The Briar King (12 page)

“Preparing what?”

“Reccard doesn't know. If I had to guess, though, I'd say they have designs on the Sorrow Isles.”

“The Sorrows? Why?”

“To provoke us, I wouldn't doubt. Hansa grows fat with men and ships, brother. The emperor of Hansa is an old man; he'll want to use them soon, while he still can. And there's nothing under the sun that he wants more than that crown you wear on your head.”

Marcomir Fram Reiksbaurg isn't the only one who wants my crown,
William thought sourly.
Or do you think me too thick to know that, dear brother?

“I suppose you could simply ask the Hanzish emissary,” Robert went on. “His ship anchored yesterday.”

“Yes, that complicates things, doesn't it? Or simplifies them. Perhaps they've come to declare war in person.” He sighed and ran his fingers through his hair. “In any event, I'm
not scheduled to speak to that embassy until the day after tomorrow, after my daughter's birthday. I will not change that; it would seem suspicious.” He paused, considering. “Where is Reccard now?”

“Sleeping it off.”

“Put spies on him, and on the Hansans. If any correspondence passes, I want to know of it. If they meet, let them, but make certain they are overheard. Under no circumstances must either get a message out of the city.” He knitted his fingers and looked at them. “And we'll send a few ships to the Sorrows. Quietly, a few at a time over the next week.”

“Wise moves all,” Robert said. “You want me to act as your sinescalh in this matter, then?”

“Yes. Until I tell you otherwise. I'll draft the formal writ of investment this afternoon.”

“Thank you, William. I'll try to be worthy of you and our family name.”

If there was sarcasm in that, it was too subtle to detect. Which meant nothing, actually. William had known his brother only since his birth. It wasn't long enough.

A bell jangled faintly, from the hallway.

“Enter!” William said.

The door creaked open, and John stepped in. “It's the
praifec
, Sire, just returned from Virgenya. And he has a surprise with him.”

The praifec. Grand.

“Of course. Show him in.”

A moment later, the black-robed praifec Marché Hespero stepped into the chamber.

“Your Majesty,” he said, bowing to William. He then bowed to Robert. “Archgreft.”

“How good to see you, Praifec,” Robert said. “You've made it back from Virgenya in one piece.”

“Indeed,” the churchman replied.

“I trust you found our kinsmen as thickheaded as us?” Robert went on.

William wished, not for the first time, Robert would keep his mouth shut.

But Hespero smiled. “Let us say, they are as seemingly intractable in many ways, even in the matter of heretics, which is troubling. But the saints dispose, yes?”

“I trust they do,” William said lightly.

Hespero's smile didn't falter. “The saints work in many ways, but their most cherished instrument is the church. And it is written that the kingdom should be the knight of the church, the champion of it. You would be distressed, King William, if your knights failed you?”

“They never have,” William replied. “Praifec, what may I have brought for you? Wine and cheese? The jade pears came ripe while you were away, and they are excellent with the blue Tero Gallé cheese.”

“A cup of wine would suit me well,” Hespero replied.

John poured a goblet for Hespero, who frowned as he sipped at it.

“If it's not to your taste, Praifec, I can send for a different vintage,” William said.

“The wine is excellent, Sire. That is not what troubles me.”

“Please. Speak your mind, then, Your Grace.”

Hespero paused, then rested his goblet on a pedestal. “I have not seen my peers on the Comven. Are the rumors true? Have you legitimized your daughters as heirs to the throne?”

“I did not,” William said. “The Comven did.”

“But it was your proposition, the one we discussed while you were drafting it?”

“I believe we did discuss it, Praifec.”

“And you remember my opinion that making the throne heritable by women is forbidden by church doctrine?”

William smiled. “So thought one of the churchmen in the Comven. The other voted for the reform. It would seem the issue is not as clearly drawn as some believe, Eminence.”

In fact, it had taken some doing to get even one of the priests to vote William's way—more of Robert's dirty but effective dealings.

At times like this, he had to admit that Robert indeed had his moments.

Anger gathered for an instant on the cleric's brow, then
smoothed away. “I understand your concern over the need for an heir. Charles, while a wonderful son, has indeed been touched by the saints, and—”

“My son will not enter into this conversation, Praifec,” William said mildly. “You stand in my house, and I forbid it.”

