A Stranger to Command

by Sherwood Smith

  The princess laid her hand on the prince’s. “The point is this. There must be as great a difference as possible between you and the short-haired young man in the military tunic who killed six assassins. Which, you can be sure, will soon be rumored at twelve or even twenty.”

  The prince smiled at his wife, then said to his son, “When you arrive, your mother and I will be publicly insulted that you went to court first to show off your new finery.” The Prince turned to Savona. “And you will become Danric’s rival.”

  “Can we fight a duel?” Savona asked. “Please, let me challenge him to a duel.”

  Vidanric bowed. “At your service.” Then grimaced. “That feels strange, bowing. But I guess I should get used to strange things. Like feeling like a fraud, because I’m about to become one.”

  “I prefer,” the Princess said, “to think of it as hiding in plain sight.”

  The Prince bowed, gesturing with his hands in deferment to superior rank. She laughed softly, no more than a breath, and tapped the top of his hand with her fan. Vidanric realized he did not know the significance of the gesture.

  Once again, much to learn.

  “And when we fight our duel,” Savona said evilly, “you are going to drop your sword at least twice.”

  FIFTY

  “Did you hear that Shevraeth is coming home at last?” Lady Arasa announced breathlessly. The ribbons on her hat bounced as she tripped lightly along the stone path and joined the other young aristocrats in the garden behind Athanarel Palace in Remalna-city.

  It was spring again, bringing everyone to court after two years of being sequestered on their estates, and not hearing any news except what could be gleaned from traders passing through. During the time of the Norsundrian troubles in other lands, Galdran’s warriors had guarded the borders and crossed the kingdom. Under orders, they had stopped and searched any equerries seen along the roads—in case they were Norsundrian spies. People at the southeastern end of the kingdom had wondered why there might be enough Norsundrian spies in Renselaeus to require whole marching battalions going to that principality to search, but no one dared ask. Letters had been so discreet they were uninformative.

  Young Lord Deric turned wide black eyes toward Savona, expressing excitement and a little apprehension.

  Savona knew Deric was worried about accidents on the road. These days, everyone worried about accidents on the road. They had all returned as summoned, bringing their entire households, everyone armed right down to the cooks and tailors. Ostensibly against marauding brigands that the increasing numbers of warriors in green were supposed to guard against, but actually against the vagaries of their king.

  Savona sighed, as Olervec watched him narrowly. “I am aware that Shevraeth proposes to return to Remalna at last,” Savona said, his heart beating rapidly. So it begins! “I received a missive full of nothing else, right after New Year’s Week. At least, as I apprehend. I fell asleep halfway through my perusal and it, ah, dropped into the fire.”

  Sharp-featured, sulky Lady Fialma Merindar tittered, slapping his wrist with her fan. “Naughty,” she said coyly. “Naughty!”

  Savona forced a smile, took the fan from her fingers and playfully fanned her with it. She bridled, sending a scornful look of triumph at Tamara, who inspected the lace at her wrists. Fialma had returned to court with golden hair. Tamara’s was black again.

  “Where is Shevraeth now?” Lord Alcanad asked.

  “I wonder what he looks like.” Lady Arasa plopped down next to two serious young ladies, small, plain, brown-haired Nee and the quiet, elegant blond Elenet. “He used to be so twiggish.”

  “Probably branchish now,” Tamara murmured.

  Most of the others laughed. Fialma curled her lip.

  “I wonder if he’ll recognize us.” Lady Renna twirled her fan to include them all.

  “He’s sure to recognize your riding.” Nee was as usual the peacemaker, and Renna smiled, her fan flicking in the mode of Harmonic Agreement.

  As always, Tamara ignored Nee, Fialma looked scornful, and Elenet kept her eyes lowered. Most of the other rankers also ignored her, taking their cue—as usual—from Tamara. Nee might be Tamara’s cousin, but from a lesser branch of the enormous Chamadis family.

  “Well, we’ll find out soon.” Arasa swept her fan out in the arc of Anticipation. Then she tapped the fan against her chin, her head tipped in the charming mode of Rue. “Unless, of course, Shevraeth goes up into Renselaeus and doesn’t come down.”

