by David Weber
"Isn't she a fine sight, now?" his companion replied.
"The finest I ever did see, and that's no lie. Did you see her fly, man? From a ship's deck, no less! Triad's mercy, that's what an imperial Ternathian falcon can do!"
"Very nicely done, indeed, Your Highness," another voice said, and Andrin turned in surprise as a burly man in a captain's uniform stepped out of the wheelhouse. Captain Ula looked at her just a bit quizzically, and she found herself blushing.
"I beg your pardon for interrupting the routine of your crew, Captain," she apologized. "I hadn't realized Finena would prove to be such a distraction."
"No harm done, Your Highness." He swept her a low bow, then turned a scowl on the suddenly very intent-looking lookouts and raised his voice into a booming roar fit to carry through any gale. "But if I catch another man gawking at Her Highness' bird instead of attending to his duties, I'll feed his liver to the falcon, myself! Do I make myself clear?"
"Aye, Captain!"
The lookouts whipped back around to their assigned sectors, and Ula scowled at their backs for just a moment, but his eyes still twinkled. He waited another few seconds, then turned back to Andrin.
"I'll leave you to enjoy the air and sunshine, Your Highness," he said with another bow.
"Thank you, Captain. I know our voyage will be a great pleasure. You have a lovely ship."
A flush of pleasure touched his cheeks as he recognized the sincerity of her compliment. Then he touched the brim of his hat and left her to enjoy the morning.
Andrin pulled her coat collar up around her neck, leaned against the boat deck rail, and smiled to herself. The view was even more spectacular from up here, and she abandoned herself to sheer, sensual pleasure while Finena finished eating, then launched herself once more to drift effortlessly on the wind above the ship, staying well clear of the smoke trailing from the liner's tall funnels.
It was too good to last indefinitely, of course. She'd been there for perhaps a half-hour?certainly not much longer?when a movement on chan Zindico's part drew her attention. It wasn't much of a movement; most people probably wouldn't even have noticed it. But Andrin knew her guardsman well, and she recognized the signs. Someone was about to enter potential threat range of her.
She turned to see who it was, and her eyes widened in astonishment so great that she had to forcibly order her jaw not to drop.
"Marnilay preserve us," chan Zindico murmured, just loud enough for her to hear through the sound of wind and wave. "It's Earl Ilforth coming to pay his respects."
Andrin had never had the pleasure of meeting the Earl of Ilforth, Speaker of the House of Lords, in person. Her mother tended to avoid his company, which meant Andrin and her sisters had also avoided it, simply because they'd always accompanied the Empress in her headlong flight from whatever wing of the palace his presence happened to threaten at the moment. Everyone had heard of him, though, and she knew he was considered the epitome of the term "court dandy."
Now she watched him coming towards her, and her mind busily sorted out first impressions even as she continued to dredge up everything she'd ever been told about him.
He might have possessed a certain wiry grace if he hadn't moved with such studied languor, she decided, and he was also short for a Ternathian. A good head shorter than Andrin herself, and built on narrow-shouldered, slender lines. And he was said to be quite sensitive about his relatively diminutive stature, among other things, she remembered. Rumor suggested that he compensated for it with a viperish tongue, and his biting setdowns of social inferiors (which, in his opinion, included virtually every other Ternathian ever born) and anyone who roused his ire were proverbial.
He was also wealthy enough to indulge his every wardrobe whim, and reputed to be inordinately fond of such indulgences. That much, at least, Andrin now knew was entirely accurate, for Mancy Fornath, fifty-first Baron Fornath and forty-fifth Earl of Ilforth, was resplendent in morning attire.
Or he would have been, if this had been Hawkwing Palace, rather than the deck of a passenger liner under full power.
His coif had been as elaborate as Andrin's own when he started out, and it was in just as many shreds as hers before he'd come halfway across the deck. The ornate quetzal feather in his hat would never be worth its weight in silver again, either, she judged, and his coat had so many layers and flutters and silken tassels that it looked alive in the stiff wind. In fact, it looked as if it were trying to devour him.
