As for how she came to be not a maid, well that was her business.
Unless she made it his. And then it was even more her business. . . .
:Good man. Slow and cautious. She’s in no hurry and neither should you be.:
:As long as she doesn’t run in terror from my face,: he said dryly, :I doubt there is anything else about me that cows her. Underneath, that woman is someone that would appal people if they only knew her. There are things she will not compromise on. And things that she would kill over, if it came to that.:
Which was, of course, how she was getting away with purloining secrets out from under the very noses of the owners, and with their cooperation. At some point, perhaps in that last battle, Myste had found, or gotten, her courage. Now he doubted that anything could effectively stand in her way if she believed in or wanted something badly enough.
Like me—?
He sat firmly on that thought and crammed it back into the little mental cupboard it had come out of.
Back to business. :What do you Companions know about ciphers?: he asked. After all, better to cover all possible avenues with this one.
:Nothing much,: Kantor said with regret. :Nobody here at the Collegium for sure, and I think not anybody alive. Just because we’re good at Mindspeech doesn’t mean we’re good at everything. Working ciphers takes a particular kind of mind—the kind that can see patterns where the rest of us would see only chaos.:
Well, he’d had to ask. :Should I just leave all this to Talamir, then?:
:He knows more about who to trust in this than you do. I think I know who he’ll be taking the papers to, and no one is safer.:
Well, that was a dismissal if he had ever heard one. Time to stop worrying about that end of the situation, and think about the part he could do something about.
Such as discovering just who, besides young Lord Devlin, his contact in the Court, Norris was meeting.
12
It was spring, at long last, and the gardens were bursting with greenery and blossoms, as if to make up for last year’s sorrowful season. With every breeze, the ornamental cherries carpeted the ground beneath their boughs with pink and white petals; the air was full of a hundred different scents. Kingdom business be hanged; Selenay was going to walk in her gardens before the season ripened any further into summer.
So she told the Seneschal at their morning meeting over breakfast that she wanted him to shorten the usual afternoon audiences by half.
“If I stay within walls for much longer I’m going to shred something,” she said a little crossly, expecting him to object. “I’m tired of never seeing the sun except through windows, and I am exceedingly tired of hearing people whining. I would like to hear birds for a change, and if I must hear voices, I would prefer it to be the voices of people who are not complaining to me, at least for a candlemark or two.”
But he only nodded his graying head, and regarded her kindly. “If Your Majesty will recall,” he told her, “your father was exactly the same, in the spring.”
And now that he had reminded her, she did remember it, but not as a memory of him ordering shorter audiences, but as seeing him in the gardens every fine afternoon, and walking there with two or three friends in the evening, too. But she—
I was taking classes, or practicing, and he’d always done that, every spring, so it never struck me as odd, she decided. I didn’t know then that the business of government takes up so much time, and that he must have been stealing time from it for a little while.
Or perhaps, it wasn’t that he had been stealing time at all, though she would certainly have to, and the only place where she felt she could in good conscience take it was from the Audiences. Now that she thought about it, her father had definitely had more “leisure” time than she seemed to.
But then, he had been King for all of her life (obviously) so he’d had some practice at it. Maybe it would get easier as she went along; perhaps the more practiced she became, the less of her time it would take . . . perhaps, some day, she would have some candlemarks of leisure for herself.
She felt guilty; then decided that feeling guilty was stupid. If she was ready to rip someone’s throat out now, how would she be without taking some time, at last, for herself? A pox on that. Bridges were not going to fall down, nor buildings collapse, because she walked in her garden and played at games a little while with her ladies.
“Well, then schedule fewer petitioners for the foreseeable future,” she ordered, adding, “if you please.”
Surely some of those people can manage to sort out their troubles by themselves.
“Certainly, Majesty,” the Seneschal said, with a little smile. “If Your Majesty will forgive my voicing my own opinion, you are just a trifle too accessible. Restricting your availability will make people think before they request an audience for which they might have to wait several days.”
She blinked, then nodded. And here she had thought he was going to disapprove! But the prospect of a simple walk in her gardens was enough to elevate her spirits for the entire morning, even though the Exchequer occupied her for most of that time with budget and tax allotments. Just the simple knowledge that she was going to escape his stuffy little office was enough to set her to work with more energy than she’d had in weeks for such things.
And the audiences did not seem as tedious either. And when the Seneschal announced that she would not be seeing any more petitioners that day, it was all she could do to keep from leaping up out of the throne and flying out the Privy Door behind the dais to get to her chambers and out of her robes of state.
She changed into a simple, split-skirt gown without calling for her maids, collected a ball and racquets, then gathered up her rather startled ladies-in-waiting, and bustled them all down the hall like a goose-girl hurrying her geese to the pond.
