Banner of the Damned (43 page)

“It’s about one of his ancestors—none other than Elgar the Fox. And it has turned into the latest fad.” At the surprise in their faces, the queen snapped her fan open. “I don’t care if it’s all wine fumes. By nightfall tomorrow, when I give my victory celebration, everyone will believe that Prince Ivandred’s ghostly ancestors chased off the Chwahir.”

Davaud laughed. The Grand Seneschal shook his head, and the Grand Herald permitted himself a small smile. “The Chwahir will hear that rumor, too. I predict they will not like the inevitable imputation.”

Hatahra grinned at her consort. “If Jurac does not like people calling him a coward, then he never should have come sneaking over here in the first place. As it is, he will shortly receive notice that all trade is ceased until he extradites that Kivic to make life-restitution to two families.” She slashed her fan down in shadow-challenge.

The Grand Seneschal mentally re-sorted his staff and their schedules, and the Grand Herald mentally organized the report that his heralds would be reading in all town squares, not at the Hour of the Bird, but the more official Hour of the Stone.

“I will set my seal on the archives of the true events and on this conversation,” Hatahra said, rounding on the Grand Herald.

He bowed, unperturbed.

“Two changes will take place as of now,” the queen said, snapping her fan open and shut, open and shut. “The easiest first: We will, for my lifetime at least, hire no more staff who are not in some wise related to those already here, and thus spoken for.”

The Grand Seneschal bowed. That would actually make his life somewhat easier.

“Second, and more difficult: we need better wards.”

The Grand Seneschal asked, “Shall I send to the Mage Council for a ward-mage, then?”

Hatahra knew of and shared his misgivings. History was far too full of stories of powerful mages who couldn’t resist meddling in government affairs. Mages who made wards were trained in Sartor; they were disciplined and smart, and they often had Sartoran views.

“Only until we get one trained here whom we can trust. I know how difficult this magic is. But I tell you this.” The fan snapped open again. “I am already changing my mind about my daughter’s education. She shall learn to read a year earlier than I’d designed. She will be smart because Davaud and I are smart. She is going to learn ward-magic, as many of my royal ancestors did.”

Davaud whistled soundlessly, pitying that poor child lying on silken sheets in the far chamber. Magic lessons and all the other educational requirements of a future queen meant that Alian would have little time to herself for many, many years.
I hope she’s more like her mother than like me
, he thought.

The queen faced the Grand Herald. “One more order for you. I want your most diligent minds to dig up as much information about our new allies as possible, in case we do put together a marriage treaty. I do not like being ignorant, and my sister might be going to live among them. Speaking of ignorance, why were we not warned of Jurac’s trickery by our embassy in Chwahirsland?”

“Because they were told that King Jurac was inspecting ports along his coast. There was no evidence to the contrary, and our people can’t follow the Chwahir king around.”

Hatahra sighed. “Our training is in the subtleties of courts. It is not sufficient to anticipate blunt actions, and so we were very nearly given a royal moth kiss on our doorstep, and by a hum-bumbling Chwahir.” She gestured dismissal with her fan.

The Grand Herald and the Grand Seneschal bowed and withdrew.

The moment the door shut on them, the queen turned to her consort. “What is he like, Davaud? Do these Marlovens experience the unthinkable as thinkable every day, is that what makes them so…” She waved her hand in a circle. “So different? I remember what you told me this morning. Now tell me again, more slowly.”

Davaud complied. The queen did not interrupt until he reached Ivandred and Lasva sitting together on the horse, and then she asked him to describe exactly what he had observed in Ivandred, Lasva, and the Duke of Alarcansa.

“You’ve a good eye for detail,” Hatahra said grimly. “All right. Here is my next change. You said that Vasalya-Kaidas Lassiter was the only one outside of the Marloven who saw through Jurac’s plan.”

“Correct.”

“I’ve been thinking about this all day. We will call him back to court. It’s time to relearn defense. I already know how everyone, of whatever degree, would resist with all their might. But. Putting a smart duke in charge will make it a fashion. Reminding them of ancient oaths would cause resistance, but fashion,” she showed her teeth, “will get ‘em all scrambling to be first.”