"Dear Marnilay, does he dress that way all the time?" she demanded under her breath, and chan Zindico snorted.
"That, Your Highness, is conservative for Earl Ilforth."
Whatever she might have replied to that went unspoken, for the distinctive?she couldn't possibly call such a spectacle distinguished?personage had reached his quarry and bowed sweepingly.
"My dear Grand Princess! How you've grown!"
Andrin could never decide later whether it was his patronizing tone or the ironic, languidly malicious look he swept up her tall, admittedly sturdy figure as he straightened his spine which did the most to leave her white-faced with fury. Not that it really matter, she eventually concluded. Either one would have been more than enough, and if they hadn't done it, the lazy, mocking glitter in his light-colored eyes?the self-congratulating amusement of an adult making clever remarks which would sail right over a mere child's head?would have accomplished the same thing anyway.
Unlike Uromathia, Ternathia had outlawed the custom of dueling generations ago?which, she found herself reflecting, was a pity. Or perhaps not. chan Zindico, who hewed to the millennia-old tradition of Calirath guardsmen, had begun her tutoring in self-defense when she was twelve, and seven words from the Earl of Ilforth left her with a sudden, passionate longing to see him on the firing range with his pasty face centered?briefly?in the sights of her favorite Halanch and Welnahr revolver.
Which might not be precisely the best way to stay on the House of Lords' good side, however satisfying it might be, she admitted regretfully. On the other hand …
"My dear Earl," she said, in tones fit to freeze lava, looking down her nose at him from her towering inches, "how nice to see someone of your … imposing stature this morning."
He blinked, and his face went blank. She wondered whether his confusion stemmed more from the evidence that she hadn't missed his mockery after all, or from the sheer disbelief that any snip of a schoolgirl would dare to cut him off at the knees.
"Ah, ahem, well?"
She turned her back on him in mid-stammer and whistled sharply. Finena wheeled high above her, then came hurtling down with the speed of a striking snake. Peregrines could attain velocities of over two hundred miles per hour in a stoop, and the smack of talon against leather as the hawk flared her wings at the last moment sounded shockingly loud above the wind. The white falcon turned a baleful eye on Earl Ilforth and hissed. Andrin had never heard such a sound from any hawk, let alone Finena, and Ilforth actually stumbled backward a step as she turned back to survey him through icy eyes.
"You were saying, My Lord?"
"Er … I …" He stared, apparently mesmerized, at the hawk for several seconds before he managed to tear his eyes away with a supreme effort. "A thousand pardons, Your Grand Highness. I hadn't realized how large your bird is."
"Really?" Andrin narrowed her eyes. "As a matter of fact, Finena's not particularly large for an imperial falcon, My Lord. Was there some urgent business you wished to discuss?"
He cleared his throat.
"I just wanted to say what an honor it is, to share a voyage of such importance with His Imperial Majesty and Your Grand Highness."
"I see. I was rather looking forward to the voyage myself."
She didn't actually emphasize the verb all that strongly, but it was enough to bring an angry scarlet stain to his cheeks. Clearly, he was more accustomed to setting down others then to receiving the same treatment himself, and his eyes flashed. He started to open his mouth, but then something else happened beh
ind those angry eyes, and the red of his cheeks faded abruptly into something far paler.
"Your Grand Highness, I humbly beg your pardon." His voice was suddenly different as well. Lower, more hurried, without the polished confidence which had sneered through his tone before. "I … seem to have made hash of this conversation, and it was never my intention to be offensive. If I have caused you grief in some fashion, I sincerely beg your forgiveness."
Andrin managed to keep her own eyes from widening, but it was hard, as she saw sweat start along his upper lip. She'd never actually seen anyone do that before. She'd certainly never had that effect on anyone, and she found herself wondering a little frantically what a mere seventeen-year-old girl could have done to so thoroughly unnerve him. Simple surprise kept her silent, and that only made it worse.
