“I’m sure she did.” Her father nodded to the plates. “Eat up. We have much to discuss.”
Alassa nibbled her bacon, half-hoping her father wouldn’t pay too much attention to what she was eating. If he drew the wrong conclusion, or even the right conclusion … there was no way to know what he’d do. He’d started asking her if she was pregnant shortly after she’d married, pushing her to use potions and charms to enhance her fertility. It was fairly common amongst the aristocracy – her mother’s family had pressured her to get pregnant too – but she didn’t like it. She wasn’t a brood cow.
I might as well be, she thought, remembering one of her mother’s lectures. The Queen had been strikingly frank in the months before Alassa’s wedding, talking bluntly about matters that made even Imaiqah cringe. She’d been expected to have a child within the year and Alassa, Crown Princess or not, faced the same expectations. But neither of them had managed to get pregnant so quickly. My first duty is to continue the line.
“I have a number of matters to attend to,” King Randor said. He took a piece of bacon and chewed it, slowly. “I want you to handle the judgements in my place.”
Alassa blinked in surprise. “Me?”
“You.” He shot her an unreadable look. “People have been coming to court for judgement, Alassa. They deserve to be heard.”
“Yes, Father,” Alassa said, automatically. She was surprised, despite herself. The Crown Prince – or Princess – might wield the power of Low and Middle Justice, but her father almost always handled petitioners who attended court himself. It was a simple way to keep track of what was going on, although – as he’d told her after she’d been confirmed – it was often difficult for a petitioner to secure an appointment. “Do I speak with your voice?”
“You will be Queen, when I am gone,” her father reminded her, dryly. “You’ll be speaking with your voice.”
Alassa blinked in surprise. Her father had allowed her to handle a couple of petitioners – and a handful of court cases – but he’d always been there, ready to confirm or countermand her judgements. It had galled her at the time to know she wasn’t trusted, although she supposed he had a point. A casual judgement snapped off in haste could easily have unfortunate implications somewhere down the line. And yet, now, she was being told – in effect – that she would have full authority. It was … odd.
“Thank you, Father,” she managed. “Are there any considerations I should take into account?”
His lips twitched. “Wear something more regal and uncomfortable,” he said. “You have to look reasonable, responsible and powerful.”
“Yes, Father,” Alassa said. Her father always wore his gold armor to court. It wasn’t very protective, but it conveyed a sense of power and magnificence that more practical armor couldn’t match. “I’ll change into a court gown.”
Her father nodded, looking into the distance as though he was distracted by a greater thought. Alassa wondered, grimly, just what was so important that her father was prepared to devolve complete authority to hear cases and pass judgement to her. She found it hard to imagine anything that could convince him to give up so much power. There was no way her judgements could be countermanded without considerable embarrassment for the crown.
She took a breath. “Father, what will you be doing?”
King Randor’s eyes narrowed, suddenly. A hot flash of anger crossed his face. Alassa looked down, hastily. She’d touched a nerve, somehow. And yet she didn’t know how.
“I have important matters to attend to,” he said, finally. “I need you to step up and take some of my minor duties.”
Alassa struggled to keep her face impassive. She knew her father had secrets, but … but what could be so important that she was kept out of the loop? She was the Crown Princess, her father’s acknowledged heir. And if he died tomorrow, she would have no time to find out what was going on before it was too late. King Randor had never had any problems briefing her on matters concerning the nobility and their endless struggle to weaken the crown. What was so important – so dangerous – that he refused to share it with her?
“I won’t let you down, Father,” she promised.
“Good.” He still sounded distracted. “There may be other affairs that need handling too.”
“I’ll take them,” Alassa said, quickly.
Her father’s lips twitched. “Don’t offer so fast,” he said, wryly. “You never know what it might be.”
Alassa felt her cheeks heat. He was right.
“I have to ask you a different question,” her father said, suddenly. “What is Emily doing in Cockatrice?”
