Rider of the Crown

by Melissa McShane

  Inside, the Voice of the Proxy sat at a small table bearing a tea set in jade glass and silver. She showed no sign of noticing Imogen’s entry other than to lift the teapot and begin pouring. Imogen took the only other seat in the room, a chair matching the Voice’s on the other side of the table, and accepted a cup of the hot, dark brown liquid. Veriboldan tea was one of the commodities their merchants wouldn’t trade with the Kirkellan, so Imogen had never had it until coming to Aurilien, and then only once, because she disliked the astringent taste. She sipped politely and was surprised at its unexpected sweetness.

  “We do not trade our best with the outside world,” the Voice said in Tremontanese. “Veribold would be self-sufficient if it could. Trading with others is…uncivilized.”

  “I think I have no reason to be here, then,” Imogen said. She drank more of the tea. If the Voice was going to be rude to her, she was damn well going to be rude back, so it was probably a good thing to drink the delicious beverage before she was shown the door.

  “Not everyone shares this view,” the Voice said. “And it is an impractical hope for perfection in a fallen world. I mean only to warn you.”

  “I see,” said Imogen. She didn’t, really. Was the Voice warning her Bixhenta was reluctant to trade, whatever he might have implied at the ball? Or was she saying Imogen’s presence in the embassy was an embarrassment to all of them? She decided not to press the Voice further. Let her fill up the void with her words, and Imogen would see what she might reveal.

  “You will speak when spoken to,” the Voice continued. “Do not ask questions. And never reveal the content of whatever you may hear or speak of in this room.”

  Imogen raised her eyebrows, but said nothing. If she followed those rules, she wouldn’t get anything out of Bixhenta. Well, what could they do to her if she refused to comply? Kick her out?

  The Voice waited for Imogen to speak. Imogen simply nodded as if in assent. The Voice stood and cleared the tea things to a tray, then carried it away out of the room herself. The door she exited by swung back and forth as she pushed it open with her rear end, and Imogen caught glimpses of people sitting at desks or standing and conversing.

  She looked around. The Veriboldans really liked white; this room, like the halls, was painted in that non-color. A large window with white draperies pulled to both sides filled most of a wall; smaller panes of glass ran down each side of it. Two more of the blotchy blobby messes of color hung facing one another, one in shades of red, the other in tones of brown. She tapped her toe on the bare wooden floor, tap-tap, tappity-tap-tap, until she got bored and decided to wander. A table under the window had a single drawer, which she opened; it was empty except for a soft gray puff of lint.

  “I wondered how long it would take you to explore,” said someone in perfect Kirkellish. Imogen turned to see Bixhenta, dressed in Tremontanan garb, his fingers laced together in front of him.

  “I wondered if you would continue pretending not to understand anything but Veriboldan,” she replied in the same language.

  “No point, is there, when we both are aware of the ruse.” Bixhenta closed the curtains, then took the seat the Voice had vacated and gestured for Imogen to sit as well. His voice was strong and sounded younger than his apparent years.

  “The Voice gave me instructions I am planning to ignore,” Imogen said, and Bixhenta smiled.

  “Paoine is more of a stickler for custom than I am,” he said. “She takes her role seriously and I think she is resentful I don’t have a genuine need for her services.”

  “And you use her…why? To keep a barrier between yourself and your, um, supplicants?”

  “Yes. It puts people off-guard. A trick of diplomacy, you might say.”

  “And yet you’re willing to speak with me personally.”

  “We’ve danced the diplomatic dance long enough. I tire of the formalities. Let us treat together face to face, as it were.”

  “I appreciate it. My name is Imogen. May I call you Bixhenta, or is that too informal even for our new-found understanding?”

  He laughed. “You even pronounce it properly. Very well, Imogen. I have asked you here on false pretenses.”

  Imogen frowned at him. “You don’t want trade with my people?”

  “No, I do, but that’s not why I asked you to come. Do you understand what it means that we are in the Veriboldan embassy? This building is effectively Veriboldan territory. We have sovereign control over it and I can with some surety guarantee there are no unwelcome ears listening in.”