Davaud laughed, then winced and put a hand to his hip. “Oh. Oh! It’s brilliant, Tahra.”

“No,” she said—flat denial, all humor fading from her face. “It’s dangerous.”

“Dangerous,” he repeated, and because he had laid aside his fan, flicked his fingers in query.

She snapped her fan open in Direct Address. “It took several generations to get swords out of the hands of nobles, and now I must put them back. But only outside the palace. I also need real guards, but they must be trained in manners. They must also look good, and that means weapons decently hidden, so we’ll redesign their livery with that in mind. I believe this puts them under the seneschal. The heralds have enough to do and enough power.”

Davaud made The Peace in assent.

She kicked the hassock again. “Not that there isn’t danger even when court’s hands hold pens, fans, ribbons. There is another attack that disturbs me nearly as much.”

“Another
attack?
” Davaud asked.

“Yes! I feel like I woke up in a world of venomous snakes! You know I’ve never interfered with those hummers at The Slipper and the Skya Playhouse. They can put a crowned veil over a horse, hinting it represents me, and I just shrug. I know what I look like. I also know my motives and those of my chief antagonists—Thias, for all his bluster, does care for the good of Colend.”

When she paused, Davaud signed assent.

“But I take exception when they start putting a rose veil on a grasping, venomous serpent, as they did this past spring. Whence came this poison? I asked myself—for I
know
it’s not true. But those plays echo the chirping birds on the streets, which it’s important to know when all I’m surrounded with is the warble of practiced flattery.”

Davaud did not lift his head, and the queen gave a short bark of laughter. “Oh, I acquit my closest trusted people of lying, or we would not have this conversation. And truth to tell, I never took the rumors seriously. I know my sister isn’t heartless, so what matter? If she were to inherit, it would be better for a queen to have a reputation for hardness. But when has Lasva ever been spiteful, or toyed with someone out of idleness?”

“Not once in my experience,” Davaud said.

“Exactly. None of us were aware that the whispers about Lasva collecting hearts began directly after Carola Definian returned to court after her father’s death.”

Davaud did not hide his surprise. “Definian?” He thought of the sweet-voiced young duchess and shook his head. “All I’ve ever seen is quiet manners and fine taste in dress and display. And you favored her suit with the Lassiters. You told me, in this very room, that you thought her good sense would settle young Kaidas down—or at least his progeny.”

“My grandmother would have commended Carola’s superlative sense of moral geography,” the queen stated, her brows sardonic.

“Moral geography?”

“Look in my grandmother’s private writings. They’re on the shelves opposite the bed.” They had separate bedrooms, the queen seldom being able to sleep through the night. What reading she did was always in those night hours, while the kingdom either slumbered or entertained itself. “Carola is a Definian, and they have always been raised to believe that ducal privilege extends to every aspect of life. To want is to have. And everyone else exists to serve that want.”

Davaud said, “When I first came to court, the former duke was called ‘his imperial highness.’ But the girl seemed so… so perfect an expression of courtly style.”

“You are caught in a maze,” Hatahra stated, “but Carola is caught in the act. It was that lackwit Ananda Gaszin, just arrived today, who inadvertently exposed her. In the general scramble yesterday, she left a letter in Darva’s coach. I acquit Darva of nosiness. It’s not like her. Says she opened it, thinking it hers, and saw Lasva referred to in an unmistakable manner. And seeing it, she decided it was better to send the letter to me.”

She pulled from her pocket a little scroll and cast it onto Davaud’s lap. Davaud held the letter up to the lamp-light.

Davaud set the letter down and wiped his fingers on his handkerchief.

“You know,” Hatahra began, “they call Tatia Definian ‘Tittermouse,’ and it’s not just because of that giggle of hers. Whatever they say about that Kivic, he’s no worse than Tatia Tittermouse, who’s worse than the spywells of old tales.” She wiggled her palm back and forth. “Tatia Definian was directed, same as Kivic was by his king. ‘Carola says.’ More like Carola commands!”

