Banner of the Damned

by Sherwood Smith

  No one said anything about my appearance. The senior scribes and heralds wanted a full report on what had happened. Again I left out Lasva’s private grief, but told them everything else.

  When I was finished, Halimas brought me up to date on what I had missed, finishing with these words, “The queen is very pleased with you for having foreseen the need to create prestige for the Marlovens before they even appeared, by arranging for An Examination of Greatness to be published.”

  “’Foreseen,’” I repeated, squashing the impulse to say that my motive had been personal, not political.

  He smiled at me with obvious pride. “You’ve seen how we are always refining our educational methods. The court several generations ago made a game of seducing the handsomest scribes. As a result our beautiful young students were encouraged toward vocations outside of court. Around the time you were born, a young, ambitious scribe used his position to sell to a bookmaker intimate stories from an infamous baron’s bedroom, so we did not teach your generation of students how to earn extra money on the side. Instead, we stressed secrecy, the First Rule, and so on, assuming that you would learn on your own. And indeed, you figured it out and discreetly made your arrangement with your cousin. I hope you got a full finger of the finder’s fee.”

  “Finger,” I repeated. “Not quite.” Now I understood the purport of Tiflis’s letter—it was the beginning of a negotiation.

  Halimas laughed. “You can wrangle with her later. The point is, you gained permission to use an ancient text, which avoids not only the international squabbles over Writers’ Fees, but also political implications. You appointed your cousin to act for you, thus avoiding any question of trespass against the First Rule. And you saw the opportunity first, whereas most were apparently laughing at how strange these foreigners are.”

  He smiled at me, and I tried to return the smile, feeling far more false than I had walking through the palace in Lasva’s clothes. I hadn’t foreseen any of these things—except the chance of making the Marlovens popular for Lasva’s sake. And since I was not going to explain that, I must accept praise I didn’t deserve.

  Halimas closed with a compliment on how I’d turned that long, exhausting journey to good use. “One trip to Sartor was enough for me,” he admitted as he accompanied me to the far door. “They can keep their thousand-year-old hassocks and their rooms that stink of mildew. I’d rather read about Old Sartor in the comforts of civilization.” He opened his hands to take in the palace.

  The first change I saw in the royal wing was the pair of heralds guarding Lasva’s suite. One was quite young—my age—the other, about the age of Senior Scribe Halimas. The older one recognized me from shared service.

  “That’s the princess’s scribe,” he muttered to the other.

  They’d tightened their hands on swords, but eased their grips, their expressions relieved. I passed inside, but no one greeted me—not even Poppy, the day page.

  I headed toward my room to bathe and change into my own clothing, but no sooner had I entered the hall than Lasva ran out, one hand bandaged, the other holding a book that I now recognized. “Oh, Emras, it is such a relief to have you back at last.”

  Despite the marks of sorrow in her face I was giddy with joy. Relief to have you back—I cherished those words as she drew me inside her chamber.

  Her words tumbled out in a breathless rush as she told me of the kidnapping from her perspective. When she got to the rescue and its aftermath, she described with precise detail how Kaidas looked—how he did not speak—how he sat there in the rain, astride his horse, with Carola’s white ribbon binding his hair.

  “That means he has sworn fidelity, whether his heart belongs to her or not.” Her voice faltered. “I should hope he loves her, should I not? Only why does it hurt so much?” She wiped her eyes, and out came a quick rush of words, so fast I could scarcely comprehend them. “I am attracted to Ivandred. I embrace it. I never thought I’d feel anything again, except the pain of parting with Kaidas. Is that how one finds love again, to follow the body’s inclination, despite what we are taught about reason staying in control?”

  I had no answer, and was spared having to invent one when Marnda appeared, her eyes raw with weeping, for she was great-aunt to the maidservant, Sindra, who had been strangled. And Torsu had been her responsibility.

  “Permit me to explain the changes in rules the queen has desired we adopt,” Marnda said to me, as Dessaf wiped her eyes in the background.

