“Let them have their dignity, man. Surely, you don't think the army's mages pose any danger?”
Drake's face tightened for a moment before his good cheer returned. Surely, he did. Poor Private Corvid was right to hide his ancestry.
“Oh, they won't catch me off guard.” Drake smiled and glanced over his shoulder at Maven. “And did you see her dress? As if wearing purple civvies and draping pretty silk over that gaunt frame would soften her reputation. Make us all suddenly forget her years leading the militant arm of the Mage Corps.”
“Maybe it's nothing more than a pretty dress.” I shrugged, wondering whether Granfa would comment on the weave or the elegant fabric. No, surely not. I rapped my metal chest and grimaced, gesturing to the empty belts where proper soldiers typically kept their daggers. Not here of course. The building seemed to be governed by a mixture of barracks and slop house rules. Weapons were kept locked away and deference to rank was an afterthought. “That dress is about as useful as this tin plate, eh? She doesn't need to turn any blades in this crowd. Besides, who knows what she's wearing underneath?”
“Ha!” Drake elbowed me in the ribs and my armor clattered. “What indeed, you old lech!”
I turned away to hide my blush as I waded through the swamp of masculine subtext. Men were so public and flagrant with what a woman must keep hidden in her private thoughts. How easily they drag an innocent comment about hidden armor preventing someone thrusting their stiff blade deep into Maven's body into the muck. I resolved to stop scanning each sentence before it tripped over my lips on the way out. Guarding your thoughts was unmanly, it seems.
Drake seemed not to notice, quaffing the last dregs of his beer as he nodded to the barkeep and slid his empty mug across the counter.
I mimicked him. “Wine. Dragon Crystal White, Year 122 vintage.” Drake quirked his eyebrow. I shrugged. “Just plying the crone in the purple dress with alcohol, old friend.”
He nodded to the wine. “Best warn the witch she needs to drink that by the barrel while she still can. The so-called Blue Dragon Warrior. Feh! We've nearly slaughtered all the dragons in the empire. Good riddance, I say! Guess those cursed mages are good for something. Never stopped them from rubbing it in our faces.” He flexed his arm and slapped the table. “Better yet, don't warn her.” He seemed to be on the verge of saying something else, but didn't.
I let the silence linger a moment, then I grabbed the wine and raised it to my forehead in a sardonic salute. “I'll pass that along, oh mighty dragon slayer. As if she doesn't know already. It would hardly be chivalrous otherwise.”
He guffawed, raising his arm to pat me again. I quirked one eyebrow and jiggled the wine glass and Drake thought better of it. He lowered his hand and slapped the counter instead. “All these years, Corbin. You haven't changed a lick.”
More than you know. I nodded to my old friend as he raised his mug. We clinked glasses and I sipped the wine. “A weak, womanly drink crafted from a dying breed of fire-breathing monsters,” I murmured. “The perfect beverage for an old, imperial witch.”
“Come back after you've discovered what's underneath that dress.” Drake smiled as he sipped his ale. “We can ditch the wine and explore all the manly brews together. We have so much to talk about, you and I. And so much drinking to do.” He gave me a gentle push. “Another time, when you're not running errands for the witch.”
“We'll line 'em up and knock 'em down,” I said, dredging the phrase from memories of scores of old men quaffing beer around the kitchen table.
“Just like the olden days.” Drake laughed as I smiled and merged back into the crowd.
I returned to Maven. I delivered the half-empty glass.
“Tasting my wine for poisons, were you? How kind of you. Run along,” the old woman said, waving me away once she had yanked the glass from my fingers. “Go mingle with your adoring public. They've been waiting so long to see you. I will no doubt see more of you tonight,” she leered.
“I expect you will,” I murmured, questioning her words as my eyes glossed over the crude expression on her face. I was missing something again. Why couldn't old people just speak plainly? I shrugged and left.
As I circulated around the room, blending into the little knots of conversation was easier than I had expected. I just stood and interjected polite nothings and soaked in the currents surrounding me until I had a grasp on the major arguments and who was taking which side. The thrust of each conversation was a variant on three common themes: whether our new empress was up to the task of executing her late father's pogrom against civilian magic users, the effect of said pogrom on the army's Mage Corps veterans, and oh my aren't the new grandchildren just adorable?
