Shield of Stars Read online

  SIMON & SCHUSTER BOOKS FOR YOUNG READERS

  An imprint of Simon & Schuster Children’s Publishing Division

  1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, New York 10020

  www.SimonandSchuster.com

  This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Othernames, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2007 by Hilari Bell

  All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.

  SIMON & SCHUSTER BOOKS FOR YOUNG READERS is a trademark of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

  Book designed by Lucy Ruth Cummins

  The text of this book was set in Celestia Antigua.

  Interior illustrations by Drew Willis

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  2 4 6 8 10 9 7 5 3 1

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Bell, Hilari.

  Shield of stars / by Hilari Bell.

  p. cm.—(The shield, sword, and crown; bk. 1)

  Summary: When the Justice he works for is condemned for treason, fourteen-year-old and semi-reformed pickpocket Weasel sets out to find a notorious bandit who may be able to help save his master’s life.

  ISBN-13: 978-1-4169-0594-3 (hardcover)

  ISBN-10: 1-4169-0594-4 (hardcover)

  eISBN-13: 978-1-442-40672-8

  [1. Conduct of life—Fiction. 2. Robbers and outlaws—Fiction. 3. Kings, queens, rulers, etc.—Fiction. 4. Fantasy] I. Title.II. Series: Bell, Hilari. Shield, the sword and the crown; bk. 1.

  PZ7.B38894Shi 2007

  [Fic]—dc22

  2005035571

  To Joyce and William Griffen,

  aka Aunt Kelly and Uncle Bill,

  who have cared about my writing since the beginning.

  CHAPTER 1

  The Two of Stars: imminent reprisals. May also indicate payment of a debt, or an arrest.

  “If this is treason,” said Weasel, “should you be writing it down?” He tucked the quill back in the inkwell and rubbed his cramping hand.

  The shutters had been closed to conceal the light in the justice’s study, so no one walking the puddle-strewn cobbles would wonder why such an important man was awake so late—several hours had passed since the city clock chimed midnight.

  But despite the danger, sealing in the light of hearth and candle made the book-filled room feel warm and safe. As if the night were shut out, instead of light imprisoned.

  “Ah, but you’ll note that I’m not writing it,” said Justice Holis serenely. He laid down his book so readily that Weasel knew he’d only been pretending to read it. “Putting treason on paper in your own hand would be both dangerous and foolish. That’s why you’re doing it for me.”

  Weasel snorted. “Seriously, sir, aren’t you taking a huge chance if one of these letters is intercepted? Why not send a messenger?”

  His employer leaned back in his comfortable chair and regarded Weasel thoughtfully. Light glinted on his spectacles.

  “That’s a fair question. The answer is that a letter, sent by post in a plain wrapper, is less likely to arouse suspicion than half a dozen men galloping through the countryside. Not to mention the difficulty of finding that many men who wouldn’t sell me out to Regent Pettibone for the reward.”

  “Reward?” asked Weasel. “What reward?”

  “The reward the regent would most certainly give anyone who brought to his notice a conspiracy to break his power, and remove—”

  “How big a reward?”

  Holis gave in and laughed. “Don’t bother. I know you won’t betray me.”

  “Are you sure about that?”

  Holis smiled. “It’s a good distraction, but not good enough. Back to work. The sooner those letters are posted, the sooner we’re both safe. Safer, I should say.”

  The justice knew him too cursed well. Weasel picked up the quill and wiped off the excess ink on the lip of the bottle before he wrote.

  I have spent some time with the young man in question. He is a reserved boy, but I think I have made a start in gaining his trust….

  This was the fifth copy he’d written, so Weasel knew the rest of the letter’s contents. The confirmation that Regent Pettibone had complete personal control over both the palace and the city guards and was slowly gaining influence in the army, and even the navy. That he was also growing more popular with the common folk here in the city, despite the fact that the country rustics generally didn’t care for him. Though Justice Holis didn’t call them rustics.