And then, as she watched his face lose even more color, she realized with an insight like a thunderclap that it wasn't so much because of what she'd done or said, as because of who she was. Who she might yet become. He truly had expected his nasty little barbed comment to go right past a "mere girl." He'd never anticipated that it wouldn't, and it was the sudden realization of the truly colossal blunder he'd made which had rattled him so thoroughly. Ridiculing the physical size of a person who might one day occupy the imperial throne wasn't the very wisest political move a man could make.
Part of her was childishly delighted by his terror. She'd never before experienced anything like this sudden, visceral understanding that she could reduce grown men to quivering protoplasm merely by displaying her displeasure, and it was a heady sensation. But if part of her was delighted, the rest was quite abruptly shaken to the core. She had a sudden vision of just what sort of disaster she could unleash if she succumbed to the habit of using that power to gratify her own petty emotions, and it terrified her.
One corner of her lips tried to quirk as she contemplated this oaf's probable reaction if she thanked him for his unwitting assistance in her imperial education. She was sorely tempted to do just that, but decided to settle for a slight nod, instead.
"Very well, My Lord. I accept your apology," she said coolly, and he swept off his hat to give her the most elaborate bow she'd ever witnessed.
"I am eternally grateful for your mercy, Your Grand Highness."
Just when she was about to suggest that he'd kept his forehead on the ship's deck long enough, he rose with an elegance that was somewhat spoiled by the ship's motion. He overbalanced and nearly landed flat on his face, but recovered admirably, and gave her a rueful smile that was more genuine than anything else she'd seen from him.
"I fear I haven't yet found my sea legs, Your Highness."
"At least you're on yours, My Lord. I fear lady Merissa is entirely too ill from seasickness to rise from bed at all."
"I'm sorry to hear that," he said softly. "Lady Merissa is a true jewel of the Court, and much beloved by all. I hope she recovers quickly."
Andrin wondered why such a simple statement left her wondering what the earl's marital status might be, and if he had any intention of altering it. She thought she remembered that he'd been married for several years, but she wasn't certain. And if he was married, was he ambitious enough to set aside his wife in favor of the mistress of protocol to his Emperor's daughter? Such back-stair avenues to political influence and power had been used often enough in the Empire's past. Was Ilforth inclined in that direction? Or?her eyes narrowed suddenly?did he have his sights set somewhat higher?
In that moment, Andrin wished fiercely that her mother had come on this voyage, rather than choosing to remain for the present in Estafel with the younger girls. That was not the kind of question she could ask her father.
"I'll relay your well wishes to lady Merissa when I see her again," she said after a moment.
"You're too kind, Your Grand Highness."
Yes, I am, she thought uncharitably. Especially since I'd rather dump you overboard and let you swim to Tajvana. Or perhaps hand you an anchor first.
"Did you have something else to discuss, My Lord?" she asked, determined to be polite, even as she found herself wondering a little frantically how to extract herself from a conversation she didn't want to continue. "Something to do with the Conclave, perhaps?"
"Ah, yes, the Conclave."
He was fiddling with his hat brim, gazing forlornly at the wreckage of the expensive New Farnalian feather he'd foolishly brought out onto a wind-swept deck where the biting wind off the North Vander Ocean came whipping around the southern tip of Ternath Island.
"You're probably wondering what instructions I carry from the House of Lords," he said with a last heavy sigh for his damaged headgear.
Andrin blinked mentally. She hadn't wondered anything of the sort, actually, but she suddenly?and belatedly?realized that she probably should have.
"Are you at liberty to share them?" she asked after a moment, and he looked up from his hat at last, his glance sly.
"Ordinarily, no, Your Grand Highness." He gestured elaborately with one hand, apparently attempting to convey the intricacies with which a man in his position must deal on a daily basis. Unfortunately, he ended up looking merely ludicrous. "However, as your position has, ah, shifted, shall we say, due to the current crisis, I feel it would be remiss of the Lords to endeavor to keep such an important member of the imperial family in the dark."
She only looked at him, waiting for something besides empty flattery, and he cleared his throat.