And when they were out into the garden, she acted like a child newly-freed from lessons, dropping every bit of her dignity to lead them all in a game of “tag,” then taking each of them on in turn at racquets. In fact, she wore some of them out with her energy, until they all begged, laughing, for a moment of rest.
Which she graciously gave them. And while they sprawled on the lawn, or lounged on benches, she walked alone among the flower beds. She hadn’t intended to actually pick any flowers, but this spring there was a superabundance of blossoms, and she found herself taking one here, one there, not deliberately selecting anything, just picking them from places where the blooms seemed crowded or scents were especially intoxicating. I’ll put them in my bedroom, she decided, feeling an unaccustomed glee. Just stick them all in a vase full of water. No formal flower arranging, no careful selection of “harmonious colors.” The kind of bouquet—no, bunch of flowers!—I used to pick for myself as a child!
She didn’t—thank goodness—have to think twice about wandering about here alone either. It was safe enough for her to be unguarded here in the Queen’s Garden. There were Royal Guards all around the grounds, and the grounds themselves were walled off, of course. No one could come here who wasn’t a member of the Court or Collegia, and it was a matter of etiquette not to invade the Queen’s Garden when the Queen was in it unless you were specifically invited.
So she was a little surprised to look up from picking another bloom and see the Rethwellan Ambassador, followed at a slight distance by a young man she did not recognize, coming toward her on the path.
He dropped to one knee when he reached her, and she automatically extended her hand for him to kiss, then gave it a slight tug, indicating that he should rise.
“Ambassador Brenthalarian, whatever is it that brings you here?” she asked. “I hope you aren’t going to trouble my afternoon with a problem—”
“Nothing of the sort, Majesty,” the Ambassador said smoothly. “Indeed, I only wished to inquire if your Majesty would be willing to receive King Megrarthon’s second son, Prince Karathanelan. He has come bringing His Majesty’s belated personal condolences, for you have already had His Maj
esty’s official ones.”
“Yes, I recall,” she replied, looking at him with a feeling of interest tinged with excitement. So—here was her answer to the question “what foreign princes were there?” before she had even asked anyone about it. A foreign prince, from Rethwellan! Princes did not travel abroad unless they had very compelling reasons for doing so. . . .
She cast a surreptitious glance at the young man who waited just out of earshot, and felt another thrill, this time of pleasure. He was handsome. Very handsome. His coloring was an intriguing mixture—dark chestnut hair, quite curly and almost shoulder length, and blue eyes that were a lighter color than her own, the color of a sky with a thin, high haze of cloud over it. He had a long nose, high cheekbones, and a narrow face with a cleft chin. He looked—
:Like centuries of inbreeding,: Caryo said sardonically.
:Oh, hush, silly!: she replied, keeping a watch on him out of the corner of her eye. :What he looks like is not like a Valdemaran, which is a refreshing change. I think he’s lovely.:
“When could the Prince come to Court, do you think?” she asked, pretending that she had not already guessed that the Prince was right here in her own garden. The Ambassador knew very well that she knew, and so did the Prince, but greeting him straightaway would spoil the game. And it was likely to be a very amusing little game. Surely this is one of the “foreign princes” that Orthallen was talking about! ”I would, of course, be delighted to receive him at any time.“
“Then in that case, gracious lady, let the Prince prevail upon your noble nature and present himself!” the young man said, flinging himself at her feet in the most romantic posture possible. “My curiosity brought me here, but my heart will not allow me to remain outside of your regard for a single moment more!” He seized her hand and kissed it, and she flushed with pleasure. He spoke very good Valdemaran, with scarcely a trace of accent.
“Then, welcome, Prince Karathanelan,” she said, tugging his hand. He took the hint and rose gracefully. “How could I be less than gracious enough to welcome you when confronted with such a gallant gentleman?”
She was trying to be queenly and dignified, but she felt her flush turning into a blush. He gave her a sidelong glance and smiled. “You are as gracious as you are beautiful, Queen Selenay,” the Prince replied. “Will you permit me to conduct you back to your ladies?”
“With pleasure,” she said. And now it was the Rethwellan Ambassador’s turn to smile.
The Prince offered his arm; she took it. The first play of the game was over, and it had been very pleasant. Selenay could hardly wait to see what the next move would be.
***
One of the most difficult things Alberich had ever done was to put that cipher out of his mind and concentrate on the rest of his duties. And yet, there was nothing he could do about the message except to guard the original. He’d sealed the panel of its hiding place shut to make certain that it wouldn’t be tampered with, and short of locking it in a strongbox and burying the strongbox under the floor of his room, he couldn’t make it any safer. So at this point, there was nothing he could do about it. No man could be an expert at all things, and it was a bit late in his life to begin studying ciphers.
