Kantor sighed gustily. :Those of us who are older, are. Some of us, like Eloran—are young.:
:Have you got any plans for delivering some sort of chastisement to Eloran?: Alberich asked after a moment, while he tried to sort out the meaning behind his words and couldn’t come up with anything.
:Oh, yes,: came the reply. :Rolan and I have devised something quite—appropriate.:
And since nothing else was forthcoming, Alberich’s curiosity had to remain unassuaged.
3
Selenay looked out of a window in the Long Gallery on the way to her Lesser Audience Chamber and sighed with regret. The garden was alive with color and movement against the snow—the brilliantly colored cloaks, coats, and hoods of the younger members of her Court as they chased one another, flung snowballs, and generally forgot any pretense of dignity. Young men who had lately fought the Tedrels had cast aside their adulthood for a few hours as they fired snowballs at pages safely ensconced behind the sturdy walls of a snow fort. Young ladies giggled and joined the pages in flinging missiles back at their suitors. Others were on the way to frozen ponds with skates slung over their shoulders, or moving toward the artificial hills in the “wild” garden with sleds. Selenay would have given a year of her life to be down there with them.
Alas. The Queen had an audience with the ambassador from Hardorn, and there was no time for frolicking in the snow, no time for skating, no time for a fast run on a sled.
Curse it.
She nodded to the guards on either side of the door of the Lesser Audience Chamber and went inside. She’d had the room repainted in softer colors than her father had favored, though she couldn’t do much about the leather paneling, which had been there for decades and would probably be there for decades more. It was easy to keep clean and looked far more luxurious than anything she could install to replace it; she’d settled for painting the trim an ashen brown with silver-gilt touches here and there. The Ambassador and his entourage were already waiting, as was Talamir. Bless him. It was clear he had been keeping the Ambassador properly entertained; although such gentlemen were notable for being able to conceal any evidence of impatience, the smile Ambassador Werenton turned on her was quite genuine and warm, and his eyes were relaxed. He wore the fine shirt, tunic, trews, and floor-length, open vest in the current Valdemaran style, which was a little disappointing. She’d wanted to see what the Hardornan mode was, for the talk was that the new Queen was quite a fashion setter.
She gave him her hand; he bowed over it, and she was pleased to note that his hand was warm and dry, not cold or clammy. She took her place on the small, velvet-covered throne on the sketchy dais, and motioned to him to sit. This was a room meant to welcome rather than awe; the warm ocher of the leather-covered paneling and the aspect of it, situated so that it looked out into a sheltered courtyard, made it surprisingly comfortable for a formal room. The furnishings were all upholstered in leather that matched the paneling, and the floor carpeted; there was a fine fire in the fireplace, and servants with mulled, spiced wine to serve. Everything that could have been done to relax the Ambassador and his entourage had been—more of Talamir’s work, no doubt.
“Ambassador Werenton, it is good to see you again,” she said warmly. “And I am glad that you were able to reach our Court before this snow closed us in.”
“As am I, Majesty,” he replied. “And my King wishes me, first, to tender his sympathies for your loss, and second, offer his apologies that he was not able to send me sooner.”
She smiled at him, and hoped that her weariness with all of the official expressions of condolence did not show. She knew very well that the King of Hardorn could have cared less about who was on the throne of Valdemar. He knew that Valdemar would always favor allies and peace over conquest. In fact, so long as that attitude prevailed, the King of Hardorn would not have cared if the Council had elected a horse to wear the crown. “Please, Werenton—the message of condolence arrived with the usual promptness of our friends and allies, and I can certainly understand how your King would be otherwise too occupied with his own defensive preparations against Karse to think about sending you to our Court.”
“If Valdemar had fallen—or even been pushed back—” Werenton said apologetically, and shrugged. “We share a border with Karse, as you know. The King was prepared, at need, to unite our force with yours if it had come to that. As it was, the defeated Tedrels spread into our land, and we were forced to deal with them as one would any other plague.”
The King would not have bestirred himself unless his Border Lords forced him to, she translated to herself. In fact, it probably wouldn’t have been the King of Hardorn who united his forces with us at all; it would have been the local Hardornen border-levies.
“And your King was right to concern himself first with them, and concern himself with other things second,” Selenay agreed. “I am glad it never came to the point of asking our allies for help.”
She knew, and probably the Ambassador did, too, that the reason her father hadn’t asked Hardorn for troops was precisely because there was no telling what the Tedrels were going to do for certain. Yes, Karse had hired them to take Valdemar. But if Hardorn’s border troops had been removed to bolster Valdemaran forces, leaving that border unguarded, the Tedrels would probably have taken southern Hardorn and come at Valdemar from the eastern flank. The King of Hardorn was a good man, and served his people well—but he was not a very good strategist, nor were any of his military advisers, sad to say. All of them were old men, and more accustomed to dealing with the odd bandit force than a real campaign. Karse’s long-standing and increasingly hostile feud with Valdemar had ensured that Hardorn had been very little troubled over the past two reigns. Her father had deemed it wise not to distract Hardorn’s king with—as he had put it—“conflicting needs.”
