The Artful Apprentice

by Christopher Nuttall

  The air felt musty as she walked around the room, careful not to touch anything as she inspected the workbench, the cabinets and the row of tools. They looked clean, as if the king had taken good care of them. She wondered, wryly, if it had been the king or his wizard who’d really done the work. Her lips twitched as she peered into the nearest cabinet, silently totting up the supplies. A bag of dragon scales sat next to a tightly-sealed bottle of preserved durian. Emily frowned, puzzled. Had the king been preparing to depower the duke?

  And what would happen to a blademaster, she asked herself, if his magic was dampened?

  She tossed the question around and around as she walked into the next room. It was a bedroom, she thought, but the bed was still ridiculously small. It was too small for Willis, let alone a grown adult. Her eyes narrowed as she studied the wooden carvings on the bed. Dragons. More dragons. It might have been the king’s bed when he’d been a child. She looked around, noting how the chamber might easily have been a prince’s bedroom. The furnishings had been stripped, but... it was possible. She suspected she’d never know.

  The duke might, she thought, as she walked into the next room. But could I trust his answers?

  The king’s desk was the only elegant thing in the chambers, she decided, as she started to inspect it. He’d covered it with wards, with nasty little spells intended to turn intruders into tiny little things, but he hadn’t connected them to the castle’s defenses. She frowned as she circled the desk, making sure that was definitely the case before she started to dismantle the spells. There was nothing she hadn’t seen before, at Whitehall, but there was an edge to the spells she didn’t like. The king had intended to kill — or, at the very least, cripple — anyone who tried to open his desk. Emily carefully worked through the spells, making sure not to touch the wood with her bare skin. The runes carved into the wood looked very nasty.

  She allowed herself a moment of triumph as she opened the drawers and found a sheaf of papers. The feeling faded as she carried the papers over to the workbench and started to read through them. There was nothing interesting, nothing incriminating. They were private missives from neighboring monarchs, reports from the king’s spies and a whole string of accounts that were carefully encoded to conceal what the king had been spending money on. The sums mentioned were small, she thought, but they added up to a small fortune. Alchemical supplies? Or payments to spies and informers?

  Her heart sank as she read through the reports. The king seemed to have had hundreds of spies working for him, from MPs to people on the streets. They supplied him with everything from political information to private gossip. She had no idea if the king had cared one jot about who was sleeping with whom, although she supposed the information might have come in handy for something. A young lord — his name hidden behind a pseudonym — had been frequenting a male-only brothel. Who knew? Maybe he could be blackmailed. But it meant nothing to her.

  She put the papers back in the desk, then started to examine the wood carefully. The desk was easily big enough to conceal a hidden drawer or secret compartment. Done properly, it would be hidden so perfectly that it might be impossible to find unless the entire desk was chopped to pieces. She poked and prodded at the desk, but found nothing. The king either hadn’t hidden anything or he’d hidden it too well. She considered taking the desk apart, but decided against it. The desk belonged to Willis.

  Emily shook her head, then spent an hour going through the books. There didn’t seem to be any rhyme or reason to the king’s collection. It ranged from basic textbooks to forbidden tomes that should, by rights, be handed over to the White Council. She couldn’t tell if the king had used any of the more advanced and dangerous spells, although the inclusion of King Randor’s death curse worried her. Maybe the king really had been trying to depower his brother. It was only a matter of time until the duke did something his brother couldn’t ignore.

  She returned the books to the shelves, then walked out the door and carefully sealed the chamber behind her. There was nothing, no clue she could see. The king seemed to have taken his secrets to the grave. Void would try to crack Simon’s oaths, she was sure, but she didn’t want to take the risk. There was no way Simon could give informed consent. His oaths might kill him if he believed there was a reasonable chance he could spill the beans and keep his life.

  And Void wanted me here for something, she thought, as she headed down the corridor. But what?

