Nettle & Bone(56)

“There is something to what you say,” said the dust-wife. “But if the prince turns up dead, then I would assume that this godmother would be suspicious.”

“Why?” asked Agnes. “I’m a godmother. I can’t do anything to an adult. And I’ve got a perfectly good reason to be here. The queen’s about to bear another child. As the godmother for the royal family, I’ve got an interest.”

“I’ll go with you,” said Marra. She could just imagine sweet, cheerful Agnes running into the prince’s godmother, in much the same way that Bonedog might run headlong into an unexpected wall. I wouldn’t go see her by myself, either. Maybe the dust-wife could hold her own, but the rest of us mortals …

“She’s seen you before,” said the dust-wife.

“Not really.” Marra shrugged. “I was a long way off and there was a king and a queen and a prince in the room. I wasn’t on the dais. I don’t think she even glanced in my direction.”

“So that’s settled,” said Agnes. “Will you look after Finder?”

“Finder,” said the dust-wife in a tone that did not invite further comment.

“The chick. I named him Finder.”

The dust-wife looked at her, then at the little black chick, then back at Agnes. “Finder,” she said again.

“Because that was the blessing. That he’d help us find somewhere safe.”

“You named the chicken.”

“Well, of course! Doesn’t your chicken have a name?”

The dust-wife looked at the brown hen, who glared back. “First of all, no, and second of all, she’s got a demon in her, so I would be naming the demon, which already has a true name. I am not going to go around naming demons. It gives them ideas.”

“I name all my chickens,” said Agnes. “Specky and Buff and Milady and Jonquil and Shadow. Don’t you name any of your chickens?”

“No. They’re chickens. They don’t come when they’re called.”

“Well, no, but it’s easier if you’re going to talk about them to other people. You can’t always be saying ‘the big tan one with the feathered feet’ and whatnot.”

“I do not talk about my chickens to other people,” said the dust-wife with an air of finality.

“I’ve heard you talk about other people to your chicken, though,” put in Fenris. Agnes giggled.

“For the first time,” said the dust-wife, mostly to the ceiling, “I am beginning to question the sense of this entire enterprise.”

“I’ve been questioning it since day one,” said Marra.

“I have not,” said Fenris. “I have faith in all of you.”

“You would,” muttered the dust-wife. “Fine. I’ll watch … Finder.”

Agnes beamed at her. “Be a good chick,” she instructed Finder, and handed him over to the dust-wife. Finder peeped. The brown hen made a low, reptilian noise of disdain.

Agnes dusted off her hands. “Let’s go,” she said. “I can’t wait to meet another godmother.”



* * *



Finding where the prince’s godmother lived was easier than it should have been. Agnes simply asked the landlady.

“I don’t know,” she rasped, while the puppet glared at them and tapped his wooden nails together. “But someone like that will live rich, and the houses get richer as you climb the spiral. Go up the spiral road and ask again.”

“Right, then!” said Agnes happily, and off they went, Marra in her drabbest robes with no medal, a servant or a poor relation.

“Won’t she live in the palace?” asked Marra.

“Would she?” asked Agnes. “I don’t.”

“Yes, but…” Marra identified a conversational pit trap and carefully stepped around it. Yes, but you’re you. Yes, but in the Northern Kingdom, the godmother is terrifying and respected, not a poor relation. Yes, but …

And an hour later, Yes, but you were right.

The godmother did not live in the palace. She lived in the temple district, among the tall, narrow houses of the gods and saints, as if she were a priest.

“Near the top of the city, of course,” said Agnes. While the city was arranged in a spiral of roads, steps had been cut as short cuts. They worked. They were also extremely steep. “Why do gods always want you to walk to them? You’d think they’d do more good if they were near where most of the people live.”

“I suppose it depends on what people want in a god,” said Marra. “But the abbess always said that most people want gods to be close enough to get them if you want them, but not have them breathing down your neck all the time.”

Agnes grunted, waving for a halt. They sat down on a bench halfway up the steep flight of stairs. Both of them were panting.

“So,” said Agnes.

“Unnnh?”

“Fenris?”

“Fenris what?”

Agnes nudged her in the ribs. “Fenris,” she said, lifting her eyebrows.

“Oh gods,” said Marra. She rested her elbows on her knees and dropped her head. Please do not make me have this conversation with my great-aunt. Please.

“Eh? Eh?” Another nudge. “Handsome lad, isn’t he?”