Alassa gritted her teeth as she felt the answer welling up inside her. She hated it – hated it – whenever her father used the Royal Bloodline to force her to speak. She’d tried to resist it, time and time again, but the answers just forced their way out of her lips. She could no more deny her father an answer than she could lie to him. It made her feel like a puppet, even though she knew her father had endured the same treatment.
“Emily isn’t in Cockatrice,” she said. “She’s in Whitehall, taking her final year of studies.”
And not having an easy time of it, Alassa thought. Emily wouldn’t be her first candidate for Head Girl. Powerful and respected Emily might be, but she had little interest in bossing younger students around. Father doesn’t have to know that, though.
“And Imaiqah?” Her father eyed her narrowly. “What is she doing in Cockatrice?”
“Right now, she’s coping with the fallout from Beneficence,” Alassa said. Her father knew that, damn it! He’d approved the spending to limit the damage Vesperian had caused. Too many nobles and freemen had invested in the madman’s projects. “She’s started a whole series of projects to keep the new economy afloat while it recovers from the crash.”
“I see,” her father said. “And is she cooperating with the other Barons?”
“She does have an agreement with Jade, regarding the proposed railway track,” Alassa said, irked. “We discussed this with you last year.”
King Randor nodded, slowly. “It may be time for a state visit to Cockatrice,” he said. “I need to see the new world for myself.”
Alassa frowned, inwardly. Perhaps the other Barons were complaining about the vast numbers of commoners deserting their lands and heading to Cockatrice. Emily’s barony was the center of the New Learning, a place of opportunity for everyone … whatever their social origins. No one really knew how many people had moved into Cockatrice over the last few years, but it was clear that the number was quite high. Emily’s population had probably tripled in the last year alone. The Barons had to be taking note.
And now Emily isn’t there, they may scent weakness, Alassa thought. Imaiqah might be serving as a baroness, but she wasn’t a baroness. She was weak in a way Emily would never be. They might be plotting trouble.
“You would find it interesting, Father,” Alassa told him. “It’s a whole new world.”
“Quite.” He finished his bacon and leaned back in his chair. “I may have another task for you in a couple of days. There are some other aristocrats who need a reminder of their loyalties.”
“Yes, Father,” Alassa said. The chance to get out of the palace couldn’t be missed. And it was a sign, however small, that he trusted her to handle delicate matters. The thought warmed her heart, even though she knew it wouldn’t be enough. “Where do you want me to go?”
“I haven’t decided,” her father said. “You may be required to make a Royal Progress.”
Alassa smirked. “That will make us popular.”
King Randor had no trouble picking up the sarcasm. “Just remain focused on the issue at hand,” he told her. “I would love my subjects to love me, but I’ll settle for fear. I have no intention of turning into my grandfather.”
“Yes, Father,” Alassa said. King Bryon the Weak had allowed his aristocrats to bully him, making concession after concession until he hadn’t had a leg to stand on. The monar
chy had been almost powerless when King Alexis III had been crowned. Thankfully, he’d been made of sterner stuff and the crown had reasserted its power. “I won’t let them forget it.”
“Very good,” King Randor said. “Now …”
The wards twitched. King Randor looked up, his face twisting in irritation, then made a sharp gesture with his hand. Alassa turned, just in time to see the door open and Nightingale step into the room. She felt a hot flash of hatred – the magic bubbling below her skin – as the wretched man walked around the table and bowed low to her father. What could be so important that he dared to interrupt their breakfast? Didn’t he know she wanted to spend time with her father?
Nightingale spoke, too quietly for Alassa to make out the words. But her father’s face darkened.
“Alassa, go handle the judgements this morning,” King Randor ordered, curtly. “I’ll see you in the evening.”
