The Lion of Senet (34 page)

“Misha is a sickly young man,” Belagren pointed out. “Nobody will think it odd that he dies young. It will be Kirshov who rules Senet.”

“Isn’t he supposed to be marrying Alenor? How can he be Prince Consort of Dhevyn and the Lion of Senet at the same time?”

Although out of the line of her vision, Marqel heard Madalan pouring another glass of wine from the decanter.

“Once Kirshov is married to Alenor,” the High Priestess explained, “Misha will die, and Rainan will have no choice but to accept him in the dual role of consort and prince.”

“How do you know Misha will die once Kirshov marries?”

“The same way I know what’s wrong with him, Madalan. Goddess! You don’t think I left anything as important as the succession of Senet to chance, do you?”

Madalan stared at the High Priestess. “You poisoned him?”

“Now that’s such a nasty word, Madalan. Let’s just say that Misha’s pain can only be relieved by regular doses of poppy-dust. Unfortunately for young Misha, it’s highly addictive. If he misses a dose of his ‘tonic,’ he suffers withdrawal, and the poor boy immediately thinks he’s dying.” Belagren smiled coldly. “So, of course, because taking our tonic makes him feel much better, everyone believes that it’s helping him.”

Madalan sounded quite horrified. “Belagren, have you any idea what Antonov would do if he realized you’d turned his son into an addict?”

“This is Misha we’re talking about, Madalan. The Crippled Prince. Anton can barely bring himself to look at the young man. And he has no experience with the symptoms of poppy-dust addiction.”

“And the physicians who tend Misha? Surely they suspect something?”

“There hasn’t been a physician near Misha Latanya in twenty years that I don’t own, Madalan. It would be a different story if it were Kirshov who was addicted. Anton dotes on his second son.”

“And what of Kirshov? How are you going to ensure that he’s on our side once he rules Senet?”

Belagren leaned back in her seat and took a sip from her golden cup. She glanced over her shoulder at the anteroom door, and for a moment, Marqel got the impression that the High Priestess knew she was listening.

“I believe that’s where our new acolyte comes in.”

“Marqel? She’s just a Dhevynian Landfall bastard.”

“I’m not interested in her origins, Madalan, just in what she’ll become. Did you know that she’s here because Kirshov personally intervened on her behalf when she was arrested? Apparently he’s quite besotted by the girl.”

“But you don’t know anything about her.”

“I
do
know that she’s a whore, a thief and a liar. That’s always a good start in this business.”

“She’s very young to trust with that sort of responsibility,” Madalan warned.

“Then your task, Madalan, will be to make sure that she
can
be trusted. Between now and when the second sun leaves our sky, I must have Kirshov Latanya so bound to us that he will turn his back on everything he believes to be decent and right if I crook my little finger in his direction.”

Marqel sagged against the door, her heart pounding.
There
is no Goddess,
she realized, her tenuous faith easily giving way to the truth of what she’d overheard.
No visions, no nothing. It’s
all a trick.
It’s just another show, albeit on a far grander scale than anything Marqel was accustomed to.

Just another circus...just another seedy bunch of traveling
performers with better costumes and more expensive props,
Marqel thought.

Only, the takings in this traveling circus weren’t merely a scattering of copper coins. For this performance, the players might well earn themselves a kingdom.

Chapter 55

The celebration for Prince Kirshov’s birthday was the most elaborate anyone could remember. It was like Landfall Night, every night, without the orgy. Or so Alenor claimed. Avacas was ablaze with light and music, the streets were full of entertainers. Every noble family in Senet and Dhevyn had sent a representative to the mainland to take part in the festivities. The city was filled with visitors—both highborn and peasant. They were here to curry favor, or take Kirshov’s measure, depending on which side of the political fence they sat.

Dirk was a little overwhelmed by it all. Although he had been at court on Senet for months now, the sheer excess left him gasping. Antonov was sparing no expense. There were banquets every day and balls every night, as the noble families of Senet tried to outdo themselves—and each other—proving their loyalty to the Lion of Senet.

Tonight was to be the most impressive function of them all. Dirk had suffered through the celebrations of the past week mostly because Alenor had looked at him with the desperate, get-me-out-of-here look that she often used on him. His nights had been long and tiring, filled with endless dances with Alenor and a succession of eligible young women whose fathers he couldn’t risk offending.

The ball tonight was being held in the palace and, as Dirk stood before the mirror checking his reflection for the hundredth time, he wondered if he could get an opportunity to dance with Alenor properly. He was a little fed up with having her step out onto the floor with him, clutching his arm and rolling her eyes as she scolded him for taking so long to come to her rescue. For once, he’d like to ask her to dance and have her smile and graciously take his arm, pleased to be in his company—not just relieved because of the escape he had been so well trained to offer her.