  “No, he’s on his way here.” Fialma yawned.

  Everyone stared at the surprising news—which was, of course, her intention.

  “Heard my mother and my uncle discussing it over breakfast,” she went on, enjoying the reminder of her superior rank. What was the use of having an uncle as king unless you could lord it over lesser beings? “You know nothing stirs in the kingdom without Uncle Galdran hearing first.”

  “Well then, we’ll have to put together a welcome party, shall we?” Lord Geral leaned against the marble bench behind Renna, lazily examining the starlings embroidered around his cuffs, ruby and gold. “Savona, you used to be at one other’s side when we were small. You should give him a party.”

  Savona lifted his shoulders in a languid shrug, peripherally aware of Fialma’s unwinking stare. “What if he’s grown tedious? I do not want to give countenance to a bore.”

  “Can anyone grow tedious at Colend’s court?” Deric spread his fan at the angle of Civil Incredulity. “I thought the Colendi would exile you for the crime of insufficient wit.”

  “Declarations of war for errors in style.” Renna snapped her fan.

  Tamara ignored them all, her trenchant blue gaze on Savona. “What if,” she said sweetly, “he won’t give countenance to you?”

  Fialma stretched out her hand for her fan. “I give you countenance,” she drawled, and drew the fan along Savona’s cheek before flipping it open. She continued idly flapping the fan and watching Savona over it, as Trishe and Geral began putting together ideas for a welcome party—something that would be suitable for someone who’d been living for who knows how long at the glittering and infamous court at Colend.

  Just as they were settling the main ideas, Fialma said in a bored voice, “Oh, I forgot. My mother is doing something or other.”

  Lady Trishe betrayed an angry flush, quickly hiding it behind her fan as she bent to straighten a flounce. When she rose, her cheeks were glowing from her stoop. She said in a sprightly voice, “Oh, that’s even better. No one gives lovelier parties than the marquise.”

  Savona shrugged, satisfied that everyone had noted his lack of interest or involvement. “Sun’s out.” He waved vaguely toward the departing clouds. “Who’s for a ride?”

  Half of them joined him. Fialma whisked herself off to report the conversation to her mother, the marquise of Merindar.

  And so the marquise arranged a lavish welcome for the Marquis of Shevraeth, heir to Renselaeus. The general air of curiosity had sharpened to expectation in all, or nearly all. Savona continued to look and sound bored.

  Tamara had gone silent on the subject, but Arasa spread the word that Tamara had ordered the most spectacular gown ever seen—having gotten, from someone, a hint of what the very latest Colendi fashion was.

  Elenet was not seen. Savona overheard from the sunny, uncomplicated Nee that she was painting the most beautiful fan she had ever made.

  o0o

  The news of his approach heralded Vidanric’s arrival. First news, and then a horde of servants who arrived, took over the Renselaeus suite at Athanarel Palace under the eye of the king’s personal steward, and to the amusement of many and the covert disgust of some, proceeded to get rid of all the fine furniture they had had in there for years.

  Whispers first swept round the palace like a wildfire that Shevraeth had brought in wooden furniture by the wagon-loads—no, worse, he’d had woods cut—no, but he’d bought half of Alsais—

  That much at least seemed to be tr
ue. Not only servants but courtiers who could find any excuse whatever to be at the Residence wing of the palace witnessed a long parade of exquisite new furnishings, including Bermundi rugs of fabulous and delicate weave. No wood, though, it was noticed, and some were even disappointed.

  When the suite had been almost entirely redecorated, trunks and trunks of clothing of every type were lugged in, filling the heir’s dressing room, then spilling over (it was eagerly said) into his parents’ rooms.

  In the middle of these trunks was a very plain, battered one, full of old uniforms and hand-written books, all under a folded cloak of unrelieved black. Galdran’s spies, patiently sifting through all these belongings, gave the battered trunk the most cursory of searches, assuming it was a servant’s or scribe’s stuff accidentally gotten among Shevraeth’s belongings. The books were scrawled in some foreign tongue—perfectly useless. They never saw the accompanying letter, written in neat Marloven: Here’s your stuff. We had a practice run after all. As we say, that watch is over. You now have the post. SM-A

  o0o

  The Marquis of Shevraeth himself arrived, driving in an open carriage.

