Alberich was relieved; Jadus probably would do well there, for his sound common sense if nothing else, and his soft ways would put frightened people at their ease. But when the time came for stern justice, Jadus was not a man to be put off by anything, or anyone.
“Tomorrow night, then,” Alberich agreed, and gathered up the papers.
Talamir stood. “I don’t want to see where you put them, so I’ll take my leave now.” He glanced at the stained-glass window, and raised an eyebrow. “Now I see why you put that bit of artwork in. Or one reason, anyway.”
“Yes. We cannot be watched, through such a thing,” Alberich replied.
“Hmm. And when I think of all the people who said you were the last person to put in Dethor’s shoes. . . .”
“Myself, included,” Alberich replied. Talamir gave him a penetrating look, then shrugged.
“I wouldn’t have picked Myste as a spy either,” he said. “Good night, Weaponsmaster.”
When he was gone, Alberich folded the papers into their original packet, and felt carefully under the table until he found the catch that released a little drawer inside one of the thick legs. Dethor had shown it to him, so he was reasonably sure that no one else knew about it. There were hiding places like this all over the private quarters of the salle, but this was the only one that he could use without getting up. Probably there was no one out there trying to make sense of the shadows on the other side of the colored glass, but just in case there was, there would be no way to tell that Alberich had hidden something. It only looked as if he was reaching for his drink.
And there was another set of papers on the tabletop, just in case the shadows had betrayed that Talamir had been looking at papers. This was a report about bandit activity along the Karsite Border, something that Alberich could reasonably have an interest and expertise in. If someone came to the salle in the next mark or so, Alberich would take great pains to mention that report. It wasn’t just that he was taking precautions about the papers Myste had stolen, he was protecting himself. There were a great many people in Court circles who distrusted “the Karsite,” besides those who had no reason to love him because he did not cosset their children. Sometimes he grew very tired of it all.
Layers upon layers; he envied Jadus and Elcarth and all the others who didn’t have to live their lives weaving webs of subterfuge. He wished—
Well, it didn’t matter what he wished. He would, as a gambling friend of his had often said, play out the cards he had been dealt.
Complications, complications.
“My life is full of complications,” he said aloud. There was no answer. Vkandis knew it was true enough.
Another complication: Myste herself. She’d been on his mind all day. There had been no doubt in his mind that Myste had been discreetly flirting with him last night. And he’d liked it. He’d even tried a little clumsy flirting back—
:Not as clumsy as you think,: Kantor put in. :I was pleasantly surprised. You’ve got a light touch, when you care to use it.:
He felt himself blushing, but it was at least partly with pleasure. But what would the other Heralds think of this, if they realized that she and he were attracted to one another?
:If they bothered to take any notice, they’ll wait to see if you mind teasing, then give you both a bit of a word
about it, now and again,: Kantor told him. :Other than that, they’d probably begin a betting pool as to when the two of you decided to stop flirting and get down to something serious.:
:Serious—: he ventured.
:Bedding,: Kantor said bluntly.
Alberich bit his tongue. Quite by accident—Kantor had startled him. :But—:
:Sorry. Didn’t mean to shock you. But if this gets past flirting, Myste is going to expect it to go there. Heralds are—well, by the standards of a Karsite, they’re flagrantly immoral and utterly hedonistic when it comes to the ways of man with maid. Not that she is. Myste, I mean. She’s not a maid.:
Maybe he should have been shocked, but he wasn’t. Startled, yes, but not shocked. Well, not that Myste wasn’t a maid, anyway.
In fact, he was relieved. It had been a long time since he’d—well—and then it had been someone he’d paid. He didn’t have any practice in the more polite forms of congress, and he was probably going to step on his own feet more than once if things—got past flirting. And the ache in certain parts of him let him know in no uncertain terms that his body certainly wanted it to get past flirting. Far past flirting.
As for how she came to be not a maid, well that was her business.
Unless she made it his. And then it was even more her business. . . .
:Good man. Slow and cautious. She’s in no hurry and neither should you be.:
:As long as she doesn’t run in terror from my face,: he said dryly, :I doubt there is anything else about me that cows her. Underneath, that woman is someone that would appall people if they only knew her. There are things she will not compromise on. And things that she would kill over, if it came to that.:
Which was, of course, how she was getting away with purloining secrets out from under the very noses of the owners, and with their cooperation. At some point, perhaps in that last battle, Myste had found, or gotten, her courage. Now he doubted that anything could effectively stand in her way if she believed in or wanted something badly enough.
Like me—?
He sat firmly on that thought and crammed it back into the little mental cupboard it had come out of.
Back to business. :What do you Companions know about ciphers?: he asked. After all, better to cover all possible avenues with this one.
:Nothing much,: Kantor said with regret. :Nobody here at the Collegium for sure, and I think not anybody alive. Just because we’re good at Mindspeech doesn’t mean we’re good at everything Working ciphers takes a particular kind of mind—the kind that can see patterns where the rest of us would see only chaos.:
Well, he’d had to ask. :Should I just leave all this to Talamir, then?:
:He knows more about who to trust in this than you do. I think I know who he’ll be taking the papers to, and no one is safer.:
Well, that was a dismissal if he had ever heard one. Time to stop worrying about that end of the situation, and think about the part he could do something about.