“You look gorgeous!” Eryk declared.

Laughter accompanied Eryk’s declaration. Dirk spun around guiltily as Kirsh burst into his room and caught him posing in front of the mirror. Kirshov had filled out in the last few months. He was taller than Antonov now, although he was leaner, more athletic. A golden coronet held down his fair hair, and his white jacket was embroidered with golden lions. He looked every inch his father’s son.

“Are you quite finished admiring yourself?” Kirsh chuckled.

“I suppose,” Dirk admitted, feeling a little sheepish.

“Come on, then! We’d better stop by Misha’s room before we go downstairs. I promised him we’d call in so he could admire us in all our finery.”

“Isn’t he coming to the ball?”

Kirsh shrugged. “He’s been pretty poorly since that last seizure.”

Dirk had grown to know Misha quite well over the last couple of months, and often spent time reading to him or playing chess when his illness forced him to stay in bed. Kirsh loved his brother, but as far as Dirk knew, Antonov’s second son had never been ill in his life. He didn’t really understand what Misha was going through.

Dirk privately wondered if Misha was simply using his illness to avoid a potentially uncomfortable evening, which he was not averse to doing on occasion. It would be hard for him to sit there and watch his younger, healthier brother feted by the nobility when he was too weak even to sit on a horse.

They had come from everywhere for the ball tonight: from as far away as Sidoria in the bleak northern wastes; the exotic islands of Galina in the far south; even from Damita, where Dirk’s mother had once been a princess.

“Come on,” Kirsh demanded impatiently. “Or do you want to stand there admiring yourself all evening?”

Dirk allowed himself one final glance in the mirror, still not certain he recognized the reflection that stared back at him. Prince Antonov had provided the finery he wore in the same way that everything else he had wanted or desired had been provided since he left Elcast. Antonov was many things that Dirk did not approve of, but miserly wasn’t one of them.

“What about Alenor?” Dirk asked with a wink at Eryk as he closed the door behind them. The wide halls were filled with scurrying servants, attending the scores of guests who were staying in the palace.

“Haven’t seen her all day. Not since Rainan arrived.”

“Your father let her see the queen?” Dirk asked in surprise.

“Of course he did. He’s not a monster, Dirk.”

Dirk didn’t comment, not wanting to offend Kirsh by getting into a discussion that would spoil the evening. He was learning very quickly to keep his opinions to himself. The last time he’d made a passing comment twelve innocent men had died.

“She’ll be at the ball, won’t she?”

“She’ll be there. And that reminds me. If you see that sniveling little cretin from Vivan go anywhere near her, run a fork or something through him, would you?”

“Duke Rhobsin, you mean?” Dirk asked. “If you’re so concerned about Alenor’s honor, why don’t you run him through yourself?”

“Don’t be stupid. I’m wearing white. I’d get blood all over my clothes.”

“Oh, well, in that case...”

Kirshov laughed as they reached Misha’s rooms. “I knew I could count on you.”

“Anything else I can do for you, while I’m at it, your highness? Anyone else you’d like me to murder? Apparently I’m quite good at it, if you believe the gossip around the palace.”

Kirsh frowned. “Nobody thinks anything of the kind, Dirk. Stop worrying about it!”

Dirk opened his mouth to argue the point, then shrugged, realizing the futility of it all, and knocked on the door to Misha’s room. There was no way Kirsh would understand.

Misha was propped up on a mountain of pillows, and he smiled at them as Ella let them into the bedroom. She bowed politely and left them alone, giving Dirk a long, considered look that made him quite uncomfortable as she left the room. Kirsh threw himself onto the side of the bed, making Misha wince in pain. Dirk remained standing at the foot.

“You two look like a couple of dandies,” Misha said.

“We’re going to dazzle everyone,” Kirsh agreed. “Are you sure you don’t want to come?”

“No. I’ll be better off here, I think. But you must come by tomorrow and tell me all about it. Everything.”

“I will,” Dirk promised.

Kirsh also nodded his agreement enthusiastically, but Dirk suspected that by tomorrow morning Kirsh would not be feeling nearly so eager. Hungover, certainly, but in no mood to relive the night with his bedridden brother. Misha smiled at Dirk knowingly. He knew Kirshov too well to expect him to keep such a promise.

“Well, you’d best be off then,” Misha advised them. “And try to stay out of trouble with the ladies. Remember, they all have fathers and brothers and some of them have armies.”

Kirsh groaned. “Have you
seen
some of those girls? The Duke of Cheyne’s daughter looks like the wrong end of a horse!”

“She laughs like one too,” Dirk added, thinking of the young woman’s braying giggles.

“And what about the one from Colmath? What’s her name? Piranha?” Kirsh said. “She eats like she’s scared to swallow a decent meal! And all she can talk about is crabs.”

