The Queen of Mages (13 page)

Amira took a deep breath and plunged
forward. The wooden walls quickly gave way to stone, meaning she
was in—or under—one of the old towers. The hall here was narrow
enough that she could touch both sides at once, until the walls
fell away on both sides and her footsteps began to echo. Burbling
water sounded from ahead of her.

It occurred to her that maybe her ember
could light the way. She concentrated and pushed it out of her
head. She could see the little silver bead floating before her, but
it did not illuminate anything, not even when she moved it near to
the wall. Perhaps there was something in here she could set alight,
but without being able to see, it might be futile or even dangerous
to try. She sighed and let the silver bead dissipate. She thought
about returning to find a candle, but the prospect of backtracking
sickened her.

She took probing steps forward until her
slipper landed in something wet. She felt liquid flowing over her
foot, and tried to pretend that it was clean water, despite the
stench. But she could feel which way the liquid was flowing—and
that meant downhill was to her left. She turned that way and
followed the rivulet slowly through the darkness. After several
minutes, a faint silhouette became visible—or was she seeing
things?

The silhouette resolved into bars. She came
to a metal grate that spanned the width of the tunnel. Dim light
crept in somewhere ahead.
Almost dawn? I really did sleep half
the day.
Katin and Dardan would be worried sick by now… if they
were still all right.

Part of the grating turned out to be a gate,
old and rusted. A padlock sat in grimy pieces on the floor next to
it, the broken hasp still clinging to the latch. No one had been
through here in ages. She wondered if the royals even knew that
this way existed.

Amira passed through the gate and pushed it
shut behind her. She turned around, then jerked back when she
noticed the steep drop just inches before her feet. She slipped on
some unidentifiable muck, but held tight to the grating, which
groaned in protest.

The flow of wastewater dripped down over the
edge. A stagnant pool lurked below. She’d have to jump; there was
no ladder. If the pool was shallow, she might break her legs on
landing. Of course, if it was deep, she’d be up to her neck in
shit.

The only way out was down. She took a deep
breath, gagging on the smell, and lowered herself backward over the
edge, to shorten the fall. Then her hands slipped, and panic flared
as she plunged downward.

King Viktor II Relindos, Defender of the
People, Protector of the Realm, stubbed his toe on a chair and
cursed.

He’d woken bleary-eyed, his bladder taut,
and stumbled out of bed toward the privy. But apparently he’d left
a chair in the middle of the floor—he did not remember doing
this—and so crashed into it in the predawn gloom.

The queen rolled over in bed and murmured
something in her sleep. She always slept long. Viktor woke early no
matter what he did. Staying up late drinking invariably left him
with headaches, but he wasn’t about to put drink aside. And on the
night of the summer ball, well, a king was the greatest of men,
wasn’t he? He should have a thirst to match. And he had. And now
his head felt like an overripe melon.

Pissing in the privy gave him such base
pleasure that it almost made the early waking worthwhile. He
stumbled back to bed, lay down, and could not sleep.

When the first spots of sunlight hit the
wall, he rose again and put on his dressing robe and slippers. His
chief secretary had left a scrap of paper listing the day’s
schedule. The Greater Council would meet, and he had a visit to the
docks. The docks? He hated going to the docks, bumping the entire
length of the city in a damned coach, his bones rattling the whole
way. Why was he going to the docks? Oh, the Parilian ambassador was
leaving. Or a new one was arriving? He couldn’t remember. He didn’t
care.

Ah, but he also had a meeting with the Army
Council! He’d get to see his troops in formation, drilled within an
inch of their lives. He missed the martial life. Ruling was
altogether too full of finance and politics. If only he could find
some way to spend more time managing his army. Maybe he
should
attack Vasland, and lead the army himself.

None of these thoughts were new; they were
his daily catechism. He quietly opened the bedroom door and went
out, leaving his wife snoring happily.
She
had no problems
sleeping, the witch.

Two guards stood in the dressing chamber,
and four more, he knew, in the antechamber beyond. He was in no
mood for greetings, but his tea was waiting as always, the mug
perfectly warmed and wrapped in a towel.
Not enough honey.
He added a little more from the jar and drank, beginning to feel
human again.

The morning was a parade of ritual. Washing,
dressing, meeting with his secretary, breakfast with his wife and
children—Edon was absent, of course; the boy was so
unreliable—meeting with the castellan, meeting with the
undercaptain of guards, as Captain Portio was away on some errand.
Writs to sign, decisions to make, messages to consider. Lord Gessim
showed up at some point and murmured reports from his spies. The
man had taken well to the job of spymaster. He had eyes and ears
everywhere, and his information was already more thorough and
timely than Keller’s had been.

He stopped by the palace library to check in
on Luka. The boy spent a few minutes regaling his father with
stories of ancient battles and kings long dead. Viktor listened
patiently, then patted him on the head and said he’d see him at
supper.

