Crown Duel

by Sherwood Smith

  The only other thing I had known about Flauvic was that his mother had sent him out of the kingdom when he was small in order to keep him alive, the year after his father and two of his paternal uncles had met mysterious deaths. I hadn’t met him yet—apparently he never attended any State events or social events outside of his own home, preferring to remain there deep in his studies. An aristocratic scholar.

  Studying what? I wondered, as we were bowed inside the house by blank-faced Merindar servants.

  The grandeur around us was a silent testimony to wealth and power. The air was scented with a complex mixture of exotic flowers and the faintest trace of tanglewood incense, denoting peace and kindred spirits.

  “Easy over the fence,” Deric said softly beside me.

  We were already at the parlor. I suppressed a grin at the riding term, then stepped forward to curtsey to the Marquise of Merindar.

  “My dear Countess.” Lady Arthal smiled as she pressed my hand. “Welcome. Permit me to introduce my children, Fialma and Flauvic. The rest of the company you know.”

  Fialma was tall, brown-haired, with cold eyes and the elevated chin of one who considers herself to be far above whomever she happens to be looking at—or down on. She was magnificently gowned, with so many glittering jewels it almost hurt the eyes to look at her. She would have been handsome but for a very long nose—which was the more obvious because of that imperious tilt to her head—and thinly compressed lips.

  “Welcome,” she said in so faint and listless a voice that it was almost hard to hear her. “Delighted to…” She shrugged slightly, and her languidly waving fan fluttered with a dismissive extra flick.

  Flauvic, on the other side of their mother, was startlingly beautiful. His coloring was fair, his long waving hair golden with ruddy highlights. His eyes were so light a brown as to seem gold, a match for his hair “…meet you, Countess,” he said, finishing his sister’s sentence. Politeness? Humor? Insult? Impossible to guess. His voice was the pure tenor of a trained singer, his gaze as blank as glass as he took my hand and bowed over it. Of medium height and very slender, he was dressed in deep blue, almost black, with a rare scattering of diamonds in his hair, in one ear, and on his clothing.

  I was staring. I followed Deric into the next room, an enormous chamber done in three colors of marble, with a rare wood-carved ceiling overhead, the motif the ancient Sartoran acanthus leaf braid. The room was so large my friends seemed small, their voices instinctively lowered.

  Deric fell into conversation with Branaric, Shevraeth, and Renna Khialem, the subject (of course) horses. Deric’s manner reminded me of someone relieved to find allies. Next to Bran sat Nee, completely silent, her hands folded in her lap.

  Under cover of the chatter about horse racing, I looked around, feeling a little like a commander assessing a potential battlefield. No, not a commander, like a spear carrier who never heard the orders everyone else already knew.

  Our hosts, despite their gracious outward manner, had made no effort to bind the guests into a circle. Instead, people were clumped in little groups, either around the magnificent buffet, or around the fireplace. As I scanned them, I noticed who was there—and who was not there.

  Present: counts, countesses, a duke, a duchess, heirs to these titles, and the only two people in the marquisate: Shevraeth and our hostess.

  Absent: anyone with the title of baron or lower, except those—like Nee—who had higher connections.

  Absent also were the Prince and Princess of Renselaeus.

  “My dear countess,” a fluting voice said at my right ear, and Tamara’s soft hand slid along my arm, guiding me toward the lowest tier near the fireplace. Several people moved away, and we sank down onto the cushions there. Tamara gestured to one of the hovering foot-servants, and two glasses of wine were instantly brought. “Did I not predict that you would show us the way at the races as well?”

  “I won only once,” I said, fighting against embarrassment.

  Deric was grinning. “Beat me,” he said. “Nearly beat Renna.”

  “I had the best horse,” I countered.

  The conversation turned from me to the races the week before. It had been a sudden thing, arranged on the first really nice day we’d had, and though the course was purported to be rough, I had found it much easier than riding mountain trails.

