by Becca Abbott
What do you really think, my lord?
A faint glimmer appeared around the bishop, as clear as the sunlight streaming through the glass around him. If he lied, he did it with the guileless confidence of a child — or a madman.
Curiosity made Michael turn that inner vision onto Stefn, who poured raptly over the notebook, paying no attention to either of them. He was enveloped in an ever-shifting borealis of blues and greens pierced by streaks of gold, like bits of sunlight dancing on the surface of a restless sea.
“I’m sure His Highness would appreciate a chance to examine the book for himself,” Michael said, wrenching his eyes away. “May I take it?”
“No. I’m sorry, my lord, but it’s too valuable to allow beyond the safety of this place. His Highness is welcome to come and examine it here at his leisure. I hope you understand.” Gently, he removed the manuscript from Stefn’s hands. The earl looked after it, clearly disappointed.
“You have given me much to think about,” Michael said. “If Severyn decides, as I have, that you would be a welcome ally, we will talk again.”
Storm smiled, inclining his head. “It is all I ask,” he said.
Stefn’s head spun from Bishop Storm’s explosive revelations. Was it true? Was the manuscript really an original? He’d read both Chronicles many times, of course. They were the foundation of Tanyrin’s early history, be it secular or seminarian, and because they were the life’s work of St. Aramis himself, nearly as sacred as Loth’s Covenant. Two volumes had been written and third rumored to be in progress when the great fire had destroyed the Royal Library. All of the original manuscripts had been lost. At least, that was the accepted story.
He cast a covert glance at Michael. The h’nar stared out the carriage window, gaze distant, his thoughts unreadable. If the Church had done what Storm claimed, then everything he knew about the h’nara could be lies. It was a disquieting notion.
At the Bayview, Stefn followed Michael up the broad steps and across the lobby to the stairs. As he prepared to go into his room, however, Arranz said, “Not yet. I want to talk to you.” He opened his own door and waited impatiently for Stefn to go in, then closed and locked it after him.
Unsure of why he was here, Stefn went to the chair indicated and sat nervously on the edge. Michael paced to the window and, as he had in the carriage, stared out for a long time in silence. “What do you think?” he asked finally.
“I don’t know. It looked authentic. We have some documents in Shia of great age that look very similar, but… The content is so different from the accepted books that… ”
“If it could be proved?”
“If it’s genuine, then of course the truth should be made known. Laws should be changed and restitutions made to those who were wronged.”
“The Church would never permit this to become common knowledge. Not only do they have the will to prevent it, they have the means, if Storm is right about the number of Hunter units.”
“Don’t ask their permission. Print the manuscript yourself and disperse it secretly throughout Tanyrin. If one of their own is dismayed by the behavior of the Council, imagine how many others among the rank and file clergy may agree.”
Michael’s eyes narrowed. After a moment, he shook his head. “There are only a handful of printing presses in Tanyrin, and all of them registered with Lothmont and the Church. Besides, most ordinary folk can’t read, a state the clerics have been eager to preserve. Don’t forget, Eldering, you’ve been locked up in a provincial fortress all your life, learning only the lies of your murderous family and whatever is kept in Shia’s decaying library. What do you know of the world?”
Stefn had no answer to that; it was the truth, bitter though it may be to admit. He rose from his chair, stomach churning. “Is it worth all the death and destruction you know will be unleashed when you overthrow the king? I may have only read “decaying” books in our library, but many of those were devoted to accounts of the war and its aftermath, accounts written by men who had lived it! It doesn’t matter what justification you use or whether Severyn will be a good king or bad; the results of a coup will be the same!”
Turning his back on the h’nar, he strode blindly from the room. He thought he heard his name called, but ignored it, brushing past an open-mouthed Marin, down the corridor to the stairs. In the lobby he stood a moment, stomach churning, then continued across the sea of marble to high glass doors opening onto a terrace. Walking to the balustrade, he stood gripping the carved stone rail and taking deep, shaking breaths.
