by Sonia Lyris
Next, loud, brassy music from the corners of the room, followed by a long and quite tedious gift ceremony for which Innel was ready with his practiced nods.
Next, the vows, which were impressively one-sided, with Innel promising his loyalty to the king, the royal line, the empire, the Houses, and finally to Cern, while the princess offered in return the vague possibility that Innel would be allowed to come near her from time to time.
The important part, though, was when the king said the final words.
“It is done.”
And then, like that, Innel was married into the Anandynar line. Children, if Cern and he ever had any, would be legal heirs with a chance at the throne. He himself was now an almost-royal.
One more rung up the ladder.
For a moment, before he and Cern were swept out of the hall and into the now-crowded antechamber, he thought he saw his brother in the back shadows of the halls. The ache he felt within took a bite from the victory.
But no—had Pohut been here, he would have been fiercely proud. At least the man his brother had been before Botaros.
Innel had not forgotten the seer’s predictions about the king’s abdication to Cern.
The spring after next, or the summer following. Mere months from now.
In the anteroom, a swirl of aides separating them, Sachare hovering protectively, Innel caught Cern’s eye and smiled. She returned a glare that he knew was not meant for him. The seneschal was too busy lecturing someone else to give them any last-minute instructions about the feast to follow, so Innel waded through the sea of people to reach her side. He took her hand, a gesture uninvited, one that he felt he could now risk.
“I hate this, Innel,” she whispered to him.
“One step closer, my lady,” he whispered back. To the throne.
At that she grimaced a bit, a brittle smile, but he saw through it to something like desire. He wondered what expression her face would take on when a crown was put on her head.
Within a month the king had changed his mind again. To wed was easy, he said, but best for Cern to make an heir first. Better yet, two or more. Don’t make my mistake, he said. A few more years of seasoning. Make her better suited to rule the empire.
Innel was unsurprised, but as the days passed, Cern became more and more livid. She wandered the palace in a tight fury, clenching her fists and saying things that should not be said about one’s monarch, certainly not an Anandynar, as fond as they were of elaborate executions. Innel did not think Cern was in real danger, given how much faith the king put in his own bloodline, but it would not be wise to test that certainty.
It was now, finally, the spring of the seer’s prediction.
Innel mused on the plans that he had spent so many years assembling. Should he wait?
The spring after next, or the summer following.
He looked out his small office window to Execution Square to see how things were progressing. The twitching man was on day two of his dying efforts, suspended four feet off the ground, some thirty hooks embedded deeply in his flesh, from fingers to toes. Innel had found that a long look at one of the king’s executions helped him order his priorities.
Act now, or wait? He considered the question for a day, and then another.
If he had the girl, he could simply ask her.
At last, while Cern’s storming temper swayed him, it was the seer’s words that decided him: it was time.
On the fifth day, when the man in Execution Square had stopped moving, Innel began. He sent Srel with herbs to calm Cern. She quieted, sitting for long hours in the glassed-in gardens, staring at her birds. Innel saw to it that she was carefully watched by his guards as well as her own.
As a result of meticulous planning and sand-clock timing, Innel was nowhere near Restarn when the old king stumbled, was caught by his guards, and carried to his bed, hot with fever.
The slave who was sent to tend to him knew to kiss him as he slept, but only after applying the lip rouge Innel had given her. She didn’t know why, only that if she did as she was told, her sister would not be sent from the palace into House Helata’s navy, to serve sailors at sea.
The apothecary knew a little more: to mix with the many ingredients for the tincture for the king’s fever a new ingredient, by itself a perfectly benign herbal extract, in exchange for Innel making sure that no one would care about his drunken rant in the kitchens a few months ago in which he described the various compounds he had assembled for members of the royal family to treat various maladies, some of which were rather embarrassing.
The final ingredient was the doctor herself. He had chosen her with care; she was neither brilliant nor clumsy, and had few enemies. For her, Innel had brokered a quiet agreement with his Cohort sister Malrin of House Eschelatine to take the doctor’s newborn grandson, a baby from a match not crown-approved, and have the boy tucked into the lesser House, to seem to have been born to an approved match that wanted a baby. In exchange, the doctor would put a bit of a certain powder on her fingertips before she inspected His Royal Majesty’s mouth, to be sure his gums weren’t bleeding.
They weren’t.
The king’s condition worsened over days, and then weeks. Bedridden and still feverish, Restarn was approached by his closest advisers, many of whom Innel had spoken to, to be sure they knew which way the wind was blowing. They asked the king, might it not be time to consider abdicating to Cern?
That is, unless he had another heir in mind?
Innel had been told that even as ill as he was, Restarn had been adamant in his reply. At his command the strongbox had been brought out from under the bed. He unlocked it, thrusting the succession letter at them.
Cern was at the top of the list. The rest of the names should have stayed quietly behind the eyes of those in that room, but of course that was not the way the palace worked. Now everyone knew the entire list.
Innel gave Cern no more herbs, needing her alert. But even sober she seemed uninterested in the process by which she might become queen, despite her anger at being denied it before. She only grudgingly participated in the council sessions that the king from his bed also grudgingly allowed. The planning sessions that might, if all went well, lead to her coronation.
