The Verdigris Pawn Read online

  Dedication

  For DJS, OAS, and OGS

  Everything and Always

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Chapter One: A Game of Fist

  Chapter Two: The Cordwainer’s Apprentice

  Chapter Three: Mastery House

  Chapter Four: The Red-Throated Napper

  Chapter Five: That Horrible Thing Called Hope

  Chapter Six: Cressi In Deep

  Chapter Seven: Torn Tethers

  Chapter Eight: Crafty

  Chapter Nine: Talent in the Bones

  Chapter Ten: Prodders at the Gate

  Chapter Eleven: Topend

  Chapter Twelve: He’s Gone

  Chapter Thirteen: On the Town

  Chapter Fourteen: Half a Coin

  Chapter Fifteen: The Power of Power

  Chapter Sixteen: The Vexing Man

  Chapter Seventeen: Welcomed

  Chapter Eighteen: Anka

  Chapter Nineteen: The Bottom

  Chapter Twenty: Cordwainer Cordwain

  Chapter Twenty-One: Charming Cressi

  Chapter Twenty-Two: Magic of a Kind

  Chapter Twenty-Three: A Game of Fist II

  Chapter Twenty-Four: Into the Woods

  Chapter Twenty-Five: A Swollen Head

  Chapter Twenty-Six: Tastes So Sweet

  Chapter Twenty-Seven: Blade and Branch

  Chapter Twenty-Eight: Found and Lost

  Chapter Twenty-Nine: Charming the Charmer

  Chapter Thirty: Fixing and Sinking

  Chapter Thirty-One: Fevered

  Chapter Thirty-Two: The Arrival

  Chapter Thirty-Three: Left to Smolder

  Chapter Thirty-Four: Gather Your Army

  Chapter Thirty-Five: United Front

  Chapter Thirty-Six: A Battle of Wills

  Chapter Thirty-Seven: All Fall Down

  Chapter Thirty-Eight: After

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Chapter One

  A Game of Fist

  There was a long list of things Beau should be doing. He should be studying, preparing for the day’s lessons. He should be getting dressed, not lounging around in his shirtsleeves. He should be trying to make himself into the kind of heir his father needed—no, demanded—him to be. But all Beau was doing was the one thing he absolutely shouldn’t be doing: trying to win at a game of Fist.

  He’d already lost three matches to himself, but the second peg on the candle clock hadn’t burned down yet. He just might have enough time to finish this match.

  Beau rotated the Fist board so that he was now playing the challenger’s side, trying to remember what Fledge had taught him. When the stable master had explained the rules, it sounded so logical. Either the king knocked the verdigris pawn off the board or the pawn unseated the king.

  A simple enough premise.

  What wasn’t simple was keeping all the rules, strategies, and exceptions to the rules straight.

  By positioning the ace between the king and his front guards, Beau was certain he was setting the challenger’s side up for victory. Yet as soon as he pulled his hand back, he realized his fatal mistake—the move had left his mage completely exposed to the king’s yellow guards.

  Game over.

  “I’ll never win,” Beau groaned as he toppled the board in frustration. But watching the game pieces scatter only made him feel worse. The Fist set was the only thing of his mother’s he had left; he’d never be able to live with himself if anything happened to it.

  He’d just retrieved the king and almost all the yellow guards from under the side table when he heard the telltale shush and pop of the key at work on the door to his apartments.

  Mags was early.

  Beau’s tutor was many things—curt, a bit lazy, and all too mercurial. The severity of his punishments varied depending on his mood. He could also be kind on the rare occasion. But he was never early.

  Beau shoved everything under the cushions of his chair, then threw himself on top and started rereading Volume VII of The Histories: The Great Battles and Their Heroes, as if he’d been there all day.

  “I’m in here,” he called out. “Reading!”

  But the low-pitched rumble that replied didn’t belong to Mags.

  “By the Goodness of Himself!” Barger, the Manor’s chamberlain, proclaimed as he entered the sitting room. “Stand and await his arrival.”