  “You’re beginning to make me nervous.”

  “I wish merely to impress upon you the seriousness with which I take this conversation. Imogen, what do you know of the Tremontanan annexation of Ruskald territory?”

  “I know they took it to prevent further Ruskalder invasions, and that it gives them a longer shared border with Veribold.”

  “They say they took it because of the Ruskalder threat. Are you aware of Veriboldan history with regard to Tremontane?”

  “I only know what I’ve learned here, I’m afraid. That there are rebels along Veribold’s eastern border Tremontane believes are funded by the Veriboldan government.”

  “The allegation is absurd, but I don’t expect you to believe that simply on my say-so any more than I expect you to believe Tremontane’s accusations.” Bixhenta leaned forward in his chair and dropped his voice. “You will have to examine the evidence, and decide for yourself.”

  “With all due respect, why is your conflict with Tremontane Kirkellan business?”

  “Such a bald-faced land grab can mean only one thing: Tremontane is preparing for invasion. No, I’m not saying they plan to invade right now, I’m saying they expect the necessity, if you can call it that, of invasion sometime in the future, and they’re positioning themselves for it now. It shames me to admit it to an outsider, but…Veribold is not capable of defending itself against Tremontane’s military. We keep to ourselves and attempt to be self-sufficient, though we acknowledge the benefits of trade. Yes, smile, young lady, and it’s true we like to make it sound as if we’re doing everyone a great favor by dealing with them, but we do appreciate our trading partners. But arrogance is not a justification for war.”

  “Why would Tremontane want to invade Veribold?”

  “Our economy is thriving. Our coastline is more than double Tremontane’s, and it’s no secret they would like to increase their sea trade. And Tremontane has more than its share of unlanded, untitled gentry who would love to gain baronies or even counties of their own. Take a look at a map of the region sometime. You’ll see Veribold is perfectly positioned to be an annex to Tremontane proper.”

  Now Imogen felt uncomfortable. “And you want a treaty with the Kirkellan against Tremontane. You know the matrian has already treated with King Jeffrey for mutual defensive aid.”

  “I’m not asking for the Kirkellan to break their treaty. When Hrovald went to war against Tremontane, it broke the banrach—yes, I have my resources—because the Kirkellan were not to be drawn into a conflict with a country they had no quarrel with. We wish simply to have the assurance that if Tremontane aggresses against Veribold, the Kirkellan will come not to their aid, but to ours instead.”

  Imogen sat silent for a moment. She was positive Jeffrey didn’t intend to wage war against Veribold, so a treaty such as this one was harmless. But she didn’t trust Bixhenta; who knew if he had ulterior motives? “What would Veribold offer in return?” she asked.

  “Favored trading status. Better goods—you must know by now we don’t send our best things north.” Bixhenta smiled, in amusement, not malice. “An exchange of ambassadors, and that alone should assure you of our sincerity.” Imogen nodded. If the haughty and meticulous Veriboldans were willing to send one of their own to live rough in the Eidestal, they were serious indeed. “I’ve taken the liberty of drawing up a proposal you may pass on to your matrian, though I’m afraid it will have to take the slow route. I cannot allow you to use palace t
elecoders and operators, obviously, and it would be bad form for us to code, send, and decode the messages we pass to your country.”

  Imogen nodded. “May I see the proposal? The matrian is the one who will approve it, but I should verify there isn’t anything in it she would reject out of hand.”

  “Such as promising her second daughter in marriage to a Veriboldan land-holder?” Bixhenta’s tiny eyes twinkled within their depths. He rose and pushed open the door the Voice had used. After a moment, a young woman entered, carrying a valise. “Don’t worry, it’s in Kirkellish,” Bixhenta assured her. Imogen removed a thin sheaf of paper from it and read through it carefully. She wasn’t a great reader, but she was able to tell that on the surface, at least, Bixhenta’s offer was genuine.

