The Queen Underneath Read online

  Tollan’s jaw fell open, and he took a step backward as if the very air around him might tarnish his skin. “Oh, goddess.”

  “We’re here to keep you hidden until we figure out what’s going on. I’ve got things that need doing, and you need to loosen your laces before your brain explodes.”

  “What? I’ll do no such thing!” Tollan barked.

  “It’s an expression, for goddess’s sake. You’re wound as tightly as a clock. But I can see that you’re not interested in spending time with the ladies, so I’ll just pay for a room.”

  “Who else would I possibly want to spend time with?” Tollan said indignantly.

  Gemma arched an eyebrow at him. “Let’s not get our smallclothes tied in knots, Tollan. I’ll get you a room so you can rest before you get the vapors.”

  She strode through the pantry, trusting that Tollan would rather follow her than be left alone. “I need a brief audience with Madam Yimur,” Gemma said to the serving girl they passed in the hallway.

  The maid curtsied. “Of course, Miss Gemma. Follow me.”

  “Come here often?” Tollan looked ashen.

  Gemma stopped and stared at him. “Occasionally. Why?”

  “Even the help knows your name.”

  She glared at him. “Does everyone in the palace know your name?”

  He nodded.

  “You’re in my kingdom, now. Get used to it.”

  The new King of Above kept quiet after that as they wound their way through the back hallways of the Six-Mast and came to a stop at the office door of Madam Yimur, Under’s mistress of whores.

  Her thin smile betrayed no true emotion as she opened the door. “Miss Gemma. What a surprise.” She glanced at Tollan and smoothed her gown as she eyed his well-dressed figure. “What can the Six-Mast do for you?”

  Gemma laughed as Tollan blushed. He lowered his gaze and began to stammer, but Gemma interrupted him. “Yimur, I need a favor. Prince Tollan needs a place to hide for a few hours, and I need you to keep him here, no questions asked.”

  Yimur’s smile turned into a frown. “Prince? Trouble, then?”

  “The deepest. There’ll be a call to Guildhall soon, and I wouldn’t be surprised if there was word from Above, as well.”

  As if on cue, a knock sounded on the door. “Enter,” Yimur commanded.

  “Pardon me, madam,” a young man said. “The bells at the palace and Canticle Center are ringing. The King of Above is dead.”

  “Thank you, Bellamy,” Yimur mumbled, waving him away. She turned her attention back to Gemma. “What sort of storm have you brought to my house, Gemma?”

  “The worst kind, I’m afraid.”

  When Yimur had situated Tollan in a poshly decorated room, Gemma turned to leave. “I’ve got a few things to address, and then I’ll be back. A fancy princeling like you doesn’t have any noblemen he can call on in a pinch?”

  Tollan, who looked as if he were in shock, suddenly shook himself awake. “Yes. I mean … no. There’s Wince … Wincel Quintella. Probably my only friend.”

  “He’s in the palace?”

  “No. He’s … his father is weapons master. He lives on Steel Street, I think.”

  “You’ve never been there?”

  He shook his head.

  “Would your brother think to look for him?”

  “No. I don’t think so. I honestly doubt Iven even knows Wince exists.”

  Gemma grinned. “Excellent. Yimur will help disguise you, and a runner will deliver a message to Wince. You’ll need all the friends you can get.”

  Tollan blushed and stammered his way through the costuming like a storm-spooked horse. Knowing he was making a fool of himself did nothing to soften the rough edges of his anxiety. When Yimur’s dresser, Zin, spread out an assortment of clothes on the bed and told him to remove his finery, Tollan’s heart raced and his fingers trembled as he undid his shirt buttons.

  “Now, then,” Zin said, maple eyes dancing. “Out of your breeches.”

  Tollan felt his skin go warm, but he undid his laces. Zin, whose black, curly hair was trimmed extremely close to his scalp, ran his hand across his head and said, “I’m sorry, but you’re too clean. We need to get you dirty.”

  The level of shame and embarrassment that Tollan felt as he swelled within his smallclothes was almost equal to the sudden ache of desire that left his mouth dry, but some ridiculous sense of pride and privilege kept him from turning his back to the man.

