to the occupants of the courthouse, when you next see them, that the Crown is prepared to enter into negotiations on a legal settlement regarding the acquisition of Foregrub and Quimble’s assets, and also on the release of the two men themselves from Hoel.”
She leaned forward. “If the judges truly have no support, First Minister,” she said, “then what’s stopping you from storming the courthouse? The lawyers and judges have only bailiffs to protect them, and they are lightly armed. They will present little more resistance than a few hundred priests.”
Hobb’s demeanor twitched. He remembered again the face of Archdeacon Ratwaddler, slipping over the stern of his little rowboat after a firm kick from Hobb’s own foot. His hands and feet bound, he disappeared once again into the darkness of the Green River. And in that black vision, there were also the faces of hundreds of other men, floating in the river. They seemed to look up at him with staring, accusing eyes.
The moment was interrupted as servants brought in the salad course.
“As a sign that you take negotiations seriously, First Minister,” she asked, “would you release Messrs. Foregrub and Quimble from Hoel so that they can consult with their legal counsel on settlement negotiations?”
In the end he agreed to release Samuel Foregrub. It was little enough concession, he felt. The man could be re-arrested any time Hobb wished. And if he went to ground, all the better—he could be made to disappear all the more easily.
The dinner was soon concluded, and the guests rose to leave. Chancellor Pearsy and Mr. Robe departed together, and the King and his son left the room by another door. Hobb delayed Mrs. Hunter for some time with questions about her history with Wigglus, and though Hunter parried with considerable skill, she gave him more than she meant to.
“You have said nothing more of your fairy tale Giant-men,” said Merrily softly, as Hobb escorted her out. “Have you found they no longer exist?”
Hobb shook his head. “They do exist; I know this to be true. The nearer danger is that our current divisions widen, and we lose lives in pointless bloodshed when we should be united in defense.”
“Queen Anne will need to know more about them before they factor into her decisions,” retorted Merrily. “She won’t be persuaded by your word that they are real.”
“One impossibility at a time, Mrs. Hunter,” said Hobb sadly. “Good evening. My secretary will show you out.” And with that he left through the same door as the King and Crown Prince.
As he made his way back to his chambers, Hobb passed the Crown Prince’s apartment. The door was open, and a light came from within. A single guard stood at attention by the door.
Hobb, thinking of their argument earlier, knocked lightly.
“Are you in, Highness?” he asked.
The guard shook his head. “The Prince returned about fifteen minutes ago, sir, but then left very soon after.”
Hobb, raising an eyebrow, pushed open the door and entered the apartments.
Prince Leeland’s apartments were similar in size to Hobb’s own, but less well-stocked with books and writing equipment. Instead, the living room contained numerous overstuffed chairs and couches, as well as a large, round table with stacks of cards on it. The prince was known to enjoy card games with the few friends he was permitted. A small writing table also stood off to one side. Normally this was tidy and devoid of clutter. Just now, though, a single sheet of paper on its surface caught Hobb’s eye.
He strode over to it briskly, and read. The handwriting was oddly wobbly, in contrast to the gravity of its contents.
Hobb the Wise flew from the room.
He searched in vain for the Crown Prince, running through the halls of Palace Naridium and frantically summoning servants, Bureau men, and Republican Guards as he went. The gates were barred at once, though Mrs. Hunter’s coach had already departed. The guards at the gate reported that no one was with her.
The King was alone in his room, and already asleep when Hobb arrived. Prince Leeland was not there. Nor was he in the kitchens, the stables, the ballroom, Begley Gallery, the Rose Tower, or the servants’ quarters. After turning the palace into an anthill of frantic activity, Hobb at last returned in frustration to the Prince’s apartment. To his great surprise, there was the young man, sitting with two of his friends at the round card table.
Hobb blinked in confusion.
“What is it, sir?” asked Prince Leeland politely as Hobb stood in the doorway, gasping for breath and looking around for signs of the note—of which there were none.
“Where did you go?” he asked, finally beginning to catch his breath.
“I went to find William and Herster,” answered Prince Leeland innocently, nodding at his two friends. The two young men shifted uncomfortably in their seats, as if they’d been caught sneaking into the room of a young lady and had only a second-rate excuse. Hobb ignored them.
“Where is the note?” he blurted.
“What note?” asked the Crown Prince, cocking his head to one side in confusion.
“There was a note, right there on the desk!” said Hobb indignantly. “Don’t play games with me, Prince. I saw it when I came to speak with you after dinner.”
“I am playing games, First Minister,” said the young man, nodding at his companions, “but not with you. If there was a note, I didn’t see it, and it certainly isn’t there now. Perhaps one of the cleaning staff swept it up while I was out rounding up players. What did it say?”
He flipped a card onto a pile in the center of the table; it was the Queen of Hearts. Then he looked up at Hobb through long eyelashes. His blue eyes glittered, but revealed nothing else.
Hobb turned abruptly to leave, and nearly collided with Boris.
“Sweet mercy, man, have a care!” he managed. “My heart can’t take another surprise tonight.”
He took Boris by the arm and led him away from the Prince’s chambers. Stopping in the nearby Begley Gallery, he drew Boris into one corner. The long hall, filled with the paintings, busts, arms, and armor of long-dead royalty, was lit by just a few small wall lamps. Several suits of full armor, positioned around the walls, cast long, disconcerting shadows on the floor beyond the lamps. The Eagle Helm of Horace Carelon sat on its padded stand in the center of the room—still missing its long-lost frontpiece.
“Where have you been?” demanded Hobb, lowering his voice to a soft hiss and drawing his attention back from the useless baubles of the past.
“I heard you were looking for me,” remarked his secretary innocently, “so I came to find you.”
“You and everyone else who could help me turn this palace upside-down,” snapped Hobb, “but it all turns out to be for naught.”
“I’m so sorry, First Minister,” answered Boris, “but I was seeing Mrs. Hunter out.”
Hobb looked at his companion with narrowed eyes.
“Someone left a note in the Crown Prince’s room,” he said. “It was full of vicious and dangerous lies. Whoever penned it used his off hand to obscure his handwriting, but I suspect that weed Spoon has popped back up in the palace.”
Boris said nothing, but reached out and idly straightened by a few inches the large, garish portrait of Horace II that hung near at hand.
“That painting,” snapped Hobb, “has hung undisturbed for decades. What possessed you to straighten it now?”
Boris shrugged.
“It was crooked,” he replied simply. “And I’m afraid I don’t know anything about a note to the Prince.”
“Are you lying?” demanded Hobb.
“No,” replied Boris. “I avoid it whenever possible.”
“Then go and find out who is,” snapped Hobb irritably. And he spun on his heel, stalking alone through the halls of the palace.