The Shadow Within (18 page)

Harrady had invited the border lord Ethan Laramor and his wife, Lord Arik Foxton and his wife, Gillard, Ives, Moorcock (Matheson had had unexpected personal business to attend to), several young ladies to go with them, and Simon. As the city lights came up, the guests ate their way through a pastry-wrapped boar with its accompanying stuffed quail, boiled leeks and onions, a plum compote, fine white bread with butter and quince jelly, and a traditional apple pie. Afterward, the ladies retired to Harrady’s drawing room, leaving the men to pursue more serious discussion.

Lord Foxton was nearly as enthusiastic about their new king as Admiral Hamilton and made the mistake of expressing it. For this lapse of judgment he earned a sarcastic putdown from Gillard and Harrady’s disdainful disagreement.

“It’s all an act,” the old warrior declared, leaning back in his chair and drawing a pipe from a pouch at his belt. “No one can change that much.”

“The very fact he’s used an image opposite to what he was before makes it painfully obvious, in my mind,” Ives agreed.

“You’re just being played, Fox,” Harrady added. “You and all the other gullible lords in the court.”

From his place at the head of the table, Gillard fixed his gaze on Foxton. “You disagree, Arik?”

Foxton shrugged, trying not to let his discomfort show. “Well, we all have our opinions, Your Highness.”

“Yes,” Gillard said. “Some of which are more perceptive than others.”

“Indeed,” Foxton said quietly, fingering the brandy snifter before him.

Harrady busied himself with filling his pipe. “Mark me—we’ll see the true man soon enough. Images have no substance, and one can only play a part so long before the strain begins to show.”

“I think it’s already showing,” said Ives. “He’s not been nearly so bold today as he was last night. Even you’d have to agree there, Fox.”

Simon thought perhaps Foxton did not agree but was beyond making any further attempts at expressing himself.

“You thought him bold last night?” Gillard asked Ives incredulously.

Ives’s head swiveled round. “Only until you arrived, Highness. Then, of course, it all went out of him. I thought he would faint when he saw you.”

“But before that, you actually thought him bold? Abramm?”

“Only because his appearance was so different from what we’d expected, sir.”

“Even then I can’t imagine how you’d think that, Michael. As you said, it was just an act.”

“Of course. But he always
was
good at acting.”

“You mean singing,” corrected Moorcock. “Remember the night of the red-tasseled hat?” He warbled a rendition of the song Abramm had sung for his mother’s birthday celebration when he was twelve. Ives joined in with a falsetto harmony until they both dissolved into laughter.

Gillard scowled at them, even in this unable to find his good humor again.

“I wonder where that hat is,” said Moorcock.

“Do you suppose we could convince him to give us a reprise?” Ives asked.

The conversation wandered through various absurd suggestions before growing serious again, Ethan Laramor bursting out with the unshakable conviction that Abramm
was
the Mataio’s man, that he wouldn’t be surprised to learn that the Mataian leadership had not only hidden him away these last six years but had also orchestrated the entire affair with the kraggin to give him the credibility he needed. When pressed to explain how they could have known six years before the fact that there’d be a monster for Abramm to fight, Laramor maintained it was because the Mataio itself had made the thing.

Which triggered a sudden, awkward silence as everyone became very interested in their snifters. Simon cringed with embarrassment for his friend, despite knowing Laramor wouldn’t care. Only a Borderer could make such a claim and be completely earnest. Springing from a culture where many still believed in ells and warlocks—and that the Mataio’s primary objective was their own destruction—Borderers did not think like other men. Simon had no doubt Ethan thought his theories completely rational. But that only made them more discomfiting.

Harrady finally broke the silence with a harrumph. “Simon, didn’t you tell us Shale Channon himself confirmed that Abramm wears the brand of an Esurhite slave?”

“Channon’s just been promoted to Captain of the King’s Guard,” Laramor pointed out.

“But it’s a claim easily confirmed by the physical evidence,” Harrady countered, “so why would he lie?”

“He’s right,” Simon agreed, speaking for the first time in a while. “Besides that, Kinlock said Abramm showed up at the dock in Bre’el wearing Esurhite robes, that he paid with Esurhite gold and speaks the Tahg like a native. Facts confirmed by some of the others who came in with him on
Wanderer
. And we’ve
all
heard the accent in his voice.” His gaze flicked over the faces surrounding him. “I think he’s telling the truth.”

