Arborum

ARBORUM

Donald Roy

Copyright © 2015 Donald Roy

All rights reserved.

Smashword Edition, License Notes

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Table of Contents

Epigraph

Chapter One – Raxton

Chapter Two – News

Chapter Three – Locone Dale

Chapter Four – Lord Malus

Chapter Five – The Bridge

Chapter Six – A Visitor

Chapter Seven – Jamie Sycamore

Chapter Eight – Observance

Chapter Nine – Something’s Brewing

Chapter Ten – Crow in the Window

Chapter Eleven – North

Chapter Twelve – The Cave

Chapter Thirteen – Wilderness

Chapter Fourteen – Reunited

Chapter Fifteen – Ursula

Chapter Sixteen – The Bog

Chapter Seventeen – Somares

Chapter Eighteen – Sanctuary

Chapter Nineteen – Execution

Chapter Twenty – The Sandar

Chapter Twenty-One – Armistice

Chapter Twenty-Two – The Return

About the Author

To Allyson

Go, from the creatures thy instruction take:

Learn from the birds what food the thickets yield;

Learn from the beasts the physic of the field;

Thy arts of building from the bee receive;

Learn of the mole to plow, the worm to weave;

Learn of the little nautilus to sail;

Spread the thin oar, and catch the driving gale.

Here too all forms of social union find,

And hence let reason, late, instruct mankind:

Here subterranean works and cities see;

There towns aerial on a waving tree.

Learn each small people’s genius, policies,

The ant’s republic, and the realm of bees;

How those in common all their wealth bestow,

And anarchy without confusion know;

And these for ever, tho’ a monarch reign,

Their sep’rate cells and properties maintain.

Mark what unvary’d laws preserve each state,

Laws wise as nature, and as fix’d as fate.

Alexander Pope - An Essay on Man

CHAPTER ONE

Raxton

The never-ending west wind gusted from the Gunn Mountains, winding around hills and through valleys covered with grasses and wildflowers, down to the great Rax River and beyond. The river grew wide and slow at its mouth, the waters brown with sediment from over a hundred miles of bare land to the north. The rich waters of the mighty Rax. The river flowed south and curled east around a large hill before opening up to its delta on the edge of the Terrenian Sea. The wind carried dust for miles, leaving a thick coating everywhere. In Raxton City, which hunkered on the large hill, a sparrow nestled on the window sill on the third floor of a large house, protected from the dusty winds, and watched the people inside. She might be the only sparrow in the entire city, her nest in the only tree to be found for a hundred miles. That morning, the tree had been cut down. For now, she watched. Later, she would leave the city and find a place more friendly to birds, and to trees.

Phyllis Finn stared back at the small pale brown sparrow, wondering why birds were drawn here. Over time she saw countless crows and seagulls staring in at her curiously through the dust covered window. She wondered if this window was the bird equivalent of a zoo. They looked in at the strange humans, performing odd human rituals. This was the first time she saw a sparrow. She had turned to take a quick peek to see how much day was left, to see how much longer her lesson would be, and found the sparrow staring back. She turned away before her tutor, Mr. Samuel Bobkin, noticed. She wasn’t sure when they started appearing in the window. She was sure there were no birds in the window last year.

Phyllis, said Mr. Bobkin, please pay attention. Mr. Bobkin looked at her for a moment before returning his focus on the wall. Mr. Bobkin was a study in grey, with grey eyes, grey hair, and a pale grey face. He had them write their exercises on a slate board with chunks of grey limestone chalk. Phyllis sometimes wondered if the chalk was Mr. Bobkin’s next of kin. The stubby chalk had sharp angles, and could be his twin if you dressed it in a cardigan and pants. She turned back to the slate board and continued to write her lesson, the chalk making a regular clack-clack-clack on the slate. She finished a line and peeked at the window. The sparrow cocked his head and chirped.

Mr. Bobkin turned to look at the window, but the bird jumped up and flew away, leaving a swirl of dust in its wake. Mr. Bobkin turned his head back and looked at her more closely. She swore his face took some color for a moment. Is that a smile? Both faded quickly. Is it that bird again?

Phyllis started. She never told anyone about the birds. People became awfully twitchy when you talked about animals, so she was careful. She had asked her friends if they had seen any birds at their windows, but they hadn’t. Just her. She felt unclean.

No, it’s a different one, said Rowan, sitting up in his chair. I tried to hit the other one with my sling, but it was too fast for me.