I expressed polite disinterest in the tiny portraits of chubby arms and rosy-cheeked faces as expected of the stern Hero of Jerkum Pass. My heart might have cooed a little. I squashed it.
After a few hours of mingling, a male courtier or a bureaucrat dressing wearing puffy sleeves, tight red hosiery, and enough rouge on his cheeks to make me question the necessity of my masculine charade ushered us into another room for dinner. The narrow room was dominated by a long, elegant table. I hardly had time to admire the fancy jointery before a gob of hot wax smacked my forehead. I wiped it away with my shirt sleeve.
After shielding my eyes with one hand, I peered up into the lofty ceiling. High overhead, a row of bright candelabras cast the room in a soft, intimate glow. Weapons displays adorned the walls: beautiful interlaced arrays of shields, sabers, crossbows, and pikes. I grinned. There's enough steel in here to outfit the whole regiment.
I lowered my gaze as somebody jostled my elbow. This room was smaller than the last, and the crowd jostled before several couriers lining the walls ushered us to our seats .
I was placed at the center of the table, which groaned under the weight of a banquet containing every savory dish and frothy drink served from the kitchen of my dreams. Crystal glasses. Silk napkins. A parade of silverware on either side of gold-rimmed porcelain dishes. And I didn't even have to cook any of it. Or set the table.
Everyone remained standing, shuffling their feet and casting small glances in my direction. Drake coughed. Maven tittered behind her hand. What had grandfather done in these situations sitting around our kitchen table as the perennial lowest ranking officer in the room? Everyone deferred to him regardless of rank due to his heroism . . . my heroism, but refused to sit until . . .
Of course. I mentally kicked myself and raised my crystal glass, tapping it with my spoon. “Ladies and gentlemen: the Empress Cordelia I. Long may she reign!”
“Long may she reign!” the chamber echoed. Then the guests took to their seats like vultures hunched around a dead cow and began to feed.
“Lieutenant Corbin!?” The man sitting to my left trembled as I sat down. “You may not remember me. I was a part of the welcoming committee? We visited your place of residence prior to the ceremony?” His whining voice rose with a pathetic lilt at the end of each question as though he was begging me to validate his words and give them meaning.
I gestured to his goblet. “Please, drink. You seem flustered.”
“I was just surprised to see you on your feet . . . walking through the door earlier. We were not expecting you to . . . arrive as you did. So soon. It's all so very disturbing.”
“Yes . . . sir?” I asked, quirking my eyebrow as I read the pips on his collar.
He offered his hand. “Captain Nortus. I believe we've met? Of course, we've met.” From anyone else, this might be a declaration. However, Nortus spoke in a shaky, uncertain manner as though questioning each statement coming from his own mouth.
“But of course, Sir Nortus. How could I forget you?” I grinned inside. Captain Nortus was the unassuming quiet sort of nobody you stepped over without blinking. Nortus The Mouse they called him. An admirer, it seems, blinded by my glory. A girl in the back of my mind was screaming something about subtext, but I shushed her and cast through my thoughts for a safe
topic that would not fluster the poor gentleman further. “What do you think of our new empress, Sir Nortus?” I asked. “I hear she finds the crown and robes a mite heavy.”
“A shame her father died so young. Not that I doubt Empress Cordelia is up to the task of exterminating those . . .” The man pushed a glob of food around his plate, looking to either side, likely for a hint of blue. There was none to be found. We were surrounded by a wall of red uniforms and blood-tinted armor. The cavalry had clustered around me at the center with the mages sitting on either ends of the long table. The nearest magic user was a speck of blue almost on the horizon. “ . . . those cursed, dirty mages,” the man gulped.
I gestured to the ends of the table. “Surely, you would not impugn the honor of our brave brothers and sisters of the magical persuasion? Have we not broken bread at the same table, slept in the same tents, and shed blood during the same battles?”
“Times have changed, Corbin,” the man stammered. “How can we trust the loyalty of any mage after the cowardly assassination of our beloved emperor? Their vile darkness infects even the best of us.”