“Crabs?” Misha asked with a raised brow.

“Her name’s Pirlana, and Colmath’s major industry is shellfish,” Dirk explained. “She’s rather proud of the fact that Colmath has recovered almost completely from the Age of Shadows. Apparently, her island is now producing more oysters than it did during the last Age of Light.”

“You sound like you’ve spent some time with the lady.”

“I have,” Dirk said with a grimace. “Kirshov dumped her on me last night at the Ambassador of Gateane’s Ball. I had to dance with her three times before I could get rid of her. I am now an expert on the Colmath fishing industry.”

Misha smiled at the expression on Dirk’s face. “Well, never fear, Dirk. Tonight nobody will even notice you. Young Kirshov here will outshine everyone.”

“You think they’re going to notice me?” Kirsh scoffed. “With Rainan here?”

“The queen knows it’s your birthday, Kirsh. I’m sure she’ll put aside her differences with father for this one night at least. Even the fact that she came to Senet is a good sign.”

“I suppose.” Kirsh shrugged. He never dwelt on politics for long. “We’d better get going. Father will have us burned at the next Landfall Feast if we get there after the queen. We’ll tell you all about it tomorrow.”

Misha smiled wanly and wished them luck before they left his room and headed down to the ballroom on the first floor.

The Grand Ballroom of Avacas Palace was the largest room Dirk had ever seen. It was easily four times the size of the Great Hall in Elcast, and was festooned with gold-and-white bunting that covered the elegant, hand-painted wallpaper for the party. A full orchestra was ensconced in the corner of the room near the open balcony doors, and the balmy evening, with its red-tinted light, filled the hall with a rosy glow. It was already half full of splendidly dressed men and magnificently jeweled women, who moved about sipping wine from gold-rimmed Sidorian crystal goblets handed out by waiters wearing the gold-and-white livery of Senet. The discordant sound of the musicians tuning their instruments did little to dent the hum of conversation that filled the hall.

The ballroom quickly filled with people as the Queen of Dhevyn’s scheduled appearance drew nearer. There was no sign of Alenor, so Dirk and Kirsh amused themselves by poking fun at the machinations of the noblemen and women present who were using this occasion to find suitable spouses for their offspring. They also devoted a considerable amount of effort to avoiding Lady Pirlana and her good friend Lady Harinova, the Duke of Cheyne’s daughter.

“It’s like a meat market,” Dirk observed.

Kirsh nodded. “They all think you’re destined for the Hall of Shadows. Be glad you’ve been spared it.”

“So have you. Aren’t you going to marry Alenor?”

The prince shrugged. “I suppose.”

“Don’t you love her?”

“I guess I do . . . sort of. Oh, hell, you know what I mean . . .”

Dirk shook his head disapprovingly. “Alenor loves you, Kirsh. Don’t you think you owe it to her to return her feelings?”

Kirshov studied him curiously for a moment. “Have you ever noticed how you’re always leaping to her defense? If I even look at her crosswise, you jump down my throat. If you ask me, you’re the one who’s in love with her.”

“Don’t be stupid!”

“I was only joking. And never fear for Alenor. When I have to marry her, I’ll see she’s taken care of. The last thing I want is you calling me out for upsetting her.”

“Just you remember that, too,” Dirk replied with mock severity. “I could take you any time I wanted.”

“I’m trembling with terror,” Kirsh declared. “Goddess spare me from the dreaded Butcher of Elcast!”

Dirk looked at him in shock.“
What
did you call me?”

“The Butcher of Elcast. I heard somebody call you that the other day. And don’t look at me like that! It was just gossip. Nobody listens to that sort of nonsense!”

“You apparently listened to it.”

Their discussion was interrupted by a fanfare from the orchestra. Kirsh grabbed Dirk’s sleeve and they hurried to take their places in the long lines that were rapidly forming a narrow corridor leading to the gilded throne at the other end of the hall. The fanfare ceased abruptly as they fell into line, and the orchestra struck up another tune, one that Dirk thought vaguely familiar, although he couldn’t place it. He didn’t really care, either. He was still reeling from the news that because of that incident with Johan Thorn, he had apparently acquired the title of the Butcher of Elcast.

The doors at the end of the hall opened and a score of the Queen’s Guard marched into the ballroom. Without any prompting, the crowd moved back a step to give the guards room. Garbed in silver breastplates, polished helms and royal blue cloaks, they were an awe-inspiring sight as they stepped through the hall in perfect unison until they were evenly spaced on either side of the corridor of people. Dirk glanced at Kirsh and smiled at his friend’s unabashed delight at the appearance of the Dhevynian Guard. Kirsh’s future lay bright and glittering before him. He could hardly wait to join them.

And I’m the Butcher of Elcast...