The Army Council met in a brightly lit
chamber just above the practice yard. The three knights-general in
charge of the royal army stood stiffly in their formal plate and
cloaks, their adjutants lurking behind them, all awaiting the
king’s pleasure as he strode in. “Gentlemen, good morning,” he
said, feeling cheerful for the first time that day.

“Majesty,” they said in unison. Two of them
had served in the Vaslander war. The third, Sir Edvan, was younger,
but a veteran of the Braenar Crags. The Black Mountains devolved
into confusing, frosty hills in the east, and Vaslander raiding
parties were a continuous nuisance in the Crags. Sir Edvan had
distinguished himself in rooting out and hanging several Vaslander
chiefs who had been making trouble.

Sir Pennian and Sir Laurence waited until
Viktor settled into one of the comfortable velvet chairs before
they sat. Edvan, as the most junior, both in age and experience,
sat last. “Feeling well, sire?”

“Better now that I’m here,” Viktor said.
“Give me the report.”

Sir Pennian coughed once, and his adjutant
handed a long sheet of parchment down to him. Pennian had started
to grow fat; Viktor noticed the pouchiness developing along his
jaw.
He spends too long at the ledgers, and not time enough in
the yard.
“As your majesty instructed, our garrisons in the
counties of Riftwall, Warhorn, Black Dells, Cold Hills, and Braenar
have sent men out on maneuvers. The garrisons in Haven, Iceford,
Witchdale, Tyndam, Vannar, and Elsingham have doubled their
readiness, and the fortresses in all three passes through the Black
Mountains are on their highest alert.”

“While I agree with our need for readiness,
sire,” Sir Laurence put in, “I must remind you of the extra cost
this heightened state of activity entails. Duke Faroa of Blackwall
and Duke Eltasi of Seawatch have so far borne the cost themselves,
but I fear they will apply for reimbursement from the crown before
long.”

“Let them,” Viktor said, flicking his
hand.

Edvan scowled. “Duke Faroa cornered me the
day before yesterday, sire. He made known his displeasure at being
forced to bear this cost. He said that as Blackwall is a shield to
the kingdom, so should the kingdom contribute toward Blackwall’s
efforts.”

“I suppose he said this all somewhat more
subtly,” Viktor grinned. Edvan was a trustworthy and honest young
man. If Prince Edon had had wits and even a touch of his mother’s
goodness, he’d have been like Edvan.

Sir Edvan nodded. “I think he hoped to sway
my opinion so that I might pass his thoughts on to you, as if they
were my own.” He snorted. “The man is obvious.”

“And tedious. What of Westrift and
Thorncross?”

“No complaints I’ve heard, sire,” Sir
Laurence said. “Duke Loram supports your majesty’s position. Duke
Maximillian of Westrift has not been in Callaston for months, and
has not sent any word on this matter. Few of his garrisons are
affected, though, so perhaps he chose to keep quiet.”

“A wise man,” Viktor said. “I could do with
more quiet dukes. Now, what of the Wardens?”

Pennian shifted uneasily. “Well… it seems
Warden-Commander Ebersbach rejected eight of the last ten
candidates we sent him. He seems to be growing pickier of
late.”

Sir Laurence drummed his fingers on the
table. “We have too many knights in this army and nowhere to put
them. If Ebersbach keeps turning his nose up at our men, we will
have to turn some of them out, unless more funds can be
appropriated.”

Viktor sighed. “I shall speak with
Ebersbach, then, and make him see reason. Although perhaps you
should stop minting so many knights.”

“Yes, sire,” Pennian said, frowning. “But
with the current promotion schedules, you see, and with the number
of men we have, and the rate at which men leave service—”

“I’m sure you’ll think of something.” Viktor
clapped his hands. “Let’s inspect the men.”

The balcony outside looked down onto the
practice yard. An entire battalion of foot stood at the ready in
perfect lines, helms and pikes gleaming in the sun. Their captain
stood at the fore, his sergeant at his side. When Viktor appeared
above, the sergeant shouted a command, and every man in the
battalion snapped his pike up in unison, then spun it around to the
other arm. As one, they stamped a boot when the action was
completed.

Viktor applauded. “Bravo! Well trained.” The
captain down below saluted sharply, and spun on his heel. The
sergeant continued shouting, and after several more maneuvers, the
individual lines turned and began to march from the practice
yard.

“You’ve kept the men well-disciplined,”
Viktor said to Sir Pennian.

“Begging your pardon, sire, but it’s Sir
Edvan who’s got them all in lockstep,” Pennian said. “The men
follow him. He’s a natural leader.”

This, Viktor could believe. Inspiring men
was not Pennian’s strong suit, but he excelled at organization and
planning. He was worth his weight in gold for insulating Viktor
from the grinding tedium of ledgers and numbers.

