They fell into silence again. After a moment Abramm said, “And no one wants a repeat.”
“No, sir. If you reveal your shield tonight, aside from Eidon working a miracle on your behalf, I’ve no doubt the lords will remove you permanently from the succession and immediately transform Gillard’s regent status to full sovereignty.”
Abramm regarded him soberly, chilled by the realization that what he said was probably true. “Then I shall not reveal it.” He gestured at the wardrobe. “Shall we get on with this?”
“Of course, sir.” Haldon pulled open the door, revealing a row of garments sewn of velvet, satin, fine wool, and brocade. There were doublets and cloaks and shirts and trousers, all bedecked with ruffles and lace and ribbons and jewels.
Abramm stared at them in a blank-minded surprise that swiftly turned to revulsion and then an inexplicable rising fury. Haldon riffled through them and pulled out a wine-colored doublet spangled with rubies and fluttering ribbons. “How about this one, sir? I think—”
“No.”
Haldon put the garment back, pulled out another, this one deep blue and equally laden with frippery. “Then, how about—”
“I’ll not wear any of these.”
Haldon frowned at him. “Highness, I assure you, all were selected with an eye to current fashion.”
Abramm had no doubt of that, but to him they were straight out of a Game Master’s playbook, far too close to what he’d worn as the White Pretender. “I don’t care if they are,” he said firmly. “I’m not wearing them.”
Haldon drew back, brows flying up in surprise.
Abramm ignored him. “Either find me something more conservative, or bring the tailor in to alter one of these. It doesn’t matter which, but I’m not going anywhere dressed like a lace-maker’s rack. And I’m surely not wearing those ridiculous-looking breeches.”
Haldon swallowed his surprise “I’ll see to it at once, sir.”
“You can also start preparing that second bath.” Abramm could still smell the kraggin on himself and was beginning to fear he might be living with this odor for days. “And what of the barber? Is he here yet?”
“Yes, sir. I’ll send him in.”
CHAPTER
8
The Council Hall, where the Table of Lords met, presided over the Mall of Civil Government on the shelf of land halfway between the top of the great escarpment that formed the city’s eastern boundary and the river at its heart. Feeling confident and upbeat after a day of successful lobbying, Simon rode down in his friend Ethan Laramor’s coach, and not even Laramor’s unrelenting pessimism could dim his good spirits.
Finding the Hall’s front court already clogged with arriving coaches, they drove around to the side and entered through a corridor leading directly onto the Upper Table’s crowded central floor. Tobacco smoke hung thickly above the velvet- and satin-clad dignitaries, who, bewigged and otherwise, clustered in knots of animated conversation, their voices echoing in a riot of sound beneath the chamber’s magnificent hammer-beamed ceiling. Beyond and below them the Lower Table with its ranked rows of long bench seats was also filling rapidly, as were the curved tiers of the audience galleries overlooking it.
It had been an eventful day, with the biggest event yet to come, and Simon could hear the excitement in the men’s voices, see it in their faces. His own efforts fueled by a raft of conflicting rumors, the question of Abramm’s fitness to rule was now foremost on everyone’s mind.
A broad-chested, beefy-faced lord in burgundy velvet, sleeves slashed with black silk, hailed them as they emerged onto the Floor, drawing them into his circle of conversation. Laine Harrady was a longtime friend and ally, an old war brother and one of Gillard’s staunchest supporters. Age had thickened already thick features, enlarging ears and nose as it had robbed him of teeth and hair—Simon had not seen him without his brown, black-ribboned queue wig in at least a decade.
Now Harrady clapped Simon’s shoulder and smiled broadly, his mouth full of large ivory false teeth. “What a day this has been, eh, old friend?” he boomed. “Who would have thought we’d ever be here considering little Abramm’s claim to the throne? The queen’s pious pacifist? The little boy who wouldn’t stand up to a mouse if it challenged him? Now he seeks to rule us all.” He waggled heavy brows. “‘Ne’er a fancy queerer than the fortune life delivers,’ eh?”
“Indeed,” said Simon, eyeing the other lords in attendance and automatically taking the roll.
