The Prince Deceiver (The Silk & Steel Saga Book 6)

by Karen Azinger

  The list was long, full of men who had fallen out of favor with her court…and men who still served her court, all of them powerful in their own way.

  “Captain Blackmon, Lord…”

  The queen interrupted, outrage in her voice, “Captain Blackmon? The captain in our royal guards?”

  “Yes, majesty.” He fumbled through another sheaf of parchments. “The notes say Captain Blackmon left the prince’s mansion with a very expensive courtesan on his arm.”

  She felt a noose tighten around her. “Continue.”

  “Merchant Harstow, Lord Saddler, Lord…”

  The queen interrupted again. “Lord Saddler, our master of coin? We never considered him to be a man for frivolities.”

  “Yet he attended one of the prince's dinners.” He glanced down at his sheaf of parchments, his voice growing hesitant. “All of your small council have accepted invitations from the prince save for Sir Durnheart, Major Ranoth and myself.”

  “All?”

  He nodded. “Several have returned more than once.”

  Her fingers drummed on the desk. “We like it not.” She gestured with her quill. “Continue.”

  A knocked sounded on the door.

  “Come.”

  Her page poked his head inside. “Majesty, your small council is assembled and awaits your pleasure.”

  “Let them wait.” When the door closed, she gestured for her deputy shadowmaster to continue. Master Raddock read the names in a dispassionate voice, a rarefied list of the wealthy, the powerful, the openly loyal...and the quietly disloyal.

  The master fell silent.

  Liandra pondered the list.

  Master Raddock ventured, “There is nothing illegal in hosting dinner parties.”

  “Nothing illegal, yet everything suspicious.” Liandra tugged on the feather quill, considering. “Have your men continue to shadow the prince.” She gave him a piercing stare. “Impress upon them that no detail is too small.”

  He bowed towards her. “As her majesty commands.”

  Liandra stood, arranging the folds of her silk gown. “Walk with us to the small council.”

  Her deputy shadowmaster followed half a step behind. The queen swept through the gilded hallways, her mind mulling the list of names. A pair of guards saluted, opening the doors to the council chambers. She strode into the chamber, her loyal lords jumping to their feet. Her gaze raked across them, fresh with suspicion.

  One was missing. “Where is our Lord Sheriff?”

  Her lords looked at the empty chair as if they’d just noticed it. None had a reply. She looked to her deputy shadowmaster, but he too was silent. It was not like her loyal sheriff to be tardy. Annoyed, the queen took her seat at the head of the table. She looked to Major Ranoth. “We will begin with the war.”

  A vellum map was spread across the council table. Metal figurines were placed across the map, most of them crowding the north, marking the armies. Emerald green, checkered blue and red, maroon and silver, the armies stood arrayed against the Mordant’s horde of black and gold. The major moved the green knight mounted on a rearing white horse, representing Prince Stewart and the forces of Lanverness. “Prince Stewart and the Rose Army are encamped here, just south of the Snowmelt River. At last report, Princess Jordan and the Army of Navarre are here. By now, the two armies should have joined forces. I expect them to make for Eye Bridge, to try and contain the Pentacle in the north." The major gave the queen a grim look. "If the fighting in the north has not already begun...it soon will. War has come to Erdhe.”

  War again, an ugly nemesis that dogged her. The queen knew the details, having read and re-read the dispatches but she found it instructive to see the pieces move across the map. The war in the north was her most dire concern, yet her mind kept picking at the list of names, like an itchy scab that relentlessly annoyed.

  Major Ranoth finished and the others gave their reports. Instead of absorbing their words, the queen found herself listening to their intonation, noting the skittishness of their glances, wondering at their loyalty. Having seen enough, the queen cut the meeting short. “Lord Saddler, we will see you in our chambers.”

  The portly lord looked puzzled. “May I ask why?"

  The queen snapped a reply. "No, you may not."

  Flustered, her master of coin bowed low. "As you command.”

  "We are done here." The queen rose abruptly.

  The others sputtered at her abrupt dismissal, but the queen paid them no heed. She swept from the chamber and strode through the hallways, her deputy shadowmaster and her portly master of coin rushing to keep pace.

