Rider of the Crown

by Melissa McShane

  Jeffrey reddened and looked away. “Too much praise, madam ambassador.”

  “It is not praise. It is what is.” Imogen felt annoyed at his diffidence. “I say Victory is the best because she proves it every day. I say I am a good fighter because I am here and my enemies are not. I say you are a good King because it is what I see. I will never tell you what is not true.” By heaven, he was even more attractive when he looked like this. She quelled the urge to take his hand in reassurance.

  He looked back at her. “No, you wouldn’t, would you. I wish you could attend Council meetings. I could use your insights.”

  “I am glad I cannot. I will just yell at them.”

  “You’d fit right in.” He sniffed. “Why does it smell like someone set a lilac bush on fire?”

  “It is all these.” Imogen gestured at the table. “They were in my rooms when I returned from my visit. And I do not read your language.”

  He picked up the envelope whose seal she’d broken. “They look like invitations.” He slid the card out and went quiet, turning it over. “It is an invitation. To a party three nights from now in the city.”

  “Who is it inviting me?”

  “Henry Scoggins. Youngest son of Mark Scoggins.”

  “That does not mean anything to me.”

  “He’s just—he’s a lesser noble, someone with more money than sense.” He opened another envelope. “This one’s to a concert tomorrow night, from a man I don’t know. Someone else wants you to attend a dance with him, this man asks you to—hah—watch the Kirkellan race at the track. Two different people want you to go for a ride in the Park. Oh, this name I know, I won’t even tell you what he wants because he’s about fifty years old and hunting for a new wife.” He gathered the cards together and tapped them to square them up. “It appears you’ve become popular,” he said lightly.

  “I do not understand.”

  “These men—” Jeffrey waved the cards at her—“think you’re interesting and want to spend time with you.”

  Imogen scowled. “I do not like these—I do not know the word. These men who do not know me thinking I am interested in them.”

  “Well, to be fair, they’re inviting you to do things with them because they want to know you better.”

  “I do not know how to behave. And I do not know if I will like them. I do not even remember these men.”

  “I know most of them. Do you want some help remembering?”

  Imogen looked at Jeffrey, who was turning the cards over and over in his hand. “Will you tell me which ones I will like?” she asked him. “Because I think since you are a man, you will know the good ones.”

  He stared at the cards a while longer before he looked up at her, the blue eyes distant and thoughtful. “Well, most of these are people you should probably ignore, but I’m sure you might like some of them. Let’s see.” He glanced at the first one. “Oh, Michael Petty is a terrible choice. He’ll drag you to a museum and then lecture you about the artist and what she was thinking and eating when she planned whatever awful piece you’re looking at. Definitely not him.”

  “No. I do not think I like the sound of him.”

  “Hmmm. What is Anton Crowder doing sending you an invitation? He’s almost betrothed to Penelope Winterbourne. Roger Crais…wandering fingers, according to Elspeth; Seth Hamilton, nice fellow, but there is that funny smell; Larkin Argyll, well, he’s not a bad sort. Pity about the ears.”

  “What is it about the ears?”

  “It’s hard not to notice he has them, that’s all. Then I don’t know these other two, but Elspeth probably does. I have to say I don’t think any of these men is worth your time, Imogen.”

  “Oh,” Imogen said. “I feel strange. I am—was not interested in these men, but now you say none of them are good enough for me and I am disappointed.”

  “I’m sure there will be other invitations,” Jeffrey said.

  “It is not how we do it, we Kirkellan.”

  “How do you do it, then?”

  “One gives the other a gift. If he takes it, he wants to know her better. They ride together and talk and share meals. If they are…if they fit well together, they will have sex to make them closer.”

  “That’s definitely not how we do it.”

  “I do not understand why you choose to have sex only when you are married.”

  Jeffrey set the stack of envelopes on the table and rested his chin in one hand. “You said sex brings you closer. It’s like that for us, only…when we make oath to one another, the lines of power tie us together, and sex with the person you’re sworn to is even more powerful. And if you have sex often with someone you don’t share a bond with, after a while it starts to…disorient you, I suppose. Makes you feel disconnected from other people and from the rest of the world. I’m not sure if that makes sense.”

