The Fall of The Kings (Riverside) (11 page)

A few minutes later, Theron was striding down an uncarpeted flight of stairs and into a long, white-plastered hall that led to the breakfast-room, where his mother sat frowning over a folio volume propped against a porridge-bowl.

Lady Sophia Campion would have laughed to hear herself described as a formidable woman, but it was true nevertheless. She’d been born on the distant island of Kyros, and her dark eyes and olive skin marked her out as a foreigner no less than her slight accent and her habit of saying precisely what she thought. She always wore black—in mourning for Theron’s father, she said, the love of her life, who had died twenty years ago, two months before the birth of his only son. Privately, Theron thought she continued to wear black because it was a practical color for a woman who never knew when she might be called upon to stitch a wound or deliver a baby.

“You’re up early, my dear,” she said without looking up from her book. “The toast is burnt, but the porridge is warm and the milk quite fresh.”

He came around the table to kiss her cheek, caught sight of an illustration of a human belly cut open, with all the guts colored a garish pink, and averted his eyes.

“Good morning, Mama.”

She looked at him narrowly. Conscious of his unshaven cheeks and heavy eyes, Theron sat with his back to the window and busied himself with chocolate and grater, sugar and milk and whisk and cup. “What are you reading?” he asked.

“Tanner on surgery,” she answered. “You’d better go back to bed when you’ve breakfasted if you intend to dine at Katherine’s tonight.”

“Nothing I’d like better. But Doctor Tipton’s lecturing on Divisions and Definitions this morning. And there’s a friend I’ve promised to see in the afternoon.”

Lady Sophia sighed. Attending a two days’ labor did not make her feel her age as much as dealing with her only son these days. He’d always been susceptible, going at love as if it were a parlor game to be played with as many different partners as possible. Well, he was young, and it was only right that a young man be allowed his freedom. She had certainly taught him everything he needed to know about preventing unhappy accidents of the flesh. So his love affairs had never caused her much anxiety until he’d fallen into the web of that spider disguised as a woman, that Ysaud.

Lady Sophia turned the page with a vicious snap. In the months since Ysaud had tired of him, Theron was much improved. At first he had sulked in Riverside House, hiding from the inevitable gossip that swirled outside. Slowly he had ventured out to his classes, to Riverside’s musical taverns and to family parties, and finally back to the Hill’s society balls, where his absence had been noticed. But he still seemed perpetually tired, as though the effort of being around other people was draining him. And as far as she knew, he always came home at night, alone. She was annoyed with him and worried in equal measure; but he wasn’t a child anymore, to be scolded or coaxed or lectured into reasonable behavior. All she could do was to love him, and wait for experience to teach him a little sense.

“You don’t get enough rest,” she said mildly.

“Now you sound like a mother.” He lifted the chocolate to his lips and blew upon it to make little creamy ripples chase one another across the dark surface.

“I sound like a physician,” Sophia corrected. “A mother would worry about your heart as well as your health.”

Theron smiled into his chocolate. “My heart is very well, Mama.”

Her eye still on Tanner, Sophia missed the smile. “It would be worse even than breaking your heart, if Ysaud should have frozen it.” She glanced up at her son, who looked peeved. “Yes, I know you will not speak of it. Your father was the same. I do not understand it. Every physician knows that a wound must be searched if it’s to heal cleanly.”

She paused hopefully. Theron, avoiding her gaze, picked a piece of leathery toast from the rack and buttered it. Sophia sighed and changed the subject. “I’ve a demonstration this afternoon—a simple goiter for the first-year surgeons. Would you like to attend?”

Theron said, “I fear that watching you cut into some poor old man’s goiter no longer counts as a high treat for me.” She stiffened slightly, and he looked contrite. “I’m sorry, Mama. That was badly put.”

“It was. But if you behave as a child, it is that I treat you as one.” As always when she was upset, Sophia’s grammar strayed toward the forms of her native tongue. “Well, it is no matter. I will demonstrate the excision of a goiter and you will see your friend, and we shall meet at Tremontaine House in the evening.” She looked him sternly in the eye. “Shall we not?”

