Shadow Over Kiriath (20 page)
“I don’t have a secretary.”
“Well, you’re going to need one of those, too.” She was plainly enjoying herself.
He was still trying to get his mind around the notion that he should have a tailor. Before the conversation progressed further, however, they were interrupted.
“Your Highness,” came a low, familiar voice from Trap’s right. “Your devotion to the Words is an inspiration. Despite all your troubles of this long day and past night, here you are. Lovely as ever.” Duke Oswain Nott followed his words with a courtly bow.
Carissa blushed furiously, while Trap’s stomach tied itself into a knot of distaste.
“I trust you are fully recovered from your scare last night?”
The princess looked startled at the question. Nott didn’t seem to notice, shaking his head sympathetically. “How gratifying, at least, to have had your claims borne out today.”
Carissa’s mouth was tightening, her brows drawing downward in an expression that reminded Trap eerily of her brother. “I presume you are speaking of Rennalf of Balmark, sir, and I assure you I would prefer my claims not to have been borne out and him still trapped behind snow-locked passes.”
“I understand completely. I am surprised, though, that Abramm hasn’t assigned you a special protective detail. With that leg injury and all the furor over Bonafil, it must’ve slipped his mind.” He paused, smiled, and added, “I’d be happy to escort you safely to your door, though.”
I’m sure you would,
Trap thought sourly, marveling at the rapidity with which his dislike for this man was growing.
“Why, Duke Oswain,” Carissa asked, “whatever would I need a special detail for? I have my own men with me, and—”
“With Rennalf still at large, my lady, your men may not be sufficient to protect you, wily warlock that he is.”
Trap’s irritation finally got the best of him. “Rennalf is not at large,” he said. “He escaped through the corridor before Abramm destroyed it.”
Nott turned to look down his long nose, gray brows arching upward as if he could not believe Trap had actually spoken to him without first being addressed. “Ah, the new Duke of Northille.” He gave Trap a nod that was at best cursory, then said, “Just knowing a man went through a corridor doesn’t tell you where he ended up.”
“The king is convinced he’s in Balmark.”
“Ah.” Nott chuckled. “That must be where he is, then.” But he couldn’t quite keep the condescension out of his tone. “I do understand why you might be concerned, though. Don’t your lands butt right up against his?”
“No, my lord duke.” Trap allowed himself a small smile. “Balmark borders the Ruk Pul, far to the north. My land is just south and west of the Highlands, bounded by the River Kalladorne on the west and the Goodsprings Valley on the east. . . . The only holding it directly abuts is Amberton.”
Nott grimaced and waved a dismissive hand. “Northille, Amberton, Goodsprings . . . I can’t keep all those little fiefdoms straight.” His own holdings extended east of Springerlan across most of the Keharnen Plain, including its accompanying seacoast, providing him vast tracts of farmland, a bustling fishing industry, and a lock on the proceeds of the salt flats at Chastwort. He added, “The only thing I know for sure is that they’re a breeding ground for Mataian heretics.” He flicked Trap another smile. “Perhaps with you running things, Northille, we can make some inroads there.” He paused. “There haven’t been Mataians on any Nott holding for over a decade now.”
“I’m not sure that’s a distinction I’d be bragging about today,” Trap said dryly, feeling his ire rise.
Nott blinked at him, surprise opening his long, furrowed face.
“The Mataians are still in the majority, sir,” Trap pointed out when the man seemed not to understand. “And though Abramm holds the Crown by inheritance and human law, he does so in defiance of Mataian standards. People are already resenting Bonafil’s arrest, even when all agree Abramm had no choice. If they think he means to deny them their faith . . . we could have another war on our hands.”
By now Nott’s surprise had turned to incredulity. “You presume to lecture
me
on matters of politics and religion, Northille? When you have been a member of the peerage less than forty-eight hours? I suggest you curb your hubris, sir.”
Trap had expected Nott would react like this, just not so soon into the conversation. Nor with such sharp and blatant disdain. It shocked his brain to blankness and momentarily robbed him of his ability to speak. Nott smiled down at him smugly, as he realized uneasily they had now become the center of attention. Anger and frustration roiled up in him, and in that moment he wanted nothing so much as to pull out his sword and start lunging. Which, of course, would never do.