She had better say something flattering, before her mouth let something unflattering escape. “And am I to understand that congratulations will shortly be in order?” Selenay continued, with a slight smile.
“We do expect the birth of an heir before spring, yes,” Werenton admitted. He did not mention that the young Queen was only a little older than Selenay, nor that the King was older than Sendar had been. Nor did Selenay make anything of it. She was just grateful that the King of Hardorn had married before the death of her own father. Now at least there was one old man who was out of the running as a potential suitor. Had he still been single—his previous wife having died without producing a living heir—there soon would have been advisers on both sides of the Border clamoring for a match between them.
“I will have to rack my brain to find a unique birth gift, then,” Selenay replied. “I’m sure that by now His Majesty has an entire room given over to silver rattles and ivory teething rings.”
The Ambassador smiled politely, as if to suggest that a royal infant could not possibly have too many silver rattles and ivory teething rings.
Selenay spent the better part of two candlemarks with the Ambassador, mostly taking her lead from Talamir or the Ambassador himself as to when subjects currently under negotiation needed to be mentioned. There were some, of course. Hardorn badly wanted to take back some land that Karse had overrun half a century ago, but if they did, the King wanted to be sure that Valdemar wouldn’t take it amiss. Valdemar wanted warning if this was going to happen, so that when Karse reacted (though given how unsettled things were there at the moment, Karse might not even notice for a year or two) there would be extra guards on the Border again. Hardorn wanted to know what Valdemar was going to do with all those “Tedrel” children. Valdemar politely told Hardorn it was none of Hardorn’s business, but that, in fact, the children were more than halfway to being Valdemaran by now. Hardorn suggested polite skepticism; Valdemar offered examples, and pointed out the general ages of the children. There were some matters of trade to discuss, some concessions that both of them wanted. No few of these would have to go before the Council, and, presumably, an equivalent body in Hard
orn, but in a simple, convivial discussion like this one, it was possible to get a feel for how such overtures would be met when presented formally.
Finally—and none too soon, in Selenay’s opinion—the Ambassador gave signs that he had said all he needed to, and she politely decreed the audience was at an end. He withdrew; she turned to Talamir as soon as the doors had closed behind him and his entourage.
Talamir shrugged wearily—he did everything wearily these days. He seemed to have aged twenty years since the end of the wars. His hair had gone entirely to silver-gray, and that lean, careworn face had lines of pain in it that had not been there a year ago. The eyes had changed the most, though; now they were an indeterminate, stormy color with the look in them of someone who has looked into places that mortal men are not supposed to see.
Still, most of the time he was the same Talamir she remembered, stubborn and difficult to move once he had decided on a thing.
“No hidden agendas, I think, Majesty,” he said judiciously.
“Other than the obvious; that the King waited to see if I’d survive six months on the throne on my own before sending a formal envoy,” she said, with a feeling of resignation. All of the envoys had been like this; it was disheartening to think that there were probably bets being placed on how long she would remain Queen and sole ruler of Valdemar.
“Well, you could have wedded immediately,” Talamir pointed out. “From his point of view there was no harm in waiting to see if you did before sending the Ambassador.”
“Or I could have been toppled by one of my own nobles, or assassinated by a leftover Tedrel.” She did not add after all, I’m only a woman, but the unspoken words hung in the air between them.
“Well, you weren’t,” Talamir replied unexpectedly. “And those of us who knew you also knew you wouldn’t be. And if some foreign monarch is foolish enough to think that your youth and sex means that you are weak or foolish, well, I pity him. He’ll take a beating at the negotiation tables.”
She flushed, feeling suddenly warm with pleasure. “Thank you for that, Talamir,” she replied. So Talamir really did think she was capable! It was a welcome surprise; she would not have been at all surprised if he had still been thinking of her as “little” Selenay, who needed a firm hand on the rein and a great deal of looking after.
He gave a little bow, and smiled; he still had a charming smile. “Credit where credit is due,” he said simply. “And by this point, I’m sure the Throne Room is filled with impatient petitioners—”
“So on to the next chore.” She thought longingly of the fresh snow outside, and ruthlessly pushed away the longing. Queens did not desert their Court to frolic carelessly when there were duties to be done. Queens had responsibilities. “Time to get to it; the sooner we clear the work out, the less likely it is I’ll incur the wrath of the cooks by delaying luncheon.” She rose, and shook out her skirts, still startled, even after all this time, to note the trimming of black on her Royal Whites where the silver of the Heir or the gold of the Monarch should be. “Speaking of wrath,” she continued, as Talamir went to hold the doors of the chamber open for her, “What’s the outcome of that little disaster down at the salle?”
Talamir coughed, to hide a smile, she thought. “Alberich escorted the two miscreants down to the glassworks just after breakfast,” he told her. “They will be spending from now until—we’re thinking—Vernal Equinox pumping the glassworks’ bellows every free moment that they have. We’re loath to keep them down there once the weather begins to get significantly warmer, because work switches to the nighttime once it becomes hellish to keep the furnaces going at full heat in the hottest part of the day. But we also want them to feel they’re really being punished when the weather turns and all their friends are enjoying themselves outdoors again.”