  Zin smiled kindly at him. “You flatter me, Your Grace, but I’ve got orders from the madam, and not enough time to do the thing proper.”

  Tollan followed the man’s instructions in shamed silence, running in place until his hair clung to his sweat-dampened face. He couldn’t bring himself to look at Zin, couldn’t bear to look at himself in the mirror, even after the man helped him into rough brown-wool breeches and a stained and worn cotton shirt, along with a pair of work boots. Zin tied Tollan’s hair back in a single plait, then smeared gum paste along his chin line to affix a false beard like something in a mummer’s show. He pulled a seaman’s cap low over Tollan’s brow, and then he added a padded black eye patch over Tollan’s left eye.

  “I look a fool,” Tollan said. “Anyone will see the farce.”

  “No, Your Grace,” Zin said, bending down and straightening the eye patch. “You look the part. All you have to do is believe it yourself.”

  When Zin had gone, Tollan finally managed to catch his breath. An hour in Under, and he was behaving just like his father had always said the “degenerate, depraved animals” did down here. But he couldn’t disregard the kindness Zin had shown him. No man in Above would have treated his awkwardness so gently.

  Tollan grinned rakishly at himself in the looking glass but immediately regretted it. His teeth were too pretty to be a sailor’s. Best if he kept his mouth shut.

  CHAPTER THREE

  GUILDHOUSE

  After sending the runner off to Steel Street, Gemma went back to her own room at Guildhouse. She sagged into a chair. Who had murdered King Abram and tried to murder Melnora? She would bet her very best blade Tollan Daghan had nothing to do with it. And yet, it also didn’t have the feel of Under. If a Guild assassin came for you, it was brutal and bloody, but it was fast. Melnora was suffering. That wasn’t the way of the Under.

  Gemma stood and paced the room, remembering when she’d been even less than an urchin begging for bits and cutting a purse now and then to get by. One day she’d cut the wrong strings and found herself in the grip of a snapping, pointed-toothed Balklander named Fin who dragged her kicking and hissing to Melnora for judgment. By then, Gemma had spent three years in orphanages and missions until she’d finally set out on her own. At the ripe age of thirteen, she’d thought she had Yigris by the balls. She couldn’t help but smile at the memory despite the thickness in her throat.

  “Come here, child,” Melnora had said, crooking her finger.

  Gemma had trembled, chewing her lip as big fat tears washed away the grime on her face. “I’m s-sorry, milady,” she’d choked, “I didn’t mean to steal your man’s purse. I just … I was so hungry, and I …” She let out a long, dramatic sob. It was much the same scared-little-girl act that she’d put on for Tollan in the Black Chamber.

  Melnora, however, had tipped her head to the side, dark eyes pensive. She’d held out her hand to one of the serving men, who’d plopped a scalding wet rag into her palm, and grabbed Gemma’s chin, clasping tightly as she scrubbed away the filth from her face.

  Gemma could still feel the stinging heat of the water and smell the clean scent of chamomile soap.

  Melnora had held Gemma at arm’s length, her gaze appraising. Finally, she’d said, “Have you been paying your dues, child?”

  Gemma had simply stared, sniveling.

  “I thought not. Every thief in this city belongs to me, child.” She’d stared at Gemma, eyes hard. “It seems that you owe me some money.”

  Gemma knew noble folk would never
let a filthy street rat get away with their precious coin. She dug her fingernails into her palm to bring tears to her eyes and wailed, “Are you going to strap me, mistress?”

  Melnora chuckled. “Now, what good would that do anyone? You owe me money, and you need to learn a trade. You’re too old to be begging like an urchin. And if you’ve an inkling to play the helpless victim, you’re going to have to get much, much better than you are now.”

  For all of Gemma’s faults, stupidity wasn’t one of them, and she looked Melnora in the eye. “What do you want me to do?”

  Minutes later, she’d been put into a warm bath and left to soak until the water turned gray with her filth. Then, Melnora’s maid, Lian, had scrubbed her until she was shiny and pink. She trimmed Gemma’s hair and nails and gave her clean clothes to wear. Then she was led to the dinner table, where Melnora, Fin and several other Guild members were waiting for her.