"Yes. Well. The Lords have made it quite clear that under no circumstances shall we yield so much as a fingertip's worth of Ternathian sovereignty over this business!"
"I see." Andrin pursed her lips thoughtfully. "I should imagine most of the other governments on Sharona share exactly the same sentiments, shouldn't you, My Lord? That wouldn't appear to leave a great deal of room for progress toward a practical governing system to deal with the crisis, would it?"
He blinked.
"I beg your pardon, Your Grand Highness?"
"Clearly, something must be done, administratively, to meet the crisis, or all Sharona could be at risk of attack, My Lord. Possibly even destruction. It seems to me that refusing to yield a fingertip's worth of anything at this particular moment is an exceedingly poor way to handle the worst international crisis in Sharonian history."
An odd, choking sound behind her left shoulder distracted Andrin for a moment. She actually turned to see if her bodyguard had been stricken ill, but though chan Zindico's face was slightly red, he seemed unharmed. Reassured, she returned her attention to the forty-fifth Earl of Ilforth.
"Well, My Lord?"
"Ah, well, ahem. There may be a great deal of merit in your argument, Your Grand Highness. Which I must say is remarkably cogent for a girl barely out of the schoolroom, if you'll pardon me for speaking bluntly."
She wanted to shout her irritation to the sky, or else?preferably?hit him over the head with something large and heavy. Instead, she favored him with a frosty gaze.
"My schoolroom is hardly noted for its incompetent schoolmasters," she observed, and Ilforth reddened.
"No, of course not. I hardly meant to imply?"
"Then perhaps you will be so good as to consider my argument's merit, regardless of the chronological age of its source."
She left him standing, hat in hand, gaping after her as she stalked clear across the broad, windswept deck to the opposite rail. She paused fractionally there, not sure she knew where she meant to go. But a moment later, she knew exactly what to do as the first Lord of the Privy Council appeared on deck, sensibly attired in a practical morning suit with nary a feather nor a geegaw in sight.
"My Lord! How delightful to see you! Would you join me for a stroll?"
Shamir Taje stared at her for a moment. Then he caught sight of Ilforth, still standing frozen on the far side of the deck, and a sudden, impish grin burst forth like sunlight.
"Your Grand Highness, I would be delighted to accompany you."
He held out one arm gall
antly, and she laid her hand on his dark, sober sleeve and gave him a brilliant smile.
"I can honestly say I've never been so relieved to see you in my life," she said earnestly, and he chuckled.
"His Lordship has been his usual ingratiating self, I see. What diplomatic crisis has he engendered now?"
Finena, perched on Andrin's other forearm, let out an improbable squawk that lifted Taje's eyebrows and left Andrin laughing.
"I think she wants to eat his tongue for lunch," the princess said. "And, I must say, she'd make better use of it than he does if she did!"
"Marnilay preserve us, how badly did he offend you?" Taje asked, only half-humorously, and her eyes flashed.
"Have you a brace of pistols about you, My Lord?" she asked in reply, and he winced.
"That bad?"
"How in heaven's name did he ever get to be Speaker of the House of Lords?"
To her surprise, Taje met her gaze squarely, and his voice was completely serious.
"He's the Speaker because he's the most senior earl in the House of Lords, and because he has sufficient money, and therefore political influence, to sway an unfortunate?one might almost say unholy?alliance of extreme conservatives, status-conscious popinjays, and ambitious men who know better but find his money exceedingly useful. Never, ever underestimate the damage Ilforth can do in?or from?the House of Lords. Thank Marnilay Herself that the power of the imperial purse rests in the Commons, Your Highness, or that blue-blooded, damnfool-tongued disaster would be able to sit back on his undeserved laurels and dictate to the Throne whenever he felt like it. Which would be every minute of the day."
Andrin stared at the man who held, on a daily basis, more power than anyone in the Empire except her father. She'd never heard such venom from the eternally unflappable First Councilor in her life. Nor, she realized a moment later, had anyone?including her father?ever given her such a crystal-clear glimpse into the machinations of governance.
