It didn’t help that Abramm himself still didn’t know where he stood with his uncle. While Simon had done everything Abramm asked with full effort and efficiency and perfect decorum, he had maintained his cool professionalism. Possibly Abramm’s own directness regarding the man’s loyalties had something to do with that. He knew he’d not improved relations between them when he’d forced his uncle to betray Gillard’s involvment in the assassination attempt in the royal preserve. Nor did he doubt that part of the reason Simon had avoided Gillard these last two weeks was so he wouldn’t have anything to report should Abramm ask him for such information again.
Then again, most likely the guard really was just a guard, not the assassin in disguise Abramm’s jumpiness was making him. Channon had kept the possibility of an attack close to his chest, and by Abramm’s order had assigned only a minimum of obvious guards for the affair—although many of the usual servants were enjoying some unexpected time off this night, replaced by men whose swords were concealed in back-mounted scabbards under their tabards.
Abramm received a few more of the peers, including several young ladies put forth by their fathers and brothers for his consideration, and when he looked up again, Simon was gone. Then the orchestra signaled it was time for the paquay, and couples formed up, all of them selected by rank or lot for this honor. This was a dance Abramm had learned before he’d taken his First Vows in the Mataio, and after a year of almost daily practice, it was one he felt completely confident with. Instead of maneuvering around each other with a complicated series of steps and passes, this one had only a small number of steps, turning each couple in unison as they all revolved around the floor in a great circuit. Once they had completed two circuits, the couples split, each finding a new partner as in the rondella and dayard.
Abramm’s first partner was the shy young daughter of the Count of Runningvale. Probably not more than fourteen, she was overwhelmed at finding herself in the arms of her king and could hardly speak, even when asked a direct question. After the first few turns, he gave up and they completed the round in silence.
And then, here came his next partner, twirled off the hands of the first man into his own. He recognized her with a mixture of surprise, relief, and trepidation, for it was Lady Madeleine.
They had barely come together, however, when he realized something was wrong. She was cool, clipped, and kept her gaze fixed over his shoulder. Surely she wasn’t still miffed at the way he had dismissed her this morning.
As they finished their first turn he said, “Something has disturbed you.”
Her lips tightened a bit; then she tilted her chin up and finally looked him in the eye. “I understand you expect there to be an attack upon you tonight.”
He just kept himself from gaping at her, briefly considered denying the charge before realizing denial would be useless. Then he chuckled, shaking his head ruefully. “Your reputation as a busybody is very well deserved, my lady.”
“I won’t be put off by insults, sir.” Her chin came up even higher.
“It wasn’t meant as an insult. I begin to think I should enlist you as part of my intelligence network.”
“Compliments will serve you no better.” She was openly frowning now. “You are mad to be out here tonight if you are truly in such danger.”
“I have taken precautions.”
“Yes, I thought you looked a bit thicker about the waist than normal. But I was referring to the spore you must be carrying. I know very well you’ve not had time to do a decent purge.”
Again she derailed his train of thought. “Spore?” And then the connections came. “You knew what that ring was and you didn’t tell me?”
“You hardly gave me a chance. Even had I said anything, I doubt you would have believed me.” When he said nothing, she continued. “How long were you wearing it?”
“Only a few hours. In any case, the attack will not come from that direction.”
“You don’t know when that spore will start making you sick.”
“There can’t have been that much.”
“Unless you put the thing on last night.”
“I feel perfectly fine.”
“You look a bit flushed. And you’re obviously sweating.”
“Well, I am wearing a lot of clothing.”
For a moment their eyes met, as if both shared the same startling solution to the problem of too much clothing—a solution that jacked up his internal heat even more and turned Madeleine’s face bright red. For the first time in his memory she looked flustered and shifted her gaze past his shoulder.
They said no more, for already the cycle was coming to a close, and they soon moved on to new partners. When the paquay ended some ten or twelve ladies later—he’d lost count—it was Leona Blackwell who’d found her way into his arms again. She beamed up at him as the orchestra played the dance’s closing measures, then dropped into the deep finishing curtsey. Immediately the orchestra started into its next selection, a filler piece that signaled an intermission.
