After talking to Anne-Lise and Ditte, as well as several of the more gossipy Singletons, Ellison found out that Raphe had been the very model of chastity — but there was a whole list of guards, or, at least, their general descriptions, whom Wynefrede might have been involve
Ellison caught a ride back into the city with Clinio Lind, Royal Season’s head of security, but jumped off a couple of streets before the Royal Season’s temporary offices.
Pleasance Pratt’s office door was open, so Ellison stuck his head in. “Is there anyone else for me to talk to?” he asked her. “Or did I get everyone?”
By the second day of captivity, Wynefrede Aumberden had the routine down pat. First a light would appear: a door opening at the far end of the underground vault where they were kept. Then the food would arrive.
The door opened as Weldon approached and a harried Royal Season employee came out. “Well, that was a waste of time,” he told Weldon.
Weldon Layton told his driver to head back into the center but as his coach approached the central square, he changed his mind and leaned his head out the window. “Turn right on Banking,” he told the driver. “Go down to the old Gold Travel Agency building.”
“I don’t know how much longer she’ll be, but if you wait…” “That’s all right.” Weldon Layton, Krim’s assistant grid manager, put his calling card down in front of the receptionist. “Just tell her I stopped by.”
“Excuse me, sir, excuse me…” a short round man with a bald scalp surrounded by wispy standards of white hair knocked his cane against the Barley Mow’s front desk.
McGuire’s Big Top Triumph was neither big nor a triumph. The one-ring circus had spent the past few months traveling Krim’s hinterlands, fighting off bandits, and risking life and limb on poorly-maintained equipment. Not just the lives and limbs of its performers, but the that of the audience members as well.
Ellison popped his head into his brother’s office. “Don’t mind me. I’m just here to do some background research and eat some fries.” The back of Jerald’s office was one large window that used to open up on a mountain vista. Today, the office overlooked a dramatic jungle waterfall.
Ellison Davo huddled in a dark, damp alleyway half a block away from the newspaper building. Seymour Gellhorn, the editor, left for the day three hours earlier. Since then, nobody had gone in or out or slipped any suspicious envelopes full of salacious gossip under the door.
The King’s Armpit was one of the more disreputable bars in Krim City. It was only a few minutes walk from the city center and the main teleportation gate in and out of Krim but few people stumbled into it by accident.
Over the next couple of hours, there were minor clashes but for the most part the cult seemed reluctant to put their cannons at risk by letting them get too close to the Armforge Guild’s soldiers. Meanwhile, if the guild’s fighters tried to make it back out over the bridge, they could be easily picked off by the defenders.
Sitting there on the hill looking out over the site of an imminent slaughter, Wynefrede realized that she was enjoying herself. The air was fresh and a pleasant breeze carried the smells of fresh grass and wildflowers. She sniffed. And meat pies. There were vendors making their way up and down the hillside hawking pies, commemorative shirts, whistles, and ridiculously overpriced water skins emblazoned with the Armforge Guild logo.
They made one more stop before heading out of town, to pick up Benedicta. With the three of them in the coach, and their picnic baskets and blankets, it was getting crowded. The roads were packed, too. It seemed that everybody was heading out of town to watch the battle.
“My lady, the coach is here.” Princess Wynefrede Aumberden of the kingdom of Choochovia glanced up from her mail and nodded at her servant in acknowledgement. She was at her breakfast table in the conservatory where she could look out over her mansion’s small rose garden while having her tea and crumpets. Herbal tea. Real tea hadn’t made it to England until the mid-1600s, and Krim was ostensibly based on the year 1500.
Wynefrede never did learn the end of Nigel’s story, as the queen announced that dinner was about to be served. An army of servants invaded the ballroom and escorted each of the guests to the dining room next door.
A cold wind blew across Wynefrede’s exposed arms and bosom. “You’re shivering.” Raphe started taking off his jacket. “Here…”
“Raphe Faryndon, at your pleasure.” Raphe straightened up from his bow and stretched out his hand. Wynefrede looked up at him, at the way his hair flopped down over his eyes, his slightly crooked smile, and his warm eyes. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Margarett and Benedicta being pulled out onto the dance floor by two other gentlemen.
Elea Carlyle’s castle was fully decked out for the ball, with hundreds of candles and oil lamps making the ballroom seem a little smoky. But the lights glittered off mirrors and polished silver to create a magical effect.