Seeing he had rendered his opponent speechless, Nott turned very deliberately to one of his companions and said, “Not for ten years have Mataians dwelt on my lands, nor will they again, so long as I’m duke. If we don’t start cleaning our own houses, Eidon will soon be doing it for us.”
“I hear there’s talk in the river districts of storming the Keep tonight,” said one of the men beside him.
“Perhaps we should go and join them,” Nott said. “Cloak ourselves in robes and cowls as the Gadrielites used to do and give them a taste of their own medicine.”
And where before he was speechless, now, even knowing he was being baited, Trap couldn’t keep his mouth shut: “Do that,” he said, “and you’ll likely find yourself with a suite next to Bonafil come morning.”
Nott stared at him rigidly, his features suddenly seeming like ragged slashes carved out of rock. His dark eyes narrowed. “Are you threatening me, sir?”
“Merely advising caution, my lord duke.”
And still Nott stared at him, eerily expressionless while the aggression swelled between them until it seemed ready to burst into hideous disaster— the shouting of words that should never be spoken, the leveling of untenable threats, even the potential for violence. But in the end Nott held his temper, perhaps because he realized Trap had spoken truth. Finally he smiled tightly and said, “ ’Twas only jest, sir. You can’t think we would really do such a thing.”
And around him the others tittered nervously.
Trap turned away without comment. He’d made his point. Perhaps not in the best way possible, but made, nonetheless. And he had not humiliated himself utterly, nor been turned into a blustering fool by his own temper. It helped that, as he made his way up the aisle toward the main doors, a number of men stopped to offer their appreciation for what he’d said and even expressed surprise he’d had the courage to beard Nott, new as he was to the peerage. But of course, none were peers themselves.
Just before he reached the open double doors he found himself again face-to-face with Carissa, who had watched the entire interchange and whom he thought had been behind him. Now she smiled as if nothing untoward had occurred and said, “I was wondering if you might walk me back to my chambers, Duke Eltrap.”
He frowned. “Surely you’re not concerned about Rennalf, my lady?”
“Not at all, sir. I just wanted to enjoy the company of a friend . . . and avoid that of those I find distasteful.” Her gaze flicked to something over his shoulder as simultaneously Nott’s voice rose sharply above the mutter of conversation.
Trap grasped her intent immediately and frowned. “Don’t you think I’ve irritated him enough tonight?”
She snorted. “You are First Minister, Duke Eltrap. And the king’s favorite.
Nott
is the one who should be wary of giving offense. Though I fear he may be incapable of understanding that.”
“He’s a powerful man, ma’am. He could make a lot of trouble for Abramm. For me, as well.”
She eyed him speculatively. “I’ve never thought you the sort of man to be timid of trouble, sir.”
“Only of stirring it up for no good reason.”
She cocked a brow at him. “And keeping company with me is not a good reason?”
He felt the blood rush to his face. “It is an excellent reason, Your Highness,” he said.
“Well, then . . .” Her eyes laughed at him, for she knew that she had won.
They left the theatre and started up the switchbacking stairway that led to the palace’s main level, the smack of his boots upon the polished marble intermixing with the rasping rustle of her wide skirt and petticoats. As the voices of those lingering outside the theatre receded behind them, she said, “Well, sir, I’d say you’ve had a splendid first day. In addition to standing up to Nott’s arrogance as well as anyone I’ve ever seen, for a while now you’ve actually stopped being a king’s guard. Which proves there’s hope for you yet.”
He knew she meant him no malice, but her words stirred up all his doubts regarding his suitability for his new station, and prevented him from coming up with a suitable response. After they had walked in silence for a few more strides, she said, “You are displeased with your promotion?”
He could not answer her at first, and when he did, he chose his words carefully. “To be honest, my lady, I don’t know what I think about it. I have no knack for flattery, nor for hiding my thoughts—as has just been made obvious. Being a politician is a position to which I have never aspired. Truth be told, I almost feel as if your brother’s sold me out.”
She shrugged. “If you don’t like to think of yourself as a politician, then think of yourself as a statesman . . . for surely it is an honorable position. Or do you think the task of governing to be so unimportant it should be left only to the weak and dishonest to carry it out?”
