“Come to accompany me to the docks, have you, Uncle?” Gillard asked, turning to the full-length mirror beside him.
“I’ve already been down and back, Your Majesty,” Simon said brusquely. “And I strongly suggest you forgo that trip just now. It will not help your cause.”
Gillard froze in the act of straightening the ruffles at the end of his sleeve, glancing at Simon by way of the mirror. When the latter said nothing, Gillard dropped his gaze and finished with his ruffle, his expression closed and blank. Finally he turned to face his uncle. “So. You’ve seen him, then.”
No need to say who he meant. There was but one “him” of significance at the moment. “Only from a distance, Sire. I thought it best to confront him while standing at your side.”
Gillard nodded. “Let us go down, then, and confront him.”
“You’d be better doing that here in the palace, sir.”
His nephew raised a pale brow. “All these months you’ve harped at me about giving the people the impression I don’t care, and now that I’m ready to share in their jubilation, you tell me to stay home? What impression will that give?”
“One of a man who understands the graveness of his situation.”
Gillard turned back to his reflection, fiddling with the lace at his throat. “So Abramm’s come back? What’s that to me?”
There was that denial again, that façade of maddening indifference. Simon held his temper and grated out, “They’re saying he killed the kraggin, boy! With his own hand!”
“That’s ridiculous. You know how tales fly at times like these.”
“True or not, the point is, many do believe it, and they’re lauding him as a hero. I just now heard someone say he stabbed the monster with his own spear, then held on so fiercely it pulled him under! Ridiculous, yes, but they love it! They want to believe it. If you go down there, he’ll have the high ground, and all the people’s pleasure, and you’ll be the man who did nothing.”
Gillard’s frown deepened into a scowl. “There was nothing I could’ve done except get people killed. It would have been stupid—”
“Gillard, your brother killed the monster. With a spear apparently. If he could do it, you certainly could’ve. You didn’t even try.”
Gillard absently tugged and pushed at the lace. “Did you talk to Channon, or any of the other men? Find out what really happened out there?”
“They were escorting him off the launch. I’d have had to wade through the crowd to get to them.”
“What of the Mataians? I saw them on the ship when it came in. I thought surely they’d claim victory.”
“They have.” Simon scowled. “They’re saying Abramm is their prophesied Guardian-King.”
Gillard’s face paled. “But . . . didn’t he run from the Flames? Physically attack High Father Saeral?”
“I only know what Laramor told me. And what I saw with my own eyes. He was met at the dock by a bevy of high-ranking Mataians, including Bonafil himself.”
Gillard stared at him again through the mirror’s reflection. Then he spat out a blasphemy and whirled to pace the length of the bedchamber. “He’ll never get it,” he growled. “He’s unfit!”
“He may well get it.”
“NO! The crown is mine!” Gillard paced to the window and back, then stopped to glare at him. “So he killed the kraggin? Even if it’s true, in a week everyone will be back at their lives, the monster no longer a concern. In a month no one will care who killed it.”
“Sire, you don’t have a month. The Table meets tonight.”
It was as if Gillard didn’t hear him. He paced back and forth at the room’s end, completing many circuits before he stopped again and declared, “We’ll just have to persuade them otherwise.” He barked a laugh. “Fire and Torment! This is Abramm we’re talking about. How hard can that be?!”
As he returned to his pacing, Simon’s heart leaped with a feeble hope. Yes, it was Abramm, wasn’t it? And when he came before the Table tonight, everyone would see the weakness in him, the timidity, the uncertainty. Despite his words, Simon knew the boy hadn’t killed that monster. After years on the battlefield, he knew how such things happened, and so did many of the lords who served on the Table with him. The real heroes were all too often the little men, subordinates who had no choice but to forfeit credit to their superiors.
Channon and his men had most likely killed the thing together. But since Abramm had commissioned the boat, he would get the glory. The lords would understand that.
But just because he didn’t kill the kraggin doesn’t make him unfit to wear the crown.
Over by the bed, Ives cleared his throat and said nervously, “Well, I heard that old Master Rhiad accused him of being a Terstan right after he killed the thing. Demanded he bare his chest, and he refused.”
Both men turned to face him. “Refused?” Gillard asked.
“It’s what I heard.”
“Pox and plagues!” Gillard exclaimed, looking at Simon. “Do you suppose my holy little brother could have come back to us a wearing the mark of heresy? Now that would solve everything! After what Raynen put us through, no one in their right mind will support another Terstan on the throne.”
Simon huffed his exasperation, feeling his hangover headache again. “Didn’t you hear me, Gillard?” he said. “Mataians came out to escort him from the launch. High Father Bonafil was on hand to welcome him. They’re calling him their Guardian-King. They’d never do that if he really wore a shield.”
Gillard scowled at him. “Why did Abramm refuse, then?”
“He’s crown prince. It’s an impertinent and insulting demand. I’d have refused it myself. As would you.”
They fell silent, each to his own contemplation, until a tap at the door preceded Gillard’s Grand Chamberlain with news of Abramm’s arrival at the palace.
