Banner of the Damned (42 page)

We speculated on what “Chwahir massing at the passes” might mean, but with the comfort of knowing that it was a matter for the queen and court.

So we were not prepared to roll into the inner stable reserved for the royal family’s use, to find a very senior, white-haired herald waiting among the expected stable hands and pages.

Waiting for
me
.

“I must change.” I indicated Lasva’s clothing on me.

She lifted her brows slightly. “And keep the queen waiting?” At my shock she relented. “She knows about the masquerade, Scribe Emras. There is nothing amiss.”

How unreal it felt to walk through the queen’s side of the royal wing while wearing Lasva’s lavender and silver! My gaze touched the golden inlay of lilies worked into the carved rosewood doors. I breathed in the scent of cinnamon and bee-balm wafting off the tended shrubs in pots below the high windows; I listened to the rapid tattoo of my heartbeat, in counterpoint to the hiss of our slippers on the marble floor. I did these things to restore a sense of reality, but I felt the more removed from normal life.

One, two, three, four doors (all opened by heralds, not pages) and for the very first time, I was alone with the queen.

Lasva’s gown rustled in folds about my feet as I pulled off the veiled hat and then bowed deeply.

“Come here, Scribe,” the queen said. Where Lasva’s voice had a slightly husky, breathy sound, her sister sounded gruff. “Ah-ye. Quite odd, to see your round apple of a face atop one of my sister’s gowns. Now, tell me about this.”

The queen threw onto a fine carved table a slim book bound with silk-covered stiffened paper. I glanced in puzzlement at the elegant,
elongated Venn knotwork, then made out the stylized lettering:
An Examination of Greatness.

Then I looked up at the queen.

People use the words “beauty” and “plain” and “ugly” but what do they really mean? Beauty is often likened to perfection, with discussions of symmetry, harmony of features, and dramatic coloring. “Ugly” is spoken of as distortion. “Plain” is me, harder to define—cheeks too round for my small chin, nose a mere blob. My lips are thin, my eyes just eyes below brows so unremarkable they are nearly invisible.

The queen’s cheeks are like mine, but squared, somehow, in a broad face. Her nose is also broad, her eyes small and widely spaced, but their expression is called penetrating because she can stare you right in the eyes without fear of offending. Most of us just touch the gazes of others, then let our eyes slide to other features, or away, unless we are in love or in anger.

The queen leaned toward me, attention unwavering. I did not find her ugly, or even plain, but so intimidating my armpits tingled with perspiration, and my heartbeat sped as if I had committed a breach of protocol.

With a rapid flow that would have pleased Halimas, I gave a summary in under five hundred words: Lasva’s request that I find out more about the newcomers, speaking with Prince Macael Elsarion, Tiflis, her letter.

What did I leave out? Lasva’s and Ivandred’s exchange of glances, and my real motivation for sending the book, which was to make Ivandred’s suit easier, because I was so glad to see Lasva’s wall of grief broken.

When I finished, the queen thumped her hands on the arms of her satin-cushioned chair. “Laudable! And I hope your share brings you a stiff sum.”

My share of what? I dared not speak.

“I am very pleased when something turns out to benefit us all. You’ve done well, Scribe Emras.” She looked aside, then back. “Very well. If… ah, events transpire as I wish, you will be part of the plans. So. Go talk to Halimas. He will tell you what happened before your arrival, while I deal with the aftermath. I expect you will be in here again.”

She gave me a short nod of approval. I bowed myself out and followed the waiting herald, who refused to take me upstairs so that I might change. Wretched with embarrassment, I followed him to the scriptorium, where I found many of the senior staff waiting for me. As I made my bow, I spoke an apology for my appearance. As much as I had felt a private pleasure at being taken for the princess by those who did not know the secret, I was made equally ill-at-ease by being seen as myself in her clothes.

No one said anything about my appearance. The senior scribes and heralds wanted a full report on what had happened. Again I left out Lasva’s private grief, but told them everything else.