With the affairs of state floating between an ailing Restarn and a sullen Cern, trade and House negotiations stumbled, contracts frayed and needed focused grooming to survive. As Innel struggled to keep Cern somewhere between too tense and too withdrawn, taking on as many administrative tasks as he could, he also made sure those who supported the king most closely knew there might be a place for them under the new queen. When she was crowned.
It was like juggling oiled knives in a dark room: any slip could cut. Or kill.
In front of Innel was a barely touched plate of food. He rubbed his head, trying to ease the ache and strain of a day already too full.
And now this.
“Be ready,” read the simple message, written in the down-city broker’s hand. He crumpled it and tossed it in the fire along with his sense of having been given an order.
This was how it worked; money was not enough to hire a mage. Even the appalling amount with which Tok had supplied him. They must be persuaded. Seduced.
He considered who he might send to do this. Sachare, Tok, Sutarnan, Dil, and even Mulack were all quite capable of convincing people to do things they didn’t want to do. Pohut had been the best of the lot, of course. Had he been here, he would be the one to send.
No, there was no one else he could trust to do this. He would have to go himself.
Somehow. There did not seem to be an hour of the day in which he was not acting in some way essential to support Cern’s cause or to undermine one of the others’ on the succession list. Now that there was no secret who would take the throne if something happened to Cern, there were too many people eyeing the throne with interest and eyeing Cern speculatively.
He doubled her guards, taking the time to interview each one. Sachare and he had long
talks about security.
He brought Cern more rods and flats and hooks for her various and delicately balanced in-air creations, hoping to keep her entertained in her own rooms.
The other royals on the succession list—two of the king’s cousins, a great nephew now married into one of the Houses, and a toddler niece—were subject to more attention as well, which had the advantage of keeping them busy with new and fawning friends, but it also put the thought in people’s heads that there might be options to Cern becoming queen.
Restarn had to name her, formalize the transition. Soon. How to get him there?
Innel could not, he now realized too clearly, let Cern name him lord commander. When the king was healthy and active it would have been clear that Cern had made the appointment with Restarn’s tacit consent, but if she did so now, everyone would think she was trying to grab the throne out from under him while he lay ill, which would open the door to challenges they could not yet face.
She might be the heir-apparent, but he was still the mutt.
He must get Cern to the throne.
At Innel’s direction, the doctor began to intercept the king’s advisers, explaining to them that he needed rest with no disturbances and hinting that there was a chance the disease was contagious. The king’s visitors quickly dwindled down to none.
No advisers, no servants.
No beautiful blond slaves.
Only the doctor, who Innel continued to watch for signs of disloyal behavior. He made sure she knew how well cared-for was her grandson in House Eschelatine, and that there was a position for her with the new monarch, but only if the old one did not die unexpectedly.
Innel now stood outside the king’s door, having decided it was time to see him. The doctor ran a hand through her hair, cut traditionally short, pink scalp showing through dark strands to demonstrate how healthy she was. For the sake of the listening guards, she explained to Innel that the disease might be contagious.
“My devotion to His Majesty will protect me,” Innel answered, loud enough to be heard. Then more softly: “You have all the herbs you need, yes?”
“Yes, ser.”
Inside, the room stank of illness.
“I’m sorry, ser,” the doctor said at his expression. “Perhaps we should open some windows.”
The windows were shut, heavy drapes across them, keeping it warm against the winter. But now it was spring.
“The princess would not want to further risk his health with the cold air.”
Cern, he suspected, would be happier yet if her father were bricked up in a deep dungeon cell to rot. But they needed him alive, at least for now.
The shape under the covers stirred, eyes coming half open in a wrinkled face. He stared intently at Innel.
“You may go,” Innel told the doctor. The doctor bowed to the king and left, closing the door behind her.
Restarn esse Arunkel. The man who across fifty-six years of rule had extended the empire from the Dalgo Rift to the ocean, united the warring provinces, and held the seas from Perripur to Chaemendi. Was it really possible he was now so frail?
Innel bowed. “Your Majesty.”
The eyes blinked, seemed to struggled to focus, found him. Innel felt himself tense.
“How do you feel, Sire?”
“You fool. How do you think I feel? Where’s Cern? She doesn’t visit. No one visits. This your doing, Innel?”
“She is busy, Sire. Taking on the essential work of governing the empire while you recover. It is a trying time for us all.”
“Yes, I’m sure it is,” Restarn said sourly.
“I’m certain she will have more time after the coronation.”
“Coronation?” Restarn frowned.
Anxiety sparked in Innel. Had the illness taken the king’s memory? Had he changed his mind?
“You directed the council to begin the process of crowning her, Sire—”
“I know that,” he snapped. “I’m sick, not stupid.” A coughing fit took him. When he was done, his head fell back on the pillow, breathing hard from the exertion. He turned his head sideways to look at Innel.
“So you buried your brother and married my daughter.” He chuckled, then wheezed. “Not bad for the son of a down-city mapmaker and his wet-nurse wife. Aren’t you fortunate that I took your family in all those years ago.”