Don’t shoot the birds, said Mr. Bobkin. They carry disease. His voice sounded pained, like the words themselves carried the disease and had to be handled with care. He always sounded pained when he talked about the animals or trees, and bored with everything else. He taught them about the diseases animals carried, and told them tragic stories about people who brought animals into their homes, who always died a tragic death, sometimes by disease, sometimes when the animals turned on them. Work animals were different, so long as you didn’t become familiar, and give them familiar names. So long as they were kept safely away from other animals from birth.

Rowan shrugged his shoulders and settled back into his seat. Rowan Finn was Phyllis’ twin brother, but the only thing they had in common was their date of birth. And their daily lesson, which they took together in the small study room on the third floor of the house, watched over by Mr. Bobkin for as long as Phyllis could remember, and by the birds for the better part of a year.

You should tell your mother after the lesson. Mr. Bobkin looked at them both closely, then sighed. Let’s move on. Mr. Bobkin had them repeat his readings from The Precepts, the approved lesson book from the royal libraries. Today, he chose a passage about why you shouldn’t have pets, and where to report if you suspect someone of owning a pet or growing a tree. Mr. Bobkin’s voice droned on with the lilt of a cadaver.

While he read the passage the door swung open. Their mother, Helany Bosc, walked in. Helany was a medium sized woman with larger than life clothes, who filled a room with color at her entrance. If Phyllis didn’t love her mother, she’d hate her. She was everything Phyllis wasn’t. Poised where Phyllis was clumsy. Confident where she stood unsure. Bright where she was dull. Helany’s fine blonde hair shaped into the latest fashion with ease, much like Rowan’s hair. Phyllis had thick coppery hair that could be used to clean pots. Helany stopped, staring at the window. The sparrow had returned, and stared back at Phyllis’ mother before flying away. Whatever her mother came for was forgotten.

Mrs. Bosc? said Mr. Bobkin.

Helany shook her head and apologized. Mr. Bobkin, I need to speak with you urgently, said her mother. Phyllis, Rowan, you can go for the day.

Rowan leaped from his chair and burst out the door before Phyllis could stand. Phyllis walked behind and closed the door quietly, her brother already leaping down the staircase to the second floor, making enough sound for a dozen fourteen year olds.

Why would her mother interrupt their lesson? Phyllis looked up and down the hall. There wasn’t much to see. The third floor was used exclusively by the serving staff, and for Phyllis and Rowan’s daily lessons, and its hall was clean, narrow, and bare. None of the servants were here, they were busy with duties downstairs. Phyllis put her ear to the door and watched the stairs. As the daughter of the house, she had a right to be here, but there would still be awkward questions if she was caught listening to a private conversation.

I’m sorry to interrupt, said Helany, but this letter came for you, and the messenger waits at the door for a response.

Phyllis heard a loud snap and the dry rustle of paper. The room became quiet. She was curious why her mother would halt the daily lesson for a message to a servant, and why she would wait on the servant. She could have sent any of the serving staff to pass the message to Mr. Bobkin.

No, said Mr. Bobkin. I thought I got them all. I told her. The paper rustled, and she heard Mr. Bobkin sigh. I’m afraid it’s very bad news, my lady.

Don’t call me that. Just Mrs. Bosc. We live in the South, and must abide by Southern rules; I married a workman, not a lord.

But you kept your last name, and for that, you’re always my lady.

Stop. I forbid it. Now. What’s the news?

The room quieted again. Phyllis knew her mother renounced her title as lady to the North, but never heard anyone speak of it before. Northern Argonia was little more than a wilderness, the people there barbarians that lived among the trees. Leaving the wasteland of the North was considered a privilege by Southerners, and few who moved to the South returned to the North. Mr. Bobkin came with her mother when she moved to Raxton. He was Helany’s tutor when she grew up, and now he tutored Phyllis and Rowan.

It’s my mother. I’ll have to go to her. She was caught with a tree in her yard, and doesn’t have the money to pay the fine. A tree? Why would anyone grow a tree? From what Mr. Bobkin taught, they were more dangerous than having a pet. No trees stood within a hundred miles of Raxton, and growing them was illegal, the penalties stiff, enough to send a rich man to the poor house.

I knew it was bad news when I saw the seal. A tree! I thought you cut them all down.

So did I. Somehow she hid one away.

Can you pay the fine? Phyllis heard the rustle of paper again. That much.