I dressed the battle lines of the two armies of food heaped on my plate before sweeping the vegetables aside in a flanking maneuver and attacking the meat. “They are hardly infectious and hardly cowardly,” I said around a mouthful of beef. A bit of juice dribbled down my chin. I swallowed and went to dab my lips before remembering myself. I swiped the napkin across my face. “The rebels fought for their beliefs, however misguided. Do we no longer respect our foes in the imperial army?”
“But the emperor . . . the emperor is gone.”
“And he shall be missed. But while I am ashamed to admit it, Sir Nortus, emperors and empresses come and go while the bureaucracy marches onwards. It is the bulwark of our glorious political system.”
He scoffed, glancing to either side to make sure none of the red-liveried courtiers were near, before whispering, “Hard to see anything glorious in a bureaucrat.”
“A necessary evil,” I agreed, glancing at the red-hosed courtiers lining the walls with pitchers and fresh plates. “Strange parasites clinging to the massive elephant hide of the empire who give as much as they leach away by the nature of the stability they confer. When one elephant dies,” I plucked several pieces of broccoli from my plate, “you just detach the little worms and latch them onto his successor,” I flung the little chunks of broccoli one by one onto his plate, “and the substance of the empire endures despite the changing form. Old blood mixes with new. New emperor. Same empire.” Amazing what you can learn after a succession of quiet conversations in which you listen more than you contribute.
“A masterful summation,” he said, wincing and pushing his plate away. “But something has changed. It is not old age or war that has killed our latest emperor, but treachery from within the empire.” He looked at me. “Surely, threats from within are more dangerous? Hard to tell who is your enemy and who is your friend.”
“Yes, the empire has faced many threats from within.” I shrugged, smiling. “Their own family members assassinate emperors all the time.”
“But never mages, Sir Corbin. The death of our beloved emperor has exposed a canker on our society. A hidden boil that must be lanced.”
“Go get 'em, soldier.” I sipped my ale and wiped the froth off my lips. This was growing tiresome. I gestured with my knife to either end of the table. “There they are, sitting in our midst. Eating of our food and drinking at our table. Who shall hold this lance, captain? You?” A dark fog began to form in my mind as the aches of my travels and maintaining my manly persona for an entire crowd of people started catching up to me.
“Well, no,” the man stammered, glancing at the mages sitting on either end of the table. “Not me, not alone. I am merely the instrument of my empress.” He looked into my eyes for the first time that evening. “As are you, Sir Corbin.”
I went to shake my head, but the fervor in his eyes gave me pause. Does this mouse of a man seek to intimidate me? “Enough. I am tired, Sir Nortus.” I shrugged, rolling my shoulders. “I am also retired.”
“We must all do whatever our duty demands of us, whatever the cost to ourselves,” Nortus whispered. “Surely, a hero such as yourself understands that?”
“I have done my duty to emperor . . . empress and country. What more can they ask of me? Dare they ask of me?”
I matched his gaze with a withering stare of my own, but confronting Nortus felt too much like a soaring hawk locking eyes with a preening sparrow. A weary hawk about to drop from the sky and crush the sparrow. I glared until he lowered his head and looked away. Nortus huddled in timid silence the rest of the evening and left me to my meal. I turned to the man sitting at my right, whose conversation required almost no thought or input from the Hero Sir Corbin whatsoever beyond smiling and nodding.
After dinner, there was a clamor from several cavalrymen and quite a few mages. “Speech,” they roared. “Give us a speech, Corbin. Surely on the eve of the anniversary of your great victory, you have something to say?”
I stood, wiping the sweat off my brow as I raised my hands in a placating gesture. I had not thought about the speech for hours. All the food and beer in my stomach began to sour. “A good battle plan is like a fresh egg: delicate and messy if not handled with care and requiring some—the fog began to spread through my mind as I searched for the right word— gestation before you present it. You will all hear the speech at its proper time in two days. Now my ass is sore. My stomach is bloated. My head is aching. Please, I seek only the peace of my bed.” I chuckled, glancing at the array of doors surrounding the dining room. “Once I find my bedroom in this maze.”
