Maximilian was clearly exhausted, and Garth could see that under his face paint his cheeks were even more flushed than they had been the previous night. After ten minutes of walking, Maximilian stumbled and Garth took his arm, sharing a glance of concern with Ravenna, who was walking at Maximilian’s other side. But she said nothing, and Garth continued to talk in low tones with Maximilian, sharing some amusing tales of his life in Narbon, hoping to elicit some memories of his former life.
“Have you ever seen Narbon, Prince?”
“No,” Maximilian said shortly, his eyes darting apprehensively to the sky. The sky was cloudless now, and the prince had his eyes squinted almost closed. Garth could feel him trembling under his hand. “When will we reach shelter?”
Again Garth shared a glance with Ravenna.
“We go to the forests, Maximilian,” she said softly, and smiled as he lowered his eyes from the sky to her face. “Tonight, perhaps tomorrow.”
“I do not like the open spaces,” Maximilian mumbled, “but…” He fell silent, and he frowned.
“Prince?” Garth asked. “What is it?”
“I think,” Maximilian said softly, “that I am going to like the forests even less.”
“You will have to remember, Maximilian,” Ravenna said. “Sooner or later.”
“Why?” Maximilian asked her. “Why? What do I have to remember?”
To that Ravenna did not answer.
After half an hour Joseph called a halt. “We are well hidden from the main road here,” he said as he dismounted. “Come, we can make a small fire from brushwood while we wait for Vorstus.”
Maximilian sat obediently as Garth and Ravenna collected some dry brushwood. They quickly built a fire then, once water had boiled and tea steeped to one side, Ravenna washed the paint from Maximilian’s face.
“It’s beginning to streak,” she said as Joseph raised his eyebrows, “and his beard is beginning to shadow through. No-one who met him now would be fooled.”
Joseph nodded, and Maximilian grimaced as Ravenna rubbed his face dry with a cloth. She pulled his wig from his head and tucked it inside her pack. “Perhaps we’ll find another use for it.”
Maximilian, his face finally clean, ran his fingers through his hair, smoothing it back along his head. “As fuel for the fire, I think,” he said, and glanced at Ravenna. His face remained sober, but his eyes twinkled slightly.
She laughed, pleased at his attempt at humour. “You’d better remove that dress, Prince. You look even worse in it now you wear your true face.”
Maximilian unbuttoned his high-necked dress and pulled it off, handing it to Ravenna to pack away with the wig. He wore a simple countryman’s shirt and breeches underneath, and Ravenna tossed him a brown worsted jacket.
Garth helped Joseph cut some bread and ham—Anya and her girls had been more than generous with their contributions—while Ravenna poured out mugs of tea and Maximilian slipped his arms into the jacket.
“Why do you call me Prince?” he asked quietly, but all could hear the tightness in his voice.
Both Joseph and Ravenna opened their mouths, but it was Garth who spoke. “What do you remember of your life as Maximilian Persimius?” he asked, his eyes and voice gentle.
Maximilian’s own eyes widened at the question, and Garth could see the anxiety they contained. “I…I…” His eyes flickered about the group, and his face tightened in distress.
Ravenna leaned over and handed him a mug of tea.
Maximilian grasped the mug as if it were a lifeline. “Tea,” he mumbled, “yes, this is tea.” He took a deep breath, and when he lifted his eyes they were calmer. “My name is Maximilian Persimius.” He paused for a long minute. “What do I remember of that life? I remember red walls and long corridors filled with laughter.” His eyes softened as his fingers shifted slightly about the mug. “I remember love. I remember that I was loved.”
“That is a good memory,” Garth said very softly.
“Yes…yes, it is, isn’t it?” Maximilian looked surprised, but also relieved. “Yes, I remember love and laughter.” He took a deep breath and his shoulders relaxed. He sipped his tea thoughtfully. “Joseph Baxtor?” He spoke the name carefully, as if remembering it anew.
Joseph nodded. “Yes?”
“I remember you and an older man with a beard as heavy as yours is now.”
“My father,” Joseph nodded. “He died when you were about twelve.”