  The queen entered the sanctuary of her solar. Taking a seat in front of the hearth, she arranged the pleats of her gown. Her master of coin fidgeted in front of her, her deputy shadowmaster skulking in the shadows. The queen allowed the silence to weigh heavy. The fire snapped and crackled releasing a breath of cedar. After a hundred heartbeats, she stared at her master of coin, her voice grave. “We hear you have attended the prince of Ur at his mansion.”

  Master Saddler looked startled at her line of inquiry. “Yes…my wife insisted. The markets abound with rumors of the prince’s lavish banquets. Claudia pestered me till I accepted the invitation.”

  “And was it lavish?”

  “Beyond measure.”

  The queen waited, spearing him with her stare.

  Her portly lord flashed beet-red, sweat beading on his bald pate. “Urian brandy flowed like wine, the best musicians, the most exotic dishes, an abundance of everything, and,” his voice dropped to an embarrassed hush, “there was even rumors of courtesans in the upstairs rooms.”

  “And did you enjoy them?”

  His voice was shocked. “Majesty, I’m a married man!”

  She granted him a small smile. “We meant the dinner.”

  “Oh.” He took a deep breath, regaining his composure. “Majesty, I’m a simple man with simple tastes. It was too much for me.”

  The queen waited.

  He rubbed his hands on his velvet doublet, his voice dropping to a whisper. “In truth, it felt like a bribe. I won’t be going back.”

  Her voice held a dangerous edge. “And were you bribed?”

  He flustered. “Nothing untoward was said…it just felt…soiled.”

  “Did you meet the prince?”

  “Such a young man to wield so much wealth.”

  “What did he say to you?”

  “I…don’t remember.” He rubbed his forehead. “I left with the most terrible headache, probably too much brandy. I won’t be going back.”

  A terrible headache...the queen recalled having a terrible headache the first time she’d met the prince. An odd coincidence…if one believes in coincidences. “So you won’t be going back?”

  “No, majesty.”

  He spoke the words with iron conviction. Liandra found relief in his loyalty. “Your words please us. Ever our honest lord.”

  He bowed low, relief on his face. "Did I do wrong to attend?"

  “You would do wrong to persist. Such lavishness raises doubts. If any of our other lords favor the prince in any way, we would hear of it.”

  His face sobered. “Yes, majesty.”

  "And if you see our Lord Sheriff, send him our way. We wish to speak with him."

  His ample brow furrowed. "It's not like the Sheriff to be absent from a council meeting."

  Another worry to add to her list. The queen offered her ringed hand. “We thank you for your loyalty and your honesty.”

  Kissing her ring, he took his leave.

  The door closed and she was alone with her deputy shadowmaster.

  Master Raddock skulked in the shadows. “Do you believe him?”

  “We do." Liandra's voice brimmed with conviction. "He is an honest man. That is why we raised him to a lord. We need more honesty in our court.”

  “But you mistrust the prince.”

  It was a statement not a question, yet she chose to answer. “Wealth can be su
ch a slippery seduction. We almost feel as if the Red Horns arise from the grave to threaten our throne again…yet he is the son of an emperor, the emissary of our greatest trading partner. Where the prince is concerned, we must tread with caution.”

  “What would you have me do?”

  “Tell your shadowmen to keep vigil.” Her gaze snapped towards him. “You said you received an invitation to one of his banquets?”

  “Yes, majesty.”

  “We want you to accept.”

  He took a half step backwards. “But I serve best from the shadows.”

  “Attend the dinner and speak to the prince yourself. Give him a chance to woo you. We need to know his motives, we need to know his true intent, and we need to hear it from the prince himself.”

  His face turned reluctant. “As you command.” Bowing, he turned towards the door.

  “And, Master Raddock.”

  “Yes, majesty?”

  “Find our Lord Sherriff, it is not like him to go missing.”

  “Yes, majesty.”

  The door clicked closed and she was alone with her thoughts. Liandra stared into the fire, considering all she’d learned, plots within plots. She shivered despite the warmth, feeling threats close around her like hounds chasing a fox.

