GAME OF TOWERS
AND TREACHERY
2ND EDITION
© JULY 2021
Originally published as ‘Treachery’s Game’
1st edition text © DECEMBER 2008
BY HARPER ALEXANDER
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.
This product may not be reproduced in whole or in part without prior written permission from the author.
This is a work of fiction.
Any resemblance to actual people, scenarios, or events is coincidental.
Cover art and design by Laura Moyer of
Thebookcovermachine.com
1
The Soul of the Conspiracy
“Beauty is more than a pretty face to behold. It is treacherous. It is a weapon ready at hand, when any man has to reach for his sword or swing his fist. And on you, it is the greatest deception of all.” – Advice to the newly recruited Spywoman of Cerf Daine, who thus far has only ever had to fight like any other man.
*
The regal lady Despiris of Cerf Daine strode with silent urgency down the dark carpeted hallway, transforming into her other self, the invisible Des of the Streets, as she went. The abominable dress, and the pesky extras that were jewelry and gloves and fluttery fans to cover fool, blushing faces, might as well have been spider webs hastily shucked from her form along the way. As disguises went, the ensemble was an affective one, but dreadfully irritating to wear and most inconvenient when it came time to remove it.
She could only hope and pray she wouldn’t have to put the dratted thing back on. Absently, she wondered when the first opportunity would arise to burn it.
After going to war with her endless laces, which were far more prone to knotting than when she tied actual knots, and after cursing as quietly and colorfully as possible at the layers of fabric that seemed for all their bulk to tangle and knot as easily as her laces – after all the rustling, ripping, cursing hassle, Despiris finally managed to disband the burdensome garment. Underneath she wore her street clothes, form-fitting to go unnoticed under her equally tight dress, and dark to help her blend in with the shadows now that the accursed dress wasn’t a dead giveaway.
Nothing like wearing a beacon when you’re trying to blend in, she thought sardonically.
Wadding the dress into a monstrous ball, Despiris compressed it down to quiet the rustle of silk and eliminate the hazard of skirts tangling yet with her legs. It would be just her luck to fall flat on her face because she tripped over a skirt – and when she wasn’t even wearing it, no less. Stupid mistake. Stupid lady. Stupid dress.
Holding her fan under an elbow, and her jewelry in a glove, and her gloves in her teeth, Despiris finished wrapping the endless train of the dress about itself so it was thoroughly stuck in a knot she tied deliberately. Triumphantly, and admittedly a bit obstinately, she wrenched it just a tad tighter for good measure.
Take that, you bombastic behemoth of ‘beauty’, she sneered. As if the dress could hear her thoughts and would consider itself duly chastised.
Then she caught herself, instantly feeling silly. She should be focused, impassively suffering such inconveniences as the necessary evils that they were. They were tools, a means to an end, and now she was relieved of the fleeting unpleasantry and it was time to get down to business.
‘Business’ being sneaking into the private meeting hall where the queen of Tricova had gathered a group of suspicious conspirators.
King Isavor of Cerf Daine had caught wind of a possible war to be declared on his kingdom by Tricova in the near future, and he had sent Despiris straightaway to confirm it was so or determine it as just an empty rumor.
Despiris had crossed borders three weeks ago, beginning her plan to infiltrate the palace. It was a simple yet time-sensitive scheme dependent on working quickly.
First, she’d traveled cross-country targeting Duke Zarach’s estate, easier to break into than the highly-secure royal grounds. Her best chance at ‘breaking’ into the palace, she’d decided, was to not have to break in at all; to have a front, a persona she could assume that would grant her access and allow her to ‘sneak around’ in plain sight, gleaning intel from whoever might let it slip. So she’d borrowed the duke’s desk for the night, penning a letter to the queen on his stationary and sealing it with his personal seal.
Off went the duke’s letter to the palace, introducing a distant cousin come to visit – one Odria Vidalla – who would benefit from the cultural elevation of experiencing life at court.
A reply from the queen was necessary, of course, before Despiris could assume she was welcome at court. But it was known that the duke and his family were regulars, and so, anticipating a favorable response, she’d left the duke’s estate practically on the tail of the letter. It would take a week for the letter to reach the palace, and a week for a response to reach the duke. Once it did, of course, he would deny having any knowledge of the supposed cousin in question. But by then, Despiris would have already intercepted the return messenger on the road, snuck into his camp at night to read the response and confirm her invitation to court, and she would have a head start on any further correspondence that would blow her cover.
A head start that gave her roughly one week to milk her charade and sneak about the palace, digging up the information she’d been sent to attain.
“Lady Vidalla,” she’d been greeted when she arrived at the palace ahead of any anticipated schedule, “we did not expect you so soon.”
“I’m afraid I was overly eager to make my appearance,” she said with a practiced blush, assuming a coy countenance she’d become an expert at commanding. “My poor coachman hasn’t slept. I do abuse him so.”