When I was finished, Halimas brought me up to date on what I had missed, finishing with these words, “The queen is very pleased with you for having foreseen the need to create prestige for the Marlovens before they even appeared, by arranging for
An Examination of Greatness
to be published.”

“’Foreseen,’” I repeated, squashing the impulse to say that my motive had been personal, not political.

He smiled at me with obvious pride. “You’ve seen how we are always refining our educational methods. The court several generations ago made a game of seducing the handsomest scribes. As a result our beautiful young students were encouraged toward vocations outside of court. Around the time you were born, a young, ambitious scribe used his position to sell to a bookmaker intimate stories from an infamous baron’s bedroom, so we did not teach your generation of students how to earn extra money on the side. Instead, we stressed secrecy, the First Rule, and so on, assuming that you would learn on your own. And indeed, you figured it out and discreetly made your arrangement with your cousin. I hope you got a full finger of the finder’s fee.”

“Finger,” I repeated. “Not quite.” Now I understood the purport of Tiflis’s letter—it was the beginning of a negotiation.

Halimas laughed. “You can wrangle with her later. The point is, you gained permission to use an ancient text, which avoids not only the international squabbles over Writers’ Fees, but also political implications. You appointed your cousin to act for you, thus avoiding any question of trespass against the First Rule. And you saw the opportunity first, whereas most were apparently laughing at how strange these foreigners are.”

He smiled at me, and I tried to return the smile, feeling far more false than I had walking through the palace in Lasva’s clothes. I hadn’t foreseen any of these things—except the chance of making the Marlovens popular for Lasva’s sake. And since I was not going to explain that, I must accept praise I didn’t deserve.

Halimas closed with a compliment on how I’d turned that long, exhausting journey to good use. “One trip to Sartor was enough for me,” he admitted as he accompanied me to the far door. “They can keep their thousand-year-old hassocks and their rooms that stink of mildew. I’d rather read about Old Sartor in the comforts of civilization.” He opened his hands to take in the palace.

The first change I saw in the royal wing was the pair of heralds guarding Lasva’s suite. One was quite young—my age—the other, about the age of Senior Scribe Halimas. The older one recognized me from shared service.

“That’s the princess’s scribe,” he muttered to the other.

They’d tightened their hands on swords, but eased their grips, their expressions relieved. I passed inside, but no one greeted me—not even Poppy, the day page.

I headed toward my room to bathe and change into my own clothing, but no sooner had I entered the hall than Lasva ran out, one hand bandaged, the other holding a book that I now recognized. “Oh, Emras, it is such a relief to have you back at last.”

Despite the marks of sorrow in her face I was giddy with joy.
Relief to have you back
—I cherished those words as she drew me inside her chamber.

Her words tumbled out in a breathless rush as she told me of the kidnapping from her perspective. When she got to the rescue and its aftermath, she described with precise detail how Kaidas looked—how he did not speak—how he sat there in the rain, astride his horse, with Carola’s white ribbon binding his hair.

“That means he has sworn fidelity, whether his heart belongs to her or not.” Her voice faltered. “I should hope he loves her, should I not? Only why does it hurt so much?” She wiped her eyes, and out came a quick rush of words, so fast I could scarcely comprehend them. “I am attracted to Ivandred. I embrace it. I never thought I’d feel anything again, except the pain of parting with Kaidas. Is that how one finds love again, to follow the body’s inclination, despite what we are taught about reason staying in control?”

I had no answer, and was spared having to invent one when Marnda appeared, her eyes raw with weeping, for she was great-aunt to the maidservant, Sindra, who had been strangled. And Torsu had been her responsibility.

“Permit me to explain the changes in rules the queen has desired we adopt,” Marnda said to me, as Dessaf wiped her eyes in the background.

H

“We were definitely caught with our butts to the fire,” she stated.

Davaud had sunk into a chair by the hearth, steeped listerblossom leaf in his hands to ease his aching joints. He gazed at his consort in surprise. Only once before had he seen her this angry, and that time she had gone silent. He had never before known her to utter vulgarities—he would have sworn she did not know any.

She spun, her skirts brushing his knees. “What about the foreigners? Did they really ride around all night?”

