Bird of Chaos: Book One of the Harpy's Curse (23 page)

Bolt waits beneath the awning outside the kitchen. He will warn us if any of my mother’s soldiers try to enter, by tapping his spear on the ground. A team of attendants push through the kitchen door, which has been wedged open with a brick, only to be hit in the face by a wave of heat.

Cook is surrounded by trays of suckling pigs and roast vegetables. “Now is not a good time,” he says before barking orders at a waiting boy. He turns back to us. “We’re almost done in the dining room. Mess hall next. Come back after or go eat with the rest of them.”

“We’ll wait.”

Cook doesn’t bother with a response. He is too busy piling trays with potatoes. Hero and I sit at the far end of the room and try to keep out of the way.

A moment later Drayk and Harryet appear through the front door and I wave to them. They ignore Cook’s admonitions and join us. Drayk climbs into the bench beside me, resting one hand on my shoulder for balance. His touch, as innocent as it is, sends a shiver down my spine. He sits so close I can feel the energy between our legs. I keep my eyes on the table, not trusting myself to look at him.

“Worst possible timing as always but what does it matter. Won’t mean a darned thing once we’re dead,” Cook says, coming to stand behind Harryet. He wipes his hands on his apron. “Master Hero. Drayk. Harryet,” he says, tipping his head to them. “What can I do for you?”

“We are after a meal and a quiet place to talk,” I say.

“You’ve come to the right place,” he says then looks around at his serving boys. “Though I’d wait a while longer to start nattering. Help yourself to some food.” He glances up and shouts over our heads, “Amos, you idiot! Watch what you’re doing. You’re about to spill that entire cauldron on the floor.” He turns back. “Excuse me.”

We help ourselves to a succulent piece of pig and a large chunk of fresh bread. Our conversation is aimless, mundane, just in case one of Cook’s attendants is a spy. We talk about the weather while the mess hall is fed. We talk about Edric’s new argutan stallion while the attendants mop around our feet, sloshing water out the door. We talk about the upcoming tournament in Veraura, which will be cancelled if the Shark’s Teeth can’t be subdued, while they scrub down the benches, working carefully around our elbows. The attendants hang their aprons along the wall and exit. Only then does Cook pull up a seat at the head of the table. The room has taken on an eerie silence, like an empty theatre, and the sound of his chair grating on stone punctuates the quiet.

“So what is this all about?”

“I need your help.”

“So it is conspiracy,” he says, narrowing his eyes.

I grin at him. “Please don’t kick us out. Your kitchen is ideal. If we’re caught we can simply claim we were sharing a meal.”

Cook crosses his arms, looks at me over his nose and says in a serious tone, “I might not care about much, your royal highness—” he uses the term condescendingly “—but I do care about you and I care who sits on the throne. So if it’s true what they say, if revolution is inevitable, I want in.”

I stare with mouth wide. “Easy as that?”

He smiles. “Easy as that.”

I can hardly believe my luck. The words I had planned to use to convince him dissolve on my tongue. I can’t keep the smile from my face. “I’ll start then, shall I?”

“Please do,” Cook says, making a flourish with one hand.

“Wait a moment. What do you mean a revolution?” Hero says. There is silence and behind it, the ocean. Harryet shifts in her seat. Drayk clears his throat. Everyone turns to me for an explanation.

“We don’t intent to revolt exactly…” I start, realising it was a mistake to invite my cousin.

“At least not yet,” Cook mutters under his breath.

“…however, there are those of us who agree that the queen has lost her way.”

“What then? What are you going to do?” There is an edge of panic in Hero’s voice.

“I…” I falter. I don’t know if I trust Hero. Not with this. I think back to every discussion we have ever had about my mother and realise he has never criticised her. He listens to me complain but he never joins in. As a matter of fact, on a number of occasions he has echoed his mother’s sentiment saying things like, “Yes but we owe her for our position in Bidwell Heights,” and, “We have to be careful. We are her loyal servants.”

