White Blood (12 page)

Barilan chose that moment to grab at Maryn’s ear with a cheerful babble, and she missed Carlich’s next words as she disentangled his fingers from the strands of hair he’d pulled loose from her braids. She offered the baby a knuckle to gnaw on, trying to catch what Carlich was saying. None of the chambermaids or kitchen girls would care about details of the treaty, but tales of discord within the royal family would be worthy of their notice.

“—listen with an open mind.” Carlich turned to Voerell. “I’ll need both of your support if I hope to have any chance of persuading Father and Marolan to hear me.”

“You know you can always count on me, Carlich. But whatever you think you’ve found must be troubling, indeed, if you think you can get Father and Marolan to consider the treaty as anything other than a gift from the Holy One himself.”

“From the Vulture, more likely,” Carlich muttered. At Voerell and Whirter’s quizzical looks, he put on an expression of determined cheerfulness and waved away their concern. “But that’s much too weighty a subject to tackle before we’ve eaten. If you’re ready, let’s move to the table and enjoy our repast. Afterwards I’ll share my thoughts with you.”

He rose, and ushered Voerell and Whirter into the next room, where servants bustled around a long table spread with many silver dishes. Maryn followed, shifting Barilan to her other shoulder and stretching her tired arms as unobtrusively as possible.

Steam rose from platters, and the smell of roasted meat and rich spices drifted in the air. Maryn breathed the delicious scents wistfully. Semprell had warned her to eat earlier, so she wasn’t hungry. But her meal had been the plain fare provided for the servants, while the banquet spread before her was surely the same food that graced the king’s table.

Barilan squirmed and made fretful noises. Maryn bounced him and patted his back as she took her position behind Voerell’s chair. It quieted him momentarily, but she could tell he wouldn’t stay happy for long. As soon as the nobles were absorbed in their meal, she unfastened her shift and positioned Barilan to nurse.

She paid close attention as he latched on. The first time was too shallow, so she detached him and tried again. Better, but still not quite right. Maryn treasured the sensation of nursing without pain too much to let herself get lazy and allow Barilan to use anything except perfect technique. Finally, the third time, her nipple went deep enough into his mouth. Maryn relaxed. Now that her nipples had healed as Litholl had promised they would, nursing Barilan was a pleasure. Her life as his nurse was all she could ask for. She was almost happy. As happy as it was possible for her to be, after—

The pain of her loss, never far away, swept over her. She closed her eyes and breathed deeply as images of Edrich and Frilan filled her mind. It was the only way she’d found to cope on the frequent occasions when some stray thought triggered a fresh outbreak of grief. Surrender to it without fighting, the way Siwell had taught her to respond to the pains of labor. Like those, after a time this pain eased, and she could focus again on her surroundings.

Voerell and the others continued to ignore her and Barilan as they ate. Maryn’s feet grew sore and her back stiff, and her arms ached with Barilan’s weight. Why had Voerell even bothered to bring her son along? To show off her perfect little family to her brother, Maryn supposed, though Carlich had so far given no sign that he was any more interested in the baby than Voerell was. Only Whirter occasionally glanced at Barilan in Maryn’s arms and smiled.

It felt to Maryn as if many hours passed, although the peals of church bells across the city drifted in through the windows only once. Finally the last of the frothy confection of creamed berries vanished from the crystal bowls and the feasters settled back in their chairs with sighs of replete pleasure. Voerell sipped a cup of steaming tea, while Carlich shared a bottle of spirits with Whirter.

“All right, Carlich.” Voerell set down her cup and crossed her arms. “You’ve kept us in suspense all through the meal, though I must say it was a pleasant distraction. Now tell us what terrible secrets you’ve discovered in Marolan’s marriage treaty.”

Carlich swirled his glass, his eyes fixed on the amber liquid. “I suppose I must. All I ask is that you don’t dismiss my concerns out of hand. Give everything I say due consideration before you make up your mind.”

“Of course. Gallows, you make it sound so ominous! I scarcely think anything in the treaty can be that bad. To hear you, you’d think Father had signed away Milecha’s sovereignty along with Marolan’s hand.”