  EIGHT

  OF THE RISKS OF SHARED MIRTH

  H

  atahra strode back and forth in her private chamber, her heels coming down so hard her arms and chin jiggled. “We were definitely caught with our butts to the fire,” she stated.

  Davaud had sunk into a chair by the hearth, steeped listerblossom leaf in his hands to ease his aching joints. He gazed at his consort in surprise. Only once before had he seen her this angry, and that time she had gone silent. He had never before known her to utter vulgarities—he would have sworn she did not know any.

  She spun, her skirts brushing his knees. “What about the foreigners? Did they really ride around all night?”

  “That they did,” Davaud said tiredly. His orders had been to stay with Ivandred until the investigations were complete, and stay he had. Most of the night and all day. “Perimeter search, they called it.”

  “I take it you were unsuccessful in convincing them that we have plenty of guest chambers here in the palace?” the queen asked with irony.

  “They prefer the back barns. It was the only place I could think of where they could be close to their horses, which they won’t permit anyone else to touch, and also perform their military exercises.”

  “Military exercises?”

  “Ivandred said something about daily drill. I think that’s what they were doing this morning, out in the fields.”

  “That’s what we need,” Hatahra said, snapping her fan northward toward Thorn Gate. “Or at least, some training scheme that doesn’t leave my armed heralds standing around looking like they’ve lost their wits.”

  A servant scratched at the door. Hatahra whirled. “Enter!”

  “The Grand Herald and the Grand Seneschal are here at your majesty’s request,” said a young page, frightened and excited.

  “Come in,” Hatahra said. As soon as they had filed in, she shut the door in her curious servants’ faces. “Speak!”

  The Grand Seneschal said, “We have searched the entire palace, and interviewed every single person, as your majesty ordered.”

  He did not mention that it had taken all night and a good part of the day and while they were still carrying on their regular duties. They knew the queen hadn’t slept either, any more than the consort had. “Nothing’s changed since yesterday,” he continued. “Only those three of the princess’s dressers were found sleeping under tables. All had taken sleepweed served in caffeo laced with distilled liquor, offered by Kivic, a bridle-man.”

  “Did you find out what a bridle-man was doing in the royal residence?” Hatahra demanded.

  The Grand Seneschal looked down. “There was no one to stop him, it seems, your majesty.”

  “It was your majesty herself who ordered the armed heralds to attend me,” Davaud said.

  “Lay aside the protocol for now.” Hatahra cut a glance at the Grand Herald. “Though you’ll put it right back in when you write up this conversation. Everything with due decorum.”

  The Grand Herald bowed.

  Hatahra snapped her fan out and glared at them. “We’re all going to sit down at dawn tomorrow and address the fact that even in civilized Colend the unthinkable can happen. We’ve been complacent for years. For generations. No more.” She scowled at the fan. “But. Those three servants must have smelled the liquor in the caffeo, and I know that Marnda forbids duty staff to drink anything but what she keeps for their refreshment. That does not include wine. Therefore they broke two rules.”

  “Yes.” The Grand Seneschal m
ade an apologetic bow. “And we assume that Sindra Kereis did not, which is why she is dead.”

  “Augh,” the angry queen exclaimed, and now she really did stomp to the fire and back. “How can I in justice dismiss those three, when they can point to Sindra’s example and declare that the reward for fidelity is death?”

  No one answered.

  “I trust no more dead people turned up?”

  “Correct, your majesty,” the Grand Seneschal said. “I believe Torsu Emberit, the dresser found out in the garden, will be the last. The search has also included the old palace foundation. We found footprints and what we think might be splashes of gore—that would be the fighting his grace Davaud reported—but no remains.”

  “Do you know yet by whose hand Torsu Emberit died?”

  “We must assume that same Kivic.” He looked down, the thin hair over his scalp spangled with sweat. “He was newly employed in spring.”