Ten years of wages. My savings.

It’s good the tree was small. I’ll advance you the money.

No, I can’t accept.

That just means you’ll be teaching my children for a long time to come. Phyllis grimaced. She wasn’t very fond of Mr. Bobkin. His voice was as grey as his hair. This was the first time she heard him speak with any spirit.

That it does, he said slowly. He sounded beaten back to his usual grey self. Could I. Just sometimes, could I teach them something of the North? This Southern propaganda is killing me.

No.

Please, my lady.

No. We’ve walked away from that life. Phyllis noticed her mother didn’t berate him for calling her lady this time.

But shouldn’t your children know their heritage?

Those days have ended. They can never be. They were just a dream. This… Phyllis heard a loud bang, is reality. This is what you must teach them, if they’re to survive.

Will you give your daughter the diamond? Why hide that?

Because if I’m not careful, my children and I will all end the same way as Lady Anjou! Phyllis was startled and confused. Lady Anjou had named herself Queen of Northern Argonia fifteen years ago, one year before Phyllis was born. King Gregory Gunn had opposed her, and sent ambassadors to speak with the queen, but no armies clashed. A year later, one of her cooks accidentally fed her a poison mushroom, and King Gregory quietly retook a tenuous hold of the North. What did that have to do with them?

He wouldn’t dare! Besides, you saw the bird. I know you did. It’s time. I can feel it! Now this Phyllis didn’t expect. Mr. Bobkin spoke with passion. She wanted to open the door to see if she was listening to the same person. She’d never heard him so alive before. The bird. He seemed excited by it. She remembered his face when he looked at the window. What was it about the bird?

No! Stop. King Linden said a hundred years for the awakening. A hundred! That was five hundred years ago. Every generation speaks of birds watching the young. They used to watch me, and my mother before me. What does that say? Nothing! We can’t go back. It’s not to be. We have to find a new life. Phyllis held her breath. The birds used to watch her mother?

I can’t. Phyllis heard the paper crumble. I can’t teach your children this rubbish anymore. It’s killing me. Even for my mother, I can’t do it. The room quieted. Phyllis wondered if her mother would leave soon, and she looked around for a place to hide. Mr. Bobkin’s room was next door, and he always left his door open when he gave lessons. She could hide there. I’ll tend to my mother. I can pay the fine. The last words sounded like the Mr. Bobkin she knew. Passionless. Dead. Thanks for offering the advance. You have always been good to our family.

You’ve always been faithful to ours.

As you said, we can’t go back. We have to find a new life. The old ways are done. May I be alone?

The messenger.

Ah yes. The messenger. Tell him I’ll be along shortly.

Phyllis heard swishing of clothes and rushed inside Mr. Bobkin’s room. Her mother stepped out of the study room and closed the door behind her. Helany stopped for a minute to compose herself, and then made her way down the stairs. What Phyllis had heard was enough to knock her out of her socks. She had no clue what it meant, except her mother had a big secret, and Mr. Bobkin knew about it. For the first time in her life, Mr. Bobkin seemed interesting. She thought about returning to ask about her heritage, but as she rushed out of Mr. Bobkin’s room, Mr. Bobkin stepped out of the lesson room, and they collided. Mr. Bobkin looked at her sharply, then toward his room, his eyebrows raised. She wanted to tell him she heard everything, that she knew, and to ask him to tell her more. What was her heritage? What did her mother leave behind? Why were the birds watching her? The questions knotted in her mind like a brush in her coppery hair, refusing to untangle. She rushed down the stairs to her room.

Phyllis passed two servants on her way down to the second floor. The halls widened significantly, and were decorated with small tapestries of the sea and sailing ships. Her mother chose them, thinking sea themes made sense. Her father was the son of a fisherman who showed genius with building and soon left his father’s fishing boat to work in, then run, the naval shipyards. Her father hated the sea, but loved boats and ships. Whenever Phyllis caught him looking at the tapestries, she saw a strange mix of passion and dislike. He became seasick easily, a fact that her grandfather attested to many times in his stories, much to her father’s chagrin.

Phyllis entered her own room and walked to the small wash basin and poured in some water from a pitcher, then washed the chalk dust off her hands and face where she had touched her nose, the grey chalk standing out against her tanned skin. The mirror in her room was wavy, unlike the mirror in her mother’s dressing room, but it was still a quality mirror, with a fine smooth well-oiled wooden frame. The wood held the small branded mark of the Purifier’s Guild in the lower right corner, a sign the wood was safely turned into lumber. She cleaned up to her satisfaction, pausing only to pout at her unruly hair, wiry shocks of coppery brown standing out like tree branches. Why didn’t I get gently flowing hair like my mother, she thought once again, or like my brother?

