Thy Father's Shadow (Book 4.5) (17 page)

“Yes,” Amenon said. “Go on.”

“Food riots in Sovar would be an unpleasant prospect at best, would they not?” Terian asked.

“Any act of insurrection is beyond unpleasant.” Amenon’s countenance darkened, a thundercloud of anger settled in over his features. “I doubt anyone has forgotten what happened the last time such a thing occurred. It did not go so well for either side, and it would be best to avoid such unpleasantness in the future. Desperate, starving people do desperate things.”

“So we should look into these disappearances, right?” Terian waited, but Amenon had looked down into his book as though the lesson was over and nothing of interest was left to be said.

After a moment Amenon looked up again, his face drawn. “You should indeed. Even so small a thing—”
Probably not small to the people who have lost families
, Terian thought, “bears a closer look when the stakes are so high. Assemble the team and investigate these losses.” Terian started to stand, but Amenon stopped him with a sour smile. “After you’ve finished your reading for the day.”

“I will,” Terian said then paused. “Wait … you said for me to do it? On my own?”

“Indeed,” Amenon said, not looking up from his book. “This is a test of your leadership ability. I put this matter in your hands to determine your capability.” He looked up one last time and favored Terian with a look that was deep, burning, and filled with unyielding suggestion. “Do not fail me.”

Chapter 21

Terian walked down the steps one at a time, the weight of his armor especially heavy.
I have to lead the team on this one. Lead. A team. Urk.
The clomping of his feet against the steps made a maddening noise
.

He reached the landing; the smell of the mushroom gruel was heavy in the air. He wrinkled his nose.
Never will get used to that.
He turned at the landing and looked down to the floor below, where a straight-backed Guturan Enlas waited for him.

“Guturan,” Terian said in faint acknowledgment.

“I would have your attention for a moment, Lord heir,” Guturan said stiffly, his scratchy voice nearly cracking.

“Oh, you would, would you?” Terian could feel his frown deepen, unrelated to the smell. “Go on, then.” He stared down at Guturan, folding his arms and listening to the metal clink at the joints as the pieces of his armor rubbed together.

“We have received an invitation for a ball to be held at the House of Shrawn on this very eve.” Guturan’s face was as stiff as his posture, his mien as neutral as if he were delivering an order for a meal to the cooks in the kitchen. “You are expected to attend.”

“I’m busy,” Terian said and resumed his downward journey. The thump of his boots rang out and echoed. “Send Dagonath Shrawn my insincere regrets that I’ll be unable to attend his self-congratulatory, highbrow
veredajh
.” Terian smiled.

Guturan hissed. “Society events are hardly a—” Guturan made a guttural, throat-clearing noise. “To say such a crude thing is a very great insult to the House of Shrawn, and an ill reflection on your own house.”

“As though he’ll even hear about it,” Terian said.

Guturan stuck an arm out, iron hand landing hard on Terian’s breastplate and halting his descent. “There are spies in the House of Lepos that report directly to Dagonath Shrawn,” Guturan said nearly silently, “and you are a fool if you do not assume every conversation in this place reaches both his ears and the Sovereign’s.”

“Oh, come on,” Terian said with a shake of his head.

“He will hear of this,” Guturan said quietly with a deep seriousness. “Know it to be true and curb your tongue accordingly.”

Terian looked down the stairs into the main room; a few servants milled idly about.
Truly?
He shook his head. “Either way, I’m not going to Shrawn’s ball. I have not the time; there are things I need to attend to on the order of my father.”

“Master Amenon!” Guturan called out, his gaze still fixed upon Terian, his arm still in place to halt his movement.

There was a rustle above and Terian heard his father’s voice call down. “Yes?”

Only Guturan could get my father to step out of his study to speak with a mere servant.
“Master Terian wishes to decline Dagonath Shrawn’s gracious invitation to his ball. Do you want me to send notice to Lord Shrawn to that effect?”

There was a pause and Terian looked up. “Sovereign’s grace, no,” Amenon said, and there was irritation in his voice. “Terian, you will attend. Your investigation of that other matter will have to wait. Send word to Shrawn that he’ll be there, Guturan—and thank you for bringing this to my attention.” His father’s head disappeared over the railing and back into his study.