Sir Laurence kept a weather eye on how the
dukes of the realm made use of the garrisons and the soldiers
stationed within. Keeping a standing army had been a genius
innovation of one of Viktor’s ancestors, a hundred years ago or
more. Before that, kings of Garova had oft suffered insurrections
from dukes and counts fielding their own armies. With a permanent
force that owed its allegiance directly to the king, Viktor could
much more easily control his dukes, who were mostly relegated to
overseeing economic matters in their domains. As they should be.
Dukes became dukes because their fathers were dukes. Knights became
knights because they earned it. And Wardens… Viktor had never
understood their particular zealotry, their desire to fuse service
to the Caretaker with martial aims, subject to the army and yet
separate from them. But they obeyed, and that was enough for
him.

As the last soldiers departed the practice
yard, Viktor’s stomach rumbled and he thought about luncheon. He
came back inside to see a palace guard conferring with one of the
adjutants. Then the adjutant went whispering to Sir Pennian, who
blinked at him in alarm. Viktor walked over to them. “What is
it?”

“Sire, uh… it seems there’s been an
incident. With… Prince Edon.”

Viktor’s heart sank.
Not again.
“What
happened?”

“It seems…” Pennian gulped, clearly not
wanting to bear bad news to his liege. “He’s been attacked,
sire.”

“What? Where is he? Take me to him at once!”
Viktor’s voice, at least, remained undiminished by time. Men leapt
to obey upon hearing it. They always had.

“He’s in his chambers, sire,” the palace
guard said nervously. “I’ll take you there.”

Sir Mirlind, Viktor’s chief bodyguard,
stepped out of the shadows. “His majesty knows where his son’s
chambers are, idiot,” he said. He had a drooping gray moustache and
chubby cheeks that made him look like a friendly uncle, but Viktor
had never known a man quicker to anger.

So Edon was still in the palace. They
wouldn’t have to go find him out in the woods somewhere. The boy
had no fixed schedule. Some days he left at dawn to ride and hunt
in the royal preserve; other days he stayed in his chambers until
nightfall. Still others he spent in brothels in Callaston. He gave
Viktor fits. How would the boy ever rule, when he had no
discipline?

And now this. Why did Viktor always have to
assume that when trouble found Edon, it was Edon’s fault? Not for
the first time, he regretted the custom that the king and crown
prince had no
valai
. Some said it was to make them
self-reliant, rather than having a personal servant at hand. But a
valo
might have been able to keep Edon out of some trouble.
Sir Thoriss was a brilliant warrior, but he could not even begin to
protect Edon from himself.

Sir Mirlind led the way as they left
Pennian, Laurence, and Edvan behind. Edon’s chambers were halfway
around the palace. Viktor found himself huffing by the time they
arrived.
I’m growing as soft as Pennian.
Coaches everywhere,
plush carpets, servants handling your every whim. Even without a
valo
, he was coddled. In the field twenty years ago, his
whole entourage had been two men who helped him into his armor,
fetched him food, and guarded him with their lives.

His son’s chambers came into sight. Several
guards milled around outside, some with swords drawn, but they
hastily sheathed them when they saw who approached. One even went
to his knee. Viktor was heartened when the man’s comrade slapped
him over the head and told him to get up. Nobles wasted their time
kneeling to kings. Servants and guards had jobs to do and no time
for such nonsense.

Captain Portio, head of the palace guard,
stood by the door. “His highness is inside,” he said, and pulled
open the door for the king. He caught Viktor’s eye for a moment,
and the king saw apprehension.

Within the antechamber, Edon sat in a plush
chair, toying with a dagger. He had a huge white bandage covering
his left cheek. The palace surgeon, Lord Ulin, stood next to him,
tapping his fingers together nervously. He was a little man,
hunched and bald, with a face like a rat. He was cordial enough,
but Viktor had always thought him craven. There was one who would
never face battle like a man.

The king and his son gazed at one another.
“What happened?” Viktor asked after a moment.

Edon glanced up at Lord Ulin. “That is all,”
he said calmly. Lord Ulin made haste to leave. “All of you, wait
outside,” Edon said, eyeing the various guards.

Viktor waited as they all left. Edon looked
down after a moment, and realized he was sitting while the king
stood. He got up, leaving the dagger on a side table. “Father, I’m
afraid I made a mistake. I brought a girl here. She went mad and
attacked me.”

The king was not even remotely surprised,
only dismayed by the predictability of it. Edon’s bedroom exploits
were a constant source of gossip. Viktor had no problem with a
young man sowing his wild oats, but with Edon it had gotten out of
hand too many times. It was becoming an embarrassment, and Edon had
better learn—

“She killed Sir Thoriss.”

Viktor’s eyes bulged. “Is that a joke?”

Edon shook his head. “I don’t know how, but
she burned my face with a candle, and when I recovered enough to
look, Thoriss was dead on the floor.” He glanced over his shoulder.
“He’s still there, in fact. Ulin wanted to remove him but I thought
you should see.”

Viktor frankly didn’t believe his son, so he
went into Edon’s study and looked. There, face-down on the floor in
a pool of blood, lay Sir Gaelan Thoriss. Blood had leaked from his
ears. His sword lay on the floor next to him, clean.