  “I am not sure either, but thank you for explaining.”

  “Well, in the meantime, since you won’t be accepting any of these,” Jeffrey said, stacking the invitations neatly, “why don’t you come with me to the theater tomorrow night? The play is a comedy, Two Came to Kingsport, and I think you’ll really like it.”

  “I do not know what a play is.”

  “It’s like a story where people pretend to be the characters and do and say everything that’s in the story. This one’s very funny. It’s one of Mother’s favorites.”

  “Thank you. I will come.”

  “I’ll come for you at seven, then. Shall we go in to supper? This discussion has left me hungry.”

  “Me too,” Imogen said. “Do I have to tell all these men it is ‘no’?”

  “It’s polite, yes,” he said. “I’d be happy to write those rejections for you, if you want.”

  Imogen nodded. “Then they will be rejected by an ambassador and a King both.” Jeffrey’s laughter trailed them all the way to the dining room.

  She watched him covertly as he ate, his long, agile fingers nimbly wielding knife and fork, and wondered again that he seemed to be the only person who didn’t realize what a good King he was. She didn’t envy him his responsibilities; they made her grateful she only had to worry about treating with Bixhenta and understanding Ghentali’s broken Tremontanese. Jeffrey was clever, and funny, and…she headed off that line of thought, reminding herself that however much more attractive his quick mind made him, he was still not the man for her. But I can still look, she told herself. Looking never hurt anyone.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Jeanette helped Imogen into her favorite red gown the next evening and arranged her hair low at the back of her neck. It was a look Imogen was dubious about, but she didn’t have the nerve to challenge Jeanette, who wore an air of superiority that would not have been out of place on a Countess. “It is important you look your best when you are with the King, milady, because everyone will be watching you. You must always consider the dignity of your position.”

  “Would they not watch me anyway because I am beautiful?”

  “What have I told you about immodesty, milady?”

  “I do not understand how it is immodest if it is true.”

  “Because you’re supposed to let others give you compliments, not compliment yourself.”

  “But I am the one who best knows if I am beautiful.”

  Jeanette sighed. “If I tell you this is a Tremontanan custom, will you follow it and stop asking questions?” Imogen nodded. “Then it’s a Tremontanan custom. But between the two of us, I think you are beautiful.”

  Imogen stayed silent, but privately agreed. And it has nothing to do with him, either.

  She waited in one of the parlors off the grand foyer, kicking her skirt to make it shimmer in the light. She’d been there for scarcely a minute when Revalan and Kionnal came in and sat near her. “So what’s a play?” Kionnal said.

  “I don’t really know. I’ll tell you when it’s over.”

  Areli came in and sat on Kionnal’s knee. “You look nice,” she said.

  �
��Thank you. Why are you all here?” More members of the tiermatha drifted in as she spoke. “This had better not be because I’m going to the play with the King. I think I told you I was tired of the innuendo.”

  “It’s not you we’re interested in,” Dorenna said cryptically. She had her knife out and was cleaning her nails with it, conspicuously nonchalant.

  The bell rang. Dorenna got up to answer it, shooing away the footman; since she shooed with the hand holding the knife, he turned and walked very fast back to the servants’ door.

  A young Tremontanan man stood on the doorstep. He had short blond hair and a blunt nose and was dressed in semi-formal clothing. He looked askance at Dorenna’s knife, but otherwise seemed not put off to find her there. “Saevonna?” he asked.

  “She’s coming soon,” Dorenna said in Kirkellish, and smiled when the man’s eyes glazed over in incomprehension.

  “I still think he’s puny,” Revalan said, leaving his seat and approaching the man.

  “Everyone’s puny next to you,” Areli said.

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake, you are all so…infantile,” Imogen said. She rose and offered her hand to the man. “I am Imogen,” she said in Tremontanese, “and I think I have seen you at sparring practice.”