“Yes.” Maximilian took another sip of tea, as if he drew courage from it. “You and your father often came to dine with…with my parents and I.”
Joseph only nodded, his own hands now tight about his mug.
Maximilian turned back to Garth. “I remember my parents now, Garth. They loved me.”
“Yes,” Garth said, his voice thick. “They grieved when you were lost.”
“My father,” Maximilian said slowly, his eyes unfocused. “My father often read to me in the schoolroom. He read…he read from a book that I found boring but which my father insisted I study. It…it was called The Art of Wise Governance.”
There was a long silence, then Maximilian looked up at his companions. “My father was a king.” He took a deep breath. “And I was a prince then.”
“You are a prince now,” Garth said, reaching across and laying his hand on Maximilian’s arm. “And you are the rightful heir to the throne of Escator.”
Maximilian’s eyes hardened into flintiness. “No. I am not rightfully a prince at all.” He paused. “My father’s lessons are not all that I remember.”
“Maximilian,” Garth said urgently, but just then Vorstus arrived with his sheep, and Maximilian turned his head to the right and refused to say any more.
Within the hour they had packed up—Vorstus setting the sheep free to roam the hills—and were marching towards the royal forests to the east.
By mid-afternoon Furst had decided that he was never going to find Maximilian about the Veins. The guards had searched every square inch of the complex, both above and below ground—twice.
Nothing.
“How?” Furst cursed as he paced about his office.
“How?”
How could everything have gone so horribly wrong?
“I should have had him killed,” Furst mumbled, pouring himself a generous drink from the decanter on a side cabinet. “Surely the mark’s protection would have faded under that scar? Orders or no, I should have murdered the brat!”
But he hadn’t, and that’s what currently mattered. And after seventeen years Lot No. 859 had unaccountably escaped and vanished into thin air.
And it was Furst who was going to have to make account.
“Damn!” he muttered, feeling cold nerves slice through his belly, and he threw the empty glass across the room.
The guard standing duty outside the overseer’s office flinched as he heard the glass shatter. The next moment he snapped to attention as Furst threw the door open and lurched down the steps.
“Fetch my horse and an escort,” he shouted into the night. “Now!”
They rode desperately through the night, their horses’ hooves slipping and sliding through Myrna, the sounds echoing about the empty streets.
In her house Anya heard them pass, and smiled at her girls. From Myrna they wrenched their horses’ heads onto the southern road.
For Ruen.
NINETEEN
UNWELCOME NEWS
“Sire?”
Cavor turned from the window and frowned at the Master of Ceremonies. His face was drawn and pale, and when he moved to his chair he slightly favoured his left leg. “What is it?”
“Sire, you have a visitor.”
“Well? Do I have to grow old waiting for you to tell me who it is?”
The Master of Ceremonies fidgeted nervously. The king’s mood had been bleak these past days, and he spent most of his time inside his private apartments, admitting no-one but his wife and Oberon Fisk, his soon-to-be-replaced personal physician. He had specifically asked that he not be disturbed with visitors, but the man waiting outside had been so insistent.
“Well?” Cavor all but shouted as he lowered himself into his chair.
“The overseer from the Veins, sire,” the Master of Ceremonies hastily said. “Fennon Furst.”
Cavor stilled, his eyes boring into his Master of Ceremonies. Then he nodded abruptly. “Show him in.”
The Master of Ceremonies almost stumbled in his haste to exit the chamber.
Fennon Furst entered the king’s chamber as smoothly and as silently as the first hint of water through a fissured rock-face. His hands were folded tightly before him, his head lowered and his eyes averted. Five paces into the chamber he fell to one knee and bowed his head in deep obeisance. “Sire, I greet you well.”
Cavor regarded the man with barely concealed distaste. Furst had never been one of his favourites—thus his transfer to the Veins—but the man looked more dishevelled than Cavor could remember. Even from this distance Cavor could smell the rank odour of sour wine.
And there was something about Furst. Something nasty. Something dark. But that was a memory that Cavor, like the man he’d replaced, had buried as deeply as possible.