King Emil had seen him around the palace many times, often in the company of the prince or at formal events—for this was the skald, and the memories of epic poems from the past resided in his head; and the creation of new poems for the future resided in his hands.
Emil rumpled his brow. “Did the seidkonur send you here to tell me? Why not send a servant?”
The skald sketched a bow. “I am your servant always, Your Majesty.”
“But why did you wait in here?” Emil asked, knowing he was being petty but unable to resist. “Don’t you know this place is private?”
“Is it?” The skald’s grin tightened, and he shrugged one shoulder. “Then I apologize. Ebba wanted me to tell you where she’d gone, and I thought this as good a place to wait as any. I’m working on a poem, and what better inspiration?” The skald motioned expansively at the black trunk and branches.
“Your poem is about the Tree?” the king asked eagerly. “Recite it for me.”
“Gladly,” the skald said. “I never mind an audience.” He struck a pose and lowered his voice, replacing the jerking, jocular tone with a beautifully accented baritone:
“Terrible, terrible hanging tree,
Auger and prophet of misery,
Your tempting vision a broken vow.
“Nine are your branches on every bough;
Nine are the boughs that your trunk endow.
Nine men are hanging by your decree.
“Terrible, terrible hanging tree,
I won’t believe in what you foresee.
You might have them, but you won’t have me.”
The skald beamed around at them, apparently delighted with his performance and oblivious to the king’s reaction.
Emil was not pleased. He didn’t fully understand the poem, but he did understand that the skald was not flattering the Tree. Calling it terrible—well, yes, it certainly could evoke terror. But what was this nonsense about broken vows and denying the Tree one’s allegiance? No, it wasn’t right. And who was this—this boy to criticize the Tree? This boy with the clothing rough enough to scratch glass, with the irrepressible grin, the improperly casual attitude toward royalty?
Emil did not remember any of the skald’s other songs and poems being as offensive as this one, but he had never before paid attention to their words: the skald’s voice had been background music at banquets and such, but it had never been important. If the presence of a skald at court hadn’t been such a tradition, Emil would never have allowed one in the first place. Truth be told, he could not recall hiring this one—the skald had simply appeared one day, and Emil had assumed either the chancellor or the seneschal was to blame.
“Is that all?” the king asked coldly, not bothering to hide his sour displeasure.
“It’s not going to be any longer than that,” the skald said. “Did you notice? Nine lines, nine syllables per line, an increasingly broken meter. I was quite pleased by that, but now that I’ve heard it aloud, I think it needs to be chanted, not spoken. I admit, some of the words could use tweaking.”
“They certainly could,” said the royal secretary.
“It’s a way to pass the time,” said the chancellor. “I thought it was rather good; we don’t make enough use of you, Skuli.”
“Want to lose yourself in the traditions of the past, my lord?” suggested the royal secretary.
Things might have grown heated then, had not the seidkonur herself arrived, red faced and panting. She was a not-unhandsome woman of nearly seventy, with loose, pure-white hair down to her narrow hips. Age had wrinkled and spotted her olive complexion and clouded her eyes with cataracts, but she moved with the uninhibited grace of a dancer half her age, and her bare feet were delicate and perfectly formed. She carried a long stick, and her clothes swirled with her every movement. “Forgive me, Your Majesty,” she said, forcing her breathing into a more regular pattern. “I came as quickly as I could. Keir no doubt gave you the details.”
“He did,” Emil acknowledged. He cast a cold eye over the skald, and his annoyance flared once more when the boy bowed in reply, formal but loose-limbed. Emil’s lips compressed, but he restrained himself enough to say merely, “You have delivered your message, skald. You may depart.”
“I’ll stay, if you don’t mind,” the skald offered, bouncing up on his toes. “I’m quite interested in seidr. Not to perform myself, naturally, but I’ve often thought there’s a certain symbiosis between the masculinity of poetry and the femininity of magic—yin and yang, you might say.”
“You may depart,” the king repeated emphatically, and in such a way that there could be no misinterpretation.