I remember the time my mother confiscated his needlework when she caught him doing embroidery at the dinner table. She threatened to cut off his thumbs if he kept up, “such nonsense”. Even then he had said nothing. Only when I told him I would steal his embroidery back did he become animated. He jumped to his feet, waved his hand and said, “No, no. That won’t be necessary. I don’t want to upset her. My mother would…Please, Verne, you mustn’t.”

I take a deep breath. “Hero, all I want to do is gain the people’s support so when I take the throne they love me as much as they love my mother.”

Cook smirks. Drayk looks concerned. Harryet cocks her head. I ignore them and plough ahead. “I have asked you here tonight because as you have probably heard, the woman from Taveni Island is being executed the day after tomorrow—”

“A travesty,” Cook says.

“Exactly. Many people consider this woman holy since she has been touched by the Tempest and survived. Killing her will only incite more anger against my mother. And if the people think I am in favour of the execution I will lose their support. It is important that I maintain their trust until I can…until my mother offers me the throne.” The lie tastes bitter in my mouth.

“What do you propose we do?” Drayk says fixing me with slate eyes.

I have to look away. “I must ask a favour of each of you. Tomorrow, during the execution, I want you to spread the word that I oppose it. Tell every freewomen and helot, shop owner and beggar. This information must be disseminated as quickly as possible. The people must know I stand on the side of justice.”

They nod slowly, digesting this information. All except Hero. “I don’t know…” he says, drawing the words out. “I mean, if either of our mothers were to find out…Verne, have you really considered all your options?”

Trust Hero to criticise me
, I think. Not overtly. He would never accuse me of being rash or hasty. Rather, he would question me, make suggestions.

“It is important for the people to know where I stand.”

“Yes but—”

“I want them to know I am nothing like my mother.”

“There are a few attendants who will spread your rumour. They’re not
quite
dumb enough to tell the queen where they heard it,” Cook interjects.

“I’ll tell Carmyl and Alexis. They’ll help,” Drayk says.

“If I mention it to Arkantha the whole of Tibuta will know before the executioner has even donned his gloves.”

“Be careful, Harry. You don’t want it coming back to you.”

“Arkantha won’t tell the queen. Gossip is too valuable for her to start revealing her sources.”

I nod. We all look at Hero who sits on his hands. “I’m…I’m sorry. It just seems like an unreasonable risk. Anyway, there is no one I know well enough to trust in the palace and in Bidwell Heights…well, I don’t know who’s in my mother’s purse.”

“That’s fine,” I say before anyone can object. “Hero, you don’t need to do anything. You’re right: the risk is too great. But you must swear to keep quiet.”

He looks offended. “I would never say anything.”

“Good, then. That’s settled.” I feel their eyes on me, waiting expectantly. “We should leave separately. Hero, go first. If anyone is waiting they’ll most likely follow you. Don’t worry. As long as you go straight to your room you shouldn’t have a problem. If anyone asks say you were sharing a meal with me in the kitchen. We talked about Edric’s new argutan stallion. It is pure black and untrained, completely wild. Its water is worth a fortune.”

He moves slowly, reluctantly, knowing he will be the topic of conversation the moment he leaves. “I’ll see you tomorrow then.”

“Tomorrow. Sleep well.”

The door shuts. We wait until his footsteps fade. I exhale.

“What was all that about?” Drayk says.

“I don’t think he’s up to it. He would never do anything to harm me and I can promise he won’t tell my mother. He is as loyal a friend as anyone can hope for. But he’s weak. I should have realised. While he will happily listen to me gripe, he is too comfortable in Bidwell Heights to pick up a sword.”

Drayk nods. “I hope you’re right. If he tells anyone…”

I get up from the bench. “He won’t.”

Late the following morning I am on the verge of waking when Bolt bangs his spear thrice against the floor. Harryet’s voice reaches me from her room. “I’ll see who it is.” She returns moments later, still in her nightgown, her hair a tangled mess of blond curls. “It’s Piebald. Your mother wants you in the Chamber of Petitions right now.”