Someone approached from behind. Stefn turned, expecting to see Marin, come to take him back to his room. Instead, a woman smiled at him. She was richly dressed and beautiful; older than he, but not much, perhaps the same age as Lord Arranz. Her shining hair was piled high atop her head, the same rich, dark hue as the satin gown clinging to her curvaceous figure. The waterstones that flashed and sparkled against her throat and earlobes were surely worth a fortune! Stefn openly stared, only belatedly remembering his few, long-ago lessons in etiquette. He bowed.
“G-good evening.”
“Good evening to you.” She looked him up and down with a boldness that brought heat to his face. “I’m sorry to be so forward, but you look terribly familiar. Have we met?”
“I… I don’t think so, my lady.” He floundered. “My name is Stefn Eldering. Perhaps you’ve met my brother or father.”
“Eldering?” She seemed taken aback. “The Shia Elderings?”
“Yes, my lady.”
She laughed a little, lifting her jewelled fan. “Alas, my lord, I do believe you are correct. Sadly, we’ve never been introduced. My apologies.”
“No. N-not at all.” He bowed again.
Her laughter was soft and pleasing. “But listen to me, compounding my rudeness! I am Lady Wenscott… ”
“Chari!”
At one of the tables at the other end of the terrace, a group of lords and ladies were being seated by attentive waiters. One of their numbers, a dashing gentleman, waved impatiently.
She waved back. “Would you care to join us? I’m sure my companions would love to meet you.”
Stefn shook his head. “N-no thank you, my lady. I have plans already, alas.”
“What a pity.” She leaned close and he was unable to keep his eyes from falling to the low-cut bodice of her gown and all it revealed. Her voice was breathy, stirring his hair. “Perhaps another time.”
She swept away, a dark sylph floating gracefully between the white linen-covered tables. Stefn gaped after her, wondering if he’d just dreamed the encounter. Confusion turned him around and sent him back into the hotel. He was immediately confronted by Marin. The servant grinned broadly. “Enjoying yourself, my lord?”
“S-she accosted me!”
“I’ll wager she did. Milady looked like a knowing one.” Marin’s grin widened. “Lord Arranz had better pay attention if he’s going to be parading you around like this.”
Stefn’s face grew hot. He opened and closed his mouth, speechless. Marin started to laugh. Swearing under his breath, Stefn headed for the staircase. To his further misfortune, who should he meet coming down but Lord Arranz. He watched the man’s gaze move down to the laughing servant. Face positively burning, Stefn ran past him, up the wide stairway, and back to the dubious shelter of his room.
Michael heard Marin’s tale with amusement. “A lady of quality? Poor Stefn. I’m sure he was hopelessly out of his depth.”
“Didn’t you see his face? Redder than a beet, m’lord!” Marin shook his head. “I’ll wager that boy has never exchanged two words with someone like her before.”
“You’ll have to show me this paragon,” Michael said, looking around the lobby. It was crowded with hopeful diners, coming to enjoy the Bayview’s legendary cuisine.
“She’s out there,” Marin chuckled. He drew Michael to the long row of glass doors. “There in the corner. The lady done up in black.”
Michael looked. Spotting her, he turned
cold. “Are you sure?”
Marin’s smile died. “Yes, my lord. Why? Do you know her?”
Michael’s response was a harsh laugh. Leaving Marin staring after him, he turned and went back upstairs, taking them two at a time. Reaching Stefn’s door, he tried the handle. Locked. The hell with that! A small spell unlocked it. He threw it open.
“Eldering?”
Stefn sat on the edge of his bed, his deformed foot in hand, eyes raised to Michael in alarm. Michael slammed the door behind him and locked it again. Scrambling to his feet, Stefn demanded, “What is it? What do you want?”
“Your lady friend. I want to know everything that passed between you!” He strode across the room. Stefn stumbled backwards, coming up against the wall.
“N-nothing!”
Seizing the slim shoulders, Michael spun him away from the wall and threw him to the floor. “Tell me!”