Terian looked back to Guturan, who wore a smile of deep satisfaction. “You’re a boil on my arse, Guturan.”

“I am tasked with keeping this house running smoothly,” Guturan said, “and that means ensuring that the heir of Lepos is esteemed in the proper social circles. I will not have the House of Lepos lose face in the Shuffle because of elementary mistakes made by a spoiled brat who keeps trying to throw himself into the gutter.”

“But it’s so much fun in the gutter,” Terian said. “You meet a great class of people there; better than the ones at Dagonath Shrawn’s
veredajh
, anyway.” Terian watched Guturan’s face twitch with outrage, and he pushed past the steward’s arm to continue downward to his room, where he shut the door so he could stew quietly while he awaited his fate.

Chapter 22

Terian waited in his room, staring at the dark walls and pacing to and fro as the hour drew nearer. He suspected a servant or two would be along shortly to groom him in preparation for the ball, and he felt his stomach turn over at the thought of his evening ahead.

When Guturan showed up, he had given over to pacing the room. His boots tread lightly on the woven rug that sat in the center of his room, the smoke of the candle carrying a strange vanilla scent that seemed more appropriate to the outside world than the darkness of Saekaj. “What is that?” he asked Guturan, pointing to the candle.

“Imported from Aloakna,” Guturan said without missing a beat. He stared at Terian, assessing him. “Yes, this will do nicely.”

“An imported candle from Aloakna will do nicely?” Terian asked. “For what? Covering the moldering scent of fear in the basement torture chamber?”

“Your armor,” Guturan said, unamused. “It will do nicely for the ball.”

“I get to go to Dagonath Shrawn’s ball in my armor?” Terian ran a finger over his smooth chin. He’d run the razor over his stubble in anticipation of what he suspected was coming. “Perhaps this won’t be so bad after all.”

“Soldiers of the Sovereign are expected to attend formal events in their battle garb,” Guturan said with an appraising eye. “But your helm must remain off your head at all times indoors.”

“I remember the particulars of etiquette from my schooling, Guturan,” Terian said icily.

“Do you?” Guturan asked with a faint trace of a smile. “I can never tell.” His expression straightened. “Your hair will have to be dealt with, of course.”

“Dealt with how?” Terian asked as Guturan snapped his fingers so loudly it echoed in the chamber. A retinue of servant girls opened the door, and he could hear the giggles cease as they did so. Their faces were dipped low, bowed heads on the lot of them, but the smirks remained. “Oh.”

“Also …” Guturan said. “I think a bath is in order.”

“
What?
”

Terian was scrubbed quite against his will, though he did not fight it too hard. A tub of heated water was brought in, and in that moment he knew Guturan’s careful survey of him was all a sham.
Guturan stepped in here already knowing what was to be done with me—to me
, Terian thought as a serving girl ran a scrubbing brush with bristly needles down his back. “What the hells is that made of, exactly?” He glared at the serving girl, who barely stifled a giggle. “Discarded sword blades?”

“I think the hilt might be,” Guturan said lightly, moving around the room while the serving girls did their worst to him.
At least it feels like their worst.
“There are expectations of an heir of your station at this event, and we should cover them swiftly.”

“Is there still dueling?” Terian asked. “I seem to remember some dueling taking place at balls I went to when I was younger. I was always so crestfallen that there was an age requirement for that sort of thing …”

“You will not duel,” Guturan said sharply. “It is beneath your station. Only lesser nobles squabble like children among themselves. Higher houses already have all they need; there is nothing to be gained from dueling with your lessers.”

“What about with one of Shrawn’s kids?” Terian asked. “Seems like it could be fun—”

“You will not duel,” Guturan said again, and this time there was no mistaking the fury with which he said it. “Your father has given explicit instruction in this matter.” He straightened and continued in his leisurely orbit around the tub while one of the serving girls probed Terian with the brush in a manner that he had once paid a girl from Reikonos good money for. This time, though, he jumped, drawing Guturan’s gaze again. “Besides, all of Shrawn’s children are either too young or too old to duel with you. His eldest son in his current family is only sixteen and still in training at the Commonwealth of Arcanists; his elder two families with previous wives are all in their third century at youngest and also out of his line of succession—and thus unworthy of your time and effort.” Guturan leaned over the edge of the tub. “You have a purpose and these people are aimless curs. You will not duel. Are we clear?”