  Weasel lifted the quill again to yawn. “What does it matter what the bumpkins think? Or even the townsmen? As long as Pettibone controls the guard and the army he can do as he likes. He doesn’t have to care what anyone thinks.”

  “Really?” Holis asked dryly. “Will you feel the same if my friends and I succeed in replacing him with a new regent? We’re doing it because we think he’s a bad influence on the young prince, and a bad ruler for Deorthas.”

  “Yes, but you’ve all got money, and power, and the law on your side too,” Weasel objected. “As long as that ‘Concordance of Nobles’ thing is still on the books.”

  “Oh, it’s on the books,” said Holis. “If all the nobles in Deorthas meet with leaders of the church, and two-thirds of them agree that the king’s close adviser is harmful to Deorthas and its king, then his position will be filled by another. Mind, the last time this law was envoked was almost a thousand years ago … but it’s still on the books.”

  “And it says ‘king,’ not ‘prince,’” said Weasel, who had taken the trouble to locate the passage in one of Holis’ books. A dusty book, titled A History of the Ancient Laws of Deorthas. “And it talks about advisers, not a regent.”

  “I’m sure Regent Pettibone will point out both those things,” said Justice Holis mildly. “Which is why we need to be ready for him with a firm majority in the nobles, and the support of the country folk, too.”

  “The bumpkins’ support isn’t going to be worth much, when the guard comes for you,” Weasel muttered.

  This could get Justice Holis hanged. And his clerk along with him!

  Fortunately, Weasel had a backup plan prepared. In a few more months, he’d probably have improved his talents as a forger enough to make a living at it. He could have used a different hand on these letters, which might be safer—but it would mean admitting that he’d been studying the forger’s trade, and that was a confession Weasel didn’t want to make.

  Pickpockets had to keep in practice, and Weasel hadn’t been able to use his old craft for more than three years. Not since the day Holis had captured Weasel’s hand wiggling into his pocket. So a new career was clearly in order, and a good forger made more than a pickpocket. Forgery was safer, too. Mind, it was almost as dull as being a law clerk, but you couldn’t have everything. He didn’t want to be a law clerk, though he knew Justice Holis would be disappointed….

  Sometime in the last three years, not disappointing the justice had become important to Weasel.

  “The country folk have a different kind of power,” Holis said, interrupting Weasel’s thoughts. “Look at all the trouble the Falcon has caused, and he’s only one bandit. The townsmen have power too. In fact, at the heart of it, people are the only thing that matters.”

  “More than law?” asked Weasel curiously.

  “Who do you think makes the law? And why are legal cases tried individually, by people? But fortunately for us, the country folk have always given their allegiance to the true king. That’s what makes the young prince so important.”
r />   “The ‘young prince’ is fifteen,” said Weasel. “He’s a year older than I am.”

  “In years, yes,” said the justice. “But I’m afraid that in some ways he’s younger than you ever were. Which is one of the problems with Pettibone. I fear the prince has been …”

  “Spoiled rotten?”

  “… badly raised,” Holis corrected firmly. “And as I was saying, the country folk will be loyal to him. Although … I wish the sword and shield hadn’t been lost. They were only symbols, but symbols have a kind of power too. I’m told that there’s unrest now, even in the countryside. If the sword and shield were found, that might settle. Which, of course, is why the regent has posted a reward for them.”

  “A reward? How big—All right, all right, I’m working.”

  “You might as well,” Holis told him. “The sword and shield were lost centuries ago. To a burglar, I understand.”

  Weasel grinned. “I thought one of the old kings lost them at cards.”

  Holis laughed. “I’ve heard that one too, but it seems … unlikely. The sword and the shield were the symbols of the true king from the beginning of Deorthas’ history. It would be incredibly irresponsible to gamble with them.”

  “You think kings can’t be irresponsible?”

  “Most of them aren’t.”

  “Prince Edoran would be.”