Instead, he went on with his own double life. He taught his students, and drilled those Heralds and Guards who came to him for extra tutoring and practice by day. And when his work for the day was over, and everyone assumed he was resting in his own quarters, he went out into the city by night in one of his assumed personae.
There was one distinct improvement in his clandestine tasks, however, and that was that the City Guard and constabulary were back up to full strength. He no longer needed to ferret out ordinary criminals; they had their own agents for that again. In fact, he knew one or two City Guards who did such things by sight, and they knew him. If he spotted them in one of his haunts of a night, he would move on to a different spot, knowing that they were probably on the trail of something or someone, and the very best thing he could do would be to get out of their way. There was, after all, no point in spoiling someone else’s hunt, and too many hunters in one spot sometimes made the “game” shy of being around.
And he suspected that they did the same, on seeing him.
At any rate, with the Tedrel Wars over and Karse busy with its own internal problems, the market for information on Valdemar’s strengths and weaknesses had dried up somewhat. He also suspected that the market for information of interest to Valdemar was not what it had been. For now, anyway, there just was not as much trafficking in that sort of thing going on. Now the highest prices were being paid for more mundane information—usually having to do with who was in possession of what valuable goods, and how strongly a treasure was guarded, and so on. The most interesting trafficking he saw now was the manufacture of new identities, and he had the strong suspicion that the people who were buying these identities had once called themselves “Tedrels.” How they managed to get as far north as Haven he could not imagine; even he hadn’t done it without having a Companion. The journeys must have been terrifying. He was not, however, concerned. Selenay was in no danger from them; there were no Tedrel leaders for her to be taken to as hostage or as forced-bride, and he doubted that any of the men purchasing new lives for themselves wasted a moment of thought on her.
Well, as long as they stayed on the right side of the law, he’d be hanged if he turned any of them in, or the people who were helping them (for a price) either. And if they broke the law, well, he might be the one to catch them, but it was up to the Guard and constabulary to deal with it.
Information trafficking was mostly going the other way now, and even those prices were deflated. He could almost feel sorry—almost—for the fellows whose sole stock in trade was in intelligence.
On the other hand, this made two of his personae very popular fellows with those selling information about Valdemar’s neighbors, since both those personae were still buying. Though for information about Karse, he was relying on Geri and the informal network that the Sunpriests who had escaped to or been born in Valdemar had built over the years.
As a consequence, he had known well in advance of today that one of the younger Princes of Rethwellan was arriving “secretly” with the intention of paying court to the Queen. He had told Talamir, and neither of them had seen any reason to spoil the surprise by informing Selenay. “Let her have a little romance,” Talamir had opined, and his opinion was seconded by Herald Kyril. “She is sensible enough to know that whatever courting or romantic attention he pays her is only an illusion, and that he is here purely for the purpose of making an advantageous alliance. She will bear in mind, I am sure, that he would pay her the same compliments if she was stooped and squint-eyed. This will amuse her, and she has had little enough pure amusement since the Ice Festival.”
Illusion or not, romance was not in Alberich’s area of expertise, nor were the doings of princes. He would leave that to Talamir, and had said as much. His personal opinion was that the arrival of this princeling was a damned good thing for Talamir. Between the discovery of the ciphered papers and the advent of the Rethwellan Prince, Talamir was looking more centered than he had since the Coronation.
Alberich had filed that observation away for further thought, but there was one conclusion to be made from it that was obvious—Talamir needed real things to do, too, things he could get his metaphorical teeth into, things that focused him on what was going on around him. Alberich made up his mind to find more such tasks.
Now, following that actor fellow—that was something he could do.
Though once the weather turned and spring was well and truly in bloom, he began to wonder where the man got his energy, and whether he could manage to follow him without dropping over.
It wasn’t only that Norris was performing every evening with the full company at the inn and rehearsing new productions every afternoon—
That is, when he wasn’t performing with a reduced company at special private performances
of an afternoon—
No, it was that once those evening performances were over, he scarcely had time to wipe the paint from his face and change out of his costume before he was off somewhere. Most of the time it was with a female. Alberich couldn’t call them “ladies,” though some of them had that title, even if they acted more like cats in heat. When he wasn’t with a female, he went roistering off with a gang of male friends, drinking and carousing through several taverns—and usually then ended up in a woman’s bed in some bawdy house anyway.
It was astonishing. Because then, no matter how late he’d been out, there he was again, looking alert and fresh and ready to go, no later than noon, to rehearse with the company.
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