It took two men to carry in the long, slim casket that held Karyndein’s treasure. The box was made of a bright metal that looked more yellow than gold, and it was randomly studded with an array of jewels. The servants carried it by handles welded to either end, and they wore gloves on their hands to keep from leaving fingerprints.
One of the men was from Karyndein and impervious to Cammon’s quick scrutiny, but the other was from Gillengaria. That’s odd, Cammon thought. The Gillengaria man wore Karyndein livery and kept his head ducked down as if overwhelmed by such unfamiliar surroundings. Cammon wondered if one of Khoshku’s own servants had fallen ill on the road, and this man had been pressed into service, hired at a roadside inn, perhaps, or even supplied by Baryn when Khoshku arrived shorthanded.
Cammon pressed a little harder, poking at the other man’s mind as he might poke at an anthill, waiting for something to spill out. There was a furtive excitement there, belying the stoic attitude, and it was starting to expand to almost uncontainable proportions with every slow step the two men took toward Baryn’s chair. Then an image flashed into the man’s mind—brief and clear—a vision of himself dropping his end of the casket, pulling free a hidden knife, leaping for the king—
“Senneth!” Cammon cried, and then the whole room went mad.
Chairs crashed to the floor as people jumped to their feet; the air was full of shouting. A column of fire suddenly danced around Amalie, and several women were shrieking. Through the kinetic swarm of bodies, it was hard to sort out exactly what was happening, but the actions of two people were absolutely clear: Senneth had vaulted across the table to stand beside Amalie, safe within the circle of fire, and the regent had drawn his sword and hacked his way to the king. Both Senneth and Romar Brendyn looked absolutely murderous.
“My liege! What is happening? What is this outrage?” the ambassador was shouting. Those were the last words he had a chance to say, because doors blew back from two ends of the room, and King’s Riders poured in. Within seconds, the ambassador had Tayse’s sword at his throat, and every other guest had been shoved away from the table and against the wall. The Riders were taking no chances. They didn’t know why the alarm had been raised and who might be guilty of what crime. They were ready to destroy anyone in the room.
“Cammon,” Senneth said over her shoulder. “What is it?”
“That man—the one kneeling on the floor in front of the regent,” Cammon said in a shaky voice. “He’s got a knife and he was going to attack the king.”
An incredible outcry at that. Wen spun away from the well-dressed couple who were cowering in front of her sword, and dropped to her knees beside the disguised Gillengaria man. He yelped and tried to scrabble away, but she caught him by the collar, jerked him back, and planted her knee on his spine. It wasn’t long before she’d uncovered the blade—a long, sharp kitchen knife, wicked and finely made.
“Messy, but will get the job done,” she said, sliding it through her belt. “We searched everyone before they came through the gates. He picked it up here.”
Khoshku found his voice. “Your Majesty! Most excellent king! I did not—this is not—I cannot express my horror! This was not my king’s intention—I swear, neither he nor I had any knowledge—”
The wall of flame around Amalie abruptly disappeared as Senneth decided the princess wasn’t in danger. Queen Valri instantly came around the table and hurried to Amalie’s side, putting her arms around the princess. The Riders lowered but did not sheathe their swords, and the shaken guests began to collapse in their chairs. Baryn was staring fixedly at the ambassador, who still had Tayse’s blade about three inches from his throat.
“You will be returned immediately to your own country and be very glad I do not have you executed on the spot,” Baryn said in an icy voice. “I see now why there has been such a long history of distrust between our nations.”
“Majesty, you must believe I had no inkling such a hideous crime would be attempted,” the ambassador begged. “For a man of Karyndein to behave in such a way—I cannot believe—I cannot understand—”
“He’s not a man of Karyndein,” Cammon interrupted, and then everybody was staring at him. He blushed and fell silent.
“Who is he, then?” Senneth said.
Cammon shook his head. “He’s from Gillengaria. I don’t know how he ended up in the ambassador’s train.”