  Footsteps came from the inner rooms. Lady Sarah appeared bearing a tray with tea and fresh-baked scones. “I thought your majesty might like something to eat.”

  A tempting smell teased a smile from the queen. “Fresh-baked scones with cranberries?”

  “Your favorites. Master Carl baked them himself.” She set the tray on the table and began to pour a cup.

  “At least our baker is loyal.”

  Lady Sarah set a cup of tea and a scone near the queen. “You have doubts?”

  “We always have doubts. Doubts and suspicions, yet we do not have proof enough to act.” Liandra tasted the scone, savoring a sweet flaky morsel spiked with tart cranberries, a bite of heaven. “Master Carl has outdone himself.”

  Lady Sarah took a seat across from the queen. The two women sat in companionable silence, finishing the scones and tea. When the last morsel was consumed, Liandra set her cup aside. “We thank you for the delicious distraction…but we suspect you came bearing more than just scones.”

  Lady Sarah blanched pale, staring at the hearth. “You know me too well.”

  The queen sighed. “And you know we must hear whatever it is you have to tell us, for a queen can never be uninformed. Ignorance is a fatal weakness for a crown, especially when that crown is worn by a queen.”

  “Yet it is hard to say.”

  “Then simply say it.”

  Lady Sarah nodded, her face resolved. “I heard a rumor in the marketplace. A terrible, vicious rumor.”

  Liandra stilled, as if an axe were about to fall.

  “They say…,” Lady Sarah looked away, taking a deep breath, “they say the queen bore a child to the Dark Lord, a stillborn bastard with horns and cloven hooves. They say the monstrosity proves the queen is cursed and her city damned.”

  A spear pierced her heart. “Our people…say this of us?”

  Lady Sarah gave the smallest of nods, her face stricken with sorrow, her voice a whisper. “I heard it more than once.”

  “Yet we saved them from the Flame!” Liandra struggled to understand. “Despite the war, prosperity flows like a river to our people.”

  “Lies, they are just lies.”

  “Yet our people repeat them.” The queen stood. “When lies are repeated oft enough they gain a life of their own.” Unable to contain her anxiety, she began to pace in front of the fire. “Why would our people believe such follies, such blatant lies?' The answer hit like a falling anvil. "Unless they have lost the capacity to discern the truth.” The thought chilled her like no other.

  Liandra paced in front of the fire, her mind working through the maze of small details like a mouse seeking a way out. The details clicked into place with terrifying conviction. “Our crown is under assault. We need help, but not of the ordinary kind.” She needed allies who knew how to fight shadows. She needed Robert, but he was still far away in Lingard. Her mind seized on a name. “Master Numar!” The queen strode to her desk. Reaching for a fresh parchment, she dipped quill in ink and began to write. Her quill sped across the parchment. Finished, she melted a glob of emerald wax and affixed the royal seal. “Take this to Master Numar. A monk of the Kiralynn Order, he poses as a master apothecary. You will find his shop on apothecary row in the south side of the city. A white unicorn’s head surmounts the door.” Liandra pressed the letter into Lady Sarah’s hands. “Go to him, but have a care lest you are followed. Bring him to us under some pretext, any minor ailment will do, but bring him quickly and make sure you are not followed.”

  Lady Sarah's face blanched pale. "Majesty, I fear for you."

  "We fear for our life, as well as our kingdom. Bring us the monk, and perhaps he can help divine the enemy behind this vile assault."

  "I will bring him, majesty." She dipped a deep curtsy and was gone.

  The queen paced in front of the hearth till the fire burnt to embers. Her crown was under assault, she felt it in the marrow of her bones…yet there was so little proof, nothing but outrageous lies and lavish banquets, yet she felt the noose tightening around her, a stranglehold of Darkness. Her gaze came to rest on the scrolls piled on her desk. So many weighty matters vied for her attention. Her army waged a desperate war in the north, while her kingdom was barely recovered from the assault of the Flame, and now she found herself fencing with shadows…yet somehow she felt the shadows posed the greatest threat. A conviction grew in her mind. Somehow she must counter these lies and innuendos. Her mirrored reflection caught her gaze. A cornered queen stared back at her. Liandra stilled, disturbed by her reflection. Image remained one of her greatest strengths. The queen resolved to arm herself with image…and to seek allies against the shadows, to sow truth against the lies. Perhaps the monk could help. Somehow she had to save her people and her crown...before the shadows held sway over her kingdom.

