Curse of Kings (The Trials of Oland Born, Book 1) Read online

  “Though even a drogue wouldn’t kill its own,” said Oland.

  “Oh, yes, I remember that from the stories,” said Delphi. “How honourable.”

  “The problem for Villius Ren losing two of his men is not about sorrow, it’s about superstition: his faith in the Fortune of Tens is sacrosanct. He has nine men under him and, when he discovers that he has lost two, he’ll be thrown into turmoil.”

  As he spoke, he felt that strange sadness at Wickham’s death tugging at him and he hated himself for it. In some strange way, Oland could relate to Wickham. And how grim it was to relate to a liar and a killer.

  Oland thought again of his unknown parents, and Wickham’s words: “Anyone can write down facts… I have an imagination.”

  He wondered: was Wickham’s creation better or worse than the reality of his birth?

  Oland watched Delphi running up ahead, holding Malben in the air and rubbing his belly with her head. He couldn’t understand her good spirits. Was she in denial about her father’s death? She had been so protected from the world all her life that she had no idea how dark a place it could be. And Oland had no intention of showing her what her father had been loving enough to hide.

  ARVED HIGH INTO A HORSESHOE OF MOUNTAINS ABOVE the galena mines, Galenore was the town of a million steps. It had winding streets, crooked turns, slopes and drops and alleyways, as if the buildings themselves wanted to hide from each other. Each one blended into the next, as grey as the lead buried deep beneath them. It was the only good to come from the plague – as the bermid ants destroyed the land, they uncovered the vast stores of galena that lay underneath. It was as if they took away one livelihood and left behind another. But it was not the livelihood the people of Galenore wanted. It had gone from being a prosperous and fertile land to the bleak, grey mining town it now was. The people of Galenore, who had so loved to work outdoors, were forced underground, and they were heartbroken.

  Oland and Delphi arrived at dusk, when the air smelled of roasting meat, boiling vegetables, ale and cider. The streets were crowded with young miners, celebrating a break from work because of the high winds. Their older colleagues looked more troubled.

  Malben uncurled from his sleep in Oland’s bag and jumped into Delphi’s arms, burying his head in her neck.

  “Hello, Mr Malben,” she said. He pawed her face gently and she laughed.

  “That monkey is very fond of you,” said Oland.

  “And I of him,” said Delphi. She let Malben down and he bounded across the street to climb up a rare bloom of ivy on one of the tavern walls.

  “Delphi,” said Oland, “I think we need to find out more about what happened to your father. It can’t be a coincidence that he was killed at the same time I was sent to find the Crest of Sabian. It must have been to do with the downfall of Villius Ren. Maybe your father was looking for the Crest too. Maybe his visits to Galenore were part of this.”

  Delphi shrugged.

  “Where do you think he would have gone if he were here?” said Oland.

  Delphi stared down at the cobbles. “Well… just… around.” She shrugged.

  “Around where?” said Oland.

  Delphi didn’t reply.

  “Did he meet people? Did he eat here?” said Oland. “Did he go to the market?”

  “I… think so,” said Delphi. “I think he did all that. It’s the evening, so the markets will be closed…”

  “Where else might he have gone?” said Oland. “To a tavern?”

  Delphi nodded. “Maybe…”

  “Is everything all right?” said Oland. “There seems to be something bothering you.”

  Delphi stared at the ground. “It’s just… truthfully, I haven’t been to Galenore for years. I took ill here when I was eight, and there were no doctors, and my father had to take me home in a panic. I was terrified. So… he never really brought me back here since. That was six years ago.”

  “Then you’re the same age as me,” said Oland. “I doubt it was Galenore itself that made you ill, so you have nothing to worry about now.”

  Delphi nodded. “Thank you.” She pointed across the street. “Maybe we could ask there.”

  The sign propped in the smoky window of The Lead Glass tavern read NO CHILDREN AFTER ANY O’CLOCK. Oland pointed to the side of the building. They walked around and saw an open back door. A large red-faced boy, no older than twelve, was gripping a huge saucepan, pouring water from a boiled ham down the sink. Oland and Delphi glanced at each other, feeling the hunger of two days without food. Malben climbed down the wall beside them and slipped into Oland’s bag.