Stefn rolled out of the way, looked up at Michael as if he’d gone mad. “NOTHING! She mistook me for someone she knew, that’s all! She was mistaken! She introduced herself and invited me to dinner, but I said no! It’s what you would have wanted, right? Right?”
Pure panic shook Stefn’s voice. Michael took a deep breath and he stepped back from the brink. “She introduced herself?”
“L-Lady Westcott. Her friends called her C-Chari.”
Michael sat heavily onto the edge of the bed. After a moment, wary, Stefn got up. Even so, he stayed out of Michael’s reach.
“Why? Jealous?” he added with the inevitable, and rather endearing, spark of defiance.
“Westcott, eh?” It was too funny and Michael fell back on the mattress, laughing aloud. “Jealous? Oh, my God!”
“Y-you know her?”
Michael sat up, hearing the curiosity in Stefn’s voice. “Indeed, I do. Every man with a title and money knows her eventually.”
“Is she… ” Stefn hesitated, “ …a woman of loose morals?”
That set Michael off again. “I suppose you could say so,” he gasped finally. “Westcott was her maiden name. She must have had you in her sights not to reveal who she truly was. Poor boy. You’ve had a narrow escape.”
“She’s married?” Shocked, Stefn looked back at him. “She didn’t act like it.” His eyes grew round. “Do you think her husband was there?”
“No. I’d know if he were here. The entire town would be buzzing with it.”
“Who is he?”
“His Eminence, Mazril Locke, the Archbishop of Tanyrin.” Michael watched it sink in. “Her name is Charity Westcott-Locke and her escapades are legendary.”
Bereft of speech, Stefn only shook his head. “I didn’t know… ”
“No, I suppose not.” Michael smiled, but the amusement was gone. “That’s why I will know everything she said to you. And, more importantly, everything you said to her.”
“I told you everything, I swear. In fact, she… she seemed surprised when I told her who I was.”
“Did she now?”
Stefn nodded and Michael relaxed slightly. It was very likely true, now that he thought about it calmly. The woman’s appetites were notorious and Stefn Eldering was a stunning creature. Still, it was disquieting. Her presence in Withwillow could be entirely coincidental; then again, it might not. He rose. “I think I shall order room service for us tonight. They say her ladyship and His Eminence have an “understanding,” but I’d prefer not to risk so much on gossip.”
He glanced down, gaze brushing over Stefn’s bare feet. At once, Stefn tucked his left foot behind his right. “Don’t bother,” said Michael. “I don’t care about it.”
“And when the cursed toe gets too long?”
“We’ll have to get you a bigger shoe.”
“Y-you’re not going to have it cut it off?”
Michael was momentarily bereft of speech. “Of course not.”
The relief on Stefn’s face made his own gut tighten in sudden fury. “I’m not that much of a brute,” he retorted, striding to the door. “I’ll send Marin in. Tell him what you want for dinner and he’ll have it brought to you. And don’t leave the room.”
“Wait! Please!”
Michael stopped.
“When Lady Locke is gone, could I go out on the terrace again? It can be later and you can send Marin with me.”
“What for?”
“I want to see the Cathedral again.”
“I’ll think about it,” replied Michael.
An hour later, Marin came to Michael’s room. “The wench and her friends are gone,” he said. “None of them are staying here. According to kitchen gossip, milady is traveling with her current paramour. They dine here frequently.”
“What else?”
Marin shrugged. “She’s been in Withwillow for a week, attending every social affair and conducting her own openly. I had never figured His Eminence as a willing cuckold.”
“It would be hard to say who is more adulterous, the lovely lady or her ambitious husband,” retorted Michael. “The last I heard, His Excellency was enjoying the company of a certain courtesan whose other clients include our noble king.”
Marin shook his head at such folly. “Nobility!” he humphed, adding, “Present company excepted, of course, m’lord.”
“Of course. And speaking of that. I think I’ll take a little walk.” Smiling serenely into Marin’s smirk, he left his room, crossing the corridor to knock on Stefn’s door. Hearing the invitation to enter, he opened it. Stefn frowned, seeing it was him. Ignoring the flare of anxiety in those bright eyes, Michael said cheerfully, “Shall we go downstairs for a night-cap?”