“He may have.” Carlich met Voerell and Whirter’s startled looks squarely. “I’ve had the scribes prepare a copy, so you can see for yourselves. I’ll have it brought to the other room; we might as well get comfortable while we talk.”

Carlich summoned a servant and spoke to him in a low voice. Maryn trailed after Voerell, back to the sitting room. She felt just as curious as the princess and her husband looked, but she kept her eyes downcast. Barilan, full and happy, wiggled in her arms and made cheerful noisy comments to the room at large.

Whirter came and reached for his son. “I’d like to hold him for a while.”

“Yes, my lord.” Barilan stretched eager arms to his father as Maryn passed him over.

Whirter settled on a soft couch and balanced Barilan on his knees. Voerell seated herself stiffly next to them, while Carlich took a sheaf of closely written parchment from his servant and perched on the edge of a large upholstered chair at right angles to the princess and duke. Maryn took her usual position behind Voerell, but she edged to the side enough that she could see everything that was happening.

Carlich riffled the pages in his hands. “I suppose I first began to have concerns about three years ago. We had just beaten back the Hampsian incursions across the border. Whirter, you remember.”

Whirter nodded. “A costly battle.” He toyed with Barilan’s grabbing fingers.

They must be talking about the summer Maryn had turned fifteen. Fearful rumors had swept the land then, how the warlords of Hampsia, the large and powerful country to the northeast, would conquer them, slaughtering any who resisted and enslaving the rest to their pagan gods. Lord Negian had answered the king’s call to defend Milecha, taking Maryn’s father along among his levies. Father had been gone until the first snows, leaving the rest of the family to bring in what meager harvest they could without his labor. He’d returned with a limp and an angry red scar across his thigh.

Carlich nodded. “It was my first command. My men acquitted themselves well; Father rewarded me by allowing me to accompany him and Marolan in the negotiations to end hostilities. I was supposed to be quiet and observe, but of course there were a few matters I couldn’t help but express my opinion about.”

“Of course,” Voerell agreed wryly.

“In particular I was deeply impressed by some of the feats of sorcery I’d seen the Hampsians perform on the field. They accomplished things with gestures unlike anything we could do with incantations. I was eager to learn their techniques. I tried to persuade Father to offer to send me for a year to the Hampsian court, as a gesture of goodwill. But he wouldn’t hear of it; wouldn’t even put the offer on the table. We could have won some valuable concessions in exchange, too.

“I was furious, and I insisted on knowing why he was so opposed to the idea. He tried to put me off with a lot of nonsense about how I was needed in Loempno, how he didn’t want me influenced by Hampsia’s pagan ways. But finally, when I kept badgering him, he looked at me.” Carlich drew back his shoulders, puffed out his chest, and made his voice a fair imitation of King Froethych’s round tones. “He said, ‘Son, you should be looking west, not east. In a few years when your brother marries the Wonoran princess, there will be no place in Milecha for the kind of sorcery they practice in Hampsia.’”

Whirter frowned. Voerell started to speak, but stopped, shaking her head. Carlich raised his eyebrows at them. “I stormed off, and the negotiations were concluded without me. Once back in Loempno I hired a Hampsian sorcerer to teach me gestural magic. And I started reading a copy of the treaty with Wonora. I wanted to know what other restrictions on my freedom I could expect when Marolan married Dolia. I found much to trouble me.”

He flipped through the pages. “For instance, right here, in the section on trade. Father talks a lot about how Wonora will drop all tariffs on our goods, while we’ll still receive payments for theirs, and be free to set our own policy in regards to trade with other kingdoms. But did you know that only holds true for twenty years? After that, over a period of five years we’ve contracted to drop all tariffs on goods from Wonora, and bring the rest of our tariffs in line with Wonora’s. Including, though it’s not spelled out in so many words, the ridiculously high charge on Hampsian linen.”

Voerell frowned. “But half of Milecha wears Hampsian linen, at least when we’re at peace. Nothing we grow compares to it.”

“That’s just my point. Wonora wants to force us to buy their linen, though it’s far inferior quality. It will take a few years for their plan to come to fruition, but the king of Wonora is patient, unlike Father.”