  The king did not go out to meet him: kings only met kings. But the Marquise of Merindar was there on the terrace, smiling, beautifully gowned, with her daughter next to her dressed in brilliants from head to toe.

  They were the first to see a tall, languid figure emerge from the carriage, shrug off a driving cloak (which was caught from behind before it could fall to the ground, not that the young Marquis of Shevraeth bothered turning) and saunter at a leisurely pace up the steps. He looked around with an air of mild interest. As his head turned, they saw a criminally expensive hundred-facet diamond drop winking with glorious light in one ear. He wore a hat richly laced, four plumes curling down over his back. He perceived the marquise, paused, took off the hat, and bowed profoundly, his loose hair swinging down over his shoulders.

  He advanced the rest of the way, removing fine silk travel gloves then taking her offered hand. He bowed again to salute it. He wore a signet of cobalt blue on a forefinger, and another, even more enormous diamond on the other hand. Nothing, they saw, on the heart finger.

  “Marquise,” he said in a soft drawl. “It is soooo good to be home. But fatiguing! I had to stop twice. Rain, you know. You will laugh when I admit I cannot ride in a coach. Not ten paces, without untoward effect. Ah! Fialma! My dear, that lace—straight from Bermund, I see. Most beautiful. But I have some that even supersedes—you’ll have it as a gift—no, no, no protest—it’s a pleasure to give it to someone with such exquisite taste, I’m certain you are one of the rare beings who truly understand lace—ah, who else is here?”

  They all came forward then, and he greeted everyone by name as they stared at his travel coat of pure, heavy satin in deep sunset blue. Who would wear satin to travel in?

  But the embroidered vest beneath was even finer, chased with stylized cranes in flight, tiny sapphires at their eyes, and diamonds glittering discreetly at their wingtips. He carried a fan of white lilies painted over cream-white, the edges discernible to the careful eye. He employed it languidly, flicking it so swiftly between modes that few could guess at the meaning, though they all tried.

  And so it went. The thin, studious boy Vidanric Renselaeus had gone away, apparently to study trade, courts, and fashions, because he returned with a fund of stories about every ruler on the eastern end of the continent, plus the very latest in music, poems, plays, and of course clothes.

  He never, they were to discover as the day faded into night and he emerged in a spectacular outfit of midnight blue with crimson and gold embroidery (tied over with ribbons)—never ever stopped talking about clothes. Well, unless it was about horse races. Apparently he had spent a great deal of his time riding steeplechase and point-to-point and garland-hunting.

  They discovered by the next day that he could indeed outride most of them—he was most dashing on horseback—but as soon as he dismounted, the very first utterance out of his mouth was about his clothes.

  Fialma, spying on her mother and uncle after Shevraeth presented himself to the king at formal court later that day, heard her uncle say, “He’s an idiot.”

  The marquise looked fondly at her brother. “You would like him to be an idiot, Galdran. Shall we wait upon the arrival of the prince and princess? I confess I am withholding judgment until I see them all together.”

  Galdran snorted. “War—Norsunder—changes of government, and all he can talk about is who is flirting with whom. Worse, what they were wearing when they did it. Idiot!”

  Fialma fumed. Being a princess would be so much better than a duchess. She hoped her mother wasn’t going to take against Shevraeth, at least while Fialma had a chance of marriage. Renselaeus! She’d have her very own principality, and not even her mother could interfere with her there—once she was safely wed, and got rid of the old people somehow. She preferred poison if she could get it, but that stupid old man could barely walk, all he’d need to do is fall down some stairs.

  She tiptoed away, holding her skirts against rustling, and got dressed for the Orbanith reception. She made certain she had the best seat so she could see everything. When the prince and princess appeared together, they obviously noted their son, but they trod across the room to sit on the opposite platform. Fialma gloated. He clearly didn’t care a jot for the two old bores. He might even help her get rid of them!