“Poor things!” she said, feeling rather sorry for them, seeing as she was in a similar situation with no hope for a reprieve.
Talamir coughed again; this time it sounded a bit disapproving. “Selenay, do you have any notion how much the Crown’s treasury is going to have to pay the glassworkers for a new mirror? You could replace every horse in the Royal Guard with Ashkevron war stallions for less than the cost of that mirror. Personally, I think they’re getting off lightly.”
“If those mirrors cost so much, how on earth did the Crown manage to pay for all of them when they were first installed?” she asked, as the two of them, flanked by a couple of guards, made their way down the gallery that overlooked the snow-covered gardens.
“If the legends are correct, no one paid for them at all,” Talamir replied. “The Herald-Mages made them, supposedly. Just as whenever one was broken, the Herald-Mages fixed them.”
“How very convenient,” she said dryly. “Did the Herald-Mages fix plumbing, too? I’ve had an Artificer in my bathing room twice now, and that drip still isn’t fixed. When I was trying to sleep last night, that was all I could hear.”
“Sendar used to say he found it soothing,” Talamir said quietly.
I am not my father, Selenay thought, and felt a surge of resentment as well as sadness. But she was not going to say it. “Just have someone send a different Artificer, please,” she replied instead. “If I have to move into my old rooms for a few days until it’s fixed, I’ve no objections. If I have to listen to that drip for many more nights, I’m going to go mad.”
***
With classes canceled for the day, Alberich found himself with unexpected free time on his hands. In light of the frustration of pursuing inquiries to dead ends recently, he decided he had a good idea of how to fill some of it. At this point, all of his usual sources of information had run dry. It was time to find some new ones, but to do that, he would have to create new identities.
What I am looking for is not going to be found around Exile’s Gate, he decided.
It was with a distinct feeling of pleasure that he noted that Kantor had followed his thought, and had altered his course, heading, not for the Collegia, but for the Companion’s Bell. This was a prosperous tavern that played host to Heralds quite regularly—and to Alberich quite a bit more often than to most, although, if you had asked the staff, they would have said, truthfully, that they didn’t see him there very often.
There was a secret room in the back of the stables where Herald Alberich would retire, and someone else would emerge, by way of a door that no more than a handful of people knew existed. In that room was a chest of disguises, which were apparently tended to by someone in the Bell, for no matter what state they were in when Alberich left them there, the next time he returned they would be clean—or at any rate, cleaner, since the apparent dirt and real stains were an integral and important part of some of them. Furthermore, any damage he’d done to them would be repaired, and the clothing neatly put away, back in the chest.
He’d inherited that room and that chest from Herald Dethor, his predecessor as Weaponsmaster, and he’d put quite a bit of wear on the disguises he’d found there. Enough that it was time to do something about the situation, before he found himself literally without anything to wear.
He’d have to do it in disguise, though. Even though he flatly refused to wear Herald’s Whites, his own gray leathers were distinctive enough to mark him as the Collegium Weaponsmaster. If the Weaponsmaster was noted visiting the used-clothing merchants, it would be a short step for anyone keeping an eye on him to determine that he was purchasing disguises. Why else would he be making a great many purchases of used clothing?
So, after leaving Kantor tucked into an out-of-the-way stall in the section of the stables reserved for Companions, Herald Alberich retired into that room, and a persona he had never used until now emerged into the alley behind the inn.
His clothing was well-made, of good materials, but a little out of style, as befitting a prosperous merchant or craftsman from one of the farther or more rustic reaches of the kingdom. Good thick boots with a significant amount of scuffing and wear to the tops suggested that he was used to do
ing a great deal of walking in rough country. Leather breeches with little wear on the seat but a great deal to the legs and knees added to that impression. His heavy wool cape with an attached hood was significantly old-fashioned, though the material was very good, and it was lined with lambswool plush, which was quite a luxurious fabric. Beneath the cape was a knit woolen tunic that went down to his calves—also significantly out of fashion, for it should have been (but was not) worn with a sleeveless leather or cord-ware jerkin if he’d been living in Haven for any length of time. All of this gear looked home-made rather than tailor-made, and every bit of it made him look rustic.
If he spoke slowly and took care with his syntax, despite the odd accent he still had, he’d be taken for a farmer or craftsman—or, just possibly, a country squire—from some agrarian part of Valdemar with its own regional accent. It was a fine guise, and very useful for what he was about to do—which was to buy used clothing.
Such was easy enough to acquire, and it was easier to put mending and patching onto gently-used clothing than it was to repair clothing that was getting far past its useful lifespan. It was easier to put on stains than remove them. That so-helpful, completely invisible accomplice at the Companion’s Bell was quite literate, as Alberich had proved to himself by leaving some instructions with one of those disguises, and returning to find that those instructions had been carried out to the letter. So he would buy appropriate outfits, and leave instructions on how the items were to be abused if they looked insufficiently used.
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