Harrady leaned closer. “Is it true about his having specifically requested your boy Channon as personal bodyguard? And Channon going along with it?”
Simon scowled, feeling a renewed twinge of the astonishment and dismay he’d felt when he’d first learned of that arrangement. “Apparently so, though I haven’t had a chance to talk to him yet.”
Channon had spent most of the afternoon on guard in the Ivory Apartments, while Abramm allegedly napped, and retired immediately afterward to his own quarters to bathe, since he’d been on the water with the prince and smelled almost as bad himself.
“I heard he was sick all afternoon,” said one of the other men. “Abramm, I mean.”
“I heard that, too,” said a third, “and also that he flew into a fury when one of the valets took his cloak and drove out all the servants, then demolished the suite in his rage.”
“I heard he attacked Haldon himself,” said Harrady with a grin. “Slammed him up against the bedpost, clear off his feet—if you can believe that.”
“If you can believe that, you’ll believe anything,” Simon said dryly. It was an occupational hazard of palace living—courtiers’ tongues swelled the most insignificant of events into monstrous scandal. He almost felt sorry for the lad. But the silly boy could have spent the afternoon cultivating the nobility and proving the rumormongers wrong instead of sleeping in his rooms.
“Yes, but I actually spoke to an armsman who saw him arrive,” said the first man, “and he said the prince was pale and sweating. Looking as if he might collapse. He may not even come tonight.”
“Don’t we wish!” said Simon. Abramm always had been sickly, so it wasn’t impossible, and if he didn’t show, after all the talk today, the regency extension would pass without question.
“He’ll be here,” Laramor growled. “His Mataian friends will make sure of it.”
Simon followed the direction of his friend’s gaze to the Lower Table, where a handful of gray-mantled Guardians stood at the head of the center aisle, conversing with their lay allies. Not surprisingly, chief among them was Darak Prittleman with his hatchetlike profile, tightly queued hair, and familiar gray doublet. The man either never changed his clothes or had a wardrobe full of the same design, for Simon could not recall having seen him dressed otherwise in years, no matter what the occasion.
“Been scurrying about like a roach in a flour mill,” Laramor had said of him earlier over dinner, “calling in every debt, exerting every pressure to influence the others. And that snake of his, Skurlek, has leaned hard on at least three men that I know of.”
Simon’s eye roved along the front row to the opposite end where sat the Terstan contingent, headed by Everitt Kesrin. Unlike the Mataians, the Terstans affected quiet sobriety. They could not be any happier about the prospect of Abramm’s claim than Simon—a thought as surprising as it was amusing. Who would have imagined he’d ever find a point of agreement with Terstans of any stripe, especially after Raynen?
“Well, whether Abramm shows or not,” Harrady was saying, “it won’t matter.” He clicked his forward-slipping false teeth back into place and pulled a pipe from his breast pocket. “When both brothers stand before us, side by side, even Abramm’s supporters will see he’s not king material. And I don’t believe any of us want a puppet on the throne. The Gadrielites would get ever bolder, and just think what a Mataian-governed court would be like. All those straight-stick Laity rules? No one will give up their fun for that. Especially when the next thing they’ll be demanding is
money and land.” He shook the pipe at them for emphasis. “I’m betting we’ll be out of here before the half hour. Which reminds me—we’ve set up a high-stakes game for this evening. I won’t ask you, Ethan”—he glanced at Laramor with a wry grin— “knowing how you feel about that sort of thing, but what about it, Simon?”
Simon shook his head. “I’m with Ethan, Laine. Gambling’s not my forte.”
Harrady clucked in good-natured disapproval. “Your loss, my friend, your loss.”
“That’s exactly what it would be if I went: my loss.”
Harrady guffawed and clapped his shoulder. “Well, if you change your mind, you’re welcome.”
Simon moved off from him, Laramor in his wake, the two stopping to chat with friends and allies, mingling their way toward their seats in the far gallery. Every man Simon spoke with assured him he had no intention of accepting Abramm’s claim the first time around, even those he’d thought would be more lenient. Abramm might have killed the kraggin, but no one believed that qualified him to rule the realm. From all signs, the extension looked certain to pass.