Hespero's face grew more stern. “Very well. I will simply inform you then, reluctantly, that I must enjoin the high Senaz of the church to consider this matter.”

“Yes, let them do that,” William said.
And let them try to reverse a decision of the Comven,
he thought, behind his smile.
Let even the church convince that squabbling pack of lordlings they made a wrong decision. No. One of my daughters will rule, and my son, bless his soul, will continue playing with his toys and his Sefry jester until he is an old man.

He won't be your lack-wit king, Hespero. If it came to that, I'd rather leave the throne to Robert, had he any legitimate heirs.

“Saints!” a female voice interrupted. “You three aren't going to argue politics all day, are you?”

Robert was the first to react to the newcomer.

“Lesbeth!” He bounded across the floor and swept her up in a hug. She giggled as he spun her around, her red hair losing a comb and fanning out behind her. When Robert put her down, she kissed his cheek, then disentangled herself and leapt ferociously into William's arms.

“Praifec!” Robert said. “He is a blessed man who returns my beloved twin from her rustic exile!”

William held his youngest sister back to look at her. “Saint Loy, but you've grown, girl!”

“The image of Mother,” Robert added.

“You two!” Lesbeth said, taking their hands. “How I missed you both!”

“You should have sent word,” William told her. “We would have had a grand celebration!”

“I wanted to surprise you. Besides, isn't Elseny's birthday tomorrow? I wouldn't want to cast a shadow on that.”

“You could never cast a shadow, sweet sister,” Robert told her. “Come here, sit down, tell us everything.”

“We're being rude to the praifec,” Lesbeth said. “And after he was gracious enough to escort me the whole, long way. And such delightful company! Praifec, I cannot express my thanks.”

“Nor I,” William added quickly. “Praifec, forgive me if my words were sharp. Though it is early, it's been a taxing day already. But now you've brought me joy, and I'm in your debt for seeing my sister home safe and sound. I am ever the friend of the church, and will certainly demonstrate it to you.”

“It was my pleasure,” the cleric said, bowing. “And now I hope I may excuse myself. My staff is somewhat helpless without me, and I fear it will take weeks to straighten out my office. Nevertheless, I would be honored to advise you when you hold court.”

“I shall be honored to have you there. I've been too long without your wisdom, Praifec.”

The churchman nodded and withdrew.

“We must have more wine!” Robert said. “And entertainment. I want to hear about everything.” He spun on his heel. “I'll arrange it. Lesbeth, will you join me in my gallery, at half-bell?”

“Without doubt, dear brother,” she replied.

“And you, brother?”

“I will stop by. Then I must hold court, you know.”

“A pity.” Robert wagged a finger at Lesbeth. “Half-bell. Don't be late.”

“I wouldn't dream of it.”

Robert hurried off.

When they were alone, Lesbeth took William's hand and squeezed it. “Are you well, Wilm? You look tired.”

“I am, a bit. Nothing for you to worry about. And I'm much better, now.” He squeezed her hand back. “It's good to see you. I missed you.”

“And I missed you. How is Muriele? And the girls?”

“All well. You won't believe how Anne has grown. And Elseny, betrothed! But you'll see her at her birthday tomorrow.”

“Yes.” Her eyes flickered down, almost shyly. “Wilm, I have a secret to tell. And I must ask permission for something.
But you must promise me that it won't interfere with Elseny's birthday. Will you promise?”

“Of course. Not something serious, I hope.”

Her eyes sparkled strangely. “It is, I think. At least I hope so.”

Muriele Dare, the queen of Crotheny, stepped back from the peephole. Whatever Lesbeth had to say to William, Muriele would let the siblings speak in private.

Quietly, she padded down the narrow passage, gliding on the smooth stone beneath her stockinged feet, through a secret red-oak panel and the small room beyond, down the stair behind the statue of Saint Brena, and finally to the locked and concealed door to her own chambers.

There, in near darkness, she took a moment for a few deep breaths.

“You've been in the walls again.”

Muriele started at the female voice. Across the room, she made out a gowned shadow.

“Erren.”