  Beau’s limbs turned cold.

  An unplanned visit from his father, Himself, was completely out of the ordinary. Beau wasn’t scheduled to have an audience with him for several days.

  Beau dropped the book on the table and stood waiting as the waft of cloves and the shushing of long, velvet robes trailing on the floor heralded Himself’s arrival.

  As usual, Himself offered his only son no greeting or pleasantries while he conducted his steely-eyed inspection. Beau remained motionless as his father’s pale gray eyes searched for some imperfection, real or imagined. Then came the frigid touch of those long, thin fingers as they twisted a silver button upright so that the Manor’s crest stood straight or tugged at the single stray curl on Beau’s head that dared to be an eighth of an inch longer than the others.

  “You are surprised to see me,” Himself said, his expression pinched in disgust.

  “It’s always a good day when you pay me a visit, Father.”

  “Is it?” This was neither a question nor an invitation to respond, for everything Himself said was an irrefutable statement of fact. His opinion the only one that mattered. “Your tutor will not be returning.”

  Beau’s stomach soured.

  How many tutors had Himself already fired? Beau had lost count. Yet he’d still been hoping Mags would be the last, for unlike some of his predecessors, he always allowed Beau time for a daily riding lesson with Fledge.

  “I thought you’d been pleased with my progress,” Beau said.

  “You thought wrong.”

  Himself nodded to Barger, who stepped forward.

  “Your tutor was found dead this morning. The fever has now spread from the guards’ barracks here at the Manor to those in the Upper and Lower Middlelands,” the chamberlain intoned. “A few of our outlying cottages were also affected.”

  Beau fought to hold steady, calm. He knew better than to show any emotion in front of his father. Still, news of his tutor’s death hit hard. Underneath all his bluster and posing, Mags had been good to Beau, and Beau would miss him.

  “May I attend his funeral, please?” Beau asked.

  But Himself had no answer for Beau. “Bring it in,” he ordered his chamberlain.

  Barger summoned a footman carrying a large silver tray set with a pot of hot water, a small bowl of herbs, a single teacup, and a long-handled spoon. The servant placed the tray on the tea table, then quickly scuttled out of the apartment.

  Himself adjusted the items on the tray in accordance with some measure of perfection only he understood before turning on Beau. “Pour the tea.”

  Beau knew what was coming next, even though he didn’t understand why. Himself had already put him through this test once before and was irate when Beau failed. Yet here he was again, trying to prove that Beau was a charmer.

  “Please, sir, I—”

  Himself cut Beau off with a wave of his hand. “We’re going to try something simpler this time. Boils. You won’t mind, will you, Barger?”

  “At your service as always, sir.” Barger dutifully stepped up to the tea tray.

  “Boils,” Himself repeated. “Even the weakest charmer would have been able to raise oozing sores.”

&nbs
p; “Please, Father,” Beau pressed. “You can’t think me a charmer, can you?”

  The vein in the center of Himself’s forehead began pulsating, a warning that an explosion was close at hand. “Do you dare question me?”

  “No, sir, never, sir.” Beau emptied the bowl of herbs into the pot and stirred while softly repeating, “Boils, boils, boils.” Although what he really wanted to say was, “Why? Why? Why?” It made no sense at all. The last of the charmers had been killed by Himself’s own elite guards before Beau even was born.

  Yet still he stirred.

  After what he supposed might be a good amount of time, Beau poured a cup of tea and handed it to the chamberlain.

  Barger downed the steaming hot brew in one go, as if to prove stupidity was a sign of loyalty.

  What felt like minutes, hours, lifetimes passed, the tension in the room growing taut enough to crack glass while Himself stared at the chamberlain’s face.

  “Check your hands, check your legs,” Himself barked as Barger readily obeyed. And yet the chamberlain remained, as he’d always been, unblemished—at least on the outside.