  She sensed the duke before she saw him, a tight spiral of barely-controlled magic standing in the corridor. He was talking to a man she didn’t recognize, their voices blurred by a privacy ward. She tensed, wishing she’d thought to slip something into her hand before she stepped into view. The duke glanced up at her, his eyes narrowing. Emily heart started to pound as she walked past the men and headed down the corridor. She was sure they were watching her. She was sure they were going to call her back...

  And yet, the duke said nothing. Emily frowned. She’d expected the duke to insist on speaking to her, to make his case for the protectorship. He had to know she’d seen both the queen and parliament. And yet, he said nothing. Did he think his case was strong enough to stand on its own? Or was he planning something? He had too much to lose, if he wasn’t made protector. She winced, feeling a stab of sympathy for Rogan. There was no way to ensure the duke would behave himself, whatever happened. The entire kingdom was on the verge of chaos.

  “My Lady,” Silent said, when Emily reached her chambers. “The queen has invited you to dinner and Arbiter Rogan has requested the pleasure of your company for breakfast tomorrow.”

  Emily glanced at the clock. It was later than she’d thought. “Run me a bath,” she ordered, shortly. “I should have time to wash before going to eat.”

  “You have also received a vase of flowers,” Silent added. She indicated a vase of pink and purple roses. “The maid was unable to say who ordered them.”

  “Oh,” Emily said. She blinked in surprise. No one, not even Caleb or Cat, had given her flowers. Ever. “Who sent me those?”

  “The maid was unable to say,” Silent repeated, primly. “It is not my place to speculate.”

  Emily shook her head. Jan? She couldn’t think of anyone else. “It doesn’t matter,” she said, finally. There was no card with the flowers. She cast a pair of detection spells and frowned. There were no traps. They were just... flowers. “Right now, I have too many other problems to worry about.”

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  “I TRUST YOU SLEPT BETTER,” ARBITER Rogan said, as Emily stepped into his chambers the next morning. “No one tried to test your wards?”

  “No.” Emily shook her head. She’d put a lot of effort into preparing her wards, in hope of tracing the magic back to the caster, but the murderer hadn’t taken the bait. “There was no attempt to kill me.”

  “And they probably know you survived,” Rogan said, curtly. He summoned the maid and ordered breakfast. “What did Queen Aquiline, Lord Eddisford and Sir Mowbray have to say to you?”

  Emily kept her face impassive. Rogan sounded like a tutor on the verge of chewing her out for a tiny mistake, not someone who was — in some senses — her social equal. She reminded herself, dryly, that the arbiter was under a lot of stress. Making the wrong call — or even the right one, if it failed to gain universal acceptance — could lead to disaster. He had to be wishing he had someone who could make the decision for him.

  She sat, smoothing her dress. “The queen made her case for slow but steady change, backed up by her father,” she said. “They appear to believe they can manage the pace of change, if they have the protectorship. The queen herself informed me that she swore to treat her stepchildren as her real children. If she can be trusted to keep her word, it speaks well of her. I don’t know what Willis thinks of his stepmother.”

  “Believe me, Willis’s opinion is irrelevant,” Rogan said. “He’s too young to be taken seriously.”

  Emily winced. “Sir Mowbray stated that he had nothing
to gain from the protectorship and that, if selected, he would attempt to keep political matters frozen until the king reached his majority and took power for himself. I don’t know how easy he’ll find it, even with the regency in his hand. There are... matters... that cannot wait for four years.”

  “No,” Rogan said. “And the duke?”

  “The duke made no attempt to talk to me,” Emily said. “I don’t know if that’s good or bad.”

  “Bad,” Rogan said, flatly. “He should be trying to convince you to support him. That he hasn’t made the attempt...”

  He shook his head. “Which one do you prefer?”

  Emily hesitated. “Am I allowed to have an opinion?”

  “I have yet to find a way to keep people from having opinions.” Rogan smiled suddenly, but it didn’t touch his eyes. “This job would be a great deal easier if everyone just did what I said.”

