by Dave Duncan
Even the odors of people and perfume in that overcrowded hall could not completely hide the reek of dead dog. The latest estimate of deaths she had heard was twenty-two, the human tragedy lurking under all this glitter and sham. Especially she thought of Sir Shadow, who had lasted less than two months after his binding, who had been very little older than she was. He had not been able to make her heart race with a single sultry look as Eagle could, but he had been a merry soul, a genius at composing funny poems to deflate bullfrogs.
A deputation from the Commons trooped in and knelt before the King like rooks at a peacock picnic. Mr. Speaker began reading an address in a tuneless, nasal voice.
Another said at her elbow, “Now would be a good moment for Your Highness to—”
Malinda looked around with distaste and decided that Ivyn Kromman’s yellowish face with its frame of lank gray hair resembled an aged fried egg, and she must share that thought with Courtney sometime.
“You would have me interrupt Mr. Speaker?”
The secretary pulled a mawkish smile. “If someone doesn’t we’ll be here all night. His Majesty specifically instructed me to provide a diversion about now.”
She eyed him suspiciously. Was he trying to entrap her? He would not get away with it if he was, whereas it was entirely possible that Ambrose would want the Speaker muzzled.
“Very well, Master Secretary. Diversion it will be.” She raised her skirts to descend to the antechamber floor. There she put herself at the head of her retinue, making sure that Crystal had Lady Wains under control, and led them into Rose Hall along the narrow aisle the heralds had managed to keep clear.
Mr. Speaker droned on, listing all the terrible misfortunes that would have befallen the country had the King’s Majesty perished under the nefarious assault of the evildoers. It was not a formal address from the Commons—there had not been time for a debate. He was passing on his own ideas and sounding very I-told-you-so. Nothing would annoy her father more than that.
Studying the set of the globular face ahead, Malinda could guess that her father had had enough. His ankles troubled him and he had been standing there for well over an hour. She reached the requisite distance from the dais and sank into a full court curtsey, hearing fabric rustle behind her as all her ladies-in-waiting and maids of honor followed her.
“Malinda!” His Majesty proclaimed. “Our dearest dove!”
Mr. Speaker’s voice trailed off uncertainly.
In a surprising display of affection and disregard of protocol, Ambrose lurched heavily down from the dais and advanced to raise his daughter. Caught unprepared by his tug, she almost overbalanced; only a brute-strength heave by her father prevented an embarrassing stumble. No matter—he enveloped her in an embrace. There was a lot of him inside all the vestments. There was a lot of ham there, too. He would have made a truly appalling and doubtless very successful actor. Over his shoulder she noted Dear Brother Granville frowning narrowly.
The whole court had been taken by surprise. There was a perceptible pause before someone started the cheer. Everyone duly joined in, giving Ambrose time to inspect his daughter at arm’s length and then embrace her all over again. The heralds awoke to the fact that the King was now on the same level as the audience and signaled for everyone to kneel. The entire court knelt.
“They told us you were safe,” Ambrose declared when the cheering faded away, “but only the witness of our own eyes can truly set our mind at rest. It enrages us that our dear children have been exposed to danger. We wonder what sort of despicable poltroons could make war on such innocents?”
Her turn. Speak up.
“Traitors, most honored Father, contemptible traitors! But my only concern at all times was for the safety of Your Majesty.”
She had not bothered to prepare that speech. It was all he wanted to hear. It was also closer to sincere than it would have been the previous day—she had worried about him and what would happen if he died.
Beaming, Ambrose urged her to accompany him as he heaved himself up onto the dais again. “Stand beside us, my sweet.” He meant behind us and over there. “Now, who…Ah, Mr. Speaker, we beg pardon for interrupting you.”