Such as discovering just who, besides young Lord Devlin, his contact in the Court, Norris was meeting.
12
IT was spring, at long last, and the gardens were bursting with greenery and blossoms, as if to make up for last year’s sorrowful season. With every breeze, the ornamental cherries carpeted the ground beneath their boughs with pink and white petals; the air was full of a hundred different scents. Kingdom business be hanged; Selenay was going to walk in her gardens before the season ripened any further into summer.
So she told the Seneschal at their morning meeting over breakfast that she wanted him to shorten the usual afternoon audiences by half.
“If I stay within walls for much longer I’m going to shred something,” she said a little crossly, expecting him to object. “I’m tired of never seeing the sun except through windows, and I am exceedingly tired of hearing people whining. I would like to hear birds for a change, and if I must hear voices, I would prefer it to be the voices of people who are not complaining to me, at least for a candlemark or two.”
But he only nodded his graying head, and regarded her kindly. “If Your Majesty will recall,” he told her, “your father was exactly the same, in the spring.”
And now that he had reminded her, she did remember it, but not as a memory of him ordering shorter audiences, but as seeing him in the gardens every fine afternoon, and walking there with two or three friends in the evening, too. But she—
I was taking classes, or practicing, and he’d always done that, every spring, so it never struck me as odd, she decided. I didn’t know then that the business of government takes up so much time, and that he must have been stealing time from it for a little while.<
br />
Or perhaps, it wasn’t that he had been stealing time at all, though she would certainly have to, and the only place where she felt she could in good conscience take it was from the Audiences. Now that she thought about it, her father had definitely had more “leisure” time than she seemed to.
But then, he had been King for all of her life (obviously) so he’d had some practice at it. Maybe it would get easier as she went along; perhaps the more practiced she became, the less of her time it would take . . . perhaps, some day, she would have some candlemarks of leisure for herself.
She felt guilty; then decided that feeling guilty was stupid. If she was ready to rip someone’s throat out now, how would she be without taking some time, at last, for herself? A pox on that. Bridges were not going to fall down, nor buildings collapse, because she walked in her garden and played at games a little while with her ladies.
“Well, then schedule fewer petitioners for the foreseeable future,” she ordered, adding, “if you please.”
Surely some of those people can manage to sort out their troubles by themselves.
“Certainly, Majesty,” the Seneschal said, with a little smile. “If Your Majesty will forgive my voicing my own opinion, you are just a trifle too accessible. Restricting your availability will make people think before they request an audience for which they might have to wait several days.”
She blinked, then nodded. And here she had thought he was going to disapprove! But the prospect of a simple walk in her gardens was enough to elevate her spirits for the entire morning, even though the Exchequer occupied her for most of that time with budget and tax allotments. Just the simple knowledge that she was going to escape his stuffy little office was enough to set her to work with more energy than she’d had in weeks for such things.
And the audiences did not seem as tedious either. And when the Seneschal announced that she would not be seeing any more petitioners that day, it was all she could do to keep from leaping up out of the throne and flying out the Privy Door behind the dais to get to her chambers and out of her robes of state.
She changed into a simple, split-skirt gown without calling for her maids, collected a ball and racquets, then gathered up her rather startled ladies-in-waiting, and bustled them all down the hall like a goose-girl hurrying her geese to the pond.
And when they were out into the garden, she acted like a child newly freed from lessons, dropping every bit of her dignity to lead them all in a game of “tag,” then taking each of them on in turn at racquets. In fact, she wore some of them out with her energy, until they all begged, laughing, for a moment of rest.
Which she graciously gave them. And while they sprawled on the lawn, or lounged on benches, she walked alone among the flower beds. She hadn’t intended to actually pick any flowers, but this spring there was a superabundance of blossoms, and she found herself taking one here, one there, not deliberately selecting anything, just picking them from places where the blooms seemed crowded or scents were especially intoxicating. I’ll put them in my bedroom, she decided, feeling an unaccustomed glee. Just stick them all in a vase full of water. No formal flower arranging, no careful selection of “harmonious colors.” The kind of bouquet—no, bunch of flowers!—I used to pick for myself as a child!
She didn’t—thank goodness—have to think twice about wandering about here alone either. It was safe enough for her to be unguarded here in the Queen’s Garden. There were Royal Guards all around the grounds, and the grounds themselves were walled off, of course. No one could come here who wasn’t a member of the Court or Collegia, and it was a matter of etiquette not to invade the Queen’s Garden when the Queen was in it unless you were specifically invited.
So she was a little surprised to look up from picking another bloom and see the Rethwellan Ambassador, followed at a slight distance by a young man she did not recognize, coming toward her on the path.
He dropped to one knee when he reached her, and she automatically extended her hand for him to kiss, then gave it a slight tug, indicating that he should rise.