  As Deric described the last obstacles of the race in which I had beaten him, I saw the shy red-haired Lord Geral listening with a kind of ardent expression in his eyes. He was another who often sought me out for dances but rarely spoke otherwise. Might my rose and ring have come from him?

  Tamara’s voice recalled my attention “…the way with swords as well, dear Countess?”

  I glanced at her, sipping at my wine as I mentally reached for the subject.

  “It transpires,” Tamara said with a smile that showed the edges of glinting white teeth, “that our sharpest wits are also experts at the duel. Almost am I willing to rise at dawn, just to observe you at the cut and the thrust.”

  I was about to disclaim any great prowess with the sword, then realized that I’d walk right into her little verbal trap if I did so. I knew I wasn’t any kind of a sharp wit, but I wasn’t going to hand myself over for trimming so easily. So I smiled and sipped at my wine.

  Fialma’s faint, die-away voice was audible on Tamara’s other side. “Tamara, my love, that is not dueling, but mere swordplay.”

  Tamara’s blue eyes rounded with perplexity. “True, true, I had forgotten.” She smiled again, her fan waving slowly in query mode. “An academic question: Is it a real duel when one is favored by the opponent?”

  Fialma said, “Is it a real contest, say, in a race when the better rider does not ride?” She turned her thin smile to Shevraeth. “Your grace?”

  He bowed slightly, his hands at an oblique angle. “If a stake is won,” he said, “it is a race. If the point draws blood, it is a duel.”

  A murmur of appreciative laughter met this, and Fialma sighed ever so slightly. “You honor us,” she murmured, sweeping her fan gracefully in the half circle of Intimate Confidence, “with your liberality.…” She seated herself at the other side of the fireplace and began a low-voiced conversation with Dara, the heir to a northern duchy.

  Just beyond Fialma’s waving fan, Lord Flauvic’s metal-gold gaze lifted from my face to Shevraeth’s to Tamara’s, then back to me. What had I missed? Nee’s cheeks were glowing, but that could have been her proximity to the fire.

  Branaric saluted Shevraeth with his wineglass. “Duel or dabble, I’d hie me to those practices, except I can’t stomach rough work at dawn. Now, make them at noon, and I’m your man!”

  More laughter greeted this, and Bran turned to Flauvic. “How about you? Join me in agitating for a decent time?”

  Lord Flauvic Merindar also had a fan, but he had not opened it. Holding it horizontally between his fingers in the mode of the neutral observer, he said, “Not at any time, Tlanth. You will forgive me if I am forced to admit that I am much too lazy?”

  Again laughter, but more subdued. Heads turned as the smiling marquise approached.

  Arthal Merindar said, “You are all lazy, children.” She gestured at the artfully arranged plates of food. “Come! Do you wish to insult my tastes?”

  Several people converged on the table, where waiting servants piled indicated dainties on little plates. The marquise moved smoothly through the milling guests, smiling and bestowing soft words here and there. To my surprise, she made her way to me, held out her hand, and said, “Come, my dear. Let’s see what we can find to appeal to you.”

  I rose, trying to hide my astonishment. Deric’s face was blank, and Bran shrugged in puzzlement. From beyond my brother’s shoulder Shevraeth watched, his expression impossible to interpret. As I followed the marquise, I glanced at her son, and was further surprised to see his gaze on me. His fingers manipulated his fan; for an instant he held it in the duelist’s “guard” position, then his wrist bent as he spread t
he fan open with languid deliberation.

  A warning? Of course it is—but why?

  With a regal gesture the Marquise of Merindar indicated a door—a handsome carved one—and a lackey sprang to open it. We passed inside a lamp-lit conservatory and were closed off in the sudden, slightly unsettling silence vouchsafed by well-fitted wooden doors. “I find young Deric of Orbanith a refreshing boy,” she said. “He’s been my daughter’s friend through their mutual interest in horses since they were both quite small.”