The heralds gestured and the congregation rose to its feet again, all except the parliamentary delegation. The Speaker pulled a face and raised his scroll to resume reading his speech. He was the Honorable Alfred Kildare, he was a pompous attorney from Flaskbury, and he was totally bald. This detail was known because his hat had blown off on the palace steps a couple of weeks ago. In one of his pithier works, Sir Shadow had commemorated the occasion:
Alfred Kildare,
All air, no hair.
The wind blows
And so does he.
Sir Shadow would be forgotten but pompous Master Kildare would strut his way back to Parliament behind his little paunch and yatter on as before. Malinda’s entry had not dampened his volubility at all. He was even repeating some of his earlier paragraphs.
“Father!” she protested, “should you be listening to this man?”
Had she ripped all her clothes off and turned cartwheels, she could not have created a greater impression. The King turned very slowly to look at her, as if disbelieving what he had heard. Everyone else just stared openmouthed.
Women did not interfere in politics. No one spoke to the King unbidden. Or insulted the Speaker. Mere slips of girls did not…Unmarried wenches…The rules she had just broken were too numerous and too potent even to list. There was no going back, so she went on, letting the angry words fly.
“He is warning that your life is too valuable to risk, which the entire country already knows. But he is hinting that you must abandon your noble struggle for fairer taxes. He may even try to dissuade you from hunting down the evildoers who assaulted you in your own palace and slew many of your defenders. What sort of ruler does he think you are? What sort of man does he think you are? I, too, am of the House and Line of Ranulf, and I am insulted that you should have to listen to such craven whining! Instruct him in the honor of princes, sire.”
Ambrose’s eyes had vanished almost completely into his blubbery cheeks; his mouth had shrunk to a pinhole. Either she had gone much farther than he expected, or he was an even better actor than she knew. Slowly he turned back to look down on the outraged Speaker.
“Our daughter speaks out of turn, Mr. Speaker. Pray forgive a damsel who has been sorely tested these last few hours, as we have all been. We are sure our loyal Commons would never counsel us to neglect our justice, our campaign for fairer taxes, or certainly our honor. Pray complete your discourse.”
The Honorable Alfred opened and closed his mouth a few times. Rather than read any more, he mumbled a few loyal platitudes and humbly thanked His Majesty for his attention. He then stuffed the scroll inside his jerkin instead of handing it to the waiting page.
The Commons rose and backed away, bowing. Like earwigs. A herald bellowed out the next name: “His Worship the Lord Mayor of Grandon and the honorable aldermen…”
Ambrose directed a parental glare at his wayward daughter to warn her not to interfere any more. And—very, very slightly—winked. He had never done that before.
The reception broke up. The King departed in the midst of his Blades without a word to Malinda.
Lord Granville spared her a quizzical smile in passing. “Even a terrier may turn a bull,” he muttered and was gone before she could reply. He had the gall to leave before she did!
As Malinda led her retinue down the great staircase, she beckoned Lady Arabel forward for consultation. “Cousin Courtney has paid off his creditors again?”
“Baron Leandre does seem to be well provided with funds at the moment,” her mistress of the rumors said sourly, chins waggling disapprovingly.
“And who is his benefactor, do you know?”
“Lady Mildred! It happened just after the Long Night Masquerade. He’s doing very well off her, they say.”
“Mildred? I thought she was happily married an
d faithful.”
“Her?” Arabel said in astonishment. “Spirits! Oh no, no! Oh, my goodness, no!”
Wrong again. It was hard to keep up with Courtney and not really worth the effort. Granville mattered more. Suppose her father never did send the warrior hero back to Wylderland? Suppose he recognized him, legitimized him, and named him Crown Prince? Whatever the traditions, after the fright everyone had received last night, Parliament would probably be very happy to let Ambrose designate a mature and competent heir. It would make no difference to Malinda, but poor little Amby would be disinherited.
5
It will take a firm hand to break yon filly to the bit.