The coachman, she had hired in the first town she encountered after leaving the duke’s estate. She’d used the excuse that her original driver had fallen ill on the road, and she needed to get to the palace straightaway. The pristine, lavish gown pilfered from a local shop had given her the clout needed to play the noble damsel in distress, and no one had questioned her story. A coachman named Ander had happily received her coin and offered his services, and Despiris arrived at the palace looking every bit the cousin of a duke whom no one had reason to question.
Surprisingly early she might have been, but what reason really did anyone have to challenge her? Who would suspect the pretty, simpering little cousin of a duke in the frilly peach dress of such extravagant treachery?
And so she was accepted into the throes of the palace, and her mission began in earnest.
She’d spent five days stringing together fragments of rumors, trying to glean enough to take back to the king of Cerf Daine. Thus far, success had been lackluster; she had gained little more than the unwanted attention of several flirtatious noblemen, which made it difficult to slip away. When she had accepted the mission, calculating the risks and condemning outcomes in her mind, never had she anticipated the ballroom would prove the greatest trap of all, and a slew of pansy suitors would prove her greatest adversaries.
It had been nothing but dance, dance, dance all the time, with him this time so no one would think she was choosing favorites and take offense – or, conversely, think she was choosing favorites and become encouraged by her responsiveness. It was a tricky dynamic, a mental dance as much as a physical one, and not one she was well-versed in navigating. After all, she had only recently graduated from a strictly aloof, master-and-apprentice relationship on the streets, her transition into matters of court fresh and wholly amateur.
It was a good thing she was an expert student, her life up to this point dedicated to hanging on he
r master’s every word and tackling each lesson with a rapt hunger for perfection. She’d applied the same fierce studiousness to her lessons of etiquette at the palace, and tried to think of her current situation as one big test.
She had to play the part, had to convince the court she was nothing but a harmless, giggly young thing there at the privilege of a semi-important duke. One suspicious move was all it would take to end up the next favorite rumor of the court – as everything always was.
So she danced and simpered and flirted, pretending to be undaunted by the gaggle of lusty-eyed gentlemen, wishing she could crawl out of her skin.
Out of her skin and into the shadows. For she knew she was short on time, the ballroom doors liable to bang open at any moment and produce a winded, flustered messenger squealing about some imposter exploiting Duke Zarach’s correspondence to invite herself to court.
Throughout the week, Despiris had noticed the queen and certain courtiers slipping away from the festivities once the ballroom was aswirl with dance and spirits aswirl from the bottomless cocktail bar. While everyone else was too giddy and inebriated to notice the conspirators’ absence, Despiris never touched a drop of liquor and was as sharp of sense as ever.
It was only a matter of her slipping away from intent suitors. Curse the titillation that came from being the shiny new thing at court, the fresh meat every young buck wanted to get with.
But tonight she had done it, feigning a headache and sneaking off to follow the council of conspirators. They’d disappeared into the west wing of the palace, down dark, vacant halls awash with stagnant shadow. It was as if the wing had gone dormant, lying unused for some time.
The utter stillness was uncanny after escaping the lively ambiance of the ballroom. But it was, of course, only another cover for the treachery at large.
At first, Despiris had thought the parties insufferable interludes that put her mission on hold, that no conspiring would take place during such public occasions hosted by her chief suspect. But she had quickly realized the festivities were a front, a way to keep prying eyes distracted while schemes were being made. While originally she had envisioned herself sneaking into a regular council meeting to glean the information she’d come for, it had quickly become clear that if the queen was planning to go to war with Cerf Daine, she considered it a matter delicate enough to take extra precautions to keep it under wraps – even from her own court.
And it hadn’t taken long for Despiris to realize that was a wise decision; during her short time at Tricovan court, she’d learned that nobles were troublemaking creatures, eager to get their hands on the latest gossip and fan whatever sparks they could into wildfires, meddling and mongering and miring themselves into any given affair for a wide range of varying, personal agendas.
It was dizzying, ‘court intrigue’ a subject Despiris would have to be sure to request further tutelage in when she returned to Cerf Daine.
And her return was something she grew increasingly anxious to arrange, knowing her cover story had just about run its course. So tonight, she would make headway. She had to.
The conspirators never left the festivities all at once, trickling away one at a time to avoid detection, but by the third party, Despiris had pegged who disappeared consistently. Last, of course, was always the queen – the queen and her hyper-alert guard Faulso, which made tracking the monarch through the quiet halls a delicate task. Despiris allowed the queen a head start, relying on subtle clues such as footprints mussing the never-traveled carpet, or tapestries along the walls rippling ever-so-slightly from the breeze of someone’s passing.
Now that her troublesome, obnoxious attire was done away with, however, she could speed her pursuit without fear of the rustling ruckus giving her away. In her street clothes, the spy knew how to move silent as a cat. Silent as a ghost. Silent as the shadow she had been raised to be.
Stowing her dress and accessories in a humongous, man-sized vase, Despiris rocked onto the balls of her feet and sprinted down the hall to gain ground, refusing to let the queen give her the slip. This was her chance.
The plush rug that spanned the hall muffled any slight sound she might otherwise have made, allowing her to maintain the sprint to the next corridor. At the junction, she slid to a halt to peer around the corner, spotting the faint silhouettes of her quarry at the end of the new hall.