Silence followed his words. The fire hissed and cracked, the clock on the mantel ticked, and outside a light breeze gusted against the windows.

Then Gillard burst out, “By the Flames, Uncle! Has he won you, too, then?”

Simon turned to him in surprise. “Won me? What are you talking about?”

“Just that I’d never thought to hear you defending Abramm.”

“I’m not defending
him,
” Simon retorted, “merely his claim that he was in Esurh these last six years as opposed to Laramor’s that he was hiding out in some Mataian watchtower.”

“Well, it sounded like a defense to me!”

Simon assured him again that he was simply being objective about the facts as he knew them, and could not see how insisting Abramm had indeed been a slave constituted a defense of him.

Gillard slouched back in his chair, still scowling. “Why didn’t you resign when he called you in today? You don’t mean to work for him, do you?”

Simon gaped at him. “He’s the king, Gillard. I can’t very well ignore his direct order.”

“You could’ve stalled. All that business about improving our defenses is just talk. Rebuilding Graymeer’s? That’ll never happen. And this grand vision of an improved military? The lords will never fund something like that. Once they start missing their parties and plays and afternoon walks, you can be sure they will not be pleased.” He picked up his brandy snifter, swirled the amber liquid, and sipped. “He’s just trying to pull you away from me, Uncle. Win you to his side. You should have resigned the moment you entered that chamber.”

“Gillard, I’ve known him all his life. He’s not likely to win me away from you.”

“Well, you’ll not be doing any reports for him. In fact, tomorrow you’ll go in and tell him you’re resigning. That will take care of it.” He set the snifter down. “I’ll not have you helping him, Uncle.”

Simon knew it must be hard for the boy, having lived as king for four years and accustomed to ordering folks about as he wished. He would count it force of habit that had produced those inappropriate commands and not fight it for now. But this denial needed to be addressed. In truth, he’d never seen Gillard this bad before. It worried him.

Before he could think what to say, though, Harrady’s majordomo hurried in to whisper into his master’s ear. The old warrior’s eyes widened, and at his nod the servant rushed out again, leaving the host to turn to his curious guests. “It seems the king has been attacked.”

The men at the table went rigid, their faces blank, their eyes, one after another, flicking to Gillard and away.

“When?” asked Simon.

“Was he harmed?” Laramor demanded simultaneously.

“Apparently not. Ah, here’s the man to answer our questions,” he said as the majordomo returned with the messenger from the palace.

According to him, assassins had followed the king when he left for his ride, hiding themselves along the road and striking when he returned. Fortunately his horse had spooked at the very moment the arrows released, saving him. One of his men took a shaft in the shoulder, but the only injury the king received was a gash to the cheekbone when his frightened horse had carried him into the woods and dumped him there.

“Was he hurt?” Gillard demanded.

The messenger looked at him in confusion. “Highness?”

“The horse. Was he hurt?”

“Oh. No, sir. He turned up at the barn without a scratch on him.”

“Do they know who did it?” asked Simon.

“Only that the arrows used were royal issue, sir.”

“What about the reception?” Ives inquired. “I assume it’s been canceled?”

“No, sir. The king was not hurt and is determined to see the kraggin burned.”

When there were no more questions, the messenger left, and as soon as the door closed upon him, the men at the table burst into excited commentary. A commentary, Simon noted, from which Gillard refrained. Instead he watched the golden brandy swirling in its snifter as he tilted it this way and that, a secret smile on his face. A smile, Simon thought sourly, that looked very much like the expression he’d worn earlier in the bath. One by one, the others fell silent, eyeing the prince uneasily until Simon spoke the question on everyone’s mind: “Gillard, I hope you weren’t involved in this.”

Gillard looked up in surprise. “Involved in what?” His gaze roved up and down the table and understanding dawned. His brow furrowed. “Why in Torments would I take such a risk when all I need do is wait for him to selfdestruct? Although I admit, I wouldn’t have been disappointed if he’d been hit.”

“This is the king we’re talking about, Your Highness,” Simon said quietly.

“He is a
pretender,
Uncle!”