LORD GRANVILLE, PERSONAL COMMUNICATION TO KING AMBROSE
Before they even reached the Princess’s quarters, they were accosted by a pack of distraught mothers, determined to whisk their daughters away from court before monsters ate them. Crystal became flustered; Malinda intervened with threats of royal thunderbolts to send them packing. After that, she insisted on keeping banal appointments with dressmakers and then her music teacher, to demonstrate that life would continue as before. By evening the entire palace seemed ready to make an early night of it and catch up on lost sleep.
As always, she and Dian ended their day with a private gossip while Dian brushed Malinda’s hair. Her hair was long enough to sit on, although she could never understand why she should want to.
“I fail to see the point of it,” she complained, seeking some topic other than the dogs. “Why must women let their hair grow long? We are never allowed to display it.” Current fashion allowed exposure of no more than a finger width between forehead and bonnet.
“Men like it,” Dian said dreamily. “Trail it over their naked bodies. Drives them wild.”
“I thought it took a lot less than that to drive men wild.” It was very annoying that her friend was so much more knowledgeable—or claimed to be. Dian sometimes mistook wishful thinking for experience.
“To start with, but they tire easily. After the first couple of—”
“I don’t want to hear! You are supposed to set a good example for my household.”
“I set an excellent example,” Dian said. “The world would be a much happier—”
Came a tap on the door, Arabel’s face unpainted and distraught under her nightcap, word of a page waiting outside…His Majesty requested the pleasure of his daughter’s company. Now, of course. That was what came of having a tyrant for a father.
She could not wait upon the King without attendants, and this excursion obviously called for Arabel and Dian. With all the servants already dismissed, there was much frantic scurrying, while maids of honor attempted to pin up hair and find clothes and jewelry. Courtly garments were not designed for ease of dressing any more than Ambrose IV was noted for his patience; it seemed hours before the three of them were ready to emerge and follow the fretting page. Six Blades were guarding her door, and four of them went with her through the shadowed and silent corridors of the sleeping palace.
Normally an unexpected royal summons meant royal trouble, but Malinda’s conscience was unusually clear at the moment. She had not ridden astride for months and her sense of humor had been behaving itself reasonably well. She had little time to worry, because the boy conducted her not to the King’s suite but to much lesser quarters not far from her own. Two White Sisters and four Blades guarded the outer door, and there were at least a dozen Blades in the anteroom. Not Sir Eagle, though. She wondered wistfully what he did in his off-duty hours, and with whom.
Deputy Commander Dreadnought was in charge. His smile was cheery enough, but she felt as if his eyes were searching her for concealed daggers. “Just your royal self, Your Grace,” he said as he tapped on the inner door for her.
She had expected that and chosen her companions accordingly. Crystal, say, would be horrified if she had to spend an hour with a platoon of Blades, but Arabel would enjoy weaseling all the latest gossip out of them. Dian would flirt outrageously and fill up any blanks on her calendar for the next month.
The little sitting room beyond was snug, with a fire crackling on the hearth and shutters closed against the winter chill. It contained two men and two chairs, one of them more than completely occupied by King Ambrose, humped over like a very weary haystack as he soaked his feet in a steaming copper basin, whose pungent herbal odor almost masked the scent of woodsmoke and beeswax. He had discarded his hat and cloak, a very rare informality—she had not seen him like that since Haralda died. He looked up blearily and yawned.
As she sank down in a full curtsey, he growled, “Up, up! Scofflaw! Where is the man? A stool, Scofflaw, a stool!”
She had not expected Granville. The Rector was on his feet, goblet in hand, leaning against the mantel. He, too, had shed his outermost garments; indeed his jerkin was half unlaced, and she had never known any man dare attend the King in that state—nor slouch against the wall in his presence, either. If they had progressed to such intimacy, this must be the latest in a whole series of informal meetings. Now she was being included in the family conference. Was it possible that the King had decided to recognize and legitimize his warrior son? It would be a popular move. Had she been summoned just to hear the news?
