“Ah, little Samuel.” Duke Malless’ voice was hard, his smile tight. “With or without me, Florens would never capitulate to Rostane. If I swore fealty to you, they would simply appoint my son as duke and consider me dead. If you took Eric, then the next in line would step up. Right now, you are in a very uncomfortable situation. As soon as my true status at the Plateau is known, you will have an army at your southern border. And with the treaties I have in place, Florens would have support from Jecusta and you would easily be outmanned.” Unlike Erlins, Malless was not a fool. His calm, confident voice was exceptionally effective at controlling the room, and that quality always set the little duke into a rage.
But not now. Not today.
“What is that you said about Eric? If he were taken, the next in line would step up as duke? Your cousin, Regis Tawney?” Samuel gestured to the other man standing at the front of the room.
Lord Faris—Emma was uncertain of his first name—was the little duke’s chief advisor. He supposedly hailed from Algania, and had taken a seat on the advisory council of Samuel III during the border incursions with the Wasmer. It was partially due to his efforts, both in strategy and diplomacy, that Rostane had been able to reach an uneasy peace with the fur-skinned folk. Now, he stood, his black and silver hair fixed in a loose ponytail, wearing a long, red cloak despite the heat in the room. At least, Emma felt the room was hot. Her palms were sweating.
Lord Faris retrieved a bulky bag from behind his chair and approached Henrik. He paused in front of the duke, looking into his eyes with an inscrutable gaze. And then he upended the bag, spilling onto the table a decapitated head which rolled toward Henrik. Henrik pulled back out of his chair and jumped to his feet, immediately feeling a spear point at his back.
“Let me adjust this,” said Lord Faris in his deep, calming voice, reaching for the head, which had landed face down. With his righting of the head, Emma saw a white, pinched face that she did not recognize. But, Lord Malless did.
“You fucking bastard. Florens will see you dead,” he whispered venomously, his voice carrying far in the unembellished stone chamber.
“Viscount Regis Tawny, third in line to the ducal seat of Florens,” said Little Duke Penton. “Now in no condition to rule. So, if something unforeseen were to happen to young Eric Malless, the fourth in line would take the seat. That quivering blob of a man, Taean Tawny. Do you think that he could stand against me? What do you think he would have done if exposed to Erlins’… rehabilitation? Florens is lost one way or another.”
“Eric will never stand for this.” Henrik glared at Samuel, and Emma thought that there was a high probability that Henrik was going to rush him and be cut down. But, he was both too brave and too smart for that.
“With all due respect, your grace, Eric does not yet know of your fate. He has been receiving regular letters from you, detailing your continued negotiations with Rostane, sealed in wax with your insignia, the river otter.” Lord Faris was all respect, even as he gave Henrik news of this treason. There was not a hint of sarcasm in his voice, nor mockery in his face. “Your grace, in a week, Eric will ride out for the traditional Awakening Celebration hunt in the Dentony region bordering Rostane. A regiment is being sent to the border, and will overtake Eric and his small group of nobles and soldiers.”
Henrik slowly sank back into his chair, apparently beaten, a lion finally tamed.
“This is in your hands now, Henrik. What shall become of your beloved son, Eric? He is certainly a fine swordsman and will no doubt give a good accounting of himself. But, against the numbers we send, he is destined to fall. Then, you become expendable, as it will be much easier to deal with Tubby Taean than you,” said Penton, his glee barely restrained.
“Your grace, I will have an answer for you tomorrow,” responded Henrik in a hushed, hollow voice that carried none of his usual confidence or authority. Emma was stunned that he appeared to be giving in. She’d thought his backbone was steel, unable to bend, break, or even chip. This cousin, Regis, to whom belonged the disembodied head, must have meant a lot to him. And, the threat to his son, even more.