“Impossible, impossible.”

“But don’t you see how cunning it is? Carola, I will stake my life, has never lowered herself to making a direct accusation. Instead she asks these venomous little questions, sometimes in a droll tone, always soft and sweet, and Tatia is relied on to spread ’em.”

Davaud sighed. “This makes me feel unclean. Like turning over a leaf on a thriving garden shrub and seeing a worm gnawing away its vitals.”

The queen whirled around. “Here’s what I learned when I first took the throne. Either one is first because everyone agrees on the fiction of rank, or one is first because one has the power to make everyone else bow down or die.” She kicked that hassock. “Then there’s human nature, which puts the beautiful and charming person first. Lasva is beautiful, and charming because she genuinely takes an interest in others, a quality she will have even when she’s old. Because young Lassiter hurt Lasva so
badly, I would very much like to see her get out of court. Out of Alsais. Out of Colend. The sooner the better.”

“You don’t want Lasva and the duke to meet again.”

“Exactly. I didn’t take their passion seriously—that is, I doubt he’s capable of it. He’s a Lassiter. But Lasva? I did not know until you described their faces during yesterday’s little affair how wrong I was. I don’t want Lasva hurt, and if the new Duke of Alarcansa actually has a heart, I don’t want it bruised, not if he’s going to be serving the crown. So let’s do everything we can to foster this romance so suddenly sprung up under our noses. As for Carola, I will begin the next season by honoring my duchies with a royal tour.” Hatahra’s fine, even teeth showed. “I will begin my tour with Alarcansa and stay, enjoying her tasteful, spectacular and so
very
expensive entertainment, until she has to wear dish cloths for clothes.”

NINE
O
F
I
MAGES AND
E
XPECTATION

T

he next morning, as the queen shared breakfast with her sister, she talked about palace changes. In the middle of her list she mentioned that she was going to summon the Duke of Alarcansa to commence the new training for such eventualities. Then she outlined the celebrations she had taken great pleasure in planning during a sleepless night; she intended to honor their new allies, the Marlovens.

When Lasva returned to her suite, I was horrified by that expression of mute misery I had hoped never to see again. “I have to get away,” she whispered to me. “I have to get away before he comes.” And she told me what the queen had said about summoning Kaidas to his new post.

It was time to get ready for the Rising, at which the first celebration would take place. It was to be an “impromptu” award ceremony.

The Grand Seneschal saw to it that the Marloven prince knew where and at what time to appear. The Grand Herald dug up from the treasury underneath the Archive an old beaten-gold shoulder chain that had an impeccable history, dating from the days before Colend’s borders had consolidated; days when enterprising would-be heroes went out looking for trouble to settle (or cause).

The queen watched the courtiers watch Ivandred. The Grand
Seneschal and Grand Herald watched the queen smile. Lasva and the mysterious Prince Ivandred watched one another.

He looked so striking, so…
aware
, but our word was not quite right for that alert stillness as he stood there in his black and gold, the chain arcing with metallic grace over his straight shoulders and across his chest. He just moved, and people deferred, yet he was not arrogant.

At the sumptuous banquet in his honor, he sat between the queen and the princess. He ate very little, which stirred well-bred wonder. A gobbling barbarian was expected, if not hoped for.

No one heard Ivandred mutter to Lasva, “You have no spoons.”

Lasva hid a flutter of laughter and slid her fingers over her shaped gold eating implements. Colendi implements are not ubiquitous, so I shall describe what Ivandred saw: a fork with tines close together—long-handled so that one’s arm did not lift clumsily high, dragging one’s sleeves into the food—and the elegant but dull-edged knife against which we balanced a bite, or gently pressed a bite smaller, so that the face never distorts after the food passes behind the lips, and one never makes a noise.

“Is aught amiss?” Lasva whispered.

“They eat like butterflies,” he answered after a long pause.

She realized he did not understand the question, but discussing eating was unforgivably vulgar, so she let it pass. How much they had to learn about one another!