“There, you see?” Leona said as she accompanied Abramm toward his chair on the dais. “You haven’t missed a step. I knew you would do it perfectly.”
Abramm smiled down at her. “I couldn’t have done it without your help.”
As they approached the dais where Ames and Channon waited, he became acutely aware of the heat. A rivulet of sweat trickled along the edge of his temple and down his chest under the leather-covered metal of his hidden breastplate. It had seemed a heavy encumbrance when he’d first donned it before the ball, but he thought he’d gotten used to it. Now it weighed upon him like a millstone. And his heart pounded a rhythm that echoed in his head as if a kettle drum marked time somewhere off in the palace, barely audible. Alarm flared in him as he wondered if Madeleine was right—if he was finally reacting to the staffid spore.
Suddenly Leona fanned herself and cried, “It is beastly hot in here, don’t you think?”
The pounding faded into the rumble of conversation and seeing the sweat that glistened on Leona’s own brow, Abramm assured himself his own discomfort was only the result of his exertions combined with the heat of the chandeliers and all the guests themselves.
“I believe I’d like to step outside for some air,” Leona said, glancing suggestively up at him.
He hesitated, balancing the prospect of temporary relief against the likelihood that such an act would set the gossip mill racing. And would also tell him if his feeling of being overheated really was just the result of exertion and too many clothes.
“That would feel good right now,” he said finally. “I think I will join you.”
She looked so unabashedly triumphant, he felt immediately guilty.
Abramm could tell that Captain Channon was displeased with the plan— in the dark solitude of the terrace gardens, Abramm would be more vulnerable, his assailant more able to escape—but he said nothing, merely following along as he should. Abramm was convinced Gillard wanted drama and an obvious alibi, however, things a secret attack would not provide.
As they strolled toward the doorway, Leona’s hand on his arm, he caught Madeleine watching them with that sharp look of hers and almost smiled. For the second time this night, he had put uncertainty and even alarm on her face, and he found that it felt good. Nor was she the only one to notice and that was good, too. If the gossips thought him interested in Leona, it would divert the court’s attention from Madeleine. As much as her own actions would allow it.
The chill evening air hit his face like a splash of cold water, washing away the last traces of his disorientation. Believing that it had, indeed, arisen from nothing more than being overdressed, he began to relax. It helped, as well, to be out of the public eye. The scrutiny tonight had been every bit as intense as Byron Blackwell had warned, and Abramm was feeling it.
He led Leona down the wide terrace stairway, and they walked side by side along a pebbled pathway lined with sculpted animal topiaries—ghostly shapes in the shadows limned with
the soft light from the terrace behind and the lamps that dotted the path. They spoke of the dances, the food, the music and then, in a way Abramm didn’t quite follow, Leona wound the conversation around to Lady Madeleine and the rumors that had come out of Prittleman’s ugly accusation.
“Which I don’t believe for a moment, sir,” she assured him hastily. “I know Lord Prittleman, after all, and I’m sure whatever reason you had for entertaining Lady Madeleine at that early hour, it was perfectly proper. However, there are those who believe she’s seeking leverage with you in order to persuade you to accept the Chesedhan alliance offer.”
“But, my lady, I’ve already stated publicly that I want an alliance with the Chesedhans.”
She blinked. “Oh. Well, what they’re saying is that by choosing Madeleine you’re sending a clear signal to her father, the king, that marriage to her sister is a possibility.”
“It is a possibility. Which I’ve also stated publicly. Though how it could be a clear signal to her father, I can’t imagine. Who would be the channel for it? Ambassador Cheede? I don’t believe he’d perceive a signal if it bit him. He has a hard enough time with outright declarations.”
She giggled. “He is somewhat obtuse.”