The advice rendered him silent for a time afterward, for he had never thought of it in that light. She didn’t allow him to withdraw into his own musing for too long, though. As they reached the top of the stairway and continued along the hall there, she thanked him for walking with her. “I don’t know what is going on with Nott, but lately, I can hardly go anywhere without running into him. He actually asked me to breakfast with him this morning!”
“Did you accept?”
She smiled. “Why do you think I went with Madeleine on her ride?” She shook her head. “It’s almost like he’s wanting to court me or something.”
“Perhaps he is.”
“Why would he do that?”
Trap shook his head. “I don’t know. Maybe it’s because you’re the crown princess. Or perhaps it’s your wealth. Or the fact that you are a stunningly beautiful woman. . . .”
“Ah, there, see?” She smiled at him. “You do have a knack for flattery.”
“It wasn’t flattery, my lady. It was simple truth.”
“Simple truth, indeed. Look at me. I am an old woman.”
“Aye. You’re positively ancient.”
“Used up. Damaged goods, as they say.”
“A wreck. Nothing left at all. I can’t imagine any man wanting you.”
She cocked a brow at him. “Are you mocking me, sir?”
“Well, you know what the Words say: Answer a fool as his folly deserves. Or, in this case, her folly.”
“And now you’re calling me a fool?”
He couldn’t quite keep the smile off his face. “No flattery, my lady. Just truth.”
She gaped at him. “Why, Duke Eltrap, I do believe your new position has gone to your head.”
And now his smile became an open grin as she shook her head and after a moment responded with a grin of her own. Not long after that they drew up to her door, which the footman was already opening.
“Here you are, Highness,” Trap said. “Delivered safe and sound to your quarters, with not a warlock in sight.”
“Thank you, sir.” She gave him a courtly nod, but then, rather than sweeping into her room, she laid a hand on his arm, looking up at him with those piercing Kalladorne eyes. “I do not think my brother made a mistake, sir,” she said quietly. “I believe you are fully deserving of your new title and that you will be a most able First Minister.”
Abramm followed the narrow service passage behind the theatre’s side door out onto the midpoint of the ramp leading down to the south gallery. Just as he stepped out onto it, he saw someone moving into the gallery at its lower end. Guessing it was Madeleine, he sent Philip to get her, then turned to Channon and held out his hand for the cane the man had carried all afternoon and evening.
Abramm knew he shouldn’t be here. He’d pushed his body far past reasonable already. Sitting upright for the last hour had been difficult, and he’d been on the verge of capitulating to his advisors’ continual suggestions that he rest, when he’d seen Lady Madeleine. After fearing all afternoon that she’d left for the Western Isles upon her return from Treasure Cove, he couldn’t let this opportunity slip away without talking to her.
White-stuccoed walls loomed around him now in a downsloping hall lit by kelistars resting on candlesticks and wall-sconce brackets. Ranks of wall hangings alternated with night-darkened windows on one side and their corresponding mirrors along the other. A thick Sorian rug of royal blue and gold served as runner down the long corridor, empty and silent but for him and Channon— until some ten strides behind them he heard a door close, followed by approaching footsteps. “Whoever it is,” he told Channon, “get rid of them.”
His captain turned away and Abramm continued down the ramp, leaning heavily on his cane now, gritting his teeth against the pain. Already he was feeling light-headed and faintly nauseated, ruefully acknowledging the likelihood he’d have to be carried back to his apartments. Behind him low voices echoed, their words indiscernible but the irritation in their tones clear. He thought he recognized Leyton Donavan’s voice but did not turn around to see lest he encourage the man to hail him.
More than halfway down the ramp, prudence finally won over curiosity, and he abandoned his plan of meeting Madeleine in the gallery. Balancing with the cane, he sank awkwardly onto one of the many padded benches lining the long hall. His side was no worse than a throbbing ache, but it was a fiery agony to bend his leg at all. Dropping his back against the wall, he waited, knowing he had felt worse pain and berating himself for going soft.
Best think of something else.
He had sat there for what seemed a considerable amount of time, sifting through the day’s events and the many repercussions that were sure to come from them, when doubled footfalls approached up the ramp, signaling the return of Philip with Lady Madeleine. Hearing them, he opened his eyes and sat forward, seeing that Maddie still carried her bound copy of theWords and her folio of notes. He also noted she had apparently not bothered to change out of her riding apparel all day, for she still wore the blue wool jacket and split skirt that was her favorite.
