The Crown Conspiracy полностью

With Dixon at his side, Mason marched at the head of the commoner procession, his smithing hammer in one hand and a rough-hewn shield he had beaten together that morning in the other. Years of frustration and resentment steamed to the surface as the smith strode forward. Anger born from the life he had been denied overwhelmed him. When he could not pay the taxes on his late father’s shop, it had been the city sheriff and his guards who came. When he refused to leave, they had beaten him unconscious and thrown him into the gutter of Wayward Street. Mason blamed the guards for most of his life’s misfortunes. The beating had weakened his shoulders, and for years afterward, wielding his hammer was so painful he could only work a few hours each day. This, and his gambling habit, kept him in poverty. Of course, he never really considered the gambling to be the real problem; it was the guards who were responsible. It did not matter to him that the soldiers and the sheriff who beat him were no longer with the guard. Today was his chance to fight back, to repay in kind for the pain he had endured.

Neither he nor Dixon were warriors or athletic, but they were large men with broad chests and thick necks, and the crowd followed behind them as if the citizens of the Lower Quarter were plowing the city with a pair of yoked oxen. They turned onto Wayward Street and marched unchallenged into the Gentry Quarter. Compared to the Lower Quarter, it was like another world. The streets were paved with decorative tile work and lined with metal horse hitches. Along the avenue, enclosed street lamps and covered sewers accentuated the care taken for the comfort of the privileged few. Marking the center of the Gentry Quarter was a large spacious square. The great Essendon Fountain, with its statue of Tolin on a rearing horse above the pluming water, was its main landmark. Across from it, Mares Cathedral rose. In its towers high above, bells chimed loudly. They passed the fine three-story stone and brick houses with their iron fences and decorative gates. That the stables here looked better than the house Mason lived in was not lost on him. The trip through the square only added fuel to the fire that was sweeping across the city.

When they reached Main Street, they saw the enemy.

The sound of the horn brought Arista to the window once more. What she saw amazed her. In the distance, at the edge of her sight, she could see banners rising above the naked trees. Count Pickering was coming, and he was not alone. There were a score of flags comprising most of the western provinces. Pickering was marching on Medford with an army.

Is it on my account? She pondered the question and concluded the answer was no. Of all the nobles, she knew the Pickerings the best, but she doubted he marched for her. News of Alric’s death must have reached him, and he was challenging Braga for the crown. Most likely, he had given no thought at all to her plight. Count Pickering merely saw his opportunity and he was reaching for it. The fact that the princess might still live was only a technicality. No one wanted a woman as their ruler. If he won, he would force her abdication of the throne in favor of himself, or perhaps Mauvin. She would be sent away. She might not be locked up, but she would never be truly free. At least if he won, Braga would never sit on the throne of Melengar—but, would Pickering win? She was no tactician and certainly not a general; still even she could see that the forces marching on the road lacked the numbers for a castle siege. Braga had his forces well entrenched. Looking at the courtyard below, she suddenly realized the attack was distracting everyone. If only she could manage to escape.

Perhaps, this time it will be different.

She rushed to her door and with a tap of her necklace, unlocked it. She grabbed the latch and pushed. As usual, the door refused to budge. “Damn that dwarf,” she said aloud to herself. She pushed violently against the door, throwing her entire weight, such that it was, against it. The door did not give way.

There was another rumble, and her room shook once more. Dust fell from the rafters. What is going on? She staggered as the tower swayed like a ship at sea. She did not know what else to do. Terrified and bewildered, she returned to the illusionary safety of her bed. She sat there, hugging her knees, hardly breathing, her eyes darting at the slightest sound. The end was coming. One way or another, she was certain the end was coming soon.