Emotions flickered across the skald’s face, and he glanced at the chancellor—whose expression, Emil was baffled to see, was one of sick disappointment. By the time Emil looked back to the skald, however, the man’s smile had reappeared, and he was bowing and grinning himself out the door.
Chapter 22:
Espionage
Acrid wood smoke smuggled tendrils past the edges of the double glass doors of the fireplace. The tendrils brushed the burgundy carpet, crept up the legs of wingback chairs, caressed the mighty painting above the mantelpiece. Black soot marred the underside of the heavy gold frame, but it did not obscure the regal figure depicted within.
Every chair angled toward the portrait, their empty seats in awe of the artist’s skill—or of his subject. For there in paint and brushstrokes reigned King Emil II in all his glory, at the height of his power, covered in military honors from his youth, more alive than life, gaze piercing. Every chair bared its sinful soul before that gaze and submitted to its judgment.
Every chair but one. The final chair was not empty—although of its occupant, only one arm could be seen; and the sleeve and hand melded in with the chair so well, in the shadows of the corner, that no casual glance would uncover it.
That arm was my insurance, proof that I wasn’t exactly hiding. I couldn’t be hiding, not when my arm was visible. Not when I was sitting here alone, only wanting a little peace to contemplate the fire and think. And it wasn’t like I was in disguise. It wasn’t my fault that my red blouse and neat brown skirt blended in with the colors of the room. It wasn’t my fault if the prefects chose to invade the room I’d happened to be sitting in. The fact that I stayed hidden after their arrival, that I didn’t stand up and announce myself and let them know that I would overhear whatever they said . . . well, why should I? I’d come here for quiet, not to be bombarded with questions and company. And as for the mirrors cleverly positioned to show me the room without showing the room me? Coincidence. Didn’t even notice them. Certainly didn’t spend two hours setting them up myself.
I adjusted my position—I wouldn’t have a chance, once the prefects began arriving—curled my legs beside me, and sank into thought.
Earlier that afternoon, Edenfield had arranged for the other prefects to arrive in good time for a seven-o’clock dinner. Once he’d stopped fussing about it and started listening, it’d taken us five minutes to throw out any attempt at underhandedness. Edenfield would tell the truth as he knew it, and we’d go from there.
He’d phoned Canopus first. “I wasn’t supposed to share that information with you,” he told her, as we’d agreed, “but I needed advice. What should we do?”
“We’ll have to do what she says,” Canopus had replied. “It’d be too suspicious otherwise. You were right to call me first.” And she coached him on his strategy for talking to the others.
Edenfield listened and nodded and replied, and since he was engaging with the situation as he believed it to be, he was utterly in character and flawlessly convincing. What gaps he could not fill in, the other prefects filled in themselves. By the time he got to the last couple of calls, those prefects had already heard the information from other prefects, and I got a fascinating glimpse into the progression of information and gossip.
While Edenfield was on the phone with Fjordland’s assistant, Francis showed up, looking bru
ised, battered, and ridiculously pleased with himself. I put my finger to my lips and shooed my brother back into the hallway, closing the door so we could whisper without disturbing Edenfield.
“Success?” Francis asked.
“Success,” I confirmed. “They’ll be arriving in time for dinner. We’re staying in the spare family room—the children’s room we tried to crawl into. There’s not much time, and I’m worried about how much there is to do; Edenfield Manor isn’t exactly overburdened with staff.”
“I’ll take care of that,” Francis said. “I could use some exercise—and I can’t always be beating up knights. What do I do after the prefects arrive? Play bodyguard?”
“Play servant, if the Gulbransens—they’re the help—need you to. I know you didn’t come here to do dishes—”
“I’ll do whatever needs to be done,” Francis promised.
I blinked at him. You know, for all that I disparage my brother, he can sometimes be pretty awesome.
“By the way,” Francis said, “the head knight showed up. Ugly, isn’t he? Asked me to give you this.”
My CSS card. I noticed Francis wasn’t conveying Captain Nass’s apologies along with it.