“We shall, Mama. And I further promise to be there in good time, so that Cousin Katherine may have ample opportunity to tell me what a fribble I am before the other guests come and family loyalty forces her to hold her tongue.”

Sophia shut Tanner. “As you wish,” she said gently, and rising, gathered up the book and went to the door. She was so obviously trying not to scold him that Theron got up to open the door for her, put his arms around her, book and all, and murmured into her ear, “I
am
sorry, Sophia. I shall spend the day in pursuit of my manners, and I promise to find them before I set foot in Tremontaine House, which I further promise to do at a decent interval before dinner.”

Against his cheek, he felt his mother smiling. “If you do that, Katherine will think you a changeling. It is sufficient if you come in time for the soup. It’s only a family party after all, with Marcus and Susan.”

Theron stood away from her. She was a tall woman: their eyes were almost at a level.

She kissed his brow. “Until tonight,” she said, and strode away from him down the corridor to the grand staircase that led to the front door. Theron returned to the breakfast-room, poured his cold chocolate into the slop bowl, made himself a fresh cup, and drank it before ringing for more toast and a steak.

THERON WAS NOT PRESENT AT DOCTOR ST CLOUD’S LECTURE on the reign of Gerard the Last King. Basil was not really surprised, but he was disappointed. He’d hoped young Campion would be interested in his ideas as well as his body. I’m as much of a fool as poor King Hilary, he thought bitterly as he described Gerard’s bloody additions to the rites of the Festival of Sowing. And Hilary had had the excuse of being mad.

Reluctant to return to his cold rooms and his love-tossed bed, Basil sought food and warmth at the Blackbird’s Nest. The first thing that met his eye was Doctor Leonard Rugg sitting with his back to the room, staring morosely into a bowl of snapdragon gone cold. Basil went up to him. “You’re looking glum, Rugg. What’s the matter?”

“Nothing important,” said the metaphysician. “I don’t want to talk about it. The bitch.” He gestured at an empty bench. “Sit down, St Cloud; have a drink. Have you heard the latest?”

“Probably not.”

“You should get out more.” Rugg peered at him over the rim of the bowl. “You look pale. You need to stir up your blood. I’ll pass along my mistress if you like—the bitch. She’ll stir anyone’s blood.”

Basil snagged the potboy, ordered brandy, and settled back. “Is that the latest?”

“Oh, no, no. It’s Tremontaine again. Trouble all ’round. Lady Sophia’s trying to endow a chair for
women,
if you please—”

“Lady Sophia?” Basil sat up. He had heard the same name from Theron’s lips not twelve hours ago. “Lady Sophia
Campion?
”

“That’s the one.”

Basil was aware that there was a certain danger in pumping the greatest gossip in the University for information about his new lover. But he thought he might manage the trick, with a little care. “I suppose young Campion’s trouble, too,” he said wisely.

“I wouldn’t say that.” Rugg started to look more cheerful. “Never saw anything wrong with him myself; harmless enough puppy—though I hear that last mistress of his did him some damage. Still, no harm in him. Been coming to lectures since he was a lad. Can’t stick to a subject, loves ’em all: an academic flirt, eh? Still, he probably knows more about history than I do . . . and more about metaphysics than you do. What kind of trouble do they say he’s in?”

Basil racked his brains for an unrevealing answer, aware that he was better at analyzing intrigue than engaging in it, even at this mild level. “Ah, disappointment to the family?” he hazarded at last.

“Ha!” Leonard Rugg roared. “It would take a lot of work for Campion to give his family a sleepless night, after what the father put them through!”

Basil tried to look knowing. “Yes, but . . .”

Rugg said expansively, “Oh, you’re thinking of the Tremontaine Chair of Astronomy—certainly the old fellow did all that for us, and a great deal more besides. No one can say he wasn’t generous to the University, although the women’s mathematics scholarship created a considerable stir. But one can’t imagine him as a
husband,
if you catch my drift.”

Basil gave up trying to be subtle. “Leonard,” he said as lightly as he could. “Who is Theron Campion’s father?”