She called a servant to help her change into outdoor clothes and fix a bonnet over her hair before stepping outside into the dusty afternoon streets of Raxton City. Her brother, she knew, would already be at the docks, fishing or talking to the fishermen. Maybe her grandfather had already returned. He always had good tales of the high seas to tell them about.

Rowan had taken after her grandfather, and planned to become a fisherman when he grew up. Phyllis, on the other hand, preferred to think she would follow her father’s footsteps. Her mother, of course, had other plans entirely, and was already planning for when Phyllis would be presented to society, but Phyllis still had two years before that would happen. I don’t plan on measuring my life by how well I marry, she thought. She imagined herself running the shipyards, experimenting with different masts and hull shapes as everyone watched in awe. In truth, she didn’t care much about ships, but loved her father and wished she had his ability to look at an object and pry open its secrets, then make a better version, like a magician. That’s what I want to be, she thought, a magician.

Her mind briefly flitted over the conversation she overheard between Mr. Bobkin and her mother, but she didn’t know what to think about it. She always knew her mother had been part of the nobility in the North, but she never spoke of her past. What was her past? What was her heritage? She was curious about the diamond Mr. Bobkin mentioned. She wondered how large the diamond must be to raise the attention of the king. She imagined a diamond that weighed a hundred pounds, and that was so bright when the sun shone on it that anyone who looked at it was blinded instantly. Now that would catch the king’s attention. Maybe her mother planned on having her wear it when she was presented to society? That would be two more years. Phyllis sighed.

Phyllis decided to go to the shipyard to see what her father was working on. She tried to keep her visits down to once a week. Too often, and her mother would complain about her spending too much time around seamen. Phyllis stepped out into the second floor hallway and down the grand staircase to the main floor, hoping her mother didn’t see her. The main floor had tall ceilings, the door jambs, windows, and ceiling so richly ornamented there was barely room for paintings and other decorations. She heard her mother’s voice coming from one of the waiting rooms. Good, she must have guests. Phyllis walked quickly to the main door and stepped outside. She saw Mr. Bobkin hand a letter to a messenger and turn back to the house. He glanced at her quickly before returning inside. The look he gave her was so different from his usual flat battle grey that she determined to talk to him when she returned.

A four wheeled carriage was parked at the front, the horse still hitched; whoever was visiting her mother was making a quick visit, so she made her way quickly past the two guards and the front gate. Their neighborhood was safe, but they often had important guests, so security was important. Usually the guards paid special attention to passersby and to where she and Rowan went, to report back to her mother. Oddly, they had knocked crossbows today, and were looking up at the windows. They barely noticed her. Phyllis looked up, but the windows looked their ordinary dusty selves.

Raxton stood on a hill overseeing Raxton harbor, with streets like spokes leading down to the harbor, while other streets intersected, following the undulating curve of the harbor and the hillside. The city was grey, not unlike Mr. Bobkin, broken up only by the stone of the houses, dust sweeping in from the bare hills on the constant west wind. Phyllis found the sight cheery, the wind telling her the world was safe. Once, the houses were made of wood, and people had trees in their yards, but trees brought diseases to the city, and the houses burned down. Argonia worked tirelessly to clear the land of the pestilence of trees: their main export was lumber, to feed a world hungry for wood, but not for trees. Lumber: the body of a tree made pure by the Cleansing, made safe to touch, a precious commodity. Argonia made a lot of money in the trade of clean lumber stamped by the Purifier’s Guild.

Phyllis followed one of the curved streets that led from their front gate, turned at the first intersecting street, and followed it straight down to the harbor and the shipyard. She walked slowly, browsing in the windows of the stores she passed, stopping in front of the hat shop to look at the latest bonnets. Next was a woman’s hair boutique that guaranteed to make men’s heads turn when they saw you. I already have that, thought Phyllis, just for the wrong reason. Her coppery hair was tame at the moment, safely hidden under her blue bonnet. Still, she liked to stop and look at the charcoal drawings in the front window of some of the latest hair designs.