  Oland and Delphi watched the kitchen boy move back to the oven, where he pulled out a tray of meat pies. Just then, the swinging doors beside the boy burst open and a man who looked like an older, slighter version of the young cook slapped some orders on the countertop. As the doors swung back and forth, Oland and Delphi saw the swollen purple faces of four men sitting at the bar, one of them hanging from a half-empty bottle of whiskey, his face smiling and sleepy.

  “We need to speak to him,” said Oland, pointing.

  “Who is he?” said Delphi.

  “The man most likely to answer a question,” said Oland. “And least likely to remember who asked it.”

  Delphi smiled. “In that case, I have a plan.”

  *

  Five minutes later, Oland watched from the tavern doorway as Delphi burst through, looking wildly around her.

  “No children!” shouted the owner.

  Delphi turned to him, her face earnest. “I have found something,” she said, “that belongs to someone else. And it is someone very important.”

  “I said ‘no children’.” The owner grabbed a glass from under the counter and started to polish it with a dirty cloth.

  Delphi walked up to the bar. “If I do not return this,” she said, “I will be in so much trouble.”

  Out in the kitchen, the boy let out a cry and smoke billowed into the bar through the swinging doors. The owner ran into the kitchen, batting at the smoke with his cloth. Delphi turned quickly to the man with the whiskey.

  “Sir,” she said, holding up a gold coin, “for whiskey. But answer me first – did you see a man here recently, tall, broad-shouldered, flaxen-haired, sun-darkened skin…”

  The man took moments to focus on her, his eyes shining like the gold in front of them. “No,” he said, frowning.

  “Please,” said Delphi. “I need to find out if he was here in Galenore this week.”

  “I… whiskey,” said the man.

  “Please,” said Delphi. “Please listen to me. I have to know if anyone has seen him.”

  She held the gold coin in front of the man’s face, and made him focus on it. “Have you heard of a man called Chancey the Gold?”

  The other men at the bar had started to lean towards her.

  “What are you looking for, miss?” said one of them. He had parched curls of wiry brown hair around his ears, but nowhere else. His nose was narrow and sharp, his eyes yellow and watery.

  Delphi glanced towards the kitchen and back to all the men. “I’m looking for news of a man called Chancey the Gold… the swimmer… the champion swimmer… do you know him? Did you by any chance see him?”

  Two of them nodded, but it was a vague nod, born of the promise of gold.

  “This is useless,” said Delphi.

  The kitchen doors began to open. As Oland saw Delphi turn to run out the front door, he did the same. She was right behind him, but there was someone right behind her too. A man, no taller than her, who had been sitting at a table by the entrance, had grabbed her by the wrist and was half lifting her into the cold air. Delphi cried out.

  “Get out,” snarled the man, pushing the door open and swinging her through it.

  LAND STEPPED FORWARD, PREPARED BUT UNWILLING to attack. But the man’s snarls appeared to be just a show for the tavern drinkers. For he didn’t throw Delphi to the ground. Instead, he came outside with her and let her
down gently. He was dressed in a flat grey woollen cap and a deep-green woollen coat to his knees. He wore a pair of metal-rimmed glasses, his white eyebrows arching high above their frames. He had sparkling green eyes and deep frown lines carved, like the number eleven, into the space above his nose.

  “What are you doing?” said Oland.

  “I’m sorry,” said the man, addressing Delphi. “I was alarmed by what you said inside.”

  Delphi stared at him. “Why? Who are you?”

  He lowered his voice. “Because you’re not the first person to have asked for Chancey the Gold this week. And the men who were looking for him did not strike me as men a young girl like you would like to meet on a dark night.”

  “Please tell us who you are,” said Oland.

  “My name is Pinfrock. I work here in Galenore.” He pointed down a side street. He glanced left and right. “Two men came here, it must have been four days ago… and the difference is that they found the man Chancey the Gold.”

  “What did these men look like?” said Delphi.