  “I’m sure it would,” Emily said. She took a moment to organize her thoughts. “The duke doesn’t strike me as remotely stable, to the point he worried his brother. I don’t think he’d make a good regent even if he genuinely intended to do right by his nephew. The queen looks a better choice, but she’s... strongly influenced, if not controlled, by her father. Lord Eddisford clearly has an agenda of his own. I suspect she’ll find herself relying on him, regardless of her feelings in the matter. And” — she hated to say it, but it was true — “she’s a Southerner. That won’t sit well with the North.”

  “True,” Rogan agreed.

  “Parliament makes a better case,” Emily continued. “Sir Mowbray has a very good point when he states he won’t live long enough to build a power base. He doesn’t have any sons” — she’d made a point of looking it up, when she’d returned to her rooms — “and his daughters aren’t eligible to be heirs. On the surface, he’s the best possible candidate.”

  “And the one who has the great advantage of not being either the duke or the queen,” Rogan said, dryly. “We’d be spiting both of them.”

  “That’s the problem,” Emily said. “Sir Mowbray doesn’t have a private army. Parliament’s ability to tackle rogue aristocrats is very limited. They’d have problems dealing with either the duke or the queen. And if Sir Mowbray dies before Willis reaches his majority, there’ll be another power struggle over who’ll succeed him.”

  She met his eyes. “And that’s as far as I’ve gotten.”

  Rogan indicated the papers on his desk. The pile had grown larger in the last twenty-four hours. “I’ve gone through all the documents,” he said. “Most of the arguments, as I said, are repeated time and time again. Others... cancel each other out. It doesn’t help that the situation is completely unprecedented. The Queen Dowager would, normally, have a very good claim, but in this case she’s not the king’s actual mother. That gives the duke an edge... a very slight edge, yet one that cannot be easily denied.”

  Emily felt her heart sink. “And so you’re nominating the duke?”

  “Parliament’s case is weaker, but there are precedents that support it.” Rogan picked up a set of papers. “It helps that Willis isn’t that young. He’ll reach his majority in four years. It won’t be easy to keep things frozen, but it can be done. And... it will hopefully keep the other challengers from making a bid for power. The queen and the duke can afford to bide their time if the other isn’t in power.”

  “True,” Emily said. “I...”

  She broke off as a pair of maids entered, carrying the breakfast trays. She knew better than talk in front of the servants, even if the aristocracy regarded them — at best — as nothing more than part of the furniture. The servants had ears and, if the king’s papers were any clue, a willingness to repeat whatever they heard to their true masters. She would be surprised if the arbiter’s maids were not being bribed by the queen or the duke. They might know what he was going to decide before it became public knowledge. And then... who knew how the knowledge could be used?

  Her stomach rumbled as the maids retreated. She picked up the fork and started to eat, enjoying the taste of spicy beef sausage and scrambled egg instead of the more traditional bacon and eggs. It was certainly something different. She wondered, idly, why the meat wasn’t exported. It wasn’t as if there wouldn’t be a market. The aristocracy was always on the watch for something new.

  “It would certainly keep things stable, as long as Sir Mowbray remains alive,” she said, when she had satisfied her hunger pangs. “And it might prevent civil war.”

  “It might,” Rogan agreed. “Yesterday... there were riots on the streets. Today... this morning, the duke sent a missive to the city fathers, demanding the right to bring troops into the city. A very flowery missive, five pages of sweet-talking that boil down to give me what I want or I’ll beat hell out of you and take it anyway. The queen has sent her own missive, if my informants are correct. The city fathers are stalling, but they won’t be able to stall for long.”

  Emily shivered. “We’re running out of time.”