Khoshku looked bewildered. “But—everyone who attends me is from my own country. Why would I need more servants when I have plenty of my own? How did he come to join my company?”
“Let’s ask him,” Wen said in a pleased voice. She twisted her hand through her captive’s hair and yanked back hard. He cried out in pain but didn’t speak.
Suddenly the Karyndein servant broke into low sobs and began confessing in a choked, rapid voice, saying something only the ambassador could understand. Khoshku looked, if possible, even more appalled. “He says that shortly after we sailed into Forten City, a few of my men got into a drunken brawl. There was a dreadful fight, and my servants were overmatched until a few strangers came to their aid. One of my men disappeared—they believed he had run away—but they were too embarrassed to tell me. And this other man, this impostor, he agreed to come with us so I would not realize anyone was missing.” Khoshku looked with horror at the king. “He has been with us all this time. More than a week.”
As clearly as if Tayse had spoken, Cammon could feel the big Rider’s contempt. You are so ill-acquainted with the men who serve you that you can spend a week with a stranger and not realize it? Such a fate would never befall Baryn, who prided himself on a close relationship with each of his Riders.
Though he might not, perhaps, recognize each of his cooks and scullery maids and lower footmen, Cammon thought. How many great lords would? Cammon could catch the same ideas cycling through the minds of all the nobles in the room. I would know my own men…most of them…well, one or two might slip by me. The thought made all of them uncomfortable, Cammon could tell.
“This is a very distressing tale,” Baryn said, but his voice was a degree or two warmer. “We must have time to review your story, interrogate this—this—person, and decide if we believe you are telling the truth.”
“What’s significant is that this brawl occurred in Forten City,” Senneth said. “We have long suspected that Rayson Fortunalt is in league with Halchon Gisseltess in plans to unsettle the throne.”
Now Khoshku was starting to look angry. Cammon could scarcely imagine how the ambassador could have had a worse day, and he did not look like the sort of man who could always keep his ire in check. “No one told us not to sail to Forten City,” he said stiffly. “No one told us outlaws would be lying in wait for us, trying to turn our mission of peace into a bloody debacle.”
Tayse glanced from Senneth to Cammon to the king. “They’re targeting envoys,” he said in a quiet voice. “This is the second one.”
Cammon could feel the bewilderment that swept over everyone else in the room, but the three of them nodded back. Of course. The assassin who had crept into Ghosenhall a couple of weeks ago had been dressed in Arberharst colors, but he had been a Gillengaria man with murder to his credit.
“And we have to believe they’ll keep trying,” Senneth said.
Finally, Tayse slipped his sword back in its scabbard. “And they won’t always come in disguise.”
“I demand to know what is happening in Gillengaria and why I have been chosen to appear as a villain,” said Khoshku, truly beginning to work up some righteous indignation. “It seems there is trouble in the realm and I have stumbled into the middle of it! Explain this to me! All of it!”
Baryn merely turned his gentle smile on Khoshku and waved everyone else to their seats. “In good time, my dear ambassador. Let us now finish our meal, so rudely interrupted. I believe there is some excellent wine waiting to be served, and it will make all of us feel very much better.”
NATURALLY, the rest of the luncheon was an awkward, ru
shed affair, strange and uncomfortable even after the Riders had carried off the impostor. Cammon could tell that all the marlords and marladies were relieved when it was over, and Valri hurried Amalie out of the room as quickly as she could. Riders reappeared to escort Khoshku into a private conference with the king, and Cammon was off duty.
He was still in the kitchen, stuffing himself with leftover food, when Senneth came looking for him.
“Well done,” she said, ruffling his hair. “The king has directed Milo to give you all sorts of rewards—bags of gold or some such thing. I told him to have it delivered to Jerril’s.”
Cammon was pleased, more by the praise than the money, because what use did he have for gold? He didn’t own anything, and didn’t want anything, either. “It seems he would be better off hiring me to protect him than Amalie.”
“He considers Amalie more valuable.”