Still, a niggle of foreboding would not let him go. Long years on the battlefield had taught him the seeming ease with which victory could twist itself to defeat within one’s very grasp. Despite all the assurances, there was no way of knowing how things would go until it was over. Thus he found himself growing increasingly tense the closer he got to taking his seat.
He was almost relieved when Byron Blackwell pled indecision and refused to say how he’d vote.
“I’m not opposed to the idea of an extension,” Blackwell said, “just unconvinced Gillard will seriously work to prepare him. He’s made it clear what he thinks of Abramm, after all.” He frowned as his gaze fixed on something across the room. “What is he doing here?”
Down in the Lower Table, at the back of the chamber, stood a pale-robed figure whose half-bald head gleamed against the darkened entrance corridor at his back. Rhiad.
“He probably intends to make his ridiculous accusation again,” Blackwell predicted. “With more supporters this time. Well, we’ll see about that.” Excusing himself, he went at once to the guard at the gate in the railed partition separating the Upper and Lower Tables. But the guard had barely left his post when Rhiad vanished into the corridor from whence he’d come. Simon continued on his way, hoping the attention had scared him away and there’d be no unseemly outbursts tonight.
As head of the Shar contingent, Simon sat in the first chair of the first tier on the west side of the floor, thus delivered from having to climb the narrow stair more than a few steps. He settled gratefully into his seat, glad to be off the sore hip that was troubling him more than usual tonight, thanks to spending all day on his feet. Harrady soon settled beside him, and shortly thereafter, the first bell for order clanged across the chamber, triggering a general exodus from the floor, Shar lords moving to one side of the dais, Nunn to the other. The offsides of both galleries held those not affiliated with either party, among them the border lords, now filing up the stairs at the end of the Shar Gallery. They favored leather jerkins and trousers, spurning what they called the womanish fripperies of current court favor, though a few sported the gold earrings of clan lordship. Their faces were closed, and they did not speak to the other lords, hardly taking account of their presence. The other lords in turn regarded the Borderers with cultured disdain.
Ethan couldn’t predict which way they would vote. Many still nursed resentment at Gillard’s mishandling of Rennalf of Balmark’s grievances regarding Carissa’s desertion six years ago—essentially he’d faulted the border lord for not controlling his own wife. Rennalf himself was conspicuous by his absence tonight, as were his closest allies. The remainder, while not allied with him, still feared the clanlord’s capacity for retaliation should they favor Gillard. Unfortunately for them, Abramm’s Mataian ties made him an even less attractive option, worsened by the fact that he was a weak and clumsy youth, ignorant in the ways of war. For a people who had only recently stopped determining their leaders through trial by combat, these were serious deficiencies.
As hall servants went round extinguishing the lamps along the side walls, a line of royal guardsmen strode in to position themselves against the back wall and the Council Lawreaders, black robed and white wigged, filed into the box on the Nunn side of the dais’s central stair. Once they were settled, the second bell rang and Byron Blackwell arose. At ten minutes to the hour he called the Table to order and launched into his opening readings while in the darkened Lower Table the audience continued to rustle. In fact, instead of waning as Blackwell droned on, the rustling increased to a rolling susurration that spread to the Upper Table, where it finally clarified into a hissing of drawn breaths and whispered oaths. The Lord Speaker looked up from his reading in surprise and fell silent, staring along with those in the Nunn Gallery beyond him, toward the Lower Table. Puzzled, Simon turned, and when his eyes fell upon the object of their interest, he heard his own breath hiss against his teeth. For a moment he thought it was Ravelin Kalladorne himself, come back from the dead.
“Eidon over all!” Harrady whispered beside him. “Is that Abramm?”
Simon had no answer for him. It was Abramm, but never in his wildest dreams had he imagined the boy could undergo such a transformation.