  I cudgeled my mind for something diplomatic to say and came up with, “I hope Lady Fialma will join us for the next race, your grace.”

  “Perhaps, perhaps.” The Marquise stretched out a hand to nip away a dead leaf from one of her plants. She seemed completely absorbed in her task; I wondered how to delicately turn the discussion to the purpose of her letter when she said, “A little over a year ago there appeared at Court a remarkable document signed by you and your esteemed brother.”

  Surprised, I recalled our open letter to Galdran outlining how his bad ruling was destroying the kingdom. The letter, meant to gain us allies in the Court, had been the last project we had worked on with our father. “We didn’t think anyone actually saw it,” I said, unnerved by the abrupt change of subject. “We did send copies, but I thought they had been suppressed.”

  One of her brows lifted. “No one but the king saw it—officially. However, it enjoyed a brief but intense covert popularity, I do assure you.”

  “But there was no response,” I said.

  “As there was no protection offered potential fellow rebels,” she retorted, still in that mild voice, “you ought not be surprised. Your sojourn here was brief. Perhaps you were never really aware of the difficulties facing those who disagreed with my late brother.”

  “Well, I remember what he was going to do to me,” I said.

  “And do you remember what happened instead?”

  I turned to stare at her. “I thought—”

  “Thought what, child? Speak freely. There is no one to overhear you.”

  Except, of course, the dead king’s sister. But was she really a danger? The Renselaeuses now gripped the hilt-end of the sword of power, or she would have been home long since.

  “The Princess Elestra hinted that they helped me escape,” I said.

  “Hinted,” she repeated. “And thus permitted you to convince yourself?”

  “You mean they didn’t?”

  She lifted one shoulder slightly. “Contradiction of the conqueror, whose memory is usually adaptable, is pointless, unless…” She paused, once more absorbed in clearing yellowed leaves from a delicate plant.

  “Unless what, your grace?” Belatedly I remembered the niceties.

  She did not seem to notice. “Unless one intends to honor one’s own vows,” she murmured. “I have not seen you or your respected brother at Court. Have you set aside those fine ideals as expressed in your letter?”

  “We haven’t, your grace,” I said cautiously.

  “Yet I have not seen you at Petitioners’ Court. That is, I need hardly point out, where the real ruling takes place.”

  But Shevraeth is there. Remembering the promise I had made that last day at Tlanth, I was reluctant to mention my problems with him. I said with care, “I haven’t been asked to attend—and I do not see how my presence or absence would make much difference.”

  “You would learn how our kingdom is being governed. And then you would be able to form an idea as to whether or not your vows are in fact being kept.”

  She was right. This was my purpose in coming.

  Ought I to tell her? Instinct pulled me both ways, but memory of the mistakes I had made in acting on hasty judgment kept me silent.

  She bent and plucked a newly bloomed starliss, tucked it into my hair, then stepped back to admire the effect. “There are many among us who would be glad enough to see you and your brother honor those vows,” she said, and took my arm, and led me to the reception room.

  At once I was surrounded by Nee and Deric and Renna—my own particular friends—as if they had formed a plan to protect me. Against what? Nothing happened after that, except that we ate and drank and listened to a quartet of singers from the north performing ballads whose words we could not understand, but whose melancholy melodies seemed to shiver in the air.

  The Marquise of Merindar did not speak to me again until it was time to leave, and she was gracious as she begged me to come visit her whenever I had the inclination. There was no reference to our conversation in the conservatory.

  When at last Deric and I settled into his carriage, he dropped back with a sigh of relief. “Well, that’s over. Good food and good company, but none of it worth sitting mum while Fialma glared daggers at me.”

  I understood what I’d missed before—some of what I’d missed, anyway—and tried unsuccessfully to smother a laugh. It seemed that Deric was deemed an appropriate match for the daughter of a Merindar.

  Deric grinned at me, the light from glowglobes flickering in his black eyes. “Cowardice, I know. But burn it, that female scares me.”

