Page 30 of Yellow Belly

Henry. Good gods, where was Henry—and in what condition?

Stefano tried to get out of bed but fell to the floor in a painful heap. He’d nearly forgotten how to walk on two legs, and it took ages for him to get his feet under himself and stand upright. Reaching out his hands to feel his way, he managed only three halting steps before being blocked by a wooden door. He felt along the edges but there was no way to open it, and it was far too stout for him to knock down. The room held nothing else except a shallow alcove near the door, in which someone had placed a tin pitcher of water. He drank several grateful gulps. There was also a chamber pot beneath the cot.

He tried shouting. His voice was weak and hoarse, even as it echoed off the walls. Nobody answered, and after a time he collapsed onto the cot, where he sat with head in hands and tried not to cry. He’d done such an abysmal job of dealing with the king and princess, and he was so thick that he couldn’t think of what else he could have done. Gods, he’d known this journey would end in misery for him. But he’d at least hoped to avert a war between Thanytsia and Fraysia. And he’d hoped to find a way for Henry, at least, to live happily.

He didn’t sleep that night. Mostly he paced within the small confines of his cell, bouncing off walls until he was bruised. Occasionally he paused to hit his forehead against the stone, but that didn’t shake loose any brilliant ideas. Sometimes he shouted, but there was never an answer.

When he’d been very young, before Henry had been brought to the castle, Stefano had found a field mouse during one of his lonely traipses through the gardens. With patience, he was able to capture it in his hands. He spent a long time with the creature trapped between his palms, feeling its frantic heartbeats. It was a tiny thing, yet he sensed that it clung to life as fiercely and desperately as he would have. Then, quite suddenly, it had bitten the meat of his hand, and Stefano had startled and dropped it. He’d watched it scurry away into the underbrush.

Stefano was not a mouse nor even, any longer, a frog. But he understood that at their core, human emotions weren’t so different from animals’. He would do whatever he needed to in order to escape this situation and free Henry.

* * *

Shortly after sunrise, Stefano sat on the edge of the cot with the blanket around his shoulders. His eyes were crusty, his throat raw, his belly empty. But he waited, and as soon as he heard the scraping of a bolt on the other side of the door, he dropped to his knees, hands raised in supplication.

The door creaked open and a pair of uniformed guards gaped at him. One of them held a stout club, the other a tin bowl. Apparently neither had expected to encounter their naked prisoner begging.

“Please,” Stefano said quickly. “Please help. Tell your king and princess that I’ll do anything, they can do anything they wish to me, but please, my friend, my beloved, don’t harm him, he’s a good man, he’s never intended harm to anyone, he had no choice in any of my family’s mess and never has.”

After an additional moment of gaping, the guard with the bowl set it carefully onto the floor. “Breakfast, sir,” he said.

“Please, can you tell me whether Henry—the other Thanytsian—is he well? Is he safe?”

The guards exchanged a quick glance. Then the one with the club cleared her throat. “We can convey your… requests… to our captain.”

He didn’t know what this signified about Henry’s status, but he pressed his hands together as if in prayer. “Please help him.”

The guards backed out of the doorway and shut the door. He heard the bolt slide home. Slowly, he got to his feet again. The bowl contained a surprisingly good meal: bread, cold meat, dried fruit, a handful of nuts. But although he hadn’t eaten anything—even an insect—in a long time, he didn’t want food now. He set the bowl on the cot and wrapped the blanket around himself again.

It was difficult to judge time here, but perhaps half an hour had passed when the door opened again. The two guards were back, this time both with clubs, and now they were accompanied by one of the men whom Stefano had seen the previous night. He looked as poorly rested as Stefano.

That man gave Stefano a grave nod. “Your Highness.”

“Sir, please, the other Thanytsian⁠—”

“His Majesty wishes to speak with you.”

A small sound escaped Stefano’s throat. “Yes, of course, but please—” He started to move toward the door, but the man held up his hand.

“Perhaps some clothing first, sir?”

“I’ll put on whatever you want or nothing at all. I don’t care.” If he had to crawl naked through the palace in order to help Henry, he would do it.

One of the guards tossed Stefano some folded fabric, which proved to be a pair of loose linen trousers and a linen tunic, both in a pale blue with a bit of white embroidery around the hems. They were a little big on him, but he tied the waist of the trousers tightly. “Can we go now? Please?”

“I need to bind your hands.” The man held up a pair of iron manacles, and after Stefano spun around and put his hands behind his back, the man bound his wrists tightly. Before moving away, he growled into Stefano’s ear, “If you even think about harming His Majesty or the princess, I’ll have you gutted on the floor before you draw another breath.”

“I understand. The royal family is fortunate to have your loyalty.” Stefano meant this sincerely. His father was forever suspicious of his own guards and advisors, probably for good reason. People feared him but few respected him, and nobody loved him.

The man didn’t respond to Stefano’s statement, but did step back and guide him—firmly but not roughly—to the door.

Their little party of four proceeded through a series of halls, stairways, and narrow corridors, which seemed a needlessly complicated route. Stefano couldn’t tell whether the intent was to disorient him or avoid most of the other people in the palace. Perhaps both. None of them spoke along the way, and although Stefano wanted very badly to beg information about Henry, he bit his tongue, unwilling to anger his guide. Besides, he doubted very much that the man would tell him anything.

Finally they entered a smallish room with a pair of windows overlooking the woods behind the palace. The walls and floors were bare except for a single faded painting of a hunting scene. The only pieces of furniture were half a dozen heavy wooden chairs.

As they stood there waiting, Stefano wanted to scream with impatience. But he was well aware that kings could not be hurried, and it was some small consolation that his guide also seemed annoyed by the delay.

Just as discretion was about to lose the battle with Stefano’s anxiety, the door slammed open and the king swept in, accompanied by the other man from the previous night, Ebuka. The king seemed irritated, while Ebuka had so much nervous energy that it looked as if he might fly apart. “Sire, you don’t need to deal with this. I can⁠—”