  46

  Steffan

  He'd had no word from her. Nothing but silence since that first night when her carriage returned empty from the Mordant's mansion. He'd pestered Braxus and the others, but they had nothing for him. Not one whispered message from her seneschal, not one hastily scrawled note smuggled by her handmaidens, not one word to prove she still cared...or that she still lived.

  Not knowing was driving him mad.

  But Steffan was not without resources. In Rhune he'd found unexpected allies, a defrocked bishop and a ragtag cadre of soldiers, all of them veterans of the Flame War. Living in the woods, shunned as outcasts, they'd sought service with the Lord Raven. At first it amused him to keep them at his beck and call, a secret withheld from the Priestess, a dagger hidden in the dark, but then he found their purpose. Unwilling to return to Pellanor without protection, he'd sent them ahead as a secret vanguard. It was time to collect his hidden dagger. Pulling the hood of his cloak up to hide his face, Steffan made his way through the back alleys, threading a path to the shadier side of the queen's city. He found Bishop Tilden waiting for him in the Brass Rose, a shoddy inn where the flash of coin paid for ale, whores, and silence.

  "Wondered when you'd get here." The fat bishop had traded his red robes for mismatched leathers. Salt and pepper whiskers studded his jowly face, the stink of sour ale hovering about him like a pesky fly.

  Steffan took a seat at the round table, far enough away to avoid the worst of the bishop's stench. Ordering an ale, he waited till the serving wench moved beyond hearing. Setting a purse thick with golds on the table, he pushed it towards the prelate. "Where are the others?"

  The bishop snatched the purse, weighing it in his hand, before vanishing it to his belt. A grin split his fat lips. "Good as gold. I'll give you that, Lord Raven, yer always good for gold."

  Steffan hissed. "Not that title!" He shot a vile glare at the prelate. "I'm the Lord D
arkmoor."

  "Yes, m'lord." The feigned look of contrition slid to a sly smile. "Is it that easy to become a lord? Just call yerself one? Snatch a title from thin air and we're all lords?"

  Steffan began to wonder if the bishop was addled by ale...or begging for a knife in the back. His hand slid to his dagger, his voice a keen whisper. "If you take my gold then you serve or die."

  The bishop struggled to sober. "Sorry, m'lord, I'm your man."

  Steffan drilled him with his stare, but this time the bishop seemed truly contrite. "Where are the others?"

  The bishop gestured to the far corner. "Donklin, Marks, and Tandon are dicing. Scrobe and Scanlon are spending their pay with a couple of whores upstairs."

  "And the rest?"

  "Scattered about at different inns. You said we should split up."

  "Good." Steffan cast a lazy glance toward the three in the far corner. "Tell me about those three."

  The bishop shrugged. "Tandon prefers the halberd but all three are decent swords."

  "Who's the best?"

  " Donklin, he served as a captain in the fourth brigade."

  The fourth brigade, veterans of Lingard...and the sack of Pellanor, Steffan suppressed a snarl at the bitter loss. "Then Donklin will serve."

  Bishop Tilden raised a bushy eyebrow laden with questions. "Serve fer what?"

  Steffan cut off his inquiry. "I need a sharp sword and a good head for a scouting job."

  "A scouting job?" Suspicion salted the bishop's words.

  "A rival has something I want."

  "We're all wantin' somethin'. Me, I miss my miter and my mace. The war was good to me...till it ended." The bishop shrugged, taking a swig of ale.

  Steffan made his decision. "I'll meet you for dinner tonight, an hour past sunset, at the Whiskey Lady, best steak and kidney pie in the queen's city. And I'll stand you a bottle of their best whiskey. The barkeep can tell you where it is." Steffan's voice dropped to a conspirator's whisper. "But come alone, I won't pay for the others."

  A grin split the bishop's face. "Now yer talkin'." He hefted a tankard of ale. "Tonight at the Whiskey Lady."