“Why have you started doing my job? I'm the spy. You're the queen.”

“I was bored, you were elsewhere, and I knew the praifec had returned. I wanted to know what he would say.”

“Well?”

“Nothing particularly interesting. He reacted as we expected to my daughters being named as heirs. On the other hand, have you heard anything about Hanzish troops in Saltmark?”

“Nothing so definite,” Erren said. “But there is much happening in Hansa. They will take action soon.”

“Action of what sort?”

“Crotheny will be at war within the year, I'm certain of it,” Erren replied. “But there are nearer things I fear more. Rumors abound among the coven-trained.”

Muriele paused at that. Erren was a very special sort of assassin, trained by the church to serve noble families.

“You fear for our lives?” she said. “Would Hansa be so bold as to use coven-trained to murder us?”

“No—and yes. No, they will not employ my sisters, for
that would incur the wrath of the church. But there are others who will kill for kings, and the mood in Hansa is that there is in Crotheny a king needing killing.
That
I know.” She paused. “But something else is in the wind. Talk of new kinds of murder, of encrotacnia and shinecraft unknown to the coven-trained. Some say perhaps assassins from Hadam or some other foreign place are responsible. Across the sea they may have unfamiliar skills.”

“And you have cause to fear that these new killers will be turned against my family?”

“I fear it,” Erren said. Her tone held no uncertainty.

Muriele crossed the room. “Then take whatever precautions you deem necessary, especially with the children,” she said. “Is that all you can tell me now?”

“Yes.”

“Then light some of the candles and send for mulled wine. The passages are chilly today.”

“We could ascend to your sunroom. The sun is warm outside.”

“I prefer to remain here, for the moment.”

“As it pleases you.”

Erren went into the antechamber, whispered to the serving girl there, and returned with a burning taper. Its light was kind to her face, painting away the years better than blush. She looked almost like a girl, her features delicate beneath the dark, straight hair. Only a few streaks of silver gave it the lie.

She lit the taper near the writing desk, and as the light in the room doubled, crow's feet appeared, spindling out from her eyes, and other lines of age reluctantly revealed themselves, beneath her chin, in the skin of her neck and forehead.

A corner of Muriele's room appeared, as well. The portrait of her father, on the wall, his eyes stern yet kind, flecked with gilt by the painter, not nearly as warm as they were in person.

Erren lit a third candle, and a red couch appeared from shadow, a table, a sewing kit, the corner of Muriele's bed— not the one she shared with the king, that was in their marriage room—but
her
bed, cut from the white cedar of the Lierish uplands and canopied with black cloth and silver
stars, the bed of her childhood, where she had slipped each night into dream.

The fourth candle chased all of the shadows under things, where they belonged.

“How old are you, Erren?” Muriele asked. “Exactly?”

Erren cocked her head. “How nice of you to ask. Will you ask how many children I have, as well?”

“I've known you since you left the coven. I was eight. How old were you?”

“Twenty. Now do your sums.”

“I'm thirty-eight,” Muriele replied. “That makes you fifty.”

“Fifty it is,” Erren replied.

“You don't look it.”

Erren shrugged. “Age has less to hold over one if one is never a great beauty to begin with.”

Muriele frowned. “I never considered you plain.”

“You are a poor authority in such matters. You often claim not to know
you
are beautiful, and yet your beauty has been famous since you were thirteen. How can one be surrounded by such admiration and not succumb?”

Muriele smiled wryly. “One cannot, as I'm sure you know, cousin. One can, however, cultivate the appearance of modesty. If the appearance is kept up long enough, who knows but that it might one day become true? And here age helps, for as you say, passing time steals beauty, and when one is sufficiently old, false modesty must become real modesty.”

“Excuse me, Majesty, Lady Erren,” a small voice said from the curtained doorway. It was Unna, her maid, a petite girl with honey-mud hair. “Your wine?”

“Bring it in, Unna.”

“Yes, Majesty.”

The girl placed the pitcher in the center of a small table, and a cup on either side. The scents of orange blossom and clove rose in steam.

“How old are you, Unna?” Muriele asked.

“Eleven, Your Majesty.”

“A sweet age. Even my Anne was sweet at that age, in her way.”