  “A spy!” Hatahra kicked a tasseled hassock. “I don’t want Thias using this as an excuse to declare war on Lasva’s behalf.” She swung around. “Let’s give the court something new to whisper about. Since the Chwahir have also gone from the passes, let us give out that they were driven off because they greatly feared our new alliance. Let’s get everyone talking about the Marlovens.”

  “We’re going to put it about that the entire Chwahir army was driven off by the threat of twenty-four riders?” Davaud asked.

  In answer, Hatahra crossed the room, picked up Tiflis’s book and cast it down before our eyes. “While you were all busy, I had a most informative interview with our Twelve Towers Archivist, and with Prince Macael Elsarion, who is cousin to Prince Ivandred. He arrived last night.”

  “An Examination of Greatness?” The Seneschal read the title, then looked up, puzzled. “Is this about Prince Ivandred?”

  “It’s about one of his ancestors—none other than Elgar the Fox. And it has turned into the latest fad.” At the surprise in their faces, the queen snapped her fan open. “I don’t care if it’s all wine fumes. By nightfall tomorrow, when I give my victory celebration, everyone will believe that Prince Ivandred’s ghostly ancestors chased off the Chwahir.”

  Davaud laughed. The Grand Seneschal shook his head, and the Grand Herald permitted himself a small smile. “The Chwahir will hear that rumor, too. I predict they will not like the inevitable imputation.”

  Hatahra grinned at her consort. “If Jurac does not like people calling him a coward, then he never should have come sneaking over here in the first place. As it is, he will shortly receive notice that all trade is ceased until he extradites that Kivic to make life-restitution to two families.” She slashed her fan down in shadow-challenge.

  The Grand Seneschal mentally re-sorted his staff and their schedules, and the Grand Herald mentally organized the report that his heralds would be reading in all town squares, not at the Hour of the Bird, but the more official Hour of the Stone.

  “I will set my seal on the archives of the true events and on this conversation,” Hatahra said, rounding on the Grand Herald.

  He bowed, unperturbed.

  “Two changes will take place as of now,” the queen said, snapping her fan open and shut, open and shut. “The easiest first: We will, for my lifetime at least, hire no more staff who are not in some wise related to those already here, and thus spoken for.”

  The Grand Seneschal bowed. That would actually make his life somewhat easier.

  “Second, and more difficult: we need better wards.”

  The Grand Seneschal asked, “Shall I send to the Mage Council for a ward-mage, then?”

  Hatahra knew of and shared his misgivings. History was far too full of stories of powerful mages who couldn’t resist meddling in government affairs. Mages who made wards were trained in Sartor; they were disciplined and smart, and they often had Sartoran views.

  “Only until we get one trained here whom we can trust. I know how difficult this magic is. But I tell you this.” The fan snapped open again. “I am already changing my mind about my daughter’s education. She shall learn to read a year earlier than I’d designed. She will be smart because Davaud and I are smart. She is going to learn ward-magic, as many of my royal ancestors did.”

  Davaud whistled soundlessly, pitying that poor child lying on silken sheets in the far chamber. Magic lessons and all the other educational requirements of a future queen meant that Alian would have little time to herself for many, many years. I hope she’s more like her mother than like me, he thought.

  The queen faced the Grand Herald. “One more order for you. I want your most diligent minds to dig up as much information about our new allies as possible, in case we do put together a marriage treaty. I do not like being ignorant, and my sister might be going to live among them. Speaking of ignorance, why were we not warned of Jurac’s trickery by our embassy in Chwahirsland?”

  “Because they were told that King Jurac was inspecting ports along his coast. There was no evidence to the contrary, and our people can’t follow the Chwahir king around.”

  Hatahra sighed. “Our training is in the subtleties of courts. It is not sufficient to anticipate blunt actions, and so we were very nearly given a royal moth kiss on our doorstep, and by a hum-bumbling Chwahir.” She gestured dismissal with her fan.

  The Grand Herald and the Grand Seneschal bowed and withdrew.