She stood for a while, listening to the bustle of the city around her, along with the sound of the gulls from the sea. The sound of trumpets startled her, and she turned from the boutique window. A large procession made its way along the main harbor road that wound along Raxton Hill just above the shoreline. The procession moved slowly, guards ahead moving the crowds in the street aside. The banners showed that the procession included none other than King Gregory Gunn himself, and it stopped in front of the shipyard. Phyllis walked slowly down the hill. She saw the king enter the shipyard after guards ushered the workers out en masse, crowds growing ever larger on the lower streets near the docks. Guards stood in front of the shipyard, blocking entry. Well, so much for visiting the shipyard to see what her father was up to. Of course, her father must have outdone himself if the king came to see. What it could be?

Her curiosity piqued, Phyllis decided to see if she could get in. She noticed that the guards were placed on the main entrance, but she knew her way around the docks. At low tide she could take advantage of another shipyard entrance on the foreshore. Turning left in front of the shipyard wasn’t easy, the guards had stopped all traffic, and the streets were congested, filled with the dust and sweat of a thousand men and a hundred horses. Phyllis squeezed through the crowds, pushing to the dock side past the gawkers. Some looked at her angrily for a moment, and then forgot her as they jostled to get a better look at what was happening.

Once she got past the main crowd to the edge of the sea wall east of the shipyard, she straightened her bonnet, and then started down the wooden stair to the wet sand of the foreshore. The stair was packed with people who hoped to get a glimpse of the king when he came back out, and creaked under their weight. Phyllis made her way to the top of the stair, and hung outside the rail. At high tide, this part of the foreshore would be covered with water, but now, the sand and barnacled rocks lay exposed. She found handholds on the rail and crept down the outside of the stair railing, ignoring complaints of people. The rail bowed slightly under her added weight.

Half way down she stopped, judging whether the distance was short enough to jump, but decided against. The barnacled rocks wouldn’t be pleasant to land on. She looked up at the docks, its piers standing in the water of low tide. She saw two people at the end of the pier. Rowan sat at the edge fishing with a rod and reel, patiently waiting for a bite at the end of his line. He often sat there while waiting for their grandfather to return. Next to him stood a woman in a white robe. Her hands and face a prominent deep ebony against the white robe, she had large black hair that made her head seem three times its size, but somehow seemed right, and made other people’s heads seem too small. In her hands she held a stick in front of her, resting on the dock. A stick! Before her, on the pier, stood a sea gull, and they stared at one another. Rowan sat next to the woman, his whole focus on his fishing rod. The gull hopped forward onto the stick, and the woman lifted it up until she and the gull were nose to nose. Phyllis tried to turn away, but the woman drew her attention. She seemed oddly familiar, but she knew she’d never seen her before in her life. What are they doing? she asked out loud. And why was she letting the gull get so close?

Miss Finn? she heard from further down the stair, then heard a loud crack. The railing shifted in her hand, the stairs lurched slightly before coming to rest. She lost her hold of the rail and made a quick grab, barely gripping the rail again with her fingers. Pay attention. The crowd on the stair panicked, and some jumped off the lowest stair, rocking the stairs more, shrill cries of It’s going to collapse and Twig it, their sudden movement jiggling the stairs more. She lost her precious finger hold. She pushed off with her legs, jumping for the clearest spot she could find, trying to land on her feet, not her head. She was caught in two strong arms and planted on her feet.

Have ya gone balsam? Whatcha think ya doin’? Ya coulda got us all kilt. Her father’s chief foreman, Mitch Harrow. Mitch was a big, sour faced man tanned a deep dark brown in a neat naval uniform. While he worked as a foreman for her father, he was still a lieutenant in the navy, and wore his colors proudly. Phyllis smiled. Mitch’s face was sour, but she knew him as long as she could remember, and for her he was always as soft as the Hollow Marsh. She was certain she could mollify him.

Hi Mitch, I thought I’d visit father. Could you get us in?

If possible, his face became more sour. I can’t getcha in. I can’t get me in. The king, he wants ta talk to ya father, and everyone but ya father’s out here. We left mid work, so I worry. Maybe. Maybe I hafta go in, ta check on machine. Maybe I get medal for protecting king. He looked thoughtful, and then shook his head. No, won’t do. The only medal I get is bars on cell window. Mitch still looked thoughtful, with one of his large hands holding his chin. They stood on the beach, Phyllis leading Mitch slowly closer to the shipyard.