No sooner had she spotted them than they cut left, disappearing from sight.
Slipping around the corner, Despiris hugged the wall and sprang into another quiet run. She had to close the distance. If she lost her quarry in the dark, intricate throes of an unfamiliar palace…
That might be it. Her one and only shot, evaporating while she fumbled around in the dark.
I can’t fail my first big mission. Especially one so vital. What she learned here could make all the difference in whether or not Cerf Daine found itself caught ill-prepared by war, after all.
An armed guard leered out at her abruptly from the shadowed edge of the hall. Muffling a shriek, she feinted to the side, barely grasping at the presence of mind to recognize the figure was merely a decorative suit of armor, stationary and quite harmless. Catching herself before she fell flat on her face, she cringed at the whisper of sound issued by her stumble. The near-disaster sent her blood slinging through her veins, hot and sparking.
Cool it, Des. You’re in your element, now. The smothering attire, foreign festivities, and social challenges in this unfamiliar court had wound her nerves tight, but she was rid of all that now. The shadows, at least, were universal, familiar, never foreign even in a foreign place.
In the shadows, she was home. Home, and safe, and suddenly full of herself.
This is my palace, now.
The erstwhile threat of exposure now tickled her spine with thrilling unease. She could pick up the pace a smidgeon, get just a little bit closer…
The shadows will hide me, for the shadows embrace me. They devour me. They become me.
She was traveling at such a clip that sliding to a halt at the next junction saw her rug-burning into a sitting position to peer into the adjoining hall. Knees tucked against her chest, she scanned the new shadows, assaulted by the fluttery urge to hasten her progress even more when she saw no one.
But there was no way the queen could have traveled the whole length of the hall by the time Despiris reached it, not at the sprint Despiris had employed. Which meant her quarry had disappeared into one of the rooms along this corridor.
Padding slowly down the hall, Despiris eyed each door she passed, looking for some clue that would indicate a room was in use. The glow of light along the bottom of the doorway, the murmur of muffled voices…
The conspirators obviously had a hand on being discreet.
But – ah, just there. The intricate end of a skeleton key protruded from a keyhole up ahead. As Despiris neared, her perspective produced a set of double doors framed by an ornately-carved archway. No light crept out under the doorway, but she was certain the key was a symbol. Whether the conspirators met in a different room every night and needed it marked, or it was merely an indicator that the queen was present and ready to receive her co-conspirators… Who was to say, exactly. Perhaps there were gold, and silver, and bronze keys to indicate different things. Perhaps–
Perhaps she was overthinking every detail, looking for intricacies she didn’t have time for. It was in her nature to think that way, and it was one reason she was the best in the business – but deciphering all the clever little details of a scheme would count for nothing as soon as that messenger who knew of an imposter reached the palace.
And she knew he was coming.
All that mattered was that the key reeked of significance. And so she slunk toward the doorway and crouched against the pretty arch, a shadow come to eavesdrop. Pressing her ear to the crack, she heard only a faint murmur within. The room was impressively sound-proof.
Drawing a steadying breath, Despiris carefully wrapped her fingers around the exposed leng
th of key. Slowly, avoiding all but a whisper of grating, she slid the key free of its slot.
Light beamed from the keyhole, a golden shaft piercing the hall shadows.
Leveling her eye to the keyhole, Despiris blinked against the brightness. It was blinding after the night-like shadows of the hall. Tearing briefly, her eyes adjusted, and she peered into the room.
The conspirators were seated around a large, round mahogany table. Queen Alabastra sat with her back to Despiris, her rich, cobalt fur cloak trailing halfway to the doors. Her extravagant blonde up-do saw her as the tallest one at the table, even next to the Captain of the Guard, who was no short man. Her sapphire-studded crown, anchored around the base of her coifed and piled locks, glittered in the generous candlelight.
“Do you not think I have questioned it, Lord Fevris?” her breathy, elegant voice wafted through the room. “Questioned the unlikely oversight of a nation leaving itself vulnerable because their attentions are focused obsessively on one man?”
“Have we considered that they could be baiting us?” someone else posed.
Queen Alabastra’s head shifted ever-so-slightly in his direction, nothing about her ever hurried or overstated. She was the essence of coy, a master of subtlety. “For what purpose? What reason have we to think Cerf Daine desires a war? King Isavor is a peaceful man, his current endeavors striving for unity amongst his people. It would be counterintuitive to upset that with any greater unrest. He is not the type to kick the hornet’s nest.”
The man she addressed tilted his head in thought, as if not necessarily so sure. “And yet – what unites a nation as war does? If the rumors are true, King Isavor seeks to reinstate the Mystic Ages – or at the very least rewrite them. What safer way to draw magic out of the woodwork than to give it an outward focus? A cause he knows will both lure out the good eggs who wish to save the kingdom, and at the same time keep all possible mishaps directed away from the heart of his kingdom and concentrated harmlessly along the border?”
Game of Towers and Treachery (The Shadow's Apprentice Book 2) Page 1
