The Immortal Prince (11 page)

Herino City was located some fifty-five miles south of Lebec, which meant the journey took two days if one travelled by coach. Stellan could have travelled by boat on the lake, but that meant involving a lot more people and no way of slipping into the city quietly. By leaving at dawn and riding a fast horse and changing mounts twice along the way, however, with only a two-man escort, Stellan Desean was in the capital about two hours after sunset on the same day.

Despite what he'd told Jaxyn and Arkady, it wasn't the king who had summoned Stellan to Herino City. It was the King's Private Secretary, Lord Karyl Deryon, who'd sent the message. Stellan probably wouldn't have pushed so hard if the summons had come from King Enteny himself. The Duke of Lebec was required at court often enough, but with another month or more before the Privy Council was due to sit, it was doubtful Enteny was even in the capital at present. More likely he was still relaxing on his winter estate south of Herino, just outside of Jokarn.

A summons from Lord Deryon, on the other hand, invariably meant there was trouble. The sort of trouble that needed to be kept in the family. The sort of trouble Stellan was particularly good at taking care of.

Usually trouble that involved a young man named Mathu Debree, who was, rather awkwardly, the Crown Prince of Glaeba.

The palace sat on the peak of a small hill and, like every other building on the island-city of Herino, was built on a massive scale. He dismounted in the torchlit courtyard and gave his horse and his escort into the care of the palace grooms. Over the top of the wall he could just make out the lights of the city stretching all the way down to the lake shore. Behind him, the tall marble columns at the palace entrance loomed like a threat over the whole island. The rare white marble had been cut from the mercilessly hot quarries on Torlenia, brought to Glaeba by ship, and then painstakingly shaped by countless Crasii craftsmen.

When he was younger, Stellan would study the columns, with their bases taller than a man and their intricately carved double rows of acanthus leaves, thinking that if you scrunched up your eyes and squinted at them from a distance, the columns looked like bars. It was a fitting analogy in Stellan's mind. Being a member of the royal family was as good as being a prisoner at times.

Stellan was expected at the palace and hurried through the broad halls behind a canine Crasii page who was under instructions to show him straight into the presence of Lord Deryon no matter how late he arrived. The King's Secretary was waiting in the atrium, located in the middle of the labyrinthine palace, its centrepiece a large bronze fountain depicting several nymphs carrying water jars to a large and undoubtedly flattering statue of Agranella, the first of their family to assume the title of Queen of Glaeba some three hundred years ago.

“Lord Stellan!” Lord Deryon exclaimed with relief when the page announced his guest. “Thank you for coming so quickly.” The King's Private Secretary was older than Stellan by nearly thirty years, but his back was ramrod straight, and his face unnaturally smooth, despite his white hair.

“Would it be too much to hope that Torlenia has declared war on us, and that's why you summoned me?” he enquired, as he shook the other man's hand.

Lord Deryon smiled thinly. “Likely as that is to happen if we don't sort out something about who actually owns sovereignty over the Chelae Islands, your grace, our Torlenian cousins are quiet, at present. I believe the Imperator has a new wife and she's keeping him distracted.”

“How long can that last?”

“Not long enough, I fear. We'll have to do something about it soon.”

“Well, Jorgan's a competent fellow,” Stellan said, recalling the ambassador charged with keeping the peace between Glaeba and Torlenia.

“I suspect not as competent as you, my lord,” the secretary said with a slight bow. “Lord Jorgan has a temper, which is hardly an asset in the art of diplomacy.”

“I appreciate the compliment, old friend,” Stellan replied. “However undeserved it might be.”

“You are too modest, your grace.”

“Perhaps.” He sighed as he pulled off his riding gloves. “I suppose if we're not at war, then it's our
other
little problem again.”

“I'm afraid so, your grace.”

“Do you know where he is?”

Deryon motioned for the page to leave before he answered. Once he was certain they were alone, the old man let out a heavy sigh and turned to face Stellan, indicating he should rest on one of the many couches arranged in small groups about the atrium. “He's in a brothel near the docks, best we can tell. Your timing is impeccable, as usual. Hawkes only located him a few hours ago.”