“That they did,” Davaud said tiredly. His orders had been to stay with Ivandred until the investigations were complete, and stay he had. Most of the night and all day. “Perimeter search, they called it.”

“I take it you were unsuccessful in convincing them that we have plenty of guest chambers here in the palace?” the queen asked with irony.

“They prefer the back barns. It was the only place I could think of where they could be close to their horses, which they won’t permit anyone else to touch, and also perform their military exercises.”

“Military exercises?”

“Ivandred said something about daily drill. I think that’s what they were doing this morning, out in the fields.”

“That’s what we need,” Hatahra said, snapping her fan northward toward Thorn Gate. “Or at least, some training scheme that doesn’t leave my armed heralds standing around looking like they’ve lost their wits.”

A servant scratched at the door. Hatahra whirled. “Enter!”

“The Grand Herald and the Grand Seneschal are here at your majesty’s request,” said a young page, frightened and excited.

“Come in,” Hatahra said. As soon as they had filed in, she shut the door in her curious servants’ faces. “Speak!”

The Grand Seneschal said, “We have searched the entire palace, and interviewed every single person, as your majesty ordered.”

He did not mention that it had taken all night and a good part of the day and while they were still carrying on their regular duties. They knew the queen hadn’t slept either, any more than the consort had. “Nothing’s changed since yesterday,” he continued. “Only those three of the princess’s dressers were found sleeping under tables. All had taken sleepweed served in caffeo laced with distilled liquor, offered by Kivic, a bridle-man.”

“Did you find out what a bridle-man was doing in the royal residence?” Hatahra demanded.

The Grand Seneschal looked down. “There was no one to stop him, it seems, your majesty.”

“It was your majesty herself who ordered the armed heralds to attend me,” Davaud said.

“Lay aside the protocol for now.” Hatahra cut a glance at the Grand Herald. “Though you’ll put it right back in when you write up this conversation. Everything with due decorum.”

The Grand Herald bowed.

Hatahra snapped her fan out and glared at them. “We’re all going to sit down at dawn tomorrow and address the fact that even in civilized Colend the unthinkable can happen. We’ve been complacent for years. For generations. No more.” She scowled at the fan. “But. Those three servants must have smelled the liquor in the caffeo, and I know that Marnda forbids duty staff to drink anything but what she keeps for their refreshment. That does not include wine. Therefore they broke two rules.”

“Yes.” The Grand Seneschal made an apologetic bow. “And we assume that Sindra Kereis did not, which is why she is dead.”

“Augh,” the angry queen exclaimed, and now she really did stomp to
the fire and back. “How can I in justice dismiss those three, when they can point to Sindra’s example and declare that the reward for fidelity is death?”

No one answered.

“I trust no more dead people turned up?”

“Correct, your majesty,” the Grand Seneschal said. “I believe Torsu Emberit, the dresser found out in the garden, will be the last. The search has also included the old palace foundation. We found footprints and what we think might be splashes of gore—that would be the fighting his grace Davaud reported—but no remains.”

“Do you know yet by whose hand Torsu Emberit died?”

“We must assume that same Kivic.” He looked down, the thin hair over his scalp spangled with sweat. “He was newly employed in spring.”

“A spy!” Hatahra kicked a tasseled hassock. “I don’t want Thias using this as an excuse to declare war on Lasva’s behalf.” She swung around. “Let’s give the court something new to whisper about. Since the Chwahir have also gone from the passes, let us give out that they were driven off because they greatly feared our new alliance. Let’s get everyone talking about the Marlovens.”

“We’re going to put it about that the entire Chwahir army was driven off by the threat of twenty-four riders?” Davaud asked.

In answer, Hatahra crossed the room, picked up Tiflis’s book and cast it down before our eyes. “While you were all busy, I had a most informative interview with our Twelve Towers Archivist, and with Prince Macael Elsarion, who is cousin to Prince Ivandred. He arrived last night.”

“
An Examination of Greatness
?” The Seneschal read the title, then looked up, puzzled. “Is this about Prince Ivandred?”