“Ambassador Brenthalarian, whatever is it that brings you here?” she asked. “I hope you aren’t going to trouble my afternoon with a problem—”
“Nothing of the sort, Majesty,” the Ambassador said smoothly. “Indeed, I only wished to inquire if your Majesty would be willing to receive King Megrarthon’s second son, Prince Karathanelan. He has come bringing His Majesty’s belated personal condolences, for you have already had His Majesty’s official ones.”
“Yes, I recall,” she replied, looking at him with a feeling of interest tinged with excitement. So—here was her answer to the question “what foreign princes were there?” before she had even asked anyone about it. A foreign prince, from Rethwellan! Princes did not travel abroad unless they had very compelling reasons for doing so. . . .
She cast a surreptitious glance at the young man who waited just out of earshot, and felt another thrill, this time of pleasure. He was handsome. Very handsome. His coloring was an intriguing mixture—dark chestnut hair, quite curly and almost shoulder length, and blue eyes that were a lighter color than her own, the color of a sky with a thin, high haze of cloud over it. He had a long nose, high cheekbones, and a narrow face with a cleft chin. He looked—
:Like centuries of inbreeding,: Caryo said sardonically.
:Oh, hush, silly!: she replied keeping a watch on him out of the corner of her eye. :What he looks like is not like a Valdemaran, which is a refreshing change. I think he’s lovely.:
“When could the Prince come to Court, do you think?” she asked, pretending that she had not already guessed that the Prince was right here in her own garden. The Ambassador knew very well that she knew, and so did the Prince, but greeting him straightaway would spoil the game. And it was likely to be a very amusing little game. Surely this is one of the “foreign princes” that Orthallen was talking about! “I would, of course, be delighted to receive him at any time.”
“Then in that case, gracious lady, let the Prince prevail upon your noble nature and present himself!” the young man said, flinging himself at her feet in the most romantic posture possible. “My curiosity brought me here, but my heart will not allow me to remain outside of your regard for a single moment more!” He seized her hand and kissed it, and she flushed with pleasure. He spoke very good Valdemaran, with scarcely a trace of accent.
“Then, welcome, Prince Karathanelan,” she said, tugging his hand. He took the hint and rose gracefully. “How could I be less than gracious enough to welcome you when confronted with such a gallant gentleman?”
She was trying to be queenly and dignified, but she felt her flush turning into a blush. He gave her a sidelong glance and smiled. “You are as gracious as you are beautiful, Queen Selenay,” the Prince replied. “Will you permit me to conduct you back to your ladies?”
“With pleasure,” she said. And now it was the Rethwellan Ambassador’s turn to smile.
The Prince offered his arm; she took it. The first play of the game was over, and it had been very pleasant. Selenay could hardly wait to see what the next move would be.
One of the most difficult things Alberich had ever done was to put that cipher out of his mind and concentrate on the rest of his duties. And yet, there was nothing he could do about the message except to guard the original. He’d sealed the panel of its hiding place shut to make certain that it wouldn’t be tampered with, and short of locking it in a strongbox and burying the strongbox under the floor of his room, he couldn’t make it any safer. So at this point, there was nothing he could do about it. No man could be an expert at all things, and it was a bit late in his life to begin studying ciphers.
Instead, he went on with his own double life. He taught his students, and drilled those Heralds and Guards who came to him for extra tutoring and practice by day. And when his work for the day was over, and everyone assumed he was resting in his own quarters, he went out into the city by night in one of his assumed personae.
&n
bsp; There was one distinct improvement in his clandestine tasks, however, and that was that the City Guard and constabulary were back up to full strength. He no longer needed to ferret out ordinary criminals; they had their own agents for that again. In fact, he knew one or two City Guards who did such things by sight, and they knew him. If he spotted them in one of his haunts of a night, he would move on to a different spot, knowing that they were probably on the trail of something or someone, and the very best thing he could do would be to get out of their way. There was, after all, no point in spoiling someone else’s hunt, and too many hunters in one spot sometimes made the “game” shy of being around.
And he suspected that they did the same, on seeing him.
At any rate, with the Tedrel Wars over and Karse busy with its own internal problems, the market for information on Valdemar’s strengths and weaknesses had dried up somewhat. He also suspected that the market for information of interest to Valdemar was not what it had been. For now, anyway, there just was not as much trafficking in that sort of thing going on. Now the highest prices were being paid for more mundane information—usually having to do with who was in possession of what valuable goods, and how strongly a treasure was guarded, and so on. The most interesting trafficking he saw now was the manufacture of new identities, and he had the strong suspicion that the people who were buying these identities had once called themselves “Tedrels.” How they managed to get as far north as Haven he could not imagine; even he hadn’t done it without having a Companion. The journeys must have been terrifying. He was not, however, concerned. Selenay was in no danger from them; there were no Tedrel leaders for her to be taken to as hostage or as forced-bride, and he doubted that any of the men purchasing new lives for themselves wasted a moment of thought on her.
Valdemar 06 - [Exile 02] - Exile’s Valor Page 22