  “Correct.” Rogan glanced at the window. “As long as the armies are outside the walls, they can be kept at a distance. Once they’re in the city, the temptation to just seize power will become irresistible. Both sides will be sure the other will be planning to do just that” — he smiled, humorlessly — “and they’ll use it as a justification to make their own move. And once the fighting starts...”

  He tapped his plate. “At best, we’d be looking at one side seizing power, purging all its enemies and redefining the entire balance of power. At worst, we’d be looking at a three or four-sided civil war. The city would be devastated, the two main sides would go north or south and the subsequent war would rip the country in two. It would make the Zangarian War look like a petty border dispute.”

  Shit, Emily thought. She knew, intellectually, that the Zangarian Civil War had been fought on a very small scale. Large swathes of the country had been completely untouched by the fighting. But it was hard to believe. She’d seen too many burned-out towns and villages, too many refugees trying to find safety, too many dead men and raped women and orphaned children to believe the war had been small. And yet... she knew it was true. This could turn into a nightmare.

  “Right,” she said. She found herself considering extreme solutions. Perhaps her real task was to assassinate the duke. Or the queen. Or both. “How do you intend to proceed?”

  Rogan pushed his plate to one side, then looked her in the eye. “I intend to nominate Sir Mowbray as Lord Protector. I’ll be spending the remainder of the day writing out a very convincing case for his selection, pointing out the weaknesses in the other claims and — more importantly — how Sir Mowbray can ensure that Willis receives his inheritance without any major concessions or limitations. I’ll suggest — very strongly — that both the queen and the duke serve on the Lord Protector’s council, where their influence will be diluted. They can share access to Willis or they can both stay well away from the king.”

  Emily frowned. “They’ll both try to influence him,” she commented. “And what about the rest of the royal family?”

  “There’s no way to keep them from influencing him,” Rogan said. “And as for the rest of the family” — he shook his head — “those decisions will have to wait until Willis comes of age.”

  “Princess Elena was meant to go to school,” Emily said. “Will she still go?”

  “I suspect that will be the Lord Protector’s decision,” Rogan told her. “But unless he’s a complete fool, and he isn’t, he’ll see the advantage in keeping her hand off the marriage market.”

  “It will certainly keep her from causing trouble,” Emily agreed. “Do you think everyone will go along with it?”

  “I don’t know,” Rogan said. “But I have reason to believe that both sides — or at least their supporters — have no interest in an outright civil war. Given an excuse to take a deep breath and back away, their supporters might insist they accept the new status quo rather than try to challenge it. The queen would have
to ally with the duke if she wanted to change things and...”

  “That isn’t likely to happen,” Emily said. “I can’t see them getting along.”

  “No,” Rogan agreed. “Neither of them will be happy, but they have good reason to go along with it.”

  He looked down at the table. “Can I count on your support?”

  Emily nodded. “I’ll be there,” she said. “I don’t know how many of them will listen to me.”

  Rogan didn’t seem to hear her. “Willis is going to be crowned tomorrow. We’ve had to move the timetable forward because of the riots. I’ll make the formal announcement before the coronation, as planned. They won’t know what I’m going to say.”

  Unless they’ve been spying on you, Emily thought. Or if they make the assumption, they’re going to be disappointed and lay their plans accordingly...

  “Please keep my judgment to yourself,” Rogan said. “And if you can find the murderer... please do.”

  Emily shook her head. “I’ve drawn a blank,” she admitted. Void was going to be disappointed. “There was nothing in the king’s private chambers to even hint at who might have killed him.”

  “Sir Mowbray is not one of the suspects,” Rogan said. “That works in his favor, I suppose.”

  He looked displeased. Emily understood, better than she cared to admit. The regicide might go undiscovered, leaving a murderer very close to the seat of power. Willis might be in very real danger. Anyone prepared to kill a grown man with the power and inclination to hunt down a would-be assassin wouldn’t hesitate to kill a teenager. And murdering Willis would plunge the succession into doubt.

  She took a breath. “If something happens to Willis, who’s next in line?”