  “Useless!” Himself shouted as he grabbed the teacup and threw it across the room. “You are unlike me in every way and far too much like her. Except where it would matter the most!”

  Beau’s stomach twisted. He knew so little about his mother, except that his likeness to her enraged his father. The only times Himself ever mentioned her was when he was berating Beau for not being strong enough, hard enough.

  “It should be you!” Himself sneered. “It would be easier if it were you. At least if you were a charmer then we could stop these floods and blights from cursing us, end this fever, and quell the rumblings of revolution. Unless . . .”

  Himself pulled Beau so close all he could see were the spindles of gray and yellow coloring his father’s eyes. “Unless you think you’re clever enough to hide your powers from me?”

  “I could never do that, sir.”

  “That’s true. You’re not clever enough to deceive anyone.” Himself released Beau with a disgusted sigh and began pacing back and forth. “But if it’s not you, then who? I was fooled once, I will never let another charmer threaten our rule again!”

  Himself kicked the table, sending the tea service clattering to the floor.

  His father’s anger was nothing new; it was a weight Beau was accustomed to carrying. He could withstand a season without any outside privileges or being made to recite chapters from all seven volumes of The Histories by heart. He’d done it before and would no doubt have to do it again. What he’d never done was doubt that Himself was always right.

  Until now.

  “Perhaps, Father, it’s not a charmer,” Beau ventured. “After all, Volume Seven says there have been none since the war.”

  He cleared his throat and stood a little taller. “Chapter thirty-eight. ‘After killing the rebel Palus Whynde and his men, the Manor, aided by our fearless ally, Torin, Guardian of Peace from the North, handily defeated the rest of the Badem, that confederacy of charmers and villains who occupied the Bottom. The old ways and the charmers who practiced them were erased.’”

  Himself stopped pacing to glare at Beau, his gaze hard enough to burn through to bone. And yet, there was also the tiniest flinch, a tell of something else boiling under the surface. But Himself said nothing to his son, turning instead to Barger, who’d just finished picking up the scattered tea things off the floor.

  “Prepare for my departure. There’s only one way to reinforce our guards if we are to keep the peace in the Land and extinguish any thoughts of rebellion.”

  “Of course, sir.” Barger bowed deeply, quite unable to hide the spark of glee in his eyes. “And in which direction will you be riding out?”

  “To the north.”

  “To the north? To see Torin?” Beau’s blood fairly began fizzing at the thought of traveling that far away. The farthest afield he’d ever been was Topend. But he’d long dreamt of seeing what lay beyond the Manor, what wonders existed out past the borders of the Land. Hoping, wishing this might at long last be his chance to go somewhere, anywhere, Beau bowed to his father. “May I accompany you, please, sir? It would be my honor to assist you.”

  “What assistance could you possibly offer?” Himself scoffed. “No, you most certainly will not accompany me. In fact . . .”

  Himself grabbed Volume VII of The Histories and threw it into the fire, causing the flames to spark and flare. “Enough reading and dreaming. Upon my return in five days’ time, I will train you in the arts of war myself, make you into someone deserving of the blood in your veins, a worthy successor, no matter what it takes. Until then, you will remain in the Manor with Barger overseeing your safety.”

  Beau felt as if he surely would combust right along with the pages of his book. Although Himself had made similar threats in the past, he’d always lose interest in his son and hire a new tutor. But being left in the chamberlain’s care was different. The last time Himself put Barger in charge, he’d locked Beau in his apartments, depriving him of all lessons, fresh air, and even the necessity of having his chamber pots emptied. When Beau subsequently told his father how Barger had treated him, he’d been punished for lying.

  The dangers of disputing his father’s orders were plentiful, but what was one more penalty piled on the ever-growing mountain of trouble Beau lived atop?

  “Please, sir, this isn’t necessary,” Beau said, mustering what he hoped was an appreciative smile. “I wouldn’t want to take Barger away from his important work. Mags mapped out my studies well into next season. I can work alone.”