“How long this time?” Stellan asked, taking a seat. He didn't bother getting too comfortable, certain he would have to leave again shortly.

Deryon shrugged and took the couch opposite. “Four or five days is our best guess. Did you want something to drink? You must have damn near foundered your horse to get here so quickly.”

“I'd better sort this out first,” he suggested with a frown. “I thought he was supposed to be in Venetia with Reon? Learning the finer points of provincial government, wasn't it?”

“Apparently Venetia's provincial delights aren't enough for our Mathu.”

“I suppose the king knows nothing of this?”

“Of course not.”

Stellan studied the secretary, shaking his head in wonder. “I never cease to be amazed at your ability to keep Mathu's excesses from the king, Lord Deryon.”

“I keep a lot of things from the king, your grace,” Deryon remarked. “It's part of my job, you know…keeping secrets from him.”

Stellan met his gaze, waiting for Deryon to add something further, but his secretary seemed content to leave it at that.

“Can you have someone take me to him?” he asked, rising to his feet before the silence dragged on long enough to become uncomfortable.

“I'll have someone take you to Hawkes,” Deryon offered. “From there you'll probably be able to hear our noble young prince and his drunken friends making fools of themselves from half a mile away.”

“Save that drink for me,” Stellan suggested. “I think I'm going to need it by the time I get back.”

“I'm sorry to put this on you again, your grace. You've been having an interesting time of it lately, that's for certain.”

“What do you mean?”

Deryon smiled sympathetically. “First there was that business with the botched hanging. And then that escaped slave who killed another Crasii in their haste to depart?”

“That only happened the other night,” Stellan pointed out, a little concerned by the speed with which the news of his domestic problems had reached Herino.

Lord Deryon shrugged. “Declan Hawkes mentioned something about it. Bad luck comes in threes, they say.”

Stellan shook his head with a thin smile. “Then I dread to think what's next.”

He turned for the entrance but Deryon called him back. “Lord Desean!”

“Was there something else?” he asked over his shoulder.

“I meant what I said about keeping secrets.”

The duke hesitated and then nodded, turning back to face Deryon. They were no longer talking about the wild behaviour of Glaeba's heir. Both men knew that. “I appreciate your forbearance, old friend.”

“Then take an old friend's advice, your grace. Don't leave the question of your own heir in doubt much longer.”

“Kylia Debrell is my late sister's only child,” he reminded the secretary. “She is currently, and quite legally, my heir.”

“A stopgap heir, at best, my friend. Particularly given you have a wife perfectly capable of bearing a child. It's been six years since you married your physician's daughter, and I still remember your elegant and persuasive arguments when you petitioned Enteny to allow the marriage. All those passionate speeches about how the True Families would benefit from the injection of new blood; how your beautiful, clever, common-born wife would bring much needed vitality to the Desean line…” Deryon sighed and opened his hands in a gesture of helplessness. “The king loves you like a brother, Stellan, and he adores your wife—you know that—but he grows impatient.”

“There
will
be an heir, Karyl,” Stellan assured him.

“You are a scion of the True Families, Stellan. If Arkady doesn't give you a son soon, the king will do one of two things. He'll assume Arkady is barren and force you to put her aside so you can take a more fertile wife, or he'll start to wonder if there's another reason why you haven't gotten her with child.”

Deryon wasn't threatening him, Stellan knew that. But it was a timely reminder of his responsibilities. “I'll speak to Arkady, Karyl. As soon as I get home. I promise.”

“Please understand, I only mention this out of concern for you, Stellan. And your lovely wife.”

The duke nodded in agreement, not doubting the man's honourable intentions. “I appreciate your discretion.”

Karyl Deryon smiled tiredly. “Speaking of discretion, you will try to get Mathu back here as quickly and quietly as possible, won't you?”

“Don't I always?”

“The king will reward your loyalty someday, Lord Desean.”

“I'd rather he didn't learn of it, actually,” he replied with a wry smile. “For all our sakes.”