Dragged them from their home, their family business given away.
“A mapmaker whom you made a general, sire,” Innel said quietly. “A hero, you told me.”
“But not so good for your brother, eh?” Restarn said, ignoring Innel’s words. “I was betting on Pohut, you know. Not you.”
Innel struggled to keep calm, forcing a smile to his face. “And yet, here I stand, Sire. Perhaps we could discuss some of your unwritten agreements with the Houses, so we could—”
“I can just see it,” Restarn continued, starting to look pleased, “you and Pohut galloping across the empire to ask a snot-nosed commoner brat to tell your fortune. Did you ask her for the blessings of the wind and the mercy of sea as well, while you had the chance?”
With effort, Innel kept his breathing steady, letting only a shadow of confusion show on his face.
“Yes,” Restarn said slowly, watching Innel closely and ignoring—or perhaps seeing through—his show of bemusement. “I know where you went. I knew the first time you fucked my daughter. I know every boy and girl she takes to her bed. What she likes, what she hates. You thought you could keep something from me?” He laughed, then coughed again, curled in on himself while his body was wracked with another fit. Then he wiped spittle from his lips, looked at Innel. “I know everything that happens in my palace.”
“Knew,” Innel said softly.
Restarn’s smile faded.
“I have taxed you enough, Your Majesty. I will leave you to rest.” He turned.
“Innel, no. Stay. What’s happening on the borders? Tell me.” Wheezing, the king struggled to sit up. “The Gotar rebellion. Sinetel. The Houses. This foul illness has kept me flat. No one tells me anything. I don’t even have my slaves. Stay and talk to me.”
Innel turned back. “There’s a rumor, Majesty. About your mages.”
“I never had mages.”
“Rumor says otherwise.”
“My enemies seek to dirty my good name.”
“Then,” Innel said, backing a step to the door, then another, giving a small bow, “you’ll be pleased to know that there’s nothing happening in Sinetel and the Houses are still standing. Rest easy, Sire.”
The king’s eyes narrowed as he inhaled sharply, no doubt to say something, but instead he started coughing again. The pain showed on his face. He turned a furious glare on Innel. “I will not have it said of me that I used mages.”
“I have no desire to give voice to such filthy lies, Your Majesty.”
“Horseshit,” Restarn said. “Give me your oath, Innel. Not that it’s much, coming from a man who would kill his own brother, but I’ll take it anyway.”
At this Innel’s anger welled up hot from deep inside. He wrestled with it for a moment. Truly, the king deserved his admiration; even sick as he was, the man still knew the exact words that would infuriate Innel. “You have my oath,” Innel said evenly.
“Gotar?”
“They are rebelling in Gotar.”
Restarn hissed. “I know that.”
“The mages. Names. Details. Sire.”
Innel wanted to be sure that any mage he hired had not previously worked for Restarn.
The king glared at him a long moment. For decades this particular royal expression had often preceded extended executions. To see it thus was extraordinary. Like a rare view from a high, thin cliff ledge, sharp rocks and ocean churning below. Innel felt something like vertigo.
Then go in with all you have.
“Forgive my intrusion,” he said with a bow, backing to the door where he turned on his heel, took the handle, and pressed it until, in the silence of the room, there was
an audible click.
“Yes, yes, all right. I’ll tell you what you want to know. You may want paper. I doubt your memory is as good as mine, even now.”
Innel turned back, his own anger transformed into hard resolve. “Test me.”
At this Restarn smiled wide. While his sunken eyes and pallid skin would not have looked out of place in any down-city street beggar, no beggar’s eyes could hold such arrogance. “Sit down, Innel. I miss our talks. Tell me what’s happening in my kingdom.”
Innel felt a cold trickle of uncertainty. Restarn was not yet out of the picture. He could still shake their plans if he had a mind to. “I had understood it was to be Cern’s kingdom, and soon, Your Majesty.”
Restarn gestured, quite clearly, to the chair by his side. An order. The moment stretched. “It will be,” the king said, sounding surprisingly hale. “Come on, boy. I knew you’d take Cern. I knew it all along. Pohut was too soft-hearted. It made him slow and stupid. Now come here, sit, and we’ll talk.”
“I don’t have the time, Sire,” Innel said, feeling stubborn.
“Oh, I think you do, Innel,” he said with an unpleasant smile. “You never know when I might die.”
Now that he had something of a yes from Restarn, Innel pushed as hard as he could. But moving the coronation forward was a choreography of coordination, conciliation, and inducement beyond anything Innel had ever experienced.
Too many people, from Houses to military, had an opinion, an agenda, or something else that Innel needed, that wouldn’t be offered without reciprocation. Sorting out the pieces was confounding.
As events proceeded forward at an interminably slow rate, Innel discovered that the only thing worse than facing a seneschal who was annoying, opinionated, and stubbornly devoted to the crown was facing one who wasn’t. He remembered the wedding, how it had come together, and reassessed the man’s skill and necessity. Swallowing his pride, Innel went to talk with him, making clear that if he worked for the princess now, he would work for the queen later.