The lateness of the hour and chill of the night air had driven most of the hotel’s guests inside, but Stefn seemed not to notice. While Michael had a seat and ordered two cups of mulled wine, he went straight to the balustrade and looked down over the city. Michael leaned back in his chair and followed his gaze.
“That’s the Tower of Loth, isn’t it?” Stefn pointed to the slim, shining spire reared across the bay. “Could we go see it tomorrow?”
“We’re leaving in the morning.”
“Already?” Stefn left the edge of the terrace and sat down with Michael.
“I’m afraid so.” Michael broke off. The waiter returned with their wine. When the man had gone, he said, “We have to return to Shia.”
“We could go see it first thing. Surely it wouldn’t delay us that much?”
“Another time.”
Stefn scowled into his cup, then downed the warm, spiced wine in a single gulp. “Being subject to your damned plots, I doubt if there will be another time.”
“Such a lack of confidence. I’m naturally devastated.” Michael beckoned to the waiter hovering just inside the hotel. The man disappeared. “It may come as a shock to you, my lord, but we are in no hurry to start the fighting. With luck, we can accomplish most of what we need to without all hell breaking loose. Indeed, it’s in our interest to do so.”
“Ha!”
The waiter returned with more wine. Stefn made short work of this, as well.
“Perhaps you would like a jug of the stuff?”
“You don’t want me to get drunk?” Stefn leaned across the table. “Wouldn’t that make it easier for you to have your way with me?”
“As I remember it,” Michael said, laughing, “having my way with you wasn’t all the difficult.”
“You can go to hell!” Even in the uncertain light of their table lamp, Stefn’s blush was visible and charming.
“You would have been an easy mark for the Archbishop’s wife. I see I shall have to keep a much closer eye on you.”
“She would have shunned me as soon as she was reminded of what I am.” Mournfully, Stefn tried for the last drops in his cup.
“A handsome, well-born youth as naive as a schoolboy? I’d say you were her preferred prey.”
Stefn laughed hollowly. “And a sin-catcher.”
“Oh, for Loth’s sake! Besides, now that you have decent shoes, you don’t
even limp. Who’s to know?”
Another silence fell between them as the waiter arrived with more wine. “Shall I bring a pot of it, my lord?”
“No,” said Michael while, “Yes,” Stefn said at the same time.
The waiter trotted off, returning with a tall, porcelain mull-pot. Michael watched Stefn toss off his third cup and warned, “In all sincerity, Eldering, this is potent stuff. You’re not used to it and I don’t wish to spend the entire trip to Shia with you retching and moaning.”
“I’ve had mulled wine many times,” retorted Stefn. He poured himself another cup with a shaky hand.
Michael abandoned the effort. If anyone deserved to go on a good drunk, it was his cethe. Besides, if worse came to worst, the brat could sit up with the coachman and entertain that poor fellow with his moans and regret. He watched the fourth cup go the way of the others. A fifth cup was poured, but this time, Stefn made no attempt to drink, only stared into it blearily. “You really don’t think my foot is hideous?”
Startled, Michael shook his head. “Really.”
“I hate it.” Stefn scowled. “I might as well be a taint!”
It was the wine talking. Michael squashed the automatic flare of irritation.
“Allen told Father once that they should just throw me in with the latest pack of taints they’d rounded up and see if the Church would take me.” Stefn picked up the cup. Wine sloshed over the rim. “My father laughed and tol’ him it was a brilliant idea. Everyone in the room thought it real damned funny, too.”
Michael’s amusement shriveled. Luminous in the candlelight, Stefn’s eyes were filled with tears. He blinked them back. “Then A-Allen threw ashes on my head… it turned my hair white. Jus’ like yours. Ev’ryone… thought that was funny, too.”
“You should have broken his jaw,” said Michael.
“Did.” Stefn lifted his right fist and regarded it with something like amazement. “Just let ‘im have it. Sonofabitch.”
“Good for you.”