 

Declan Hawkes was waiting for Stellan on the waterfront in the Sailors' Friend, a tavern across the street from the brothel where Glaeba's crown prince was currently ensconced with a number of his friends. Still a couple of hours before midnight, the taverns near the lake were in full swing, laughter, music and the sound of revelry spilling out from every open door and window along the waterfront.

“Behold the delights of the Friendly Futtock, your grace,” Declan announced, as Stellan slid into the seat opposite the spymaster in a booth facing the street. Declan signalled for ale and a moment later, a frazzled-looking wench dumped a foaming wooden tankard in front of the duke. Stellan left it untouched. Ale was not his beverage of choice. Through the grubby window, he could just make out the run-down building across the street where the house of ill repute was located.

“The Friendly
Futtock
?” Stellan repeated, shaking his head. “Mathu doesn't think about how his little adventure is going to sound when his mother hears about it, does he?”

“I believe the idea is for his mother
not
to hear about it,” the spy reminded him, and then he smiled. “Besides, futtocks are just the timbers that fasten together to make the ribs of a ship, you know, so it's really not as bad as it sounds.”

Stellan smiled. “I'm impressed that you know that, Declan.”

“I'm surprised you don't, your grace.”

Stellan turned and studied the street outside. There were quite a few people wandering about, but as the night grew colder, the Lower Oran began to steam and a mist started to rise off the lake. In another hour, Stellan guessed, the fog would be as thick as a goose-down blanket.

“How many men have you got?”

“Three in here,” Hawkes informed him. “Two outside. And a Crasii in the brothel itself, keeping an eye on our boy.”

“How'd you get a Crasii in there?”

“She's a chameleon Crasii,” Declan explained. “Tiji, her name is. Spookiest thing I ever saw. She just stands still in one spot and a few moments later, you can't tell her from the wall. Gives me the shivers every time she does it,” the spy added. “Damned useful, though, to have her around.”

“Do we know who's with him?”

“The usual troublemakers. Osdin Derork. Leam Devillen. And a new playmate, Wale Aranville.”

“One of the Darra Aranvilles?” Stellan asked in surprise.

“He's Jaxyn Aranville's cousin, I believe, your grace.”

The spymaster said nothing more on the subject, but the mere fact he'd even mentioned Jaxyn's name told Stellan a great deal. He shouldn't be surprised, he supposed. If Karyl Deryon's job was to keep secrets from the king, it was Declan Hawkes's job to find out those secrets in the first place. And this man was one of Arkady's oldest friends. Who knows what secrets the two of them had shared…?

Stellan forced his attention back to the matter at hand. “What're they doing in Herino?”

Declan shrugged. “Perhaps Mathu's practising for the day he becomes king.”

“Let's hope that sorry day remains a long way off,” Stellan sighed. “How long before this fog thickens, do you think?”

Hawkes stared out into the night for a moment and then shrugged. “Not long now.”

“Good. The fewer spectators the better. Can you get a carriage down here? A closed one?”

“People will notice a carriage on the waterfront at this hour, your grace.”

“Unavoidable, I'm afraid, and the reason I'd like to wait for the fog to thicken up a bit. I doubt our boy will be in any fit state to ride. I'd like to get the other young gentlemen out of there at the same time, if I can.”

“You're not here to save every errant noble son in Glaeba from scandal, your grace,” Hawkes reminded him.

“And given a choice, I'd leave every one of the little sods to drown in his own vomit,” Stellan agreed. “But if any of them is seen down here, all he has to do is say who he came here with for
him
to be off the hook and the prince to be exposed.”

“They don't have to go back to the palace, though, do they?” Hawkes suggested, a glint in his eye that made Stellan frown suspiciously.

“I suppose not. Why?”

“Well…your grace…,” the spymaster ventured, “if somebody took these poor misguided lads aside—into a nice dark alley, perhaps—and pointed out the error of their ways…subtly of course, but in a way that will more than likely make them shit their fancy highborn trousers…I was thinking…maybe the next time your boy decides to play, he won't be able to round up quite as many willing playmates?”