My snore analysis of the Gulbransens proved on the nose: they were both in their seventies and, although reasonably spry, definitely not up for readying the manor for eight prefects and two unexpected guests and making lunch and dinner and prepping for the king and the king’s retinue by the end of the week. To prevent heart attacks, Francis and I spent ten minutes assuring them we were their dogsbodies for the next few hours and getting lists of chores. Even Edenfield did his part. He wasn’t the sort to haul chairs around, even if he hadn’t been bogged down with his own work, but he set out quite a decent cold lunch for us at one and encouraged us with many jolly words.
The following hours were a flurry of chores. Mrs. Gulbransen drove to town to buy as much food as the car would hold and to order more; Mr. Gulbransen started prepping a dinner suitable for prefects used to fancy chefs and the finest ingredients. Francis and I aired sheets, dusted, vacuumed, and scrubbed. Here again, Francis proved indispensable. He worked like a machine, faster than I could believe, uncomplaining and untiring. I had known that his job involved a lot of manual labor, but somehow I had never connected the ability to hammer nails and maneuver boards into place for eight hours at a stretch with the ability to vacuum a dining room and polish a table.
I had to stop helping him before we were entirely done, to make my own preparations. I arranged the sitting room, gave the Gulbransens and Prefect Edenfield specific instructions, and kept an eye out for approaching vehicles. The moment a shiny car nose pushed up into the parking loop, I zipped over to my armchair in the corner.
Five minutes passed. Ten. Then the door opened and Prefect Tey entered. He wavered in the doorway, eyes adjusting. Dim lamps and firelight glinted off his straight, mousy brown hair and cast shadows in the sockets of his face. The dredges of sunlight that remained outdoors would have flattered him more, but the heavy, drawn curtains hid them as thoroughly as midnight.
Tey was by far the youngest of the prefects and, from what I’d heard, an excellent harpist. My boss had observed that he also appeared to be struck by the same eager fanaticism that made college students everywhere try to change the world by way of handmade signs, rallies, and pickets. He even dressed like a student, rather than in his prefecture’s colors. Then again, if my prefecture’s colors were cardinal red and sky blue, I might limit them to a pin also.
Tey paced about the room once, absently snooping in drawers and poking decorations, and then flopped into one of the wingback chairs to stare moodily at the king’s portrait. He was still in that attitude some minutes later, when the door opened for the next prefect.
Prefect Hemmel had chosen to wear his prefecture’s colors, and although their russet and pumpkin orange didn’t suit him, they did pretty much sum up my impression of his personality.
“Thank goodness someone’s here!” Tey exclaimed, springing to his feet when he saw Hemmel. He didn’t add, Even if it’s only you, though I heard it all the same.
“Tobias,” Hemmel stated, in such a tone as to indicate that he didn’t think much more of Tey than Tey thought of him. With a nod at the younger prefect, he made directly for the sideboard and poured himself a brandy.
“I was beginning to think I was the only one coming,” Tey gushed. “I’d already left when the call came in—I was halfway through Canopus. Too bad we didn’t know earlier—I could’ve saved myself hours of driving! I’m flat out. Why do you think the king chose Edenfield, of all places? Who cares about Edenfield?”
“Who cares about Tey?” Hemmel responded indifferently. “Who cares about Hemmel?”
“Our prefectures are as good as anyone else’s,” Tey said, so offended that I pegged this as a sore point. “What would they do without my museums, music academies, art schools? Tey’s the center of Carinan culture. What’s Edenfield? Lumber. Who gives a half cowry about lumber?”
Hemmel shrugged and offered Tey a brandy. When the boy waved it off, he drank it himself. Hemmel’s largest export, I remembered, was fish. Not much better than lumber, but it could be worse. In Batata, we’d bragged about our potatoes.
Canopus swept in next, Batata at her heels, glamorous in a wine-red dress suit with gold trim and gold pumps. Hemmel offered her a brandy, which she accepted disdainfully and posed with.