  The marquise, the king, and many others watched covertly as Shevraeth made his way languidly to his parents, then bowed over the princess’s hand. “Dear Mother,” he drawled. “I am transported to see you well.”

  “Would it sound ungrateful,” the Prince murmured loud enough for the avid ears on either side to hear, “if I point out that you could have seen her well the sooner had you come directly home?”

  “Oh, Father, the fatigue of those mountain roads! I knew you would be here—and, well, here you are, are you not?”

  “Yes, dear,” the Princess said, fluttering her fan. “He is here, is he not? Oh, Shevraeth, that earring! Are the boys wearing them in Colend? I remember when I was young everyone wore them in both ears.”

  The prince gave his wife an exquisite bow, and his son one of a shade too shallow a degree. “Permit me to leave you two to canvas all the fashions at your leisure.”

  And he moved across to where the Denlieff ambassador, a visitor from Lamanca, and Grumareth were busy taking out their gambling tokens.

  The marquise, Fialma was glad to see, showed her relaxed smile. And so Fialma turned her attention to cutting out Tamara Chamadis, who had disgustingly showed up in a stunning gown made all of lace, with cloth-of-gold beneath it, the whole making a contrasting crown of her pearl-and-diamond braided hair, which she had had the hair dresser ensorcel dark again, for contrast.

  o0o

  The four met in the garden the next day, arriving by different routes.

  The prince touched Vidanric’s hand. “Well done, my son.”

  The Princess kissed him. “You have a headache, dear boy. I can see it in your eyes.”

  Both the prince and Savona were surprised by this observation, a surprise that intensified when Shevraeth said, “Yes. I don’t know what it was. I had fun, but there was a moment when it ceased to be entertaining. I thought of the days, possibly the years stretching ahead, all of us acting out this pretence, and I—well, I lost courage. Forgive me. I had a notion how bad it has been, but nothing came close to the reality.” He rubbed his temples. “In truth, I did not sleep all night. I—the fear in my old friends’ eyes. Fear, and the way they watch one another. People with their brains and skills shouldn’t be sitting about watching one another to see who vanishes next.”

  The prince said, “Yes. But not everyone in the kingdom sees it, and some who see it shrug and accept Galdran’s behavior as part of their ambition to get what they can. Nothing can happen until we have a kingdom united in the determination for change. Grumareth and his cronies are still the
greater number, and they are perfectly satisfied with things as they are.”

  The princess said, “Many believe that the Marquise of Merindar is the voice of sanity in the kingdom, and look to her for guidance.”

  “She scares me.” Vidanric made a faint grimace. “And Fialma is more detestable than I remembered.”

  “Nevertheless, she is going to be your chief flirt for the foreseeable. She’s had no success finding a royal prince to marry, and she will carry tales of you to the king.”

  Vidanric said tiredly, “I know. I know. Oh, it is good to see you again—and there is much I can tell you about the things I learned in Colend. Beginning with the fact that Senrid and the Marlovens are safe. The trouble Senrid dreaded has not yet come. Though the danger is not past.”

  “I know.” The prince raised a hand. “Leffain brought me that news last year. Speaking of danger, we must not be seen all together like this.” He took his wife’s arm and they passed on, leaving the two boys behind.

  “Let’s ride,” Vidanric suggested.

  Savona joined him. Neither spoke until they were riding the forest beyond the garden’s outer wall. Even then Vidanric’s gaze never stopped scanning. Finally he said, “I can’t tell you how much I admire you for keeping a sense of humor.”

  Savona snorted. “Tell me about Colend. And the court beauties. I hope you had plenty of flirts. Catch up with the expert.” He flicked his chest.

  Vidanric laughed silently. “Flirts aplenty. For a time I was the latest curiosity, with my short hair and my provincial accent.” He slewed round to face Savona with sudden seriousness. “And so I saw how beauty can be used as a weapon. I read once that assassins used to take a little poison each day to become inured. So it is with beauty.”

  “Ah.” Savona nodded, and drew in a slow breath. “Tamara and the gold gown. A weapon aimed straight at you.”