We lock eyes. “I’m sure it’s nothing. He wouldn’t have…”

As I walk through the gardens, paranoia sits heavy in my gut. The earth’s balding head is cracked and flaky and the patchy grass crackles underfoot. At the base of the pyramid Bolt finds the nearest spot of molten shade and stands with his head hanging over his toes so sweat drips from his nose. Piebald and I continue up the stairs. My chest is tight.

The courtyard drowns in sunlight. The bonsai garden is wilted. Not that long ago my mother would retire to the Chamber of Petitions with her gerousia. Now she prefers the ostentatious Throne Room. As such, I am surprised to see her exiting the former building with an official-looking gentleman wearing the sky blue of our western neighbour from the mainland, Whyte. My mother clasps the gentleman’s hands in a warm gesture and laughs with true mirth, which is at odds with her usual coldness. I wait until the man withdraws before approaching. I can sense Piebald just behind me and his presence makes me uneasy.

A hot wind drifts freely through the lofty spot like the voices of the departed speaking to me from beyond the grave. For an instant I have a terrible vision of my mother turning to me to reveal a ghoulish, demonic face dripping like melting wax. My chest fills with panic. I blink and the vision is gone.

“Who was that man?” I say, hoping to postpone the inevitable.

“An emissary from Whyte. We have had word from our neighbours—But that is not why I have summoned you.” My mother looks at me with sunken, red-rimmed eyes, “Piebald seems to think you oppose the execution.”

Hero
, I think with dismay. “Not true.” I glance at the little man, who rocks on his heels with smug self-satisfaction. The heat is so intense I can almost hear the sweat dripping down my spine. It crawls over my skin and down the inside of my legs, making my feet slip in my sandals. I scrunch my toes.

For some time neither of us speak; we wait for the other to make the next move in this familiar duel. It is so quiet I can hear the koi fish coming to the surface and mouthing it in search of morsels of food. The silence makes me shift with discomfort.
Don’t speak
, I urge myself.
You must not speak.

“If you disagree with me, tell me, what would you do in my position?” she says, testing me. She will use my response to gather evidence of my shortcomings. I will be weighed, measured, and compared to the “me” she has constructed in her mind. But this time is different. This time I do not care for right or wrong. I intend to mislead her for my purpose. I wonder if she can sense this change. When she discovers my betrayal she will remember this conversation, the very moment when she asked for my advice and I deceived her.

“I would do as you are doing. I would put a stop to the islander spreading blasphemous lies. She incites fear and panic.”

She nods, satisfied. “You will accompany me to the execution tomorrow. To prove your support.”

“Of course. I
do
support you. I don’t know where you heard otherwise. Whoever it was has been fed lies.” My mouth tastes foul.

“Unlikely,” Piebald says but my mother ignores him. She lingers on my face.

“Perhaps.”

“I will see you tomorrow,” I say, turning. Before I reach the stairs she calls after me.

“Verne, my darling, thank you. You are being
most
cooperative.”

My cooperation is as fraudulent as her love.

A day later. Hero and I have not spoken. Dawn streams through my window followed by Callirhoe, who lands in a mad display of flapping wings and shaky legs. I offer her a crust of bread and while she devours it on the windowsill I lie on the floor where I can melt into the cool marble. I try to focus on the bird. “Who are you? Why are you here?” I whisper. For a moment I think I see comprehension in her tiny black eyes.

Our minds fuse and I fly over Tibuta. Past Minesend the earth is lacerated and bleeding. Men, bare from the waist up, and women and children in rags line the pits. They chisel with their hands. They chisel with picks and crude shovels. They chisel with rocks that they clasp in their filthy fists. Down the dreary march, down into the depths of the mines. They are dead, their lives snuffed out like insignificant flames, replaced by phantoms that walk in their place.

Meanwhile Callirhoe and I circle overhead, our wings outstretched.

Look there at the woman who drives them on. Surely she is a horrid demon lashing its fiery tail
, I think. Or is it the bird thinking these things?