  Holis started to deny it, then sighed. “He might, if he continues the way he is now. Which is why you’re writing these letters. Or more accurately, not writing them.”

  Weasel dipped the quill again. “With an irresponsible king, the smart thing to do is stay out of his way.”

  “The trouble with you, lad,” said Holis mildly, “besides the fact that you’re not working, is that you have no social conscience.”

  “I can write and talk at the same time,” said Weasel, proving his point as his pen moved across the page. “And judging by what I’m writing, a social conscience could get a man hanged. I care about me first, me second, and nobody else. It’s safer that way.”

  “Is it?” Holis asked, falling, as he always did, for a philosophical argument. “Or does your isolation render you more vulnerable, because you don’t—”

  Bam. Bam. Bam. Someone pounded on the door. Weasel flinched so violently that he jostled the desk, spilling ink over the fifth letter in a dark flood.

  “Open in the name of the law!” a rough voice shouted.

  “Quick, the letters!” Holis plucked the stained one from under Weasel’s hand as he spoke. “I’ll burn them, you answer the door.” He crumpled the papers into a loose bundle. “Delay as long as you can. In fact …”

  He reached out with one hand and pulled Weasel’s shirttails out of his britches.

  “Take off your shoes and stockings. Make it look like they woke you up. Rumple your hair and—”

  “I’ve got it,” said Weasel. He could feel his heart racing. “I’ll give you as much time as I—”

  Bam. Bam. Bam. “Open in the law’s name, or we’ll break down this door!”

  “I’m coming,” Weasel shouted. He kicked off his shoes as he ran, and snatched them up to toss behind the chest that sat in the short hallway beside the stairs. His long stockings slowed him more; he hopped and stumbled as he tugged them off and thrust them into his pocket.

  Bam. Bam. Bam.

  “I’m coming!” he cried again, running his fingers through his hair. With his shirt out and his feet bare, it should look like he’d just tumbled out of bed and thrown on some clothes. His eyes wouldn’t be sleep-swollen, but there was nothing he could do about that, and—

  Crash! The ram shook Justice Holis’ heavy door, and the lamp glass clattered. Weasel hurried forward.

  “I’m opening up!” he shouted, pulling the bolts as slowly as he dared. “The God rot you—”

  The door swung open.

  “—it’s the middle of the night!” Weasel put all the indignation he could into his voice, but his heart sank.

  Ten men stood on the threshold, wearing the green and white uniforms and black tricorne hats that marked the city guard. At least they carried the cudgels they wielded when they patrolled, instead of pistols, but a full troop such as this wasn’t needed for an inquiry. A full troop meant a search, and probably …

  “What do you want here?” Weasel demanded, hoping he sounded stuffy instead of terrified. “This is the home of Justice Holis, a most influential—”

  “We’ve come to see the justice,” said a man, pushing his way through the guards. He was clad in a good brown coat and plain waistcoat, rather like the clothes Weasel wore when the justice wanted him to look respectable—though this man’s coat was better cut, and made of finer cloth. “Take us to him. Now.”

  He stepped into the hall, thrusting Weasel back, and the guardsmen came in after him.

  “I don’t know where he is.” Weasel’s glare wasn’t entirely feigned. He’d opened the cursed door. There was no reason for them to be rude. “He was still reading when I went to bed, but he’s probably asleep by now.”

  “In fact, I’m not,” said Justice Holis calmly. He left the study and moved down the narrow hall, leaving the door open behind him—just like a man with nothing to hide, Weasel noted approvingly. Even in the beginning, he had never mistaken Justice Holis for a stupid man. Unrealistic, impractical, and way too trusting, but not stupid.

  “How can I assist you, Master Darian? Or perhaps I should say, how may I assist the regent?”

  Weasel didn’t know the man, but he recognized the name from Holis’ correspondence. Regent Pettibone’s clerk. The cold air pouring through the open door, damp from the rain that had ended only a few hours ago, was sufficient excuse for Weasel’s sudden shudder.