There was no point in arguing. Alassa rose and walked to the door, silently promising Nightingale a horrible fate when she took the throne. Damn the man. Couldn’t whatever it was have waited? She stepped through the door and into the antechamber, frowning in surprise when she saw a middle-aged woman waiting outside. The woman looked back at her evenly, not in the least intimidated by a Crown Princess. Her dress indicated that she was a noblewoman, but Alassa didn’t recognize her. And yet, someone with that sour face and tight eyes should have been memorable.
Shaking her head, Alassa walked down the corridor. Her ladies were already gathering in her antechamber, Mouse amongst them. They swooped around Alassa as she entered, twittering about appropriate dresses for passing judgement. They’d make her change, of course, before she sat on the throne. And then … she considered, briefly, asking Jade to come with her before dismissing the idea. She couldn’t afford to let the courtiers start thinking that he was dictating her answers. They’d use it against her.
“The white court dress will do,” she said, cutting off their bleating with as much force as she could muster. She didn’t have time for a long debate. “And hurry.”
Chapter Five
ALASSA SAT ON HER FATHER’S THRONE and sucked in her breath. The throne was solid metal, uncomfortable enough to give her pins and needles within an hour. It had clearly been designed for someone quite a bit larger than she was – larger than her father too, come to think of it – and she couldn’t help wondering why a cushion would be seen as a sign of weakness. She looked like a little girl, sitting on her father’s chair. The only consolation was that her father didn’t look much better.
Her stomach churned as a line of scribes, witnesses and courtiers filed into the room. Some of them looked surprised to see her, rather than her father, sitting on the throne, but they hid it quickly. She wasn’t particularly concerned. The Hall of Judgement might be where the king heard court cases and petitions, but it wasn’t the real throne room. Even she would be in trouble if she sat on the primary throne before her father’s death.
She kept her face impassive as she looked around, silently noting how her father had turned the chamber into a grim reminder of their family’s power. Paintings of four kings – Bryon the Weak had been excluded – were mounted on the walls, their idealized faces glowering down at the mere mortals who dared to enter the chamber; swords, maces, axes and other weapons hung around them, a reminder that no one was allowed to enter the chamber armed without the king’s permission. The King’s Champion was the only person routinely allowed to bear weapons anywhere near the king.
But no one complained about the virgin dagger, Alassa thought. The dagger was nestled in her sleeve, as always. Perhaps they never thought to check.
The clock chimed, once. Alassa leaned forward, pasting a regal expression on her face. They were right on time. No one would complain, openly, if the session started a little late, but she knew from bitter experience that the courtiers would take it as a sign of either weakness or carelessness. Neither would bode well for the future. She resisted the urge to scowl as Nightingale entered the room, looking as though he’d bitten into a lemon. The girl behind him looked nervous, but grimly resolute. Her clothes marked her as minor nobility, yet the leather folder under her arm spoke of a different world.
“Lady Saffron, Your Highness,” the herald said. “Ward of Viscount Nightingale, Master of the King’s Bedchamber.”
Alassa had to fight to keep her face under tight control as a flurry of excitement ran through the chamber. No wonder Nightingale looked pissed. He’d hoped the case would be heard by the king, not the king’s daughter. He knew he wasn’t popular, but the king might rule in his favor anyway. Alassa, on the other hand, wasn’t so inclined.
She studied Lady Saffron for a long moment, hastily recalling the girl’s history. Her father had been caught up in the coup attempt five years ago and executed, after King Randor had regained control. Saffron had been nine at the time, so her guardianship had been passed to Nightingale rather than being kept by the king himself. It had given Nightingale considerable power over the girl and her lands. Indeed, as long as she remained underage – and unmarried – Nightingale could control her lands to suit himself.
And she’s growing into a beauty, Alassa thought. Saffron was so thin and pale that Alassa couldn’t help being reminded of Emily, back when they’d first met, although Saffron had jet-black hair and dark eyes. She’d be attracting attention even if she didn’t stand to inherit a vast estate.
“Lady Saffron,” she said, calmly. The wards projected her voice across the chamber. “You may speak.”