  “I decide what is necessary. You do as instructed.” And with that, Himself gathered his cloak and headed out the door.

  Barger moved to follow his master out but stopped in front of Beau. With his red hair pulled tightly back in a braided queue the chamberlain bore an uncanny resemblance to an equally nasty bird, the red-throated napper. Just as nappers were known to swoop in and destroy the nests of other birds, Barger was always eager to shatter Beau’s world.

  With a smirk blossoming on his face, the chamberlain opened his hand to reveal a flash of that unmistakable brilliant blue-green color. He then tucked it into his pocket and sauntered out of Beau’s apartments.

  The verdigris pawn.

  Beau thought he’d stuffed the vibrant green game piece into the chair cushions with the rest of the Fist set. Yet there it was in Barger’s possession.

  An asset waiting to be leveraged against him.

  Beau collapsed into his chair, his insides twisting and turning like a spring maelstrom.

  The charge for playing Fist, a game about strategizing to overthrow the king, was nothing short of treason. Anyone caught playing it, whether the lowliest pig keeper or Himself’s own heir, was considered a traitor and would pay the ultimate price for their crime.

  If this were a game of Fist, Beau would try to counter Barger’s move by activating his mage, the one piece that can effectively shelter the pawn from capture. Or he could try to find a way to move his ace into a position where it could knock every one of the king’s guards within a two-square radius off the board. But Beau had neither a sorcerer nor a champion to help protect him in real life. He didn’t even have any friends aside from Fledge.

  Fledge.

  It would be too easy for Barger to figure out who’d been teaching Beau the game.

  He had to warn him.

  Beau cast off any worries for his own self and threw on his favorite riding coat, the one with dangling buttons and holes teasing at the elbows. Himself might have confined Beau to the Manor, but technically the riding stables were part of the Manor. He wasn’t exactly breaking any rules, he was simply expanding their definitions.

  Chapter Two

  The Cordwainer’s Apprentice

  Beau waited until the last of Himself’s elite guard rode off from the stables toward the parade grounds before dashing out from under the cover of the large weeping wil
low. He couldn’t afford to be spotted by one of Barger’s countless spies—not if he wanted to keep Fledge out of trouble.

  He climbed in through the tack room window, his usual route, and landed with a thud. But what he found inside was anything but usual. The entire room was turned upside down. The tack racks were empty and what few items remained were strewn about. He’d never seen the place in such disarray.

  He was too late.

  Beau lunged for the door. Maybe he could somehow make Barger listen to reason or strike a bargain designed to make Barger think he’d come out on top. But just as Beau reached for the knob, the door flew open.

  “Good timing, you just missed the madness.” Fledge ruffled Beau’s hair in greeting. “I’ve never had to send so many horses out at one time.”

  “You’re here!” Beau hugged his friend tightly.

  “Of course I am.” The master of the stables’ sunny aspect had faded, replaced now by lines of worry pleating the corners of his eyes. Even though Fledge was only ten years older than Beau, when worry creased his brow it gave him the look of a man much older than twenty-three. “What’s happened? Are you all right?”

  “For now, yes, but not for long.”

  “Come, we’ll go sit down.”

  Fledge guided Beau into his private quarters. He placed the kettle on the fire and pulled two chairs up close to the hearth.

  “Tell me what happened. Something with your tutor? Your father? Did you cross Barger again?”

  “Yes,” Beau said. “To all of that and more.”

  “Start at the beginning,” Fledge counseled, his voice calm and even as usual.

  “I don’t know that there really is a beginning.” Beau shook his head. “It’s all mixed up and tangled together.”

  “Then begin where you can.”

  Beau took a deep breath and started with the least of the bad news—his father’s plan to train Beau himself.

  “He’s threatened as much before,” Fledge said. “He’ll likely forget by the time he returns. What else is bothering you? It can’t just be that.”

  “It’s not.” Beau’s voice cracked. “It’s the fever. . . . Mags is gone. His cottage is . . . was . . . next to the barracks.”