“Of course, my dear Henrik. However, you must be quick, as the orders for the incursion have already been sent. My fastest messengers are only as fast as their horses.” The little duke appeared satisfied in his apparent victory over Duke Malless, despite having had to utilize appalling methods. Malless must have known something like this was coming. They all had; the past two or three weeks had been full of heavy implications and threats. Once Erlins had met his fate, they’d known what the little duke was capable of. It had only been a matter of time until one of them was targeted. Henrik represented both the biggest threat and the biggest potential profit to the little duke’s cause. He was the obvious first target.
And by that logic, Emma believed that Lady Escamilla, being so wealthy and owning so much land, was the obvious second choice.
“And you, Lady Escamilla. What do I have to offer you, a woman playing at being a noble?”
“I imagine that I would not recognize any heads that you dumped in front of me, your grace,” said Escamilla with her typical aplomb. Emma was ever impressed by her mistress, and sought to emulate her whenever possible.
“Ah, yes. The Lady Escamilla,” said Duke Penton, leaning back in his padded chair. “She has touched so many lives and yet holds no close confidants. No children; likely barren. Faris, any word on family?”
“Your grace, we have been unable to locate any relatives of the Lady Escamilla,” said Lord Faris matter-of-factly. Emma was not sure whether to like or loathe the man.
“That is a shame. Family opens people up for… discussions. I am aware that you have no current heir to your holdings.”
“My affairs, your grace, are my affairs. I will mind them as I so choose,” said Escamilla.
“Of course, of course. I would never think to pry into your affairs. Most nobles and competitors have already tried to do the same, and have had little luck. My mean resources could not unveil anything that has not already been found.”
“I attempt to keep a low profile, your grace.” Escamilla nodded respectfully.
“And yet, here we are. I know that you have standing forces guarding your operations across all of Ardia. They are to be mine. I know that you generate a great deal of revenue from your products. A portion of that is to be mine.”
“Your grace, you are unable to compel me.”
Emma wished she were Escamilla. So calm under pressure. She would have been physically sick, were she in Escamilla’s chair.
“Actually, compelling you is quite easy. With no successor and heir in place, upon your death, your wealth and holdings would be absorbed by the duchy. Certainly, your loyal people would disperse, and that would not benefit me. And certainly, some of that wealth would be distributed to Florens, Draston, and Hunesa. But, given that those duchies are to be mine soon enough, I am not concerned with that. No, eliminating you, my Lady Escamilla, is the easiest option, if you are unable to bargain.” The little duke again smiled, appearing to believe he had again defeated his opponent. Emma had a strong desire to gouge him in the eyes. Even her disabled hand would be enough for that.
“Your grace, you are welcome to take that chance. However, hypothetically, a lady of my standing likely has a number of contingency plans in place. Perhaps, if such a lady were to disappear under unusual circumstances, such plans might be released. Perhaps there are official, legal documents available, in the hands of a number of reputable barristers and bankers, naming an heir. Or, perhaps my wealth and holdings are willed to the Duchess Emily Fraunt, or perhaps Lord Unael of Jecusta. Even your mean resources tell you that we have a close, political relationship,” Escamilla said, hands still folded on the table in front of her.
The little duke’s eyes seemed to bulge at her calm, measured words, and one of his hands was clenched in a fist, his flesh clearly turning white even in the poor illumination of the Great Hall.
“So, your gr
ace, you are welcome to take your chances. But, were I a betting woman, I would not wager on you achieving your desired outcome.”
From her post behind Lady Escamilla, Emma wanted to laugh. Her lady had obviously won this round, just as she had gotten the better of so many men in the past.
Duke Penton looked as if he had been stung by a dozen hornets, so red was his face. He started to speak, but cut himself off. He glanced askance at Lord Faris, and the move was not lost on Emma. Faris who addressed Escamilla next, his own face as stoic as stone.
“My Lady Escamilla, you are dismissed for today. Your handmaiden and guard will direct you back to your quarters. You will be summoned again soon. Until then, please take your leisure.”
---
Emma was immeasurably relieved when she and Lady Escamilla finally returned to their shared quarters. Emma threw herself onto the single bed in the austere room and let out a long breath. She felt drained by the stress of the day’s audience, both physically and emotionally. All day, she had felt a rising tension, and now she felt like a piping hot tea kettle that was finally able to release some of its pent up steam. This kettle, however, had never been in a fire so hot.