  The moment the door shut on them, the queen turned to her consort. “What is he like, Davaud? Do these Marlovens experience the unthinkable as thinkable every day, is that what makes them so…” She waved her hand in a circle. “So different? I remember what you told me this morning. Now tell me again, more slowly.”

  Davaud complied. The queen did not interrupt until he reached Ivandred and Lasva sitting together on the horse, and then she asked him to describe exactly what he had observed in Ivandred, Lasva, and the Duke of Alarcansa.

  “You’ve a good eye for detail,” Hatahra said grimly. “All right. Here is my next change. You said that Vasalya-Kaidas Lassiter was the only one outside of the Marloven who saw through Jurac’s plan.”

  “Correct.”

  “I’ve been thinking about this all day. We will call him back to court. It’s time to relearn defense. I already know how everyone, of whatever degree, would resist with all their might. But. Putting a smart duke in charge will make it a fashion. Reminding them of ancient oaths would cause resistance, but fashion,” she showed her teeth, “will get ‘em all scrambling to be first.”

  Davaud laughed, then winced and put a hand to his hip. “Oh. Oh! It’s brilliant, Tahra.”

  “No,” she said—flat denial, all humor fading from her face. “It’s dangerous.”

  “Dangerous,” he repeated, and because he had laid aside his fan, flicked his fingers in query.

  She snapped her fan open in Direct Address. “It took several generations to get swords out of the hands of nobles, and now I must put them back. But only outside the palace. I also need real guards, but they must be trained in manners. They must also look good, and that means weapons decently hidden, so we’ll redesign their livery with that in mind. I believe this puts them under the seneschal. The heralds have enough to do and enough power.”

  Davaud made The Peace in assent.

  She kicked the hassock again. “Not that there isn’t danger even when court’s hands hold pens, fans, ribbons. There is another attack that disturbs me nearly as much.”

  “Another attack?” Davaud asked.

  “Yes! I feel like I woke up in a world of venomous snakes! You know I’ve never interfered with those hummers at The Slipper and the Skya Playhouse. They can put a crowned veil over a horse, hinting it represents me, and I just shrug. I know what I look like. I also know my motives and those of my chief antagonists—Thias, for all his bluster, does care for the good of Colend.”

  When she paused, Davaud signed assent.

  “But I take exception when they start putting a rose veil on a grasping, venomous serpent, as they did this
past spring. Whence came this poison? I asked myself—for I know it’s not true. But those plays echo the chirping birds on the streets, which it’s important to know when all I’m surrounded with is the warble of practiced flattery.”

  Davaud did not lift his head, and the queen gave a short bark of laughter. “Oh, I acquit my closest trusted people of lying, or we would not have this conversation. And truth to tell, I never took the rumors seriously. I know my sister isn’t heartless, so what matter? If she were to inherit, it would be better for a queen to have a reputation for hardness. But when has Lasva ever been spiteful, or toyed with someone out of idleness?”

  “Not once in my experience,” Davaud said.

  “Exactly. None of us were aware that the whispers about Lasva collecting hearts began directly after Carola Definian returned to court after her father’s death.”

  Davaud did not hide his surprise. “Definian?” He thought of the sweet-voiced young duchess and shook his head. “All I’ve ever seen is quiet manners and fine taste in dress and display. And you favored her suit with the Lassiters. You told me, in this very room, that you thought her good sense would settle young Kaidas down—or at least his progeny.”

  “My grandmother would have commended Carola’s superlative sense of moral geography,” the queen stated, her brows sardonic.

  “Moral geography?”

  “Look in my grandmother’s private writings. They’re on the shelves opposite the bed.” They had separate bedrooms, the queen seldom being able to sleep through the night. What reading she did was always in those night hours, while the kingdom either slumbered or entertained itself. “Carola is a Definian, and they have always been raised to believe that ducal privilege extends to every aspect of life. To want is to have. And everyone else exists to serve that want.”

  Davaud said, “When I first came to court, the former duke was called ‘his imperial highness.’ But the girl seemed so… so perfect an expression of courtly style.”