  “Marcus Oakes,” he said, shaking her hand. Imogen thought he relaxed somewhat at hearing his own language. “Saevonna has agreed to dine with me this evening.”

  Nice work, Saevonna! “I am happy to meet you. We are all happy to meet you.”

  “Not to disagree with the ambassador, but I’m not sure that’s true,” Marcus said, eyeing Revalan while trying not to turn his back on Dorenna.

  “For the love of everlasting heaven, I cannot believe you people,” Saevonna said from the top of the stairs. She was dressed in her Tremontanan gown and appeared, to Imogen’s shock, to be wearing cosmetics that looked very good on her. “If you’re trying to intimidate him, it won’t work. And if you’re trying to embarrass me, you should all think very carefully about what you don’t want to find in your bedsheets in the coming week.”

  “We just want to get a good look at him, Saevonna,” Areli said.

  “Well, twelve of you all staring at him at once is the same as intimidation, and Dorenna, don’t think I didn’t see that knife of yours.” Saevonna descended the stairs and smiled at Marcus. “They know you,” she said in heavily accented Tremontanese. “Not danger, just stupid.”

  Marcus grinned. “They care you,” he said in equally accented Kirkellish. Imogen’s eyebrows went up. Marcus really was trying hard, and Saevonna…yes, she was wearing cosmetics, how did she even know where to get them, let alone how to wear them?

  “It is good to meet you, Marcus, and I hope you enjoy your food,” Imogen said, glaring at Revalan, who had innocently moved to block the door. He stepped out of the way, grinning at Marcus in a way that was not entirely friendly. Imogen watched the two get into a carriage, then shut the door and expanded her glare to include all of them.

  “Oh, Imogen, don’t be so stuffy. Saevonna would do the same to us. Hell, she’s done it to you,” Dorenna said, sheathing her knife.

  “Dor, she’s really trying hard for this one. I don’t think we should interfere, even if it would be paybacks.”

  “She did look nice,” Revalan admitted.

  “She looked Tremontanan,” Kionnal said disapprovingly.

  “So do I. We’re in Tremontane, Kionnal. Nothing wrong with dressing like the natives. You’d want them to dress like us if we were in the Eidestal, wouldn’t you?” The bell rang again. “I’m leaving now. Why don’t all of you find something more productive to do?”

  The footman held the carriage door open for her and gave her a hand in assistance. She would never get used to that custom. “I like your dress,” Jeffrey said. “Red suits you.”

  “I like it too,” Imogen said, and refrained from saying anything about how beautiful she looked. If it was true, and it was, Jeffrey would know it without her having to say anything.

  “Did I see another carriage leaving as we got here?”

  “One of my tiermatha is courting with a soldier. A Tremontanan soldier. She is courting your way.”

  “You know, it never occurred to me that might happen, but it makes sense, doesn’t it? Your people thrown together with our people, I mean.”

  “It is hard when they do not speak the same language, but Saevonna is learning.”

  “I suppose love finds a way no matter what language you speak.”

  Imogen was surprised. “I do not know that it is love.”

  “Did she dress in Tremontanan clothes?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then if she changed her dress for him, learned his language, and went courting his way, I would say that’s more than mere affection.”

  Imogen didn’t know what to say. Saevonna couldn’t be thinking of a serious relationship with a Tremontanan, could she? What would she do when the year was up? Stay here? Convince him to come home with her? She felt as if her tiermatha was breaking up in front of her. “I think we will have to see. It is only supper.”

  “True. Supper doesn’t have to mean a commitment.”

  They talked of Victory and the new Baronies the rest of the way to the theater, which turned out to be a tall, windowless building, blazing with tiny lights outlining its roof and a sign probably taller than Imogen, with more lights tracing out words Imogen couldn’t read. “That’s the name of the play,” Jeffrey explained as they exited the carriage. “My mother used to own this theater until she became Consort and Royal Librarian and couldn’t devote enough time to it. I’ve been coming here almost my whole life.”

  “Then it is not something you do only once,” Imogen said.

  “Oh, no. There are always different plays. If you like this one, we could come back another time and see a different one.” He offered her his arm. Perhaps she could learn to like that custom, after all.