They came to a walled terrace perched on the hillside, affording a southfacing view of the sparkling city and the broad gleaming river running through it. Its bridges twinkled with lights, and overhead a blanket of cloud had obliterated the stars, reflecting the city lights in a dull orange glow. Across the river, the scatter of lights decreased as they mounted the western headland, finally giving way to darkness. Somewhere in that expanse lay Graymeer’s Fortress, where, according to Kesrin, something evil was brewing. The mists that had been spilling out of it lately and the sharp increase in the number of spawn that had plagued the people who lived nearest the place supported his contention, and more and more lately Abramm found himself thinking about Rhiad and the monster painted on the wall. “You will meet him soon.”
Leona went on talking about the alliance and how concerned everyone was because “really, no one will accept a Chesedhan queen,” while Abramm sighted off the end of the eastern headland, sliding his gaze due west to where Graymeer’s lay hidden behind velvet curtains of night and distance. At first he saw only the darkness, imagining the chamber walled in black ice that lay out there somewhere. Glowing green lines shaped the beast Madeleine had called morwhol, floating above a pit of spidery things crawling in the luminescent soup of their own secretions, and all around them a chittering in the darkness and a deep, distant throbbing—
He broke free with a start, the throbbing that of his own heart slamming against his breastbone, the imagined scene echoing in his mind with unnerving realism. He had almost smelled the must-cloaked astringency, felt the eerie warmth of that pit on his face.
Before he could analyze it further, Leona jarred him from his thoughts by taking both his hands in hers and pulling him round to face her. She was looking up at him with an odd mixture of shyness and aggression, the network of jewels that filled her décolletage gleaming in the light of the garden lantern.
“You must know how handsome you are,” she said quietly. “How all the ladies in court are completely smitten with you. Even the married ones.” She paused, and her eyes fell away from his as she added, “Even me.”
Abramm stared down at her, feeling as if he had suddenly come awake in some horseless cart, bereft of rein or brakes and careening down a mountainside. Something clamored at him to respond, but his tongue lay still, his mind blank. What did one say to such a declaration? Thank you very much, my lady? Now shall we go back inside?
She glanced up again and stepped closer to him, returning his stare with an earnestness that only added to his discomfort. “I know this must all be new and a little bewildering for you—given your background. But you needn’t fear your attentions would be rebuffed. . . .” Letting go of one hand, she watched her fingers walk up his arm and leaned closer. “I assure you, sir, they would be most welcome.” Her eyes flicked up at him beneath lowered lashes as her hand came to rest on his upper arm.
He did not move. Did not speak. Her advance had taken him completely by surprise, and now as he finally comprehended what she was about, a vision of Shettai flooded his soul, with her dark eyes and glorious hair, her regal cheekbones, and that slightly mocking smile. In an instant all the wonder of her soft curves and exotic scent welled out of his memory as if he had only discovered it yesterday. After four years he still hadn’t gotten over her. He doubted he ever would. Which just now made the thought of romancing another in her place—any other—completely abhorrent. Even in his distress, though, he recognized that to express that abhorrence would be needlessly cruel and supremely stupid. Leona was the sister of one of his top advisors, a lady of the highest rank and well liked in court. To offend her as harshly as that would not only humiliate her, it would make of her a bitter enemy. And he had more than enough enemies already.
But if he knew enough not to fling her away, he did not know what to do instead, and finally settled for easing back out of her embrace. He caught her falling hand in his and forced a smile as he forced out a breath. “You’re right, my lady. I am not accustomed to this, and you’ve taken me quite by surprise. I hardly know what to say.”
She smiled, apparently undeterred, for at once she closed the small distance he’d opened between them. “You needn’t say anything, Sire.” And again her hand was on his arm, sliding up to his shoulder, to the back of his neck, the diamonds and great amber stone glittering ferociously beneath her uplifted chin.
Again he stepped back, feeling flustered and helpless. “My lady, I’m . . . I’m . . .” He shook his head, risked a small, apologetic smile. “I’m afraid you’re moving too fast for me.”