“Thank you, Your Highness,” Saffron said. Her voice was quiet, but resolute. “I have come to plead for my emancipation from my guardian.”
Nightingale colored. Alassa hid a smile as titters ran around the chamber. A ward pleading for emancipation was rare … and one succeeding in reaching the king, or his deputy, was almost unheard of. Nightingale would be a laughingstock, whatever the verdict. He’d make a point of taking it out on the girl.
Alassa kept her voice even. “On what grounds?”
Saffron took a moment to gather her thoughts. “On the grounds of criminal mismanagement, gross appropriation of lands and poor long-term planning,” she said. “And on a refusal to listen to me or even consider my interests.”
She took a breath. “It was his job to keep my lands in trust for when I reached my majority. Instead, he has plundered my lands of everything of value, transferred some of my properties to his ownership and even failed to arrange for long-term planting and maintenance that would keep the estate productive. He has eaten my seed corn, Your Highness. And he has refused to train me in estate management or allow me to determine who I marry. I will not be married to a seventy-year-old man who smells.”
Alassa felt a flicker of sympathy. Nightingale had near-complete control over Saffron – more, perhaps, than he’d have over a biological daughter. She couldn’t help wondering if Nightingale planned to marry the girl himself, although he was already married. But it wouldn’t be hard for Nightingale to arrange a divorce from his wife and then force Saffron to marry him. As her guardian, he could give himself permission to marry her. Shitty, but legal.
She met Saffron’s eyes and saw desperation there. “Do you have proof of mismanagement?”
“Yes, Your Highness,” Saffron said. She opened the folder. “I have the facts and figures here.”
Alassa took the papers, silently blessing Emily’s innovations. Her father had scribes and accountants to do the hard work, but she didn’t have to place her faith in men with agendas of their own. The New Learning had spread so far simply because it was simple, so simple that anyone could use it. Saffron – and whoever had given her the papers – didn’t have to be a trained accountant to understand the figures.
Her temper flared as she ran through the numbers. Nightingale hadn’t touched the entailed lands, but he had sold off lands that weren’t permanently bound to Saffron’s family … he’d sold them to himself, at below market rates. Technically, he
was supposed to get Saffron’s permission for any sales, but she’d been too young to understand how badly she was being cheated. No doubt Nightingale would try to argue that Saffron had been old enough to understand the truth. And while it was harder to say anything about the long-term planning, it was clear that Nightingale was failing in his duty. He was supposed to keep matters ticking over until Saffron came of age, but he wasn’t even doing that.
She looked at Nightingale. “Do you have anything you wish to say in your defense?”
Nightingale looked unsure of himself, just for a second. Alassa wasn’t surprised. He couldn’t put forward a case that would convince her, yet there was no point – either – in trying to play to the gallery. Nightingale was the least popular man in the room and everyone knew it. He knew it too.
“Your Highness,” Nightingale said. “The figures she has presented show only part of the story. Her father’s estates were in serious trouble when I acquired her wardship. He had overextended himself quite badly, using his entailed lands as collateral to finance purchase of additional lands and properties. The steps I took were designed to rationalize her estates, then ensure she was married to someone who could guarantee her long-term safety. I admit that I took radical steps, but they were necessary.”
And I can believe as much or as little of that as I like, Alassa thought. She would be astonished if Nightingale hadn’t considered marrying Saffron himself. Her lands and titles would secure his place in the aristocracy, even if he fell from favor. And I don’t believe a word of it.
She took a breath. Technically, she should order a full investigation – and keep Saffron in the castle – before passing judgement. But that would give Nightingale time to start bending the king’s ear. And then Saffron would be in deep shit. It wouldn’t be a simple beating, either, not after she’d humiliated her guardian publicly. Nightingale would be within his rights to lock the poor girl up for the rest of her minority or simply marry her off at once. It could not be allowed.
Alassa's Tale: a Schooled in Magic novella Page 5