“Nevertheless,” said Simon, “he has the law on his side, and attempted assassination is treason. If you were found guilty—”

“Oh, please.” Rolling his eyes, Gillard snatched up his snifter. “You really think
Abramm
has the courage to execute
me
?”

“Don’t underestimate him, Gillard. He is a Kalladorne, after all. And he is not unsupported.”

Gillard froze mid-sip, staring at him over the snifter’s rim. Very deliberately he set the vessel down. “You
are
defending him.”

“This has nothing to do with him.”

“It has
everything
to do with him! You’ve done nothing but sing his praises all evening. Because
he
killed the kraggin and I did not. Isn’t that right?” He didn’t wait for Simon to answer, even had Simon chosen to. “Little Abramm comes back, allegedly slays the monster, and now you think he’s worthy of the throne. Well, fine. At least I know where
your
loyalties lie.” Throwing his lap cloth onto the table, he stood and, to the astonishment of all, took his leave.

CHAPTER

12

If Abramm’s first evening back in Kiriathan society had been a resounding success, his second fell just short of disaster, beginning with the unfortunate presence of Master Belmir and a coterie of Guardians at the reception and ending with the offering of insults to the daughter of the Chesedhan king, whom Kiriath desperately needed as an ally.

Coming on the heels of the affair with the Terstan rioters, Abramm was not at all pleased to find Master Belmir first in line to offer greetings and congratulations. Nor did he welcome the Mataian’s enthusiastic commendations for Abramm’s stand against the “evil, Shadow-serving Esurhites.” Though Belmir didn’t come right out and say so, it was clear he believed what Abramm had really said today was that he would soon see the realm cleansed of the corruption and heresies that had so long weakened the Flames that would protect it. He was especially excited by the prospect of purifying Graymeer’s Fortress, something the Mataio had begged permission to do for years. Abramm’s polite assertion that all fortress renovations would be accomplished by military hands, and not Mataian, seemed to pass unheeded.

At least when Abramm’s newly installed staff had invited the Mataians, they had also invited a few prominent Terstans, though Everitt Kesrin, the Terstan merchant he’d met yesterday, was the only one of them to attend. And Kesrin was far less friendly tonight than he’d been on the docks, his cool and distant manner suggesting he had joined the ranks of those who believed Abramm to be under rhu’ema control. It didn’t help that Prittleman made veiled references to the need for a Terstan purge within both Kesrin’s and Abramm’s hearing, nor that Abramm, distracted by Temas Darnley’s mind- numbing prattle about dance steps and doublets, had failed to call him on it.

Finally it was time for the ceremony to begin, the song to be performed, and the kraggin to be burned. Listening to the song counted among the most embarrassing moments of Abramm’s life, his discomfort made worse by the fact he had to endure it under the mocking regard of his dead ancestors, whose portraits surrounded him there in the South Gallery where the reception was held. Leaders of armies, founders of dynasties, winners of battles—
they
were the real heroes, while Abramm knew himself to be merely the befuddled recipient of Eidon’s mercy and protection.

Things went from bad to worse when the kraggin’s pyre was ignited in the harbor below them, for despite his orders that the platform be towed well out into the bay, it had, in fact, been moved even closer to the shore and the busy docks. Within moments after it was ignited, the prevailing winds had shrouded Springerlan’s low-lying river district in foul-smelling smoke. Infuriated by the breakdown in communication, suspecting it had been some enemy’s deliberate attempt to make him look stupid and incompetent, and disgusted with himself for not making absolutely sure his initial orders had been carried out, Abramm remembered little of the obligatory meeting and greeting he’d endured afterward. Only that it felt rather like being nibbled to death by ducks and that whenever he turned around he found Darnley and his idiot chatter, or Prittleman and his fanaticism, or Belmir and his pious smile—or his own armsmen, ever close at hand to prevent another assassination attempt.

Gillard surprised him by making an appearance, as did Simon, both managing to present themselves to Abramm with their congratulations and good wishes. Simon came early and was brief, brusque, and generally disapproving; Gillard arrived some time later, his cloak of smooth and courtly courtesy not quite concealing the hatred beneath it. He bowed his head the barest minimum protocol required, then asked baiting questions disguised as respectful interest. Was the king wearing that sword because he had finally learned to use it while scribing in Esurh? Where had he learned the kill point for a kraggin? Had he truly ridden the beast to the bottom of the bay?