“Oh, don’t you know? He’s dead; be well over eighty now. Something in your line, I’d think, St Cloud, being history and all: he was Tremontaine, the Mad Duke. That one.”

Basil said absently, “I don’t do modern history,” while his mind raced, trying to place the late Duke Tremontaine.

“No more do you,” said Rugg, amused. “Listen carefully, then; there’ll be a test when I’m done.” He began ticking points off on his fingers: “Scandal number one: young noble went to University to study instead of to drink. Not done back then—not sure about now, either, but at least there’s a pretense. Scandal number two: got kicked out, went to live with a swordsman in Riverside. Not done then either—living there, I mean. Not like now. Watch wouldn’t even go there then. Scandal number three: inherits Tremontaine and fills the house with scholars, reprobates, and lovers of all, ah, shapes and sizes. Men, women, even historians.” He dug his elbow into Basil’s side. “If you know what I mean. The list goes on and on. Bestowed a rather colorful bastard on the city, too, though I hear she left town long ago. Scandal number . . . What was I up to?”

“Four,” said Basil, fascinated.

“Scandal number four: he was driven into exile, passing the duchy to his niece, the Lady Katherine Talbert. Then back he comes, years later, with a beautiful foreigner in tow, who claims to be his lawful wife, and conveniently produces a legitimate heir two months after the Mad Duke’s death.”

“And the beautiful foreigner is the Lady Sophia.”

“Damned queer woman. But odds are the boy will still inherit on his cousin’s death.”

“Inherit the duchy?”

“So it really doesn’t matter what he studies, does it?”

“On the contrary,” said Basil shortly. “I think it matters a great deal. If there’s one thing history has to teach us, it’s the importance of educating the ruling class in the realities of life.”

Rugg laughed. “They’ll hardly learn that in University, dear boy.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” a voice above them drawled. “Unheated lecture rooms, watered beer, incomprehensible feuds, indiscriminate sex, casual violence, and a general shortage of sleep seems uncommonly like real life to me.”

Basil started as if he’d been shot. He wondered how much of the conversation Theron had overheard. He wondered whether the pounding of his heart were visible through his robe. He feared it might be.

Theron was speaking. “Doctor St Cloud, I wonder if I might trouble you for a word in private?” His light voice sounded annoyed, but that just might have been his aristocrat’s drawl. Basil turned to look at him. The long mouth was hard and still.

Leonard Rugg punched him on the arm. “New student, eh? I wondered. . . . Well, congratulations, St Cloud. Don’t take a copper less than twenty for the term. He can afford it, can’t you, Campion?”

Theron smiled tightly. “Yes,” he said. “I can.”

“Thank you, Rugg,” said Basil. “I’m not exactly new at this, you know.” He rose and looked around the tavern. “There,” he indicated an empty table with his chin.

Basil stalked across the room. The boy should have told him who he was; he should never have approached him in public; he might at least have smiled at him. Basil sat down stiffly, determined to preserve his dignity, and saw that Theron was convulsed with silent laughter.

“Was I perfect?” he chortled. Basil stared at him suspiciously. “Well,
Doctor
St Cloud?”

“Campion, are you mad?” Basil growled. “Or am I supposed to say,
Lord Theron
?”

“I’m sorry.” The student wiped tears from his eyes. “I’m ruining the effect, aren’t I?” He reached across the table, touched Basil’s hand lightly. The scholar’s insides lit up like fireworks. “Let us discuss fees, then, so as not to disappoint Doctor Rugg. Tell me—” He leaned forward. Basil smelled his mouth, sweet with mint and the tang of his breath. “How much must I pay for another lesson like last night’s?”

The green eyes were flecked with gold. Basil smiled. “I wonder,” he murmured, “if you remember your lesson?”

“Perfectly,” the boy smiled back. “I paid particular attention. And now I would know more.”

“Would you, indeed?”

“You are the subject of my study, Doctor St—Basil. My desire is to understand you thoroughly, to uncover your mysteries, to pass examinations in your history and your tastes.”

Basil laughed. “My history is not so interesting as yours, Master Campion.”