  “I think the matrian will welcome a treaty with Veribold,” she said, returning the sheaf of paper to the valise. “Will you allow me to send a telecode telling her of your proposal and to expect its delivery?”

  “Certainly.” He held the door open for her and led her through a room filled with busy people into another room that was entirely given over to a telecoder. Imogen scribbled out her message and handed it over to be encoded and sent, then waited for the return message acknowledging receipt. The final words of the message were WELL DONE AMBASSADOR. Her mother’s approval made her heart warm.

  “I am glad we were able to come to a mutual understanding,” Bixhenta said, offering his hand to Imogen. She shook it, feeling the dry, papery skin shift under her fingers. “And, Imogen? I suggest you look into my story. Find out for yourself what Tremontane intends. Don’t let the King’s smoothness of manner fool you.”

  She thought about that on the short carriage ride back to the Kirkellan embassy. Could Jeffrey really intend to invade Veribold? He’d said Tremontane was worried about Veribold invading them. It seemed the Kirkellan were going to be drawn into the heart of someone else’s conflict. Whoever the aggressor was, Imogen was certain the Kirkellan did not want to side with them. She laughed to herself. What a strange chain of events, to lead to the Kirkellan allied with two major powers, and at the center of whatever peace was brokered, after being left to themselves for so many years.

  She wished she understood the etiquette of being an ambassador better. Time to sit down with Simon and have him explain things. She had a feeling she should not discuss anything she worked out with Bixhenta with Jeffrey, and vice versa, but Bixhenta was right; she needed to find evidence that Tremontane’s intentions were what Jeffrey had told her, and for that matter, she should find evidence that Bixhenta was telling the truth. The idea that Jeffrey might have lied to her made her feel ill. If he had, that would be the end of their friendship. Bixhenta had to be wrong. They both did.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Four days later she still hadn’t come to a decision. She’d had a long conversation with Simon that ended with her entrusting the sealed valise to him to dispatch to Mother, but it had been inconclusive with regard to how she was supposed to prove the truth of either Jeffrey’s or Bixhenta’s accusations. In the end, she’d decided to stop thinking about it for a few days, see if her subconscious mind could come up with a solution, and waved goodbye to her tiermatha as they rode off to enjoy themselves with the Kirkellan company and the Home Guard. She, damn it, was spending the afternoon with members of the court at some kind of outdoor party. Her intimidating maid Jeanette helped Imogen dress in a form-fitting yellow muslin dress with a moderately full skirt, arranged her hair so tendrils curled down around her face where they would surely drive her mad, and fastened a wide-brimmed hat on her head that was intended to keep her face protected from the sun so it would stay sallow instead of bloom with color. She glared at herself in the mirror. She’d rather be sparring.

  In the carriage with five giggling women, she stared out the window and wished she were riding Victory to this party, even if it meant using a sidesaddle. She knew she was sulking, but she didn’t care; it was one of those days when she resented Mother for having sent her here, resented Aurilien for expecting her to behave like a Tremontanan woman, resented Jeffrey for…she wasn’t sure why she resented him, it was irrational, but she did. She communicated with the other women in short, curt sentences, and eventually they left her alone. She felt uncomfortable at failing in her duties as an ambassador, but her bad mood was enough to let her ignore those feelings.

  The park the carriages brought them to was outside the walls of the city and surprised Imogen with its natural beauty. She had expected a place as groomed as the large Park near the palace where people went to ride their horses or carriages and see people or be seen themselves. There, flowers and trees grew in orderly beds and rows, the grass was trimmed daily, and artificial waterfalls and pools dotted the landscape in orderly randomness. Here, the natural features of the land had been exploited to produce a pleasing landscape, and if the trees and hedges had been placed there intentionally, they seemed unplanned. Imogen wandered by herself for a while, enchanted all over again by Tremontane’s green beauty.

  “It’s quite the landscape, isn’t it?” A young man she didn’t know came to stand at her elbow, looking out over the same vista. “You know they had to move that entire row of trees seven feet to the left to block out the view of the road? Masterpiece of design, it was.”