“Why wasn’t I informed when he reached the front gates?” Gillard demanded angrily. “I gave specific orders that if he came before—”
“He arrived by way of a side entrance, sir. Made some kind of secret arrangements with old Haldon, who put him up in the Ivory Apartments.” The Grand Chamberlain paused. “He smells fearsome bad. They say it’s on account of him swimming in the kraggin’s blood. Did you hear he stuck his spear into it and hung on so tightly it pulled him under? They thought for a time he might have drowned.”
“Would that he had,” Gillard muttered.
“I beg your pardon, sir?”
“Nothing. Where is Lieutenant Channon?”
“With Prince Abramm, sir.”
“Tell him I want his report as soon as he is able.”
“Yes, sir.”
Gillard scowled at the man’s departing back and, once the door closed, exploded into blasphemies. “They’ll never put him on the throne! He’s a weak-willed pigeon. A naïve holy-boy who’s spent the last six years sweeping some Esurhite’s floor. What does he know about ruling a realm?”
“Surely the Table will see that,” Ives said.
“They’ll see it,” said Simon, “but so long as he’s of age, and sound of mind and body, they’ll have to approve his claim. And competent advisors can make up for any deficiencies of experience and training.”
“Sound of mind!” Gillard exclaimed, whirling from the window where he’d momentarily stopped. “That’s it!”
His companions looked at him blankly.
“Whatever the Mataio’s intentions in this, the fact is, six years ago they said he fled the Flames and attacked the High Father in madness. And really, who wouldn’t question the sanity of a man who’ll commission an entire ship to bait a known ship killer in its den?” He stopped at the sideboard to inspect the assortment of biscuits, sweet twistbreads, and fruit that had been laid out by the servants. “Or seeks to claim a throne when he has no idea how to rule.”
He selected a long double twist and nodded when one of the servants offered to pour him a cup of coffee from the heavy clay pitcher sitting nearby.
Simon frowned at him. “Madness is not a thing one proves just off the bowstring.”
“Thus we’ll petition the Table to grant an extension to my regency,” Gillard said. “To be sure he’s really sane. And to provide time for him to be prepared to rule.”
He sampled the twistbread, then settled into an overstuffed chair near the sideboard and crossed his legs. “We can also mention the undesirability of having to finance two coronation ceremonies should he prove unfit. And the extended turmoil of changing cabinet members and power structures in the court . . . to say nothing of the nightmare of having another mad king.”
Simon frowned at him, surprised. It was a sound argument, one that just might succeed. Before he could say anything further, however, loud familiar laughter echoing in the sitting chamber heralded the arrival of the other two members of Gillard’s trio of merry men, Matheson and Moorcock. They’d just come from watching Abramm’s arrival at the docks.
“Mataian through and through,” Matheson declared. “I wonder if they haven’t kept him hidden away ’til now just waiting for a moment like this.”
“They’re saying he smelled pretty bad,” said Ives.
“You didn’t think we’d get that close, did you?” Matheson protested.
With Gillard’s attention abducted by his favorites, Simon slipped away, annoyed as always by their superficial chatter, but far more hopeful than he’d been when he entered. True, the Mataio would surely support its Guardian-King, and its influence at court was not insignificant. The Lower Table of elected representatives also had substantial power, and after what had happened today, he knew where their favor would lie. But though they would certainly be in attendance to watch the vote, the Lower Table had no say in approving Abramm’s claim. That would be left to the Table of Lords, and the Lords could be persuaded to look beyond one day’s heroics to more practical matters.
It seemed he had a bit of work to do today.
__________
The arena lay dark and silent. Arrayed in the white beribboned doublet and ballooning breeches of the Pretender, Abramm stood at the center of the sandy expanse and waited. In the dark sweep of the amphitheater’s tiered seating, the crowd waited as well, tense with anticipation.
Movement whispered beside him, and a hot burst of energy surged through him. He restrained it, waiting.
A sigh, a hiss of breath. Close now. Then something touched his arm, and he whirled toward it, shocked to find he had no blade. A backlit figure loomed before him, crying out as his fingers closed round its throat. “Your Highness!”
Another man called out, too. “Your Highness, no! Please!”
Why are they calling me “Your Highness”? Why are they speaking Kiriathan and not the Tahg?
The arena vanished, replaced by the luxurious bedchamber in which he had fallen asleep, the shadow figures transforming into dark-liveried servants. He had one of them by the throat, backed up against the bedpost—old Haldon himself, in fact.
Abramm released the man at once, horrified and embarrassed. “I beg your pardon, Haldon. I was dreaming.”
The white-haired chamberlain slid off the bedpost and backed away, stopping as he bumped into his smaller companion. He rubbed his bruised throat with one large hand, straightened his doublet with the other, both men staring at Abramm as if, at the slightest provocation, he might attack again.
“Are you all right?” Abramm asked.
“Yes, Highness.” Haldon’s voice rasped.
“Are you sure?” Abramm swung his legs out from under him and stood, causing both servants to flinch back a step before holding their ground. Haldon pulled his hand from his throat and straightened his shoulders.
“Plagues, Haldon!” Abramm cried. “I am sorry. I swear I meant you no harm.”
“It’s quite all right, sir,” Haldon said stiffly. “I understand.” But wariness lingered in his eyes.