Granville hauled himself upright long enough to bow to her. “May I pour you some wine, Your Highness? A fortified draft, good for repelling the winter weather.” His rocky face was slightly flushed, as if he had repelled several storms already.
Scofflaw, the King’s elderly and dullard valet, shuffled in through another door, carrying a stool. He placed it in front of her and disappeared back where he had come without ever meeting her eye. She sat and adjusted her skirts.
“A small glass would be welcome, thank you, my lord.” All grown-ups together now…
“You really crippled the Speaker today, girl!” Ambrose growled. “Even I can’t speak to him that way.” This was a blatant lie. Only a month ago he had publicly called the man a shit-house shoveler. “You trying to provoke a constitutional crisis?” He was hiding his amusement, but she knew him well enough to relax a little.
“Secretary Kromman told me you wanted a diversion, sire.”
The King twisted his pudding features into a scowl. “You mean my secretary told you to speak up unbidden at an audience?”
“He did not specify means. I assumed that he was merely passing on your instructions—I certainly hope he would not presume to order me around on his own! If I misunderstood his words, I am deeply sorry to have distressed Your Majesty.” Let the royal fist descend on Ivyn Kromman; she would shed no tears.
Granville held out a glass of blood-red liquid to her.
“Don’t ever do it again,” Ambrose grumbled. “Will not have people saying that I take orders from children! Upstart hussy!” He chuckled hoarsely. “It worked, I admit. Just this once, you hear? Burn the man! Can’t stand him.”
“Chop off his head, sire,” Granville suggested, refilling his own goblet.
“Wish I could, Rector. Scofflaw! I’ve thrown some of those gabble merchants in the Bastion before now, but it doesn’t make the Commons any more cooperative, believe me…. Scofflaw!” Ambrose sighed. “You’re growing up, my lass.”
“Not too soon for me, sire.”
“Snake says you snore.”
“He is insolent!” Malinda snapped.
“What he really said was that you slept all night.”
“There was nothing else to do.”
Ambrose grunted, but he was pleased. “What do you think, Lord Rector? A girl gets dragged out of bed and run through a bunch of cellars and told that the palace is under attack—so she lies down and goes back to sleep. Snake swears she wasn’t faking it!”
“I am sure he has had ample experience of women pretending to be asleep, sire.”
The King guffawed. “I’m sure he has. Those Blades are the greatest libertines in creation. But not many wenches have iron nerves like that, eh?”
Granville glanced tho
ughtfully at Malinda and took a leisurely drink of wine.
“Courage runs in the family, sire.”
The King’s eyes slitted. “Meaning?”
The Rector endured the glare without flinching. His solid, weathered features were Ambrose’s with muscle and gristle in place of blubber. It was the face of a killer, but would she have been able to tell that just by looking at it? As the perceptive Courtney had said, the man was a human monument. She realized that he was as puzzled by her presence as she was by his.
“Just what I said, sire. The House of Ranulf has always been known for its courage.” It was also known for amber eyes, and his own eyes were as gold as could be. But even the Wylderland Butcher did not dare mention that fact here.
Scofflaw shuffled in with a bucket in one hand and a steaming copper jug in the other. Kneeling before the King, he began ladling water from the basin into the bucket. No one paid any attention. Ambrose turned back to Malinda, a safer target than a hero with a national following. “Time to find you a husband, mm?”
Fortunately, hard-won experience warned her just in time that he was about to strike and she managed to conceal her shock behind a sip of wine, although it turned into a gulp. “I understood I was limited to one, sire.”
Granville laughed admiringly. Ambrose scowled and then decided to join in.
“You really want to wait until that De Mayes brat is out of swaddling clothes?”
Marriage? Her mind was whirling. She thought of Eagle. He was impossible, of course, but a man like Eagle? Some supple young sultry-eyed ruler of a secure little principality in the warm south of Eurania? Marriage soon? No more the De Mayes tadpole!
Scofflaw began topping up the basin with hot water from the jug.