  “It is impressive.” Actually, the knowledge that the park had been that meticulously arranged made her irritable. They’d uprooted and replanted twelve trees just to block the view?

  “Colman Winston,” the young man said, offering his hand. “My mother is Henrietta Winston of the Stafford Winstons.” He said this in an off-handed way that nevertheless sounded as if he wanted her to be impressed. Imogen obliged him, even though she had no idea who the Stafford Winstons were.

  “Hope you’re enjoying being an ambassador here,” he went on. “Must be exciting, all these parties and dances and dinners, making treaties and such.”

  “It is fun and it is work,” Imogen said. She was determined not to let her bad mood get the better of her, now that she was being an ambassador again.

  “Hope you don’t mind my saying, but your accent is simply enchanting,” Winston said.

  “It is how I speak. I think it will go away as I learn to speak better.”

  “I hope not. It sounds beautiful.” He was looking at her with a definite suggestion in his eye.

  Imogen began to have an uncomfortable feeling. “What is it you do for work?” she said, hoping to deflect the conversation.

  “Oh, this and that. Not so much work as attend to business. You know.”

  “I do not know. What is business?”

  “Oh…races, things to do on my estate. These days I go out to the track your Kirkellan have built on the parade grounds.”

  I wish that’s where I was right now. “I think the track is wonderful.”

  “Yes, it’s very popular. You know you’re beautiful when you’re enthusiastic like that?”

  Imogen ignored this. “I will go to the track tomorrow,” she said, mostly to herself.

  “That’s a wonderful idea. We could go together.” He reached out to take her hand, but Imogen stepped aside and clasped her hands in front of her.

  “I do not think so. I do not go to watch, I go to ride.” She watched his smooth face register brief disappointment before going back to its old half-lidded sensual gaze.

  “Then I’ll be sure to cheer for you. I’d love to see you later. Perhaps you’d like to accompany me to supper sometime? Say, tomorrow night?”

  “I do not think so,” Imogen said, concealing her unease. “But it is nice of you to ask.” She made her escape before he could press her further. Was he trying to court her? It certainly seemed that way. She felt even more uncomfortable. She didn’t know what to do with this young man and his smooth if insincere compliments, except from what she knew of Tremontanans it wasn’t acceptable to simply tell a person you weren’t interested; you had to be subtle, and Imogen didn’t know how to be subtle.


  “Imogen! Come and sit with me,” Jeffrey called to her. He was seated on a stone bench that looked out over what Imogen thought was a natural lake, but given the revelation about the trees she wouldn’t be surprised to find it had been dug there on purpose. Two well-armed guards in North blue stood nearby, their eyes constantly scanning their surroundings as if they expected a shrub or a rock to sprout assassins at any moment. They examined her closely as she approached, tensing slightly, and Imogen noticed with satisfaction they clearly thought she was capable of being a threat to their King. She hadn’t seen any evidence that anyone wanted to harm Jeffrey, but it was nice to know his guards were paranoid enough to defend him from any unexpected attack. She took a seat next to him, and together they watched the wind make ripples on the surface of the water.

  “I like that dress,” Jeffrey said. “It suits you.”

  “I am not sure about this hat,” Imogen said, trying not to sound irritable. She found her imaginary resentment of him had disappeared.

  “I have to say I agree with you,” Jeffrey said. “Why don’t you take it off?”

  “But they are all wearing hats.”

  Jeffrey shrugged. “Maybe they all dislike theirs, too, and you’ll free them from captivity to the tyranny of hats.”

  Imogen smiled. She removed the hat pins and put her hat in her lap. “Now I can feel the sun,” she said, closing her eyes and turning her face up to feel its rays.

  “Yes, you look much better without it,” Jeffrey said. She opened her eyes and found him watching her instead of the lake.

  “It is—it does not make my hair wrong?”

  “No, not at all. You look lovely.” Jeffrey looked back across the lake. “I’m glad for this excursion. I never get out here anymore. Too much work.”