  The table made Gemma’s eyes go wide. Roasted fowl, rare, dripping roast beef, large bowls of potatoes and beans and crusty loaves of bread with butter slathered on. Each Guild member had a large glass of wine poured before them, and as Gemma sat down, Melnora nodded to the attendants, who began to serve the meal. It was only then, as slices of roast beef were being laid upon plates, red juices pooling against the white of whipped potatoes, that Gemma realized she had no plate. Saliva filled her mouth and hot, stinging tears threatened her eyes, but she sat, back straight, chin thrust outward and watched the others eat. A lad of about her own age smiled apologetically, while a second, hard-eyed young man ate his food with relish, grinning wolfishly when their eyes met. The meal was a hell she’d not yet experienced.

  When the others had been excused, Melnora looked at her. “You’re not peasant-born. I can tell. Give me your story.”

  Gemma had scowled as she told Melnora of her childhood spent in the house of a minor nobleman, Lord Ghantos. When Gemma was seven, Lord Ghantos had died and her mother, who had been his favorite mistress, had tried to make a living as a laundress. But her skills had never been of a domestic sort, and she’d taken ill and died when Gemma was eight. “I can read and do sums and I know when to say ‘isn’t’, and when to say ‘ain’t’, if that’s what you mean, Your Grace.”

  Melnora smiled, broadly this time. “And you’ve got a good deal of pride, haven’t you, child? In Under, the queen is addressed as Regency. Any fool can be born to a position of control and claim it is the goddess’s will. Down here, we believe that a ruler must lead.”

  Gemma had simply stared at her.

  “You’re going to work off the money that you owe the Guild. Six months as my chambermaid. Then we’ll see where your place in Under should be.”

  Gemma nodded as if she were consenting to the situation even though she saw no other choice. No amount of time would ever diminish the memory of the smile that Melnora had graced her with as she rang a small bell. A servant entered the room with a plate laden with food, which he placed before Gemma. Hands clenched tightly in her lap, Gemma felt actual drool begin to slip out from between her lips.

  “Eat,” Melnora said.

  Doing her level best to maintain her dignity, Gemma snatched up a fork and knife and dove in.

  “I, too, was born of noble blood yet never had my place among the court,” Melnora said. “That makes us kin, of a sort, you and I. You please me, with your sharp chin and your eyes that see too much. Learn our ways. Find your calling. There are positions within the Guild that can make you a very powerful woman, Gemma.” She leaned over, whispering conspiratorially. “Some say that we’re more powerful than the King of Above, himself.”

  Gemma had nearly choked on her roast beef. “I’d like to be as rich as the king!” she said, “With rings on each finger and fat that hangs from his belly like he’s with child.”

  “If that is what you wish, and you are willing to work hard, then it can be yours.” Melnora’s eyes danced in the light of the torches that lit the dining room. “But I imagine we will find other things that please you just as well.”

  And for five years, they had. When her six months as chambermaid were finished, Melnora had offered her the status of ward heir and had adopted her into her household. Gemma was placed on a three-member team—one thief, one assassin and one paramour—who lived together, planned together and trained together. It was the only team overseen by the queen herself, who made sure they were following Guild laws and not bringing dishonor to Under.

  Even then, Devery had been a skilled assassin. At eighteen, he was dead quick, cold as a midwinter outhouse, and sharp as the daggers he doted on. Elam, the fifteen-year-old paramour, was as warm and open as Devery was closed. He welcomed Gemma into their little apartment with a loaf of sweet bread and a hug. And though he was often out meeting patrons, he came home every night and snuggled into bed with her. Elam was the first friend she ever had.

  Days and weeks and months and years blended together as the three of them honed their crafts. They spent a great deal of time with Melnora and Fin learning the intricacies of Under and secrets that the rest of the Guild had never been granted access to. Gemma had never wanted for anything, except perhaps sleep, and she had grown to adore Melnora as only an abandoned child could.

  And now, though Gemma wanted desperately to throw herself into bed and pull the covers over her head, she knew that Melnora had taught her better than that. The Guild must never be without a leader.

  She pulled the rope beside her bed and within seconds Lian entered, her eyes red rimmed. The tight bun that kept her graying locks tied up was slipping, stray curls hung loose around her face.