  He cast the guards a disgusted look and went to close the door, just as the clerk of a good, innocent man would. He was reaching for the knob when Master Darian grabbed his wrist and twisted it, turning his right hand toward the light.

  The small black stains on his fingers looked like blood.

  “Ink,” said Darian. “You’ve been writing something.”

  “I’m a clerk,” said Weasel, trying to tug his hand free. “I write things all the time.”

  “I tell you to wash your hands all the time too,” said Holis. “For all the good it does.”

  Darian’s eyes went to the study door and his grip tightened. He stalked down the hall, dragging Weasel behind him. Holis fell back before them, into the room, and the guards followed.

  The study was too well-lit for a man reading alone, Weasel thought, as his gaze tracked after Master Darian’s. But he saw nothing that would reveal the truth.

  Darian’s gaze fell on the tall desk. The stool was pushed back, as Weasel had left it, but the quill lay neatly in its slot and the inkwell stood upright and capped.

  “Writing,” Master Darian breathed.

  “Can I have my hand back?” Weasel asked. Master Darian ignored his words, pulling Weasel over to the desk. It looked tidy, except …

  Weasel stifled a gasp. Darian reached out and ran the fingers of his free hand over the dark stain. They came away black with ink.

  “I told you to clean that up this afternoon,” said Holis severely. The guards might have believed it, but a clerk would know how quickly spilled ink dried.

  “You were writing something. Here, in this room.” Master Darian’s eyes searched once more. Weasel took a steadying breath and willed his wrist to go limp in the clerk’s strong grasp, moving with the man so he felt no resistance. It was an old trick, but reliable, and it worked this time, too—the hard grip loosened.

  “But if you were working on something, where did you hide it? You can’t have gone far. Guards, spread out and search …”

  His gaze found the hearth.

  “Rot!” He let go of Weasel and ran forward, grabbing for the bundle of paper. It was visible behind the logs only because it blazed so high.

  Darian snatched his hand back, swearing, and reached for the poker a
nd tongs.

  Two of the guards had seized Holis when Master Darian cried out, but the justice was too wise to struggle. He never even glanced at Weasel, his gaze fixed on the small drama at the hearth.

  The rest of the guards were also watching Master Darian as he dragged out the flaming papers. They tumbled onto the rug, scattering glowing embers. There wasn’t much left of them.

  “Put them out! Put them out! Hold him!”

  He couldn’t help the justice if he got arrested too.

  Weasel eased backward. The cold draft on the back of his neck guided him to the open door as surely as his eyes might have. Only when he’d passed through the doorway did he turn and spring silently down the hall, not even pausing to retrieve his shoes.

  The front door was still open, and rain-scented air enveloped Weasel as he stepped into the night. He had a few minutes, at most, before they noticed his absence. But even as he raced toward the street, the walkway’s freezing cobbles bruising his feet, some part of him wanted to be there, beside his master, sharing his fate.

  Which was probably the most lunatic notion he’d ever come up with—and that was saying a lot! Weasel cursed his own foolish heart as he turned off the road and stepped onto a low brick wall that lined a neighbor’s flowerbed.

  In spring or summer it wouldn’t have mattered, but the last of the autumn flowers had finally died, and some busy gardener had just spaded and raked the beds. The marks of Weasel’s bare feet would be plain as print. Fortunately, the brick wall ran right up to the side of the house, where ornamental statues and bushes framed the front door.

  Delivering papers to that door, as a respectable clerk, Weasel had barely noticed them. But not so very long ago, he had made a living in a trade where pursuit by angry victims, and sometimes by patrolling guards, had been a part of his daily life. Weasel still noted hiding places, and escape routes, wherever he went.

  A long step took him onto the base of a statue. Weasel clung to it as if the marble dame were his scarce-remembered mother, as he worked his way around and then dropped into the narrow space between the pedestal and the wall. When he recaptured his breath and poked his head out, a screen of brush shielded him from the street.