  I remembered the gossip about Fialma and her recent return from Eidervaen, where she was supposed to have contracted an appropriately brilliant marriage alliance but had failed. Which was why the marquise had passed her over for the heirship of Merindar.

  But that wasn’t all; as Deric drove away and I mounted the steps of the Residence, I also figured out that he could, in fact, be subtle when he wanted. And that there were consequences to bluntness that one could not always predict. He had asked me to accompany him as a hint to the Merindars that he was courting me, and therefore wouldn’t court Fialma.

  Interesting, though, that he asked to take me to that party right after I had rejected his attempt to kiss me.

  I’ll never understand flirting, I thought, fighting the impulse to laugh. Never.

  oOo

  In my rooms, I sat at the window, looking out at the soft rain and thinking about that conversation with the Marquise. Was she, or was she not, inviting me to join her in opposing Shevraeth’s rule?

  Ought I to attend Petitioners’ Court, then, and begin evaluating the Renselaeus policies? Where was the real truth between the two families?

  I remembered the hint that the marquise had dropped. According to her, Princess Elestra had not, in fact, had anything to do with my escape. If she hadn’t, who, then? Arthal Merindar? Except why didn’t I find out before? Whom could I ask?

  Deric? No. He showed no interest whatever in crown affairs. He lived for sport. Renna as well. Trishe and the others?

  I bit my lip, wondering if my opening such a discussion would be a betrayal of the promise to Shevraeth. I didn’t know any of these people well enough to enjoin them to secrecy, and the thought of Shevraeth finding out about my purpose in coming made me shudder inside.

  Of the escape, at least, I could find out some of the truth. I’d write to Azmus, our trusted spy during the war, who had helped me that night. Now he was happily retired to his family village in Tlanth. I plumped down onto the cushions at my writing table without heeding my expensive gown, and reached for a pen. The letter was soon written and set aside for dispatch home.

  Then I sat back on the pillows as a new idea formed: Why not ask the Secret Admirer who’d sent the ring and the rose?

  He certainly knew how to keep a secret. If he was only playing a game, surely a serious question would show him up. I’d phrase it carefully.…

  I remembered the starliss in my hair and pulled it out to look down into the silver-touched white crown-shaped petals. It was also known as queensblossom. Symbol? Even I could figure that out: royal ambition.

  My scalp prickled with a danger sense. Once again I dipped my quill. I wrote:

  Dear Unknown,

  You probably won’t want to answer a letter, but I need some advice on Court etiquette, without my asking being noised around, and who could be more closemouthed than you? Let’s say I was at a party
, and a high-ranking lady approached me…

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  As soon as I finished the letter I asked Mora to have it sent, just so I wouldn’t stay awake changing my mind back and forth during the night.

  When I woke the next morning, that letter was the first thing on my mind. Had I made a mistake in writing it? I’d been careful to make it seem like a mental exercise, a hypothetical question of etiquette, describing the conversation in general terms and the speakers only as a high-ranking lady and a young lady new to Court. Unless the unknown admirer had been at the party, there would be no way to connect me to Arthal Merindar. And if he had been at the party—as Deric, Savona, and Geral, all of whom flirted with me most, had been—wouldn’t his not having given away his identity make him obliged to keep my letter secret as well?

  So I reasoned. When Mora came in with my hot chocolate, she also brought me a gift: a book. I took it eagerly.

  The book was a memoir from almost three hundred years before, written by the Duchess Nirth Masharlias, who married the heir to a principality. Though she never ruled, three of her children married into royalty. I had known of her, but not much beyond that.

  There was no letter, but slipped in the pages was a single petal of starliss. The text it marked was written in old-fashioned language, but even so, I liked the voice of the writer at once:

  …and though the Count spoke strictly in Accordance with Etiquette, his words were an Affront, for he knew my thoughts on Courtship of Married Persons…