fingers between the bars. Bonvilain stepped aside and casually swung Conor into the wall, wincing at the clang and clatter.
“I used your own momentum against you,” he said, as though school were in session. “Basic training. Basic. If one of my men made that mistake, I’d have him flogged. Didn’t that French dandy teach you anything?”
Bonvilain squatted, propping Conor against the rough damp wall. “A great day, isn’t it? Historic. The king is gone, apparently assassinated by rebels. Do you know what that means?”
Conor could not reply even if he had wanted to. If it had not been for the pain, this would have all seemed like a cruel dream. A night terror.
Bonvilain rattled the lunatic box to make sure he had Conor’s attention. “Hello? Young Broekhart. Still with us?”
Conor tried to spit at his captor, but all he could do was gag.
“Good. Alive, for now. Anyway, about the king’s being dead, let me tell you what it means. It means an end to these ridiculous reforms. Money for the people. The people? Unwashed, uneducated rabble. No more money for the people, you can bet the blood in your veins on that.”
Everything King Nicholas has done will be undone, thought Conor dully. All for nothing.
“Isabella becomes queen. A puppet queen, but a queen nonetheless. And can you guess what her obsession will become?” Of course. It was so obvious that a boy could see it, even in Conor’s dazed state.
“I see by your eyes that you can guess. She will dedicate her life to stamping out the rebels. It will consume her, I will make sure of it. There will be no end to the number of rebels I will unearth. Any merchant who refuses to pay my tax. Any youth with a grudge. All rebels. All hanged. I am closer now to being king than any Bonvilain has ever been.”
This statement hung between them, heavy with centuries of treason. Conor heard the creak of manacle chains and the drip of water. Bonvilain yanked Conor’s boxed head as close as the bars would allow, and unhooked the box’s mouth strap.
“Before he died your teacher said that I would never stop them all. Was Victor Vigny working with the French Aeronauts? Or La Légion Noire—the Black Legion?”
Conor’s lip was swollen from one punch or another and his jaws were shot with pain, but he managed to speak. “There is no Black Legion. You will destroy the Saltees fighting an imaginary enemy.”
“Let me tell you something, little man,” snarled the marshall. “If it weren’t for the Bonvilains, these islands would be nothing more than rocks in the ocean. Nothing but salt and bird droppings. We have nursemaided the Trudeaus for centuries. But no more. This island is mine now. I will milk it dry, and Queen Isabella stays alive so long as she does not interfere with that plan.” Bonvilain rattled Conor’s cage. “I am interested to hear what you think of this plan, young Broekhart.”
“Why tell me, murderer? I am not your priest.”
Bonvilain shook the lunatic box as though it were a mystery gift. “Not my priest. Very good—I will miss our exchanges. I tell you, little Broekhart, because these are the very moments that make life worth living. I am at my best in the thick of action. Stabbing, shooting, and plotting. I enjoy it. I exult in it. For centuries, the Bonvilains have been behind the throne, steering it with their machinations. But never anything like this.”
Bonvilain was almost dazed by happiness. Everything he had planned for was now within reach.
“And you, my little meddler, have transformed a good plan into a perfect one. It’s your father, you see. He is a great soldier, I can admit it. A wonderful soldier. He inspires great loyalty among the men. I was planning to remove him, and weather the storm. But now, the rebel Victor Vigny and you, his indoctrinated student, have killed the king. Your father is honor-bound to protect the new queen with every breath in his body. And because I will promise to keep his son’s
“I used your own momentum against you,” he said, as though school were in session. “Basic training. Basic. If one of my men made that mistake, I’d have him flogged. Didn’t that French dandy teach you anything?”
Bonvilain squatted, propping Conor against the rough damp wall. “A great day, isn’t it? Historic. The king is gone, apparently assassinated by rebels. Do you know what that means?”
Conor could not reply even if he had wanted to. If it had not been for the pain, this would have all seemed like a cruel dream. A night terror.
Bonvilain rattled the lunatic box to make sure he had Conor’s attention. “Hello? Young Broekhart. Still with us?”
Conor tried to spit at his captor, but all he could do was gag.
“Good. Alive, for now. Anyway, about the king’s being dead, let me tell you what it means. It means an end to these ridiculous reforms. Money for the people. The people? Unwashed, uneducated rabble. No more money for the people, you can bet the blood in your veins on that.”
Everything King Nicholas has done will be undone, thought Conor dully. All for nothing.
“Isabella becomes queen. A puppet queen, but a queen nonetheless. And can you guess what her obsession will become?” Of course. It was so obvious that a boy could see it, even in Conor’s dazed state.
“I see by your eyes that you can guess. She will dedicate her life to stamping out the rebels. It will consume her, I will make sure of it. There will be no end to the number of rebels I will unearth. Any merchant who refuses to pay my tax. Any youth with a grudge. All rebels. All hanged. I am closer now to being king than any Bonvilain has ever been.”
This statement hung between them, heavy with centuries of treason. Conor heard the creak of manacle chains and the drip of water. Bonvilain yanked Conor’s boxed head as close as the bars would allow, and unhooked the box’s mouth strap.
“Before he died your teacher said that I would never stop them all. Was Victor Vigny working with the French Aeronauts? Or La Légion Noire—the Black Legion?”
Conor’s lip was swollen from one punch or another and his jaws were shot with pain, but he managed to speak. “There is no Black Legion. You will destroy the Saltees fighting an imaginary enemy.”
“Let me tell you something, little man,” snarled the marshall. “If it weren’t for the Bonvilains, these islands would be nothing more than rocks in the ocean. Nothing but salt and bird droppings. We have nursemaided the Trudeaus for centuries. But no more. This island is mine now. I will milk it dry, and Queen Isabella stays alive so long as she does not interfere with that plan.” Bonvilain rattled Conor’s cage. “I am interested to hear what you think of this plan, young Broekhart.”
“Why tell me, murderer? I am not your priest.”
Bonvilain shook the lunatic box as though it were a mystery gift. “Not my priest. Very good—I will miss our exchanges. I tell you, little Broekhart, because these are the very moments that make life worth living. I am at my best in the thick of action. Stabbing, shooting, and plotting. I enjoy it. I exult in it. For centuries, the Bonvilains have been behind the throne, steering it with their machinations. But never anything like this.”
Bonvilain was almost dazed by happiness. Everything he had planned for was now within reach.
“And you, my little meddler, have transformed a good plan into a perfect one. It’s your father, you see. He is a great soldier, I can admit it. A wonderful soldier. He inspires great loyalty among the men. I was planning to remove him, and weather the storm. But now, the rebel Victor Vigny and you, his indoctrinated student, have killed the king. Your father is honor-bound to protect the new queen with every breath in his body. And because I will promise to keep his son’s
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