“Yes,
Mother
,” Terian said under his breath. Guturan’s eyes narrowed, but he did not comment.

When Guturan started his slow circling of the tub once more, he was silent for a few moments before speaking. His voice was much gentler this time. “Perhaps Mistress Kahlee will be there.”

“That’s not exactly a selling point for me, Guturan,” Terian said as the serving girl working on his front took the bristly brush far too low for his liking. “Augh!” He sent her a daggered look, which she ignored. “She essentially told me to throw myself into the Great Sea when last I met her in the square. Which I actually planned to do tonight, before you told me I was going to be forced to enter the Realm of Death instead.” He paused for effect. “Actually, the Realm of Death is probably less frigid.”

“You prefer physical combat to social gatherings?” Guturan said, and there was a hint of curiosity in the way he said it.

“By fathoms,” Terian said. “The threats are obvious in physical combat. In social combat here in Saekaj, I find the swords and daggers much less obvious but no less deadly.”

“True enough,” Guturan said, and he’d finally stopped his slow circling of the tub. “That’s enough scrubbing, I’d say.”

“Are you sure?” Terian asked. “Because I’ve still got some skin left on my—” The servant girl ran the brush between his legs drawing a sharp cry from him. “Oh, no, wait; there it went.”

Guturan stood there with a sly smile as two serving girls approached the edge of the tub in their drab, barely-dyed green dresses. “All this is mere preparation, heir of Lepos. For you are correct in your assessment of the social arena of our city.” His smile disappeared. “And the flaying you have received here is nothing compared to the one you will receive should you fail and disgrace the family in the eyes of your father.” The smile came back, but it was a smirk. “Develop thicker skin, m’lord Terian, because for this—and every one of these events for the rest of your life—you will need it.”

Chapter 23

The vek’tag carriage pulled along the wide loop of Shrawn manor’s entry road. The ride was smooth, Terian noted as he ran a gauntleted finger over the sharp points of his helm. He held it in hand, watching tentatively as the carriage crawled up the drive toward a portico that was growing closer outside his window. It was an affectation only the wealthy had; a protection against the drips that came inside a cave.

The smell of food and perfumes wafted through his window and happy chatter greeted his ears as he traced his fingers over the points of the helm. He sighed deeply, draining his lungs and leaving himself tired. His armor felt as if it weighed tons, the dread within him magnifying its heaviness by factors. He pulled his finger back from the sharp points of the armor, unable to take his eyes off the helm he had worn for more than half his life.

Is it really worth it?
He shifted his gaze out the window as the carriage shuddered to a halt.
Is any of this—these sacrifices, these impositions—worth it?
What does it truly buy me?

The door to his carriage swung open as a servant appeared at his door. Terian took little notice of the stiff man in the long coat who held the door for him unblinking as Terian stepped out. He carefully placed the helm back on his head. He felt the weight of it increase, too, though he knew it was all in his mind.

He stood under the portico, looking across the sea of women in black with only the occasional spot of unfashionable white to break the monotony, and the men of Saekaj in the uniforms he knew belonged to the civilian oversight or the armor of the Saekaj Militia. A few, all of them younger men, were dressed as dandies. They wore long suit coats that were cut differently than the one worn by the servant holding the carriage door. Wooden buttons adorned their coats, and fancy hats were coupled with long dueling canes in their hands.

Terian watched two of the dandies clack their canes together before being scolded sharply by a man in military garb. It took little more than five words and a cross look to have them both blushing, deeply ashamed. He watched the scene with little interest as he threaded his way through the crowd to the front doors of Shrawn’s manor.

Everything was wood, opulence on full display.
Shrawn has been in his position for much longer than Father has been in his, and the accumulation of wealth makes it obvious who is first in that department.
Terian stepped into the room without fanfare. Some of the lesser noble houses had people to announce the entry of guests into their parties.