He stood in the partition opening at the edge of the Upper Table floor, spotlighted by the main chandelier. With his blond hair shorn to a traditional soldier’s crop and his beard trimmed close in the old style of the Kalladorne kings, the hawkishness of his bloodline was now startlingly evident. He wore black close-fitting breeches, knee-high boots, and one of those newfangled jackets of black-and-gold brocade, its simple cut accentuating the lean line of his hips and the surprising broadness of shoulders and chest. A cravat of smooth black silk swelled at his throat and except for the signet ring on his right hand and the sapphire clasp that fastened his cloak, he wore no jewels. The four golden chains of his princely rank looped across his chest comprised his most elaborate adornment.
Yet the very lack of ostentation worked to his advantage, for it served to direct the focus to the man himself, and amazingly, he bore that focus well.
Abramm addressed the Lord Speaker: “I request permission to address the Table, sir.” His voice was deep and strong, a boy’s voice no longer, and it carried an odd foreign lilt.
Blackwell was staring at him openmouthed, his spectacles reflecting white disks. He took a moment to recover himself, then nodded. “By all means, Your Highness.” He gestured to the dais.
Abramm crossed the floor in brisk, purposeful strides. Gone was the timid mien of the past; with his straight-backed carriage, his head held high, and his black cloak billowing behind him, he cut an undeniably impressive figure. On the second step from the top, he stopped and turned to face the Table, and Simon’s eyes nearly fell out of his head. He’s wearing a rapier!
“I am Abramm Alaric Kesrin Galbrath Kalladorne,” Abramm declared in a ringing voice, resting a hand on that rapier hilt with casual familiarity. “I am the fifth son of His Majesty, King Meren and, by reason of the reinstatement granted me by His Majesty, the late King Raynen, direct heir to the throne of Kiriath. Is this not so, Master Greenway?”
The Keeper of the Vault of Documents arose from the Lawreader’s booth. “It is so, Highness.”
“Then in light of my heritage and the laws of succession, I lay claim to the throne of Kiriath. What say you, Council of the Realm? Do you accept?”
Silence fell upon the Table, and Simon realized that everyone else was as taken aback as he. This man who laid his claim before them was not what any of them had expected. Simon could almost believe this Abramm had stabbed the kraggin with a spear and ridden it to the bottom of the sea.
He felt an unexpected surge of feeling. Whether respect or pride or approval—or all three—he did not know. Could Abramm finally have come into his own? Was he at last going to act like the Kalladorne he was?
&nbs
p; But he had watched this boy grow up, watched him fail and flounder and flee, watched him renounce his heritage and devote eight years of his life to pacifism and holiness in part because he could not live up to the demands expected of one of his bloodline. Could he have changed that much, even in six years?
He heard a rustling, a chair’s creak, then Ethan Laramor’s voice rang out: “I do not contest the claim, but I would point out that His Highness, Prince Abramm, has been away from the realm for some time, and that prior to his departure his training was not designed to prepare him to rule.” He stood ten chairs down the row from Simon, at the head of the Borderers’ section, his expression grimmer than ever. “I move, therefore, that the Council extend the regency of Prince Gillard for at least six months so that Prince Abramm can be prepared to meet his responsibilities.”
“I second the motion!” cried Michael Ives, jumping up from his seat midway between Simon and Laramor and several tiers up.
Abramm addressed the Council Lawreaders: “Is it not true that regencies are legally justified only when a monarch is absent, incapacitated, or not of legal age?”
The chief of the Council Lawreaders stood. “It is, Your Highness.”
“Since I am none of these, I fail to see the logic of your esteemed peer’s contention.”
“You could be judged incapacitated on account of lack of preparation,” said Ethan.
“Perhaps,” Abramm replied. “But the intent of this law is clear enough, and I believe laws are meant to be obeyed in accordance with their obvious meaning, not twisted to serve those in power.”
He turned his attention to the general assembly, and again Simon felt that flicker of grudging approval. Somewhere along the way, the lad had found his poise. “May I remind you, gentlemen,” Abramm said, “that I was born a king’s son. And while I admit I am not an expert in all fields, what man is? That is why a king has advisors. That is why he delegates authority. Many of my ancestors came to the throne with little more than I come to you. Alaric the Second was sixteen when crowned, and the people bemoaned his inexperience. Yet he went on to become one of Kiriath’s greatest rulers.”
The Shadow Within Page 9