Come on, she said to Mitch, then stepped quickly down the foreshore toward low tide, following the stone walled edge of the shipyard toward the hidden entrance further down the beach. Her father put it in, and a second higher up, in case he had to escape from one of his experiments in a hurry.

Wait, Phyllis, wait. Ya can’t go in. Ya can’t. Phyllis rushed forward before Mitch could grab her. He had a strong grip, so she needed to stay out of reach. She looked back, and saw Mitch following her at a quick walk, looking back to see if the guards noticed them. Oh, ya gonna get me in trouble miss. She smiled at him before continuing to the opening in the wall, where the stone curved in an arch above a doorway. Good, solid stone. The stonework made a short hallway, then came to a stone stair that would carry her up into the main shipyard. She could hear a loud humming vibration from inside.

She climbed up the stair to where it met the main floor and peeked in. Mitch pulled her down and pointed at her bonnet. The stone walls were brown and grey, and she had a blue bonnet to match her blue dress. Well, her dress had been blue, now it was blue with a mix of brown and grey from the sand, mud, salt, and dirt she’d picked up fighting through the crowd, rubbing against the salt dusted stairs, and running through the sand. Her coppery brown hair would stand out less than the bonnet against the stone wall of the shipyard, just as a tree blends in against a mountain. Not that Phyllis ever saw a real tree, just lumber, though she saw paintings of trees with their manic limbs flailing through the air: they looked terrifying. Why some people liked the trees she never understood, but every year, at least one person was fined or arrested for trying to grow a tree. Phyllis wondered. Mr. Bobkin’s mother grew trees. Why? Was that what he wanted to teach them about? No, that didn’t make sense. She took the bonnet off and stuck her head up over the edge of the stair with Mitch.

Mitch made a sign to be quiet, but with the noise and vibration of a machine next to the stair, there was no need. The king and her father stood looking at a large ship sitting on the dry dock. Unfortunately, she couldn’t hear a thing, with the machine next to them clattering, smoke billowing from its top. She snuck further away from the stairs and the machine, which seemed to get louder as time went by. Mitch took two steps toward her then froze, not wanting to be caught, and stepped back to the stairs.

The shipyard was filled with boxes, crates, and barrels, ropes and pulleys, and wood planking in neat stacks, all marked with the seal of the Purifier’s Guild: endless places where a young girl could hide and watch her father and the king talk. She didn’t see any guards with them. She crawled almost to the opposite side of them, their attention still on the great ship in dry dock. They had to shout to hear each other over the machine, so she was able to make out some of what they said. Her father looked excited. She could see, he kept trying to draw the king’s attention toward the machine, but the king would not be turned away from the ship. The machine was like a student trying to get a teacher’s attention, wanting to impress. Pick me! it seemed to say, smoke billowing out of an undulating flue like a student’s waving arm. Mitch looked worried, hiding behind the machine now, which was vibrating, slowly moving on the stone floor, creeping toward the stairs. When the king turned her father back to the ship, Mitch went around the other side grabbing at a lever then pulling his hand away, undecided, then another, pulling away again. The machine started to make a whistling sound, and Mitch covered his eyes, grabbed a lever at random and pulled. The whistle subsided. The king and her father didn’t notice, they were locked in conversation. Mitch looked back at them, then went back around to the stair to hide.

How was the first run Dregan? shouted King Gregory Gunn. She could hear them now, the machine settling down to a loud murmur with an occasional bang. The clouds of smoke from the chimney slowed to a steady stream. How does it handle? The king was a tall man with dark hair greying at the temples, and wore clothes made with rich swirls of color, including Impossible Purple. No one but the king wore clothes with that color. No one knew how to make the pigment anymore, and the king had purchased all the Impossible Purple fabric in the land.

Dregan Finn grabbed a great sheaf of papers and sifted through them quickly. He tossed half to the stone floor before he found what he wanted, pointed at the middle of the page, then stopped. He glanced up at the king and smiled, dropping the rest of the pages. Like a Tenor, he said.

The king smiled. A Tenor meant the ship would strike terror into any enemy of Argonia, though the full meaning was lost in history. I want fifty by next year. Can your team do it?

Dregan laughed, nodding his head, I can get you a hundred by this time next year. Phyllis smiled. She knew her father wasn’t boasting. If he said it could be done, then it was as good as done, and the king knew this. He wasn’t the chief engineer of the naval shipyard for no reason.