“So is this going to happen again and again? Murderers sneaking into the city to try to kill the king?”
Senneth sighed, glanced around, and pulled up a chair. He was sitting at the massive table in the middle of the enormous kitchen, and probably twenty cooks and scullery maids were scurrying around them, cleaning up the remains of the meal. Not the most private place to have a conversation. Still, by now everyone in the palace compound, down to the youngest groom in the stables, knew there had been an attempt on the life of the king.
“I wouldn’t be surprised,” she said. “We have heard talk of war for a year now. If I were to guess, I would say Halchon Gisseltess and his allies are waiting for good weather before making an assault on the throne. They plan to take us into battle—but if they can kill Baryn first, they will be that much closer to their goal.”
“Then—like I said—”
She smiled. “He has the Riders to protect him. You need to watch over Amalie.” She glanced around the kitchen again. “Actually, I thought you could watch over both of them. If you’re living at the palace, you’ll be able to sense anyone who comes in and out of the gates.”
“Living at the palace? I thought—”
“I know. I’ve sent to Jerril for your things.” She took in his borrowed costume, and her smile widened. “Though I don’t know why I bothered. My guess is Milo will provide you with an entirely new wardrobe, since your own is so atrocious.”
Cammon felt a certain excitement—What an honor! Commanded to serve at the will of the king!—and a certain disquiet. What if he failed, what if no one liked him, what if he embarrassed himself and the royalty he was set to serve? And what would Jerril and Lynnette do—and Areel—without him there? For he completed many of the harder physical chores, and his sunny disposition cheered their bleaker days—he didn’t have to be a reader to know that, they had each told him so. They viewed him as a sort of favored nephew or grandson. “Can I go back some days?” he said. “Just to visit?”
Senneth’s face showed a good deal of comprehension. “Of course. You won’t be a prisoner here in the palace. And Jerril and the others will get along just fine without you. Why, you were gone for months last year, traveling around the country with me. How do you think they managed then?”
He grinned and ducked his head. “I just wanted—it seemed—”
She ruffled his hair again. “You’ve been abandoned so many times yourself that you hate to abandon anyone else,” she said, though he had never told her that, not in so many words. “I know. But this time, trust me, Cam, it’s all right. Now, come on. I’m supposed to take you to say hello to the princess.”
CHAPTER
4
CAMMON saw the princess and straightaway stopped worrying about anybody else.
Senneth ushered him into a room he had never seen before, much smaller than most of the grand salons that made up the palace. It was on the second floor, tucked behind a stairwell and overlooking the back part of the compound, the walled gardens and lightly wooded acres. There was a feminine feel to it, for all the hangings were in soft pinks and deep creams, and cold sunlight poured in through the tall windows.
Valri was sitting in a striped chair, her hands folded in her lap and her expression grave. It wasn’t just her black hair and midnight-blue gown that gave her an impression of darkness; she seemed pooled with tension and gloom. By contrast, Amalie, standing and smiling down at the queen, radiated light. She was still wearing her gold dress and her red-gold hair was unbound. She stood in the sunshine and seemed to be made of some burnished and beautiful element.
“Majesties,” Senneth said, and curtseyed. Cammon echoed her with a clumsy bow.
Amalie flew across the room, put her hands on Cammon’s shoulders, and kissed him on the cheek.
He forgot everything else.
“Cammon!” the princess exclaimed, stepping back a little but keeping one hand on his sleeve. “Thank you for saving my father’s life! What would have happened if you hadn’t been there? I can’t bear to think about it.”
“Well, I was there,” was all he could think to say, and it sounded idiotic. He beamed down at her.
“And thank all the gods for that,” she replied warmly.
Senneth moved between them with apparent carelessness, but Cammon knew she did it on purpose. Amalie dropped her hand. “What would have happened is that the assassin would have pulled his knife and leapt for the king, and your uncle Romar would have interfered, and probably killed the man, and the commotion would have brought the Riders in, and your father might have been wounded but he would not have died.”
“You can’t know that,” Amalie said.