  Pinfrock described Wickham and Croft.

  “I’m warning you,” said Pinfrock, “because… I know that they were Villius Ren’s men… The Craven Lodge have been to Galenore before.”

  “Do you know why Chancey the Gold was here?” said Delphi.

  “I expect you’ve heard that the smelting fires won’t hold because of the high winds,” said Pinfrock. “So the mines aren’t operating. Many men have gone to the hills to try to fix this – to try to build shelters around the fires.” As he spoke, he held his hat on his head with one hand. “They need to get the mines started up again.”

  “And you think Chancey the Gold came here to help them?” said Delphi.

  “Certainly some of the older miners, ones who had followed Chancey the Gold in his competition days, mentioned that he had been there.”

  “Do you know where the men took Chancey?” said Delphi.

  “I know merely the rumour,” said Pinfrock. “These men were overheard saying that they would take him to Dallen Falls,” he said. “But he resisted fiercely.”

  “And this was four days ago,” said Delphi.

  “Yes.”

  Suddenly, from around the corner the young cook appeared.

  “Run!” shouted Oland, scrambling for Delphi’s arm. “Run!”

  They ran, the cook struggling behind them.

  Delphi looked back at Pinfrock, as Oland swept her up in his panic. “Thank you, Mr Pinfrock,” she said. “Thank you!” As she glanced to the right she was relieved to see Malen running across the rooftop, alongside them.

  Oland and Delphi stopped when there was no more commotion behind them, and retreated into a quiet alley.

  “What was that all about?” said Delphi.

  “I employed Malben as a distraction and fetcher of food,” said Oland. “Sadly, he appears empty of paw.”

  “Never mind,” said Delphi, rubbing Malben’s head. “Never mind.”

  “There is something about that Pinfrock,” said Oland. “Something that I can’t quite put my finger on.”

  “Something bad?” said Delphi.

  “Something familiar,” said Oland.

  Delphi’s thoughts had strayed. “If Chancey the Gold was resisting going back to The Falls, it was because of me… it was because he thought I would be there.”

  “That doesn’t mean it was your fault,” said Oland. “And Chancey the Gold made his own choice to come to Galenore in the first place, remember.”

  Delphi paused. “The thing is,” she said, “My father was a very kind man, but I still don’t know why he would have come to Galenore to help with the mines.”

  “This is us taking the word of a man we don’t even know,” said Oland. He paused. “Pinfrock!” he said suddenly. He jumped up, opened his bag and pulled out The Ancient Myths of Envar. Along with his play, The Banon Servant, it had been soaked on his journey through The Falls, but had since dried. The pages were now yellowed, stiff and rippled, but the ink was pristine. And on the back cover, clearly visible, was the printer’s stamp: a small circle surrounding the words: ‘Printer: Pinfrock of Galenore’.

  Oland’s heart pounded; if Pinfrock printed The Ancient Myths of Envar, it meant that he had worked for King Micah. It was an official publication of the Kingdom of Decresian, and it was printed during King Micah’s reign. It also meant that, more than likely, Pinfrock was around in the time of Archivist Samuel Ault, and may even have met him or printed his writings. Oland wondered if Pinfrock could even know Tristan Ault, the possible guardian of the Decresian census and so the key to the identity of his parents.

  “We need to go back and speak to Pinfrock,” said Oland. “He pointed down a side street when he mentioned he worked here. It’s the best place to start.”

  HE SIGN ABOVE THE DOOR READ pinfrock & sons: stationers & printers. The shop was in darkness. Oland and Delphi looked in at the mahogany cabinets that lined the walls on each side. They were mostly glass-fronted and filled with stacks of papers of different sizes. Where there was space on the walls, framed illustrations and print samples had been mounted.

  Two glass-topped counters stood on the floor opposite each other. The one on the right held rows of quills, the one on the left, stamps and coloured waxes.

  Candlelight glowed from the archway into a back room.

  “That must be where the printing press is,” said Oland. He turned to Malben. “You wait here.” He gestured to a ledge above them. “It’s a small shop. If we bring a monkey with us…”

  “We might look roxley,” said Delphi.