At last she understood. But if she looked disappointed, she was by no means devastated. Her hand came down from his neck, sliding across his chest and stopping as a crease formed between her slender brows. Her glance dropped to her fingers now pressing against the breastplate under his doublet.
The crease became a frown. “Why, sir . . .” Her eyes came up to his. “Are you wearing . . . armor under this?”
He stepped back yet again, enough that her hand had to fall completely away from him. He caught it and smiled. “I told Lord Haldon there was far too much stiffener in the backing on this thing.” He gestured at his doublet. “I suppose I should take comfort from knowing that tonight at least I shall not have to worry about my safety should I be attacked.”
She thought it the joke he meant it to be and laughed with him. Then he lifted his head, listening. “Is that the orchestra tuning up? I believe so.” He grimaced. “Which means it’s time for the rondella.”
“We could always stay out here,” Leona suggested.
He smiled at her. “And give the gossips even more to play with? No, they’d accuse me of cowardice—which is what it would be. Might as well go in and get it over with.”
She squeezed his hand. “You’ll do fine, sir.”
He got through the rondella, though not without the bobble—and the kingdom did not come down because of it. After that he received more of the peers, including Everitt Kesrin, Brother Belmir—who requested an audience with him at a later time—and finally, his brother Gillard, who was uncharacteristically pleasant. Which in itself was a threat worse than his usual baiting and left Abramm confident things were going as he had hoped. He continued to be plagued by the headache and the heat, but since in the case of the latter everyone else was plagued by it, too, he didn’t let it concern him. Eventually they opened all the line of doors along the outer wall to let in some cooler air. The evening crept by, his impatience mounting, until at last it was time for the Autumn Suite.
Madeleine joined him on the dais as the courtiers hurried to take their places, forming an aisle for them and encircling a considerably smaller portion of the floor than had been used so far. She had that tight-lipped look again, prompting him to note
it aloud. Most women would have demurred, denying anything was wrong. Not Madeleine. Here came that lift of the chin, that direct look of the eye.
“If you must choose to go through with this madness, I would have liked warning to have taken precautions similar to your own.” She tapped his metal breastplate.
“Why? You are not the target.”
“No, but I am dancing with it. I could well come directly into the line of fire. I’m sure he’d be pleased to get me as well as you.”
“I assure you, my lady, you need have no concerns.” He lifted his bent arm for her to take as the music began, and cocked a brow at her.
She took it grudgingly. “What then? You expect me to rest in the knowledge that the White Pretender will protect me?”
“Or if he is not up to the task, perhaps Eidon will do.”
She tossed her head and turned her gaze forward. “Eidon will not suffer himself to be tempted by fools, sir.”
And suddenly it dawned on him that it wasn’t anger making her so tight and tense, it was fear. Which surprised him, for she seemed in so many ways fearless.
“My earlier offer stands, my lady. If you would rather not do this—”
“It’s a bit late for that, sir.” She glanced up at him. “You aren’t feeling ill yet?”
“I’m fine.”
And then they were being announced, the herald’s clear voice ringing through the crowded ballroom as, in accordance with tradition, they walked along the gauntlet formed by the peers chosen as Suite attendants and out onto the cleared floor. As they moved to the center of what seemed to Abramm to be a great well of space, his gaze flicked over the onlookers who stood foremost, shoulder to shoulder as they ringed the dance floor, here and there a steward or a guardsman—Ames, Channon, Blackwell, Simon . . . Gillard. His brother stood with his arms crossed, his expression benign.
Reaching floor center, Abramm stopped, Madeleine beside him. He held his breath as all the subtle rustlings stilled to silence in the ballroom. A moment they stood thus. Then the horns blared, the strings pulled out a swelling melody, and he swept her into his arms and started around the floor. She looked up into his eyes as dance protocol demanded, her face now perfectly calm. He returned her gaze with only half his mind, concentrating on peripheral vision, as they turned and turned in the course of the dance. Faces and eyes and hands, all the things that might give away a person’s intent to someone sharp eyed enough to see it.
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