“My dear, are you alright?” asked Escamilla, genuine concern clear in her tone. Though she was the one who’d recently been threatened with death, she was still the embodiment of tranquility, more concerned with the taut nerves of her handmaiden than her own.
Emma sat up on the bed. “Of course, milady. I simply find myself to be fatigued after the events of today.”
“You can dispense with the formality, Emma. We are alone and the door is thick. The fact that it is meant to contain us works to our advantage in that it grants us at least a modicum of privacy.”
“Sorry, Camilla. Old habits, you know,” smiled Emma. Escamilla returned the affection with her own grin, somewhat softening her otherwise sharp features. She patted Emma’s hand comfortingly, her thumb resting for just a moment along the scarred emptiness of Emma’s missing fingers.
Emma had worked for Lady Escamilla for nearly ten years now, just as her mother had before she’d succumbed to a terrible and deadly stomach flux that had run rampant through Little Town years ago. Experienced servants had been painfully hard to come by afterward, and nobles had been terrified that their every little wish would no longer be met—or, at least not to their standards. There had been a frantic rush to fill empty slots caused by the death of so many servants, and Emma had been one of those hired. She’d been known to the steward of Lady Escamilla’s household, as she’d often helped her mother with her work, and because she’d had at least modest experience, she had immediately stepped into her mother’s role with Lady Escamilla. Thus, the steward had been freed up for the unenviable task of hiring, training, and supervising the less experienced lot that had flooded the Plateau.
For a time, Emma had simply served as Lady Escamilla’s personal handmaiden whenever she’d visited the ducal seat of Rostane. But as months passed, Escamilla had begun to give Emma rather unusual tasks. Find out what and how much Lady Wister ate for dinner. Retrieve a codpiece from the armory. Determine why Earl Paron was feuding with Baron Holstrom. Then, she’d been asked to name residents and visitors to the Plateau based on descriptions or sketches, a task she’d struggled with given the sheer number of people residing in and visiting the fortress, and one which was further complicated by all of the shifting titles—Count Esterly of Simaw was also the Baron of Rente, until his son had married and become the new Baron. Little by little, over a period of several years, Emma had become Lady Escamilla’s spy.
“Camilla,” Emma said, hesitantly, and not for the first time. “I am so sorry that you are imprisoned here. I should have…”
“You could not have foreseen this. The little duke masks his plans well. If only he were as good a ruler as a plotter, we would not be in our current predicament.” Escamilla was all composure and reassurance. The strength of this woman!
“Still, I was the one that lost track of Malless. I just assumed that he had left the Plateau. If I had kept track…”
Camilla interrupted again. “I don’t expect your powers to be limitless. You are still confined by your duties at the Plateau. While you are relatively invisible to my supposed peers, Steward John holds you accountable. Trust me, my dear. Were you to blame here, I would have already had words with you.”
Once, several years ago, Escamilla had asked Emma to determine what deal Earl Cochran had been attempting to make with Baron Erlins. No matter how she’d tried, though, Emma had been unable to overhear any relevant conversations, or find any revealing documents in either office or chambers. But, instead of telling Lady Escamilla that she’d failed, she’d made up something about a trade agreement. The conversation that ensued upon Escamilla’s rather quick discovery of Emma’s attempted deception had left Emma shaking and weeping, though Escamilla had not even raised her voice. Since then, Emma had told no lies. A hard woman, indeed.
“Camilla, what are we going to do? I don’t want to see you sharing the fate of Erlins or that Regis, though Regis might have been better off.” Emma shivered at the thought of the baron’s torture.
“I have told you before. A smart woman always studies her opponent first and moves second. If I had decided to leave the Plateau two weeks ago, when I was ‘invited’ to stay in this chamber, then I might have missed learning Erlin’s fate, or what Malless’ ultimate decision will be. I might have missed that Eric Malless is in danger, or that the little duke looks to Faris when his emotions get the better of him. I have been in no real danger at this point because, as I made clear, the little duke still needs me.” Escamilla joined Emma on the bed, resting her head on the simple oaken headboard.