Batata, in his prefecture’s dark hickory brown and beige, was more interested in the sidebar than in making an entrance. He downed his first glass with the steadiness of a man preparing to make an evening of it.
I watched him with especial interest. I’d grown up with Joel Pinho as my prefect, though I hadn’t lived in his prefecture since I’d hit eighteen and run off to university. The years had done him no favors, but neither had they ruined him: he remained fit and, aside from a few gray hairs, largely unchanged. Batata alone of the prefectures can’t afford to pay its prefect a living wage, and Pinho worked the fields alongside the rest of us. It must’ve hurt his pocketbook considerably to fly on short notice to Edenfield, when he’d thought he only had to drive to Lindo, but I doubted he’d complain of it. That wasn’t our way.
“This isn’t Canopan brandy,” Canopus announced reproachfully. “Typical of Edenfield, cutting corners. Did he think we wouldn’t notice? Not,” she added, casting her words at Hemmel and Batata, “that he wouldn’t be right that some of us couldn’t tell the difference.”
Hemmel made a rude gesture, but Batata only stared morosely into his drink.
“Your aunt,” Canopus informed Tey, “had an excellent palate. I see she has passed it on to you. Normally, I’d commend you for choosing thirst over substandard brandy, but this isn’t a normal situation. Hemmel, pour the man a glass.”
“No, thank you,” Tey said. “I don’t drink.”
“You’ll need it,” Canopus warned. “Take it from one who’s been in this game a long time: prefects’ conferences may sound exciting, but they’re dead dull. Consider the company.”
Tey perched on the seat next to her, turning his long legs to the side until his knees nearly knocked the carpet, fingers clutching the arm, eyes bright. “I have been considering the company,” he said. “I’ve been waiting for this week for a long time—for my whole life. Waiting for a chance to make a difference. Whether we get along personally or not doesn’t matter, not to the history books. The thing people will remember of this week is our unity in our common goal: the good of Carina.”
Hemmel snorted. “More likely the good of Therese Ferro,” he told Batata sotto voce.
Canopus whirled. “What was that?”
“Don’t delude yourself, lad,” Hemmel told Tey. “Batata’s only with us because Avior owns him. And Canopus doesn’t care about anyone but herself.”
Canopus’s eyes narrowed, but she kept her neck extended and her pose superior. “And Hemmel doesn’t care about anyone but Lindo, you might as well s
ay,” she shot back. “Not that she’d look twice at the fat old goat.”
Tey shook his head indulgently. “Don’t think you can trick me. You may pretend to bicker, but I know it’s really flyting to disguise your humility. You admire each other, and you stand together.” He tilted his head to rest it against the chair, lids blissfully closed. “When a country’s too far gone for a peaceful revolution, violence must take its place. A timely small violence can prevent an untimely large violence, as a boil must be lanced before it bursts. A king who neglects his duties doesn’t deserve to be king. Look at him!” He sprang to his feet, spitting at the royal portrait. “Smug, selfish, pompous pig, sitting fat and greedy in his kingly larder while the country falls apart around him. He deserves to fall with it. No—instead of it!”
“That’s enough, lad,” Hemmel said.
“Enough? How can you say that? How can it ever be enough when our country suffers? How can—”
“I don’t care about your crusade,” Hemmel interrupted. “None of us does.”
Tey flushed red, eyes flipping from one prefect to the next, and finding support nowhere. “How dare you?” He began in a whisper, but it grew as he spoke. “How dare you be like this? You’re as bad as he is! This isn’t a time for calming down; this is a time for rage.”
“This is a time for keeping your mouth shut,” Canopus snapped. “Grow up, Tobias.”
“When grown men see evil before them and do nothing—”
“We’re here, aren’t we?” Batata shot back. “We’re in, all of us. And unlike you, some of us have had to make sacrifices to be here.”
“I suppose you mean yourself,” Canopus sneered. “I’m sure it’s such a sacrifice, letting Avior pour money into your economy, not having to support your own prefecture like the rest of us.”
Bargaining Power Page 24