  Oland smiled at her using a Decresian word. Malben tilted his head. Oland lifted him up towards the ledge and he jumped the rest of the way. Oland pointed a finger at him to stay.

  Oland and Delphi knocked on the door. They could see the silhouette of Pinfrock in the archway as he leaned back into view from the desk he was standing at. He squinted towards them, then turned back to his task. They knocked again. Pinfrock approached the door slowly, but, when he realised who was outside, he hurried them in.

  “I am nervous for you,” he said to Delphi. “Why are you still here?”

  Oland had taken The Ancient Myths of Envar from his bag. He held it out and pointed to the printer’s stamp on the back.

  “Ah,” said Pinfrock.

  “Did you know Archivist Samuel Ault?” said Oland.

  Pinfrock stared at him. “Why do you ask?” he said.

  “I used to live in Castle Derrington in Decresian,” said Oland. “I am familiar with so many of the writings of the kingdom, most of which are written by hand. But of the pieces that are printed, yours is the only printer’s name stamped on the back.”

  There was pride in Pinfrock’s eyes, but he didn’t reply.

  “I believe that that means,’ said Oland, ‘if you worked for him, that you were loyal to King Micah… and that you might have known his archivist.”

  Pinfrock nodded. “I was loyal to King Micah, as were my ancestors to his.”

  “And… did you know Samuel Ault?” said Oland.

  “Why do you ask?” said Pinfrock.

  Oland pounced with his next question. “Or do you know his son, Tristan Ault?”

  Pinfrock’s gaze flickered. He looked nervously about him. “Please,” he said, “why are you asking?”

  “For many reasons,” said Oland.

  “To save the Kingdom of Decresian from Villius Ren!” said Delphi.

  Oland frowned at her. He would have gone as far as telling Pinfrock about the census, about his own private quest, but he had no desire to tell him of the king’s letter.

  “Show him the king’s letter!” said Delphi.

  “What king’s letter?” said Pinfrock.

  “Show him!” said Delphi. “It will prove that you are telling the truth.”

  With reluctance, Oland took out the letter from King Micah. “I’m sorry, but I’d rather not show you all of this, but I will show the first part and
the signature, so you will know that I speak the truth.”

  He folded the letter and showed Pinfrock what he had promised.

  “The writing…” said Pinfrock, frowning. He closed his eyes. When he opened them and turned to Oland, they were filled with resolve. “Follow me,” he said.

  He guided them into his workshop.

  “You cannot breathe a word of what I am about to tell you,” he said. “Not to anyone, not ever.”

  Oland and Delphi nodded.

  “One morning, fourteen years ago, a letter was left at my door that said that, on the last Friday of every month, I was to deliver a bottle of ink and a ream of paper to the town of Hartpence in Oxlaven. It’s close to the border with Gort. I was to place the ink and paper in a metal box under a statue of a woman who stands there. She’s called the Spinster Caudelie Reilly.

  “I was paid handsomely in advance for the ink, the paper, my time and my silence. Double my time. Who else would use so much paper and ink, other than an archivist? I know all my customers from near and far, and no one comes close to buying what this man does.”

  Oland thought about how strange it would be to follow instructions from someone you had never met and to do so every month for fourteen years. Then he realised that he was doing exactly that – but the person who had written his letter was dead, which made it even stranger.

  “And you don’t know who left you this letter?” said Delphi.

  “No,” said Pinfrock. “But… I am somewhat confused. If yours was written by King Micah, then how can this be?”

  He pulled open a drawer and, from inside it, slid back a piece of wood and the envelope that was hidden behind it.

  “I’ve kept the letter to this day,” said Pinfrock. “I don’t know why. And I don’t know if I will ever be given instructions on when to end these deliveries…”

  He slid out his letter. It was barely intact. He laid it flat on the desk in front of him.

  Oland and Delphi leaned in.

  Oland’s face immediately darkened. “Both letters are written by the same hand. My letter can’t be from King Micah. I’ve been tricked.”