“I understand, Camilla. But haven’t we studied enough? I don’t want either of our heads to end up in a sack!” Emma felt some pride at avoiding a quaver in her voice.
“Well, between you and me, I really couldn’t have left any earlier, because it takes time to make these kind of arrangements,” said Escamilla, a hint of humor in her voice. “Just as I don’t believe that your power is unlimited, you have to know that I am also not a magician, waving my hand and affecting a dramatic escape.”
The two women shared a laugh at the comment, and for a moment, Emma could almost forget that their lives were in danger. Emma rested her head on Escamilla’s boney shoulder, and Escamilla rested her head on Emma’s own. The gesture was small, but it brought Emma some comfort. It was a brief respite, though, as Escamilla pulled away and reached from something secreted in her brassiere.
“Now, my dear, please go fetch our dinner from the kitchen. And, if you wouldn’t mind… Yarvey.” Escamilla placed a tiny thimble-like object into Emma’s hand, and Emma immediately secreted it in her sleeve. As Escamilla’s spy, Emma was ever passing notes through a complex network of servants, residents, and visitors, and could never have kept track of the causes and effects of these notes.
Emma rose from the bed and cross the room, knocking on the door three times. One of the two guards answered. Alex Poe was his name, and he wasn’t a bad sort. Emma had little respect for the guardsman of this fortress, finding that they were gambling, womanizing slobs. Or cold-blooded murderers and maimers. Or both. Even so, Alex had always been polite to her, and he practically beamed upon seeing her face. She wondered how he felt, holding two women captive and witnessing the calculated power-mongering that came from Duke Samuel II. But she knew, from her association with Fenrir, that guardsman were little more than dancing bears seen in traveling shows, obeying commands and sitting quietly otherwise.
“Miss Emma. Are we headed to the kitchen? I will lead the way.” He turned smartly on his heel and began a measured march down the hall, Emma hurrying to keep up.
She should have felt flattered that she merited her own personal guard, though she knew that it was simply an effort by the duke to keep his plot disguised for a little longer. Even the guardsmen assigned to watch Escamilla, and Malless an
d the rest, were kept confined, forced to sleep in a cluster of connected chambers and forbidden from leaving the interior portion of the fortress. As far as Emma could tell, it was an effective policy. The rest of the world appeared oblivious to the fact that several important figures in Ardia had not been seen for some time now.
Emma had suggested to Escamilla that they ask Alex for help—he seemed like a decent man, someone who might chafe at holding the nobles against their will. But Alex had been in the room that day, witnessing Erlins’ torture. Escamilla had said that, if the guards hadn’t changed their course after that, they were either cowed by fear or had evil in their hearts. Looking into Alex’s brown eyes, Emma had hoped it was the former.
Winding through the maze-like servants’ passages, Emma accompanied Alex to the secondary kitchens and approached the rear ordering window. One had to still feed the prisoners; as far as the secondary kitchen staff and the rest of the Plateau knew, they were providing meals for nobles who were secreted away from the public eye, discussing matters of national security. Alex was just out of sight, but Emma could sense that he was still close enough for listening.
“Ah, Emma. Is it time for Lady Breen’s supper?” asked the serving boy named Yarvey. Emma gave him a quick little smile, and he blushed bright red.
“Yes, and if you could give her a double portion, that would be lovely. My lady is famished.”
The boy ran off as Emma leaned against the counter, replaying the events of the day in her head. The duke was becoming increasingly violent, it seemed, and she was scared for both herself and Camilla. The duke was three years younger than Emma, and had occasionally treated her poorly when their paths would cross back when Samuel II had still been in power. He would grab and pinch her, and had boorishly propositioned her on multiple occasions. Luckily, she had been able to duck his advances. There were always much more willing women for him, many of them far above Emma’s station.
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