  “Yes, Miss?” Her eyes did not meet Gemma’s, and once more Gemma thought her heart would crack in two.

  “I need you to send out the children. Have them spread the word as far as possible. We meet at Guildhall in an hour.”

  A quiet sob leaked out from between the maid’s lips. “As you say, Miss … Regency.” It was the change in title that suddenly made Gemma realize how well and truly pricked she was.

  Gemma forced herself to go through the motions of dressing for the occasion: tight black pants, knee-high black leather boots, a black silk shirt and a red velvet vest that came down over her hips with the queen’s mark embroidered on one breast and the Guild’s shadowed ring on the other. Gemma loved the crest of the Guild and what it represented—a gold ring, the symbol of Yigrisian commerce, caught in a looming shadow. The darkness of Under always protected the coin.

  She washed the redness of her grief away from her face and darkened her lids the way Melnora had taught her. “It gives you more age, girl, more authority,” she’d said, and Gemma was grateful for that lesson—and every lesson—just now. She put silver rings in her ears and slid a large gold ring inset with an opal onto her right pointer finger. She ran trembling fingers through her hair, though it did little to calm its wayward nature. Then she slid her knives into the sheathes at her wrists, ankles and waist.

  There was a knock on her door, the comforting sound of a huge hand pounding as gently as it could. The owner of that knock was a man of restraint and kindness, and Gemma’s heart broke for him and what he must be going through.

  “Come in, Fin.”

  The Balklander entered, his beady eyes bloodshot. “Need an escort, Gem?” he grunted, running a gray hand over his bald head.

  She wrapped her arms around his waist, and he gripped her in a bear hug, his back quaking with sobs. If anyone alive had loved Melnora more than Gemma, it was Fin. He’d been the Queen of Under’s unlikely lover for more than twenty years.

  “You don’t have to go, Fin. You know what I have to say. If you want to stay with her …”

  “I can’t watch her die, Gem. She’s gone now, and she ain’t coming back. She’d want me to help you do this thing that needs doing.”

  Gemma looked up into his oddly unwrinkled face. Sometimes it was easy to see why the Balklanders were said to have been bred from sharks, with their pointed teeth and smooth ashen skin,
but looking up into Fin’s eyes, Gemma could feel his heart breaking. She stood on her tiptoes and kissed him lightly on the cheek. “Thanks, Fin.”

  She glanced around, surveying her room. When she returned, she would be a different person. The old Gemma would never walk through these doors again. She made her way to the door, gesturing for the old Balklander to walk out before her. “I have to go say goodbye.”

  In Melnora’s room, Lian stood to leave when she saw them enter, but Gemma motioned her back to her chair. Fin stood by the door, his eyes hooded. The shadows under his eyes and his unwillingness to stay and watch her final moments told Gemma that he’d already said whatever he needed to say to Melnora.

  Gemma was struck by how lifeless Melnora already seemed. Her beautiful mahogany skin was ashen, her black hair—laced with silver—had lost all its luster. Her breathing rattled, like rocks tumbling in her chest. Gemma bit her lip to keep from crying.

  She bent over and whispered in her benefactor’s ear. “I’ve got to go keep your folks in line, now. Thank you … for everything …” A slow sob ripped its way out of her. “I love you, Mother.” The words were ragged and clumsy—and Gemma cursed herself for never having said them before. “I’ll take care of things, here. Sleep well, and give Aegos the Void.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  GUILDHALL

  Gemma did her best to remember to breathe. The seats had filled up, and still members flooded through the great doorways that led to the spoked half wheel of the underground amphitheater. The room was divided into five sections—representatives from the thieves, the pirates, the sex workers, the assassins and the mercenaries filled the seats, while the urchins were crammed together like rats on the floor just below where she stood, jostling and jarring one another to secure the best view.

  She could tell which of the urchins had already distinguished themselves as leaders. A tall, slender boy of about twelve with a shock of ragged black hair was given a wide berth. So was Katya, a younger girl with long brown hair marked by a strand of pure white near her temple. Gemma winked at the dirty-faced girl, who grinned broadly, then turned to punch a bigger boy who had bumped her in the shoulder. He twisted around, snarling—until he saw Katya’s face. He bobbed his head in apology and scooted away.