  With Jeffrey’s guards flanking them ahead and behind, they entered, the stream of other theater-goers parting to let them through. Inside, soft blue carpets covered the floors, muffling their footsteps, and the walls were covered with a patterned golden fabric rather than paint. Imogen thought it looked like the inside of Elspeth’s sitting room, which was pink rather than blue but had the same soft, unfocused look. Jeffrey led her up a wide staircase with very shallow steps and down a hall paneled in light brown wood to a door, where he stood back and let one of his guards open it and step through. After a moment, the woman said, “Go ahead, your Majesty.”

  Imogen and Jeffrey went through the door into a small room that looked out over an expanse of cushioned chairs on the floor below, most of them occupied. A quiet murmur like water rushing over a stream bed drifted up to Imogen’s ears. Beyond the chairs stood a raised wooden platform shrouded in a dark red velvet curtain. The little room held six chairs upholstered in blue to match the carpet, arranged in two rows facing the stage as if they, too, were eager to see the play. The guard bowed and shut the door behind them. “I feel sorry for my escort every time I come here,” Jeffrey said. “They have to stand all evening outside the door and never see a single play. Have a seat. It will begin soon.”

  Imogen thoroughly enjoyed the play. She laughed until she couldn’t breathe at the broad physical comedy while Jeffrey roared at the wordplay Imogen couldn’t understand. When the curtain dropped, she said, “That cannot be all there is. Miriam still has not found her shoes.”

  “This is intermission. You can use the facilities and stretch your legs if you like.” Jeffrey stood and stretched as well.

  Imogen decided to do as he suggested and went off to find the facilities. When she returned, Diana Ashmore was seated in Imogen’s chair, leaning forward to talk to Jeffrey and laughing at something he’d said. “Oh, Imogen, what a pleasant surprise to find you both here,” she said, and Imogen thought she put just the faintest emphasis on “both.” “Jeffrey, how kind of you to introduce the ambassador to one of Aurilien’s
great cultural treasures. I really wonder that you’ve never taken me to the theater, when you know how much I love it. The view from your box really is excellent.”

  “I didn’t realize you were such a theater aficionado, Diana,” Jeffrey said.

  “Oh, I go as often as I can.” She leaned forward and put her hand on his arm. “Do you mind if I share your box for the second act? I’m with friends who don’t appreciate the theater as much as I do. Help me convince him, Imogen,” she added, looking over her shoulder at Imogen and smiling a pleasant smile that didn’t reach her eyes.

  Jeffrey glanced at Imogen, who wished she could read his expression; she couldn’t tell how he felt about that. The idea of spending the evening with Diana annoyed her, but she couldn’t come up with a reason to avoid it. She shrugged, hoping he could read her mind. “Of course we don’t mind,” Jeffrey said, and Imogen’s annoyance increased. “Imogen, the second act’s about to start, why don’t you take your seat?”

  Imogen looked at Diana, who showed no sign of vacating Imogen’s seat any time soon. “I will enjoy this,” she said, to herself more than to Jeffrey, and sat on Diana’s other side. She wanted to shove Diana off her chair and, preferably, out of the box. Instead she clasped her hands in her lap and ignored both her companions. It didn’t take long for the play to captivate her again, dispelling most of her irritation, though it reared up again every time Diana laughed her shrill, hideous laugh in her ear. Still, she enjoyed the play, even if the donkey didn’t make a second appearance.

  When the curtain came down a final time and they finished applauding, Diana still didn’t rise. “Thank you so much for sharing your escort, Imogen,” she said. “You understand how attached old friends can be.” She put her hand on Jeffrey’s knee and patted it. Imogen felt annoyed and angry all over again. How dare this woman treat the King of Tremontane like her personal property?

  “I am sorry for you,” she said, “because it is hard for you to find your own escort.” Diana’s face froze, and Imogen smiled brightly at her. Jeffrey’s face was carefully blank. “Perhaps you should find other friends to be attached to.” She put the barest emphasis on “other.”