“Not joining me . . . us for a nightcap?” Drake called, his voice booming off the high ceiling.
I looked across the table. My old friend's expression was cryptic. Was he disappointed? Suspicious? I had memories of many long nights sitting with old friends around the kitchen table, sipping cloudy liquid from our glasses while the candles burned to nubs. But to do such a thing tonight? My heart quivered at the thought. I could hardly navigate a simple conversation much less a detailed reminiscence when the fogginess of travel and booze combined inside my head.
I yawned and hid it behind my hand. Then realizing, dropped the hand and opened my jaws wider.
“It's been a long journey. Tomorrow night, old friend,” I stepped away from the banquet, catching myself as I stumbled. “Tomorrow night, I shall drink you under the table.” The words came easy. I knew them by rote. I had heard them all before in our kitchen. I began mentally preparing further arguments as Drake's eyebrows rose and he reached for his glass. Was he going to insist we start drinking right now?
Drake merely raised his glass in salute and the arguments died in my throat. “As you say . . . old friend. The road is long and you're not the same man you used to be, eh?”
I grinned and raised my own glass. I bit my lip as several possible responses screamed in my mind. “Indeed, who among us is the person they used to be? Though I confess, I am not feeling myself tonight.” I chuckled weakly, lowered the glass, and pushed myself away from the banquet.
Courtiers wearing red hose walked along the tables, giving us each little tickets with a key and our room assignments. I resisted the urge to turn around and re-examine the strange look in my old friend's eyes as one of the functionary took my elbow and led me away. Had there been a slight pause in Drake's response? Did I imagine it? What did he mean by it? The swirling fog in my mind made it hard to think.
I growled to myself. There were too many hidden meanings to the most innocent of phrases and gestures with these people. Everyone else was speaking in army codes and phrases acquired over years stuffed in the same tents and spread across the same battlefields. I could . . . name those battlefields.
The courtier brought me through a tangle of halls and stairs to the random door whose number matched the tag on my key. I hurried to bid the man farewell and good evening and then c
losed the door behind me, feeling the facade slip away.
A warm crackling fireplace illuminated the room in a soft glow. I glanced around the room and smiled. This was far more luxurious than a mere country inn. The room was larger than it looked, but the crowded furnishings gave it a cozy feel. My heavy footfalls made no sound on the thick, lush carpet. The curved legs of the two chairs, the dresser, and the gigantic bed were all carved mahogany. Someone had even laid my saddlebags on the chest at the foot of the bed. I opened the chest to toss a few of my clothes inside it, and the rich smell of cedar wafted into the room. The rattling as I closed the chest and rose to my feet reminded me I was still dressed in my tin plate armor. I sank into one of the chairs to kick off my greaves. The cushion was upholstered with the finest red velvet. I lifted my arms and smiled. Even the arm rests were upholstered.
A pleasant smell of rosemary wafted from the bed as I approached it. At last, an easy mystery, I thought, glancing at the overstuffed pillows and thick blanket. How many geese had given their lives to fill those? I moved to the edge of the large bed, patted the blanket, and hugged the pillows to my tin-clad chest, burying my nose in the soft feathers. A small cloth cachet had rolled away when I lifted the pillows. I waved the scented packet under my nose and tossed it aside.
I removed the large mug and upended it on one of the bed posts as I pushed myself away from the bed. If the room had been a bit darker, I may have succumbed to the blanket's soft, warm embrace. But a warm, copper sheen gleamed on burnished tiles from the back of the room like a promise waiting to be filled.
I threw my surcoat on the bed as I rose, unlatching and flinging bits of armor across the room in my haste as the large, copper tub beckoned me.
Stripping off the rest of my armor and underclothes, I ran to the bath and turned the hot spigot. I dipped my feet beneath that rush of warm, relaxing water. The tub was much larger than the one at the inn.
I did not squeal. I did not add bubbles or bath salts. I did plunge into the bath, laughing as little waves spilled over the side. Hardly a heroic moment. I didn't care. I was alone. For this long moment, I didn't have to pretend to be the hero. I closed my eyes and let myself sink beneath the water as the ring grew warm against my chest.
The Knight's Secret Page 6