“No,” said Senneth, “but that is truly what I believe. Come, shall we sit down?”
They pulled chairs up next to Valri, all of them wanting to bask in the sunlight. The dark queen said, “I admit, I was surprised to see the regent pull a sword. I thought only Riders were allowed weapons inside the palace walls.”
Senneth smiled. “Yes, but Lord Romar is a swordsman, and a good one, too, and his loyalty is beyond question. So, he is allowed to bear arms.”
“I wish we could simply close up the palace and never speak to another soul,” Valri said. “Keep everybody safe within its walls.”
“Hardly an effective way to govern,” Senneth said gently.
“And now we are to have a parade of suitors vying for Amalie’s hand, and every last one of them will be lying about something, and we shall have to be on our guard every single hour of every single day,” the queen said bitterly. “I spent all of last summer afraid for her life, and now I shall have to be afraid all over again.”
Cammon was interested to see that it was Amalie who leaned forward to offer comfort. Amalie was only six or seven years younger than her stepmother, and the bond between them appeared to be very tight. Sometimes last summer Cammon had been unsure who was the stronger, though. Amalie was so fresh and unspoiled, and Valri so intense.
“Don’t be afraid, Valri,” Amalie said in her soft voice. “We have friends around us night and day. We are as safe as anybody can be.”
THEY conferred for maybe an hour, Cammon and the three women who were now, apparently, going to direct his life. Truth to tell, he didn’t add much to the conversation, just sat there feeling a peculiar sense of satisfaction. It was as if the strength of their personalities warmed him as much as the sunshine did, filled him with a similar kind of glow. Senneth and Valri discussed what Cammon should wear, what he might expect to hear when serramar came calling, how often they should meet to strategize. And then, as if they could not help themselves, they began speculating on which heirs from which Houses might make the best match for the princess.
“If only your brother Will wasn’t set to marry Casserah Danalustrous!” the queen exclaimed. “Think what a good match Brassenthwaite would be for the throne!”
Senneth shook her head. “I can think of nothing, at this moment, more likely to cause discord in the realm. Already Halchon and Rayson believe Brassenthwaite is too powerful, and such a marriage would probably convince a few othe
r Houses to join their cause. No, we need to wed her someplace where the alliance will do us most good.”
“Coravann, perhaps,” Valri said. “Heffel Coravann has a son who is about Amalie’s age.”
Senneth nodded. “I have been thinking a good deal about Ryne Coravann. Heffel wants to remain neutral in this war—if there is a war—but a wedding with royalty would most definitely swing him to our side. And Coravann is a strategic ally. So close to the Lirrenlands, on good terms with both Gisseltess and Nocklyn, and yet not such a powerful House that the marlords would rise up in protest.”
“But marlord Heffel is a friend to Coralinda Gisseltess,” Cammon protested. It was his first contribution to the conversation in at least twenty minutes. “Don’t you remember? He invited her to his ball last summer. He worships the Pale Mother. Aren’t you afraid that his son might be a fanatic?”
That caused them all to fall quiet for a moment and think. Coralinda Gisseltess led the order known as the Daughters of the Pale Mother, and she and all her followers feared and hated mystics. Like her brother, Halchon, she wanted to remake Gillengaria—but her main goal was to see mystics burned at the stake and every scrap of magic eradicated from the land.
“It’s true that Heffel reveres the Pale Mother,” Senneth said slowly. “But I would not hold that against him—you can be a good man and still love the moon goddess. What concerns me more is that he does not seem to realize how dangerous Coralinda is. Yet, Heffel is not a fool. I do not believe he could be tricked into battle by either Coralinda or her brother. I do not believe he will ever take up arms against the king.”
“I danced with Ryne a few times when we were at Coravann Keep,” Amalie said.
“What did you think of him?” Valri asked.
Amalie shrugged. “Well, he was drunk both times, and he knew that made his sister angry, and that made him laugh,” she said. “I thought he was charming but not very—very—” She shrugged.