All this talk of tariffs and trade policy confused Maryn. But it certainly didn’t sound good for Milecha. And she’d spun both Hampsian and Wonoran linen, as well as that grown in Milecha, and she agreed with Voerell’s assessment of their relative qualities. It would be a shame indeed to have no more access to the smooth, strong strands of the flax that grew in the colder lands to the northeast, and have to make do with the weaker, rougher southwestern variety.

Voerell looked troubled. “I don’t like it. Still, that’s only one provision. Milecha gains so much in return, surely it’s worth it.”

Carlich dug further through the pages of the treaty, passing several to his sister. “I might agree, if it were just the one. But there are many others. Look at this, for instance. We grant Wonora freedom to move their troops across our lands. Invaluable for us if it comes to war with Hampsia again. But there’s no limit on how many, or how long they can stay. I’m not implying they intend an actual invasion, but how strongly will we dare to disagree with them on any matter if their forces are all over our kingdom? And we’ve agreed to eventually raise the tax rates to match theirs, without regard to whether or not our people can support such high payments.”

Maryn’s attention began to wander. She couldn’t follow all the technical details Carlich was explaining, though Voerell listened intently and frequently interrupted him with questions or objections. Barilan was still happy with Whirter. He played with his father’s fingers as Whirter quietly listened, only occasionally making a comment.

Maryn was wondering if she might persuade Semprell to allow her to take Barilan for a walk in the garden tomorrow if the weather was fair, when Barilan’s name called her attention back to Carlich’s words.

“—puts Barilan at risk, and me as well.”

Maryn stiffened. What in the treaty could put Barilan at risk? She strained to catch every word.

“I must have read it a dozen times without realizing what it meant.” Carlich held up a sheet of paper. “But once I thought about it, I understood the danger. And I realized I must stop the treaty from going into effect.”

Voerell accepted the paper from Carlich and studied it, her brow furrowed. Whirter shifted Barilan to his shoulder and bent close. Maryn held herself very still, lest any of them notice she was listening.

“Everyone knows that Marolan and Dolia will each keep their separate inheritance, with him becoming king of Milecha upon Father’s death, and she reigning as queen of Wonora when her father passes. And that their first son will become heir to Milecha, while their second”—Carlich quirked a wry smile at the word—“will inherit the crown of Wonora.”

“Of course.” Voerell shifted impatiently.

“But do you know what will happen if Marolan and Dolia do not produce two male heirs?”

Whirter cocked his head. “Doesn’t it say that if they have no issue after ten years, the marriage will be dissolved, and both will be free to wed again?”

“Yes, and that was a point Father had to fight hard for, because the Wonoran laws on divorce are so strict. I have no problem with that provision; in fact it might be the best possible outcome. But say they have one son, and a whole palace full of daughters.”

“Well, then, I suppose the eldest girl would inherit Wonora. Since the law there allows for women to take the crown if there are no male heirs.” Voerell’s voice was bitter.

“That’s just what the treaty specifies. But here’s the trick. What if they have no boys, only girls?”

Whirter leaned in. “I think I see your point. That would be fine for Wonora, for their daughter could become queen. But Milechan law never allows a woman to wear the crown in her own right.”

Carlich nodded. “If Marolan should die without a son, the Kingship would pass first to me, then to any sons I might have, then to Barilan and any brothers you give him. But what if we were out of the picture, and there was no Sompirla heir available?”

Voerell frowned. “I suppose it would be the same as when the plague killed off all the last dynasty. The magic of the Kingship would be loosed, and it would fall to the people to acclaim a new king. The way they chose Great;-;Grandfather Fridollan, because of his father’s sacrifice.”

Carlich stabbed his finger at the paper. “That’s the way it should be. But do you know what the treaty says would happen? Not just in this generation, but if ever again in the future Milecha is without a male heir?”

Voerell creased her brow. “No, I don’t think I ever heard what it specifies in that case.”

“It’s hidden far down in an obscure paragraph, couched in confusing language, but if you read it you’ll see there’s only one possible interpretation. If either country ever finds itself without a suitable heir, rule will revert to the sovereign of the other kingdom. Forever. And I ask you, with Milecha’s more restrictive laws, which land is more likely to be heirless?”

Voerell sat back, eyes wide. “Milecha would be no more.”