Explanation lay on the tip of Abramm’s tongue. But explaining would raise more questions than it answered. Already they must be thinking how the Abramm they had once known would no more have attacked a man than flown. Not only would it have violated his most rigidly held standards, but he would have been incapable of pulling it off. And he had obviously been more than capable.
Well, the less made of it, the sooner it would recede into the haze of lost memory. He put the matter from his mind and rubbed his eyes. In the other room, a clock chimed four times. He had slept longer than he had expected, but at least the spore fever was gone.
“Lieutenant Channon said we could come in,” Haldon said, his professional dispassion returning. “We made a lot of noise—building up the fire, refreshing the bath—but you slept through it as if you were dead.”
“It’s been a long two days.”
“I should say.” He uttered the words without expression, and his eerie neutrality sparked another possibility in Abramm’s mind, a possibility that made his stomach knot into a hard ball. Had they seen the cocoon of Terstan Light on him?
Haldon was speaking again: “The Table of Lords will convene at eight this evening, sir. I’ll send in a hot-topper for your bath. There are also several suits of properly sized clothing in the wardrobe. I trust you will find something to your taste.” He hesitated. “Are you sure you wish no assistance?”
“I’m sure. But I will need the services of a barber. And after that, a second bath, I think.”
The manservant bowed. “Very good, sir.”
“Oh, and tell Lieutenant Channon he is free to conduct things as he wills.”
“Yes, sir.”
As Haldon left, Abramm turned toward the bathchamber, where the doorway framed an enameled, claw-legged tub standing on a platform amid white tile. Steam swirled lazily off the water, likely herbal scented, though all he could smell was kraggin.
His stiffness largely gone, thanks to the purge’s rejuvenating effects, he pulled off the one boot he still wore, followed by trousers and tunic, and piled them all by the outer door. Then he found his dagger and cut off the long tail of his hair just above the thong that held it, tossing it onto the pile, as well. No point struggling to wash the stink out of it when he’d already determined it would not be part of the image he meant to create for himself.
He fully expected Gillard to lobby the Table for an extension of his own regency so Abramm could be prepared to rule. Somehow Abramm had to convince them all he was not so unprepared as they believed. Unfortunately, his experience as advisor to the Dorsaddi king would count for nothing here, at best, and at worst, could bring him ridicule and disdain. Gillard would be first to stand in that line, he guessed, with Uncle Simon right behind him. And if he feared the lords might disbelieve the tale of his exploits among the Dorsaddi, how much more that they would scoff at the notion he’d been the White Pretender? Especially since the Pretender’s exploits had been so embellished and exaggerated even in Qarkeshan, they were unbelievable all on their own. Just a mention of it last night had provoked rolled eyes and sardonic comments among his armsmen.
So if he was unable to cite any of his real accomplishments, that left him with appearances and first impressions, which his time in Esurh had shown him were powerful tools, at least for the short run. He wanted something that would jolt the lords free of their preconceptions and inspire in them at least a moderate confidence that he could do the job—given the appropriate counselors, of course. Something as far from what he had been as Brother Eldrin—and “little Abramm”—as he could get. Something to hearken back to the days when kings were men of action more than words.
He was about to step into the bath when a knock sounded on the outer bedchamber door, causing the shieldmark, glittering in plain view on his chest, to suddenly burn in his awareness. He snatched up the thick cotton robe hanging on the wall beside the tub and was overlapping its front edges around him when an adolescent boy peeked into the tiled chamber.
“I gave you no leave of entrance!” Abramm snapped, fear of discovery lending harshness to his voice.
<
br /> The boy blanched and withdrew from sight. “Forgive me, Highness. I . . . I . . .”
“What do you want?”
“I’ve brought extra towels, sir. And a top-off of hot water for the bath.” The youth, dressed in the white shirt and dark britches of his status, his brown hair queued at his nape, moved back into the doorway, revealing the stacked towels and steaming pitcher he carried.
Annoyed mostly by his own overreaction, Abramm made a conscious effort to ease his black expression. “Very well,” he said.
After the boy had laid the towels on a sideboard by the tub and added the pitcher’s contents to the bathwater, Abramm instructed him to take the clothes and hair by the door and see them burned.
“And tell Master Haldon I should like to eat when I’ve finished with my preparations.”
“Yes, sir.”
“What’s your name, lad?”
“Jared, sir.”
“Very well, Jared. Once you’ve seen to the clothes, you’re to station yourself outside this bathchamber door and let no one open it without my say.”
The page drew himself up proudly. “Yes, Your Highness!”
Abramm sighed as the door closed. Obviously, keeping his mark secret from all would be impractical. He was neither slave nor Guardian any longer, and a king must have servants. To deny them would only awaken the very suspicions he wished to allay.
I’ll have to find a few I can trust. Men who won’t go running to Gillard—or the Mataio—the first chance they get.
Laying the robe close at hand, he eased into the tub and exhaled in delight. The hot springs at Jarnek had given him a taste for baths, and in these last seven weeks he had missed them sorely. This water was nearly hot enough to burn and felt wonderful. Submerging himself to his chin, he sighed again.
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