The king looked at him. A hundred it is. But one small detail. They’ll do it without you. I have another problem I need you to handle. Then the king led her father along the dry dock toward the midship to talk, Dregan’s smile falling away quickly. Away from the machine, they didn’t talk as loud, and unfortunately they were walking away from Phyllis, who was hidden at the front of the ship near the bowsprit.

Drat, this was the most important part. What were they talking about? What could the king want with her father? Phyllis crept back toward the staircase to see if she could follow them, but Mitch put his hand on her shoulder. That’s enough. Whatever they talk about, it’s nothing to us or shipyard. Listening’ll get ya more than jail cell. Might get ya gibbet. We go now.

Phyllis tried to pull away, but Mitch’s hand was like iron, so she led the way to the staircase with him. The machine had settled to a gentle murmur, and Phyllis could hear footsteps approaching.

So what is this device you’ve been trying to get me to look at? asked the king.

Oh, just a little idea I had, but it’ll have to wait. I call it an iron horse. I’ve used it to lift loads that would take a horse to lift into a ship’s cargo bay.

What do you feed it? Oats?

Her father laughed. I use tar sitting in the tar sands north of the Hollow Marsh. I’ve been trying to figure out how we can clear that land and make it useable. What better way than by turning trash into treasure?

Mitch pulled her down the stairs to the bottom, any chance of hearing more lost, and held her at the doorway until the trumpets announced the king’s departure. Once he let go she rushed up the stairs past the iron horse to her father, who stood at the closed shipyard entrance, his head bowed, the fingers of his left hand pressed to his temple. He turned and smiled as she approached, and gave her a big hug. This isn’t good, Phyllis thought. He doesn’t hug me unless he’s worried. He’s usually too busy showing me his latest invention, but the iron horse was forgotten next to the stairs. Shall we go home? is all he said.

CHAPTER TWO

News

What were you doing, young lady? Were you rolling in the mud? Where’s your bonnet? Were you having her clean the bilges, Mr. Finn? Phyllis winced. Her mother, Helany, was furious when she saw Phyllis’ dress, more brown and grey than blue now. In the hubbub, Phyllis completely forgot her bonnet on the shipyard stairs.

She wasn’t the main reason for her mother’s fury, though. Their two guards stood in front of her, looking abashed. Her mother held their crossbows. Phyllis didn’t understand why until she looked up. Every window on the third floor was broken.

What happened? Was there a mob? Phyllis didn’t recall seeing any disturbance on the streets when they rode in on her father’s two wheeled cart. When she looked closer, she saw a crossbow bolt stuck in the ceiling of several of the rooms, with three bolts in her lesson room, one sticking up through the slate roof tiles.

We’ll talk more of this later, said Helany to the guards, waving a crossbow bolt in front of their noses, then stalked inside with the two crossbows. Dregan and Phyllis followed Helany inside after a stableman took the horse reins from her father.

Phyllis opened her mouth to talk, but her father shook his head. Never mind all that. I have some important news for the household. Where’s Rowan?

Never mind? The guards just turned our roof into a sieve, and your daughter looks like she was wrestling sailors. Never mind?

The front door opened behind them, and Rowan stepped in proudly carrying a large fish. It must have weighed ten pounds, Phyllis thought. Not bad. The fish were biting like crazy, he said, not noticing the brewing storm. I must have thrown five other fish back, I’d swear they couldn’t wait their turn to be caught. I think I caught one of them twice. He looked up from his fish and saw his mother, then turned and said quietly, I’ll just bring this to the kitchen.

Never mind that, said Dregan. Walter, will you bring Rowan’s fish to the kitchen? Everyone else, to my library. I have big news. Walter Priss was their butler. Everyone else but her father called him Mr. Priss, but her father couldn’t hold to formalities. Her father turned to the right and walked slowly toward his library, his head bowed in thought, the fingers of his left hand pressed to his temple.

So. Was the king impressed with your new design? asked Helany. The storm still showed on the edges of her face, but the sun glimmered in her smile. She must have heard about the king’s visit to the shipyard. Her mother had a way of getting one step ahead of the news. If the king ever needed a spy master, he had no further to look than Phyllis’ mother.

Hmmm? Oh, yes. Yes, fine. Her father clearly hadn’t heard the question. Her mother’s smile fell back behind the storm clouds of her brow. This could get interesting, Phyllis thought, so long as I don’t get in the line of fire. Helany gave the crossbows to a servant, but kept hold of the crossbow bolt and slapped it repeatedly against her left palm.

They followed her father into his library, the one room her mother wasn’t to touch. Oh, Helany could enter and look around, but Dregan didn’t want anything moved. Books and papers were scattered everywhere, some books face up, some face down, some in jumbled piles, but she knew her father could pinpoint any book within its walls. Ordered chaos, he called it. He had a theory that too much organization caused stagnation of ideas. Whenever the books were too well ordered, he seemed lost. He hated to visit the royal library, he found the organization stifling.

Do you want us to sit? asked Helany. Five chairs were scattered around the library, of all different sizes, but they were piled with books. Phyllis wondered if she should sit in one of the half empty bookshelves.

Yes, yes, Dregan said, looked down quietly for a moment, then suddenly swept into motion, grabbed a small stepladder, put it against a wall, climbed up, pulled out a rolled map from the top shelf, and spread it out on the floor over a pile of books, holding down the corners of the map with three cogs and a short metal pipe he pulled from a pocket. Come, come around, he said. It was a map of Argonia, with Raxton City showing prominently on the south coast, the former capital Argon City far up in the northwest, at Argon Lake, the source of the Argon River, snuggled up at the base of a mountain range. The Argon River flowed a meandering path south, and then emptied into the northern end of Locone Lake. The Rax River began at the south end of Locone Lake, and meandered south to the ocean, forming a delta to the east of Raxton City. Raxton City sat on a hill overlooking Raxton Bay, just west of the Rax Delta. East of the Argon and Rax River ran a dotted line marked Linden’s Wall that circled the eastern half of Argonia, abutting mountains on the north and east and the ocean on the south. Inside the circle, the text said Kinship Wilderness. Unlike the west half of the map, which showed elevations and towns and hills, the east half of the map was unmarked except for a few trees. Not forests, trees, with text next to each one. One was marked Teskiron, another was marked Somares, and a third was marked Bolus with a question mark, north of the other two. Her father put his finger on the map where another tree was marked, next to the Argon River. Toran. He looked up at everyone.

We’re going to have a big adventure together, he said. The king’s asked me to repair Argonia.

Repair Argonia, said Helany. Repair Argonia? What on earth does that mean? What’s wrong with Argonia?

What’s wrong? said Dregan, surprised at the question. Look at us! We’re barely held together. Another country could sneeze and take us over. Dregan held his finger on the map next to Toran, looking up at his wife. Phyllis smiled. Instead of taking a real map, her father took a fairy tale map of Argonia. Phyllis recognized the names on the map from stories they were told by a nurse she and Rowan had when they were little. Toran and Somares were the name of trees in the stories. In the approved stories, Somares had slick oily bark, hated all mankind, and passed festering illnesses to all who touched him. In the nurses’ stories, the trees didn’t carry disease. They didn’t cause the world’s problems. Instead they were like men, struggling to survive, some heroes, some villains. When her mother found out, the nurse was immediately dismissed. That was eight years ago. She never understood why her mother was so angry. Since then, only the approved version of the stories were allowed, and she stopped asking for their stories soon after. And here they were, the same trees as in the stories, on a map of Argonia.

The North and South are hardly one country, the road tying us together is impossible to use for weeks, sometimes months at a time. We need to fix the locks on the Argon River so trade and people can travel swiftly all year. His finger tapped the map. Phyllis noticed now there were added markings under his finger. He wasn’t pointing at the tree, his finger was on top of something else. She slid the map slightly under her father’s thumb while he was looking up at Helany, and saw notes on the map just east of Toran. Linden’s Locks. Linden’s Bridge. Linden’s Gate. And just to the south, on the edge of Locone Lake was a small village marked Locone Dale.

Helany looked at her husband, watching him closely. What does this have to do with us? she asked slowly, her eyes fixed on her husband, who was staring back, now looking uncertain.

The king’s ordered me to fix the locks.

Helany pushed the books from a chair and sat down. Dregan said nothing; he just watched her. You don’t need us for that. You’ll have this job done in no time, and be back for the new fleet to be let out of dry dock, in time for the king’s fifteen year jubilee.

Dregan shook his head. Lord Lemon will take care of the fleet in my absence.

Lord Lemon! Well, you can do it alone. You don’t need me or the children. If I know you, you’ll be so busy that you won’t see us for a month at a time anyway. We’ll be here, waiting for your triumphant return, and if you’re not back in time, we’ll represent you when the fleet is ready for sea. Phyllis raised her eyebrows. How did her mother know about the ships her father