:Well, this isn’t going to do Harkon’s reputation any harm,: Dallen observed. :Well done, by the way. How did you know you’d take them by surprise?:
:All three of ’em like to speechify before they beat a feller up,: Mags replied. :They’d ’specially want to speechify in front of the young’uns. It’d make it easier t’herd ’em all up and drive ’em back t’whatever bolt-hole they’re using now.:
He was pretty sure what had been their plan after that; divide the littles up according to their own pecking order. The next order of business would have been to start beating the younglings, then put them back to work as thieves again once they were suitably cowed and broken.
Which just showed how short-sighted and stupid they were, first, that they would assume that beatings would keep youngsters who’d seen a better life in line, and second, that they’d go right back to the risky business of running a ring of thieves and pickpockets. Moronic, really, when they could just as easily have taken over Harkon’s messenger-service to a safer, if smaller, profit. But he reckoned that simply wouldn’t occur to them.
:Honestly I’m pretty pleased it was those three. I’ve been expectin’ some blow-back for a couple of moons now.: He took to the back alleys; too risky to go running over rooftops in broad daylight if you weren’t a youngster.
:You have been breaking up gangs that rely on children and then stealing the children, so to speak,: Dallen agreed. :But why are you pleased it was these three?:
:They ain’t as sneaky as some of the others. They came at me, ’stead of ambushing me. They got no friends in my part of town, and I didn’t have to get . . . radical.: Nobody had died. Not that he’d have mourned Dog-Billy, not that anyone would have mourned the loss of Dog-Billy, but on the whole . . . Heralds weren’t supposed to kill people like low-life criminal scum. Bandits in a battle, certainly. The enemy in wartime, absolutely. Those assassins that the Sleepgivers had sent after him, no question. But not petty thieves. And there were some gang bosses he’d “robbed” he would have to kill if it came to a fight.
This time, he hadn’t needed to do that.
As for the next time? He’d worry about that when it came to it.
One problem at a time, that was his motto. Too bad he never got to live up to it.
• • •
A few times a moon, the King held private audiences in the morning. These were reserved for people who didn’t need the official, royal presentation in front of the entire Court, nor did they have anything they were asking for or needed attended to. But at the same time, the people who requested this sort of presentation were much more important than the ones that had the official presentations before the Court. These were occasions for those people to introduce themselves to the King without being under the eyes of anyone else; for both parties to size one another up, and for more to be exchanged than a few simple words of welcome. Ambassadors, for instance, when they first came to the Court of Valdemar generally presented themselves at the private audiences.
These were held in the deceptively named “Lesser Audience Chamber.” It might be “Lesser” in size, but it made up for that in opulence. No envoy of another monarch would feel himself or his office slighted here. The room was not unlike a jewel box, and the King, Prince, and any other royals as well as attending Heralds all wore formal Whites, with the blue velvet, cloth of silver, bronze fixtures and white marble making an appropriate setting.
Amily was just as glad that this only took place a few times a moon. This was the one part of the job of King’s Own that her father had ever complained about, and she perfectly understood his feelings. Unlike the Court presentations, these audiences were nerve-racking. In many ways, this could be a prelude to a sort of combat. People often came in through those doors with agendas, generally secret agendas. Sometimes they also came burdened with orders, also secret. She always wished it was Mags that was here instead of her.
:Would it be a bad idea to ask Mags to wear a Guard uniform and stand in here with the others?: she asked Rolan. :I mean, I know it’s wrong to examine someone’s thoughts without their knowledge or permission but—:
:Hmm.: Rolan considered that. :It is not as if he has not used his Gifts in that way before. And it is not as if people are not fully aware of the Gifts Heralds have before they set foot in this room. . . . :
:And when Mags does that, he just . . . takes in what comes passively, it’s not as if he goes prying,: she continued, cheering up a bit. :Rolan, if you think it would be a good idea, I’ll put it to the others.:
:I think it is worth considering.:
Well, that was both hopeful and frustrating. And . . . possibly another one of those cases where the Companions were just not going to offer advice. Bah.
As in the Greater Audience Chamber, the King and Prince sat side by side in nearly identical thrones, the Prince’s being just a bit less elaborate than the King’s. Nikolas stood behind the King’s throne and to the right of it, Amily behind the Prince’s and to the left. There were Guards all around the chamber; two at the door and one in each of the four corners of the room. Add to that Amily and her father were armed. This might be a place where important people were greeted . . . but that didn’t mean precautions were going to be set aside.
Today’s audiences had been less than exciting. A string of people—an ambassador, several highborn who were leaving Haven for the summer to make way for minor members of their extended families to come hunt for marriage alliances, and the Master of the Brewers and Vintner’s Guild all turned up to exchange pleasantries, minor information too trivial for a Council Meeting, and make farewells. Kyril had always encouraged this sort of thing, as it enabled him to get to know members of his Court more personally than he would otherwise. The last of the morning was some priest or other—
“His Holiness, Theodor Kresh, High Priest of Sethor the Patriarch,” announced the servant at the door, and striding in to pause as the double doors closed behind him was the fellow himself.
As priests went . . . he was “conservatively” dressed. His deep blue robes were of exceedingly fine material, but without ornamentation, although he did wear a heavy gold chain with an equally heavy gold medallion on it. He wore the hood of his robe back, although the four under-priests who had come with him wore theirs up. He carried a plain staff of black wood or wrought iron—it was hard for Amily to tell which—and he appeared to be of late middle age. He had hard features, deep-set eyes, and was partially bald; what there was of his hair was of a salt-and-pepper color. From the way he moved, and what could be seen of the arm that held the staff, he was in fantastic physical shape; she suspected that he could probably use that staff as a formidable weapon.
He paid absolutely no attention to her. This went beyond mere snubbing; when the Prince introduced them all he literally did not look at her, or acknowledge her presence.
Her father raised an eyebrow at her; she shook her head slightly. There was no point in making an issue of this, for all they knew, he had some sort of vow that kept him from even thinking about women. She’d never heard of Sethor the Patriarch—but it sounded as if this was one of those male-centric religions. Sometimes they were just fine. Sometimes they made her want to gag.
As if he were reading her mind, the King said, politely, “We have never before heard of Sethor the Patriarch, and there has never, to my knowledge, been a Temple to this god in Haven. I assume you are the first?”
Theodor bowed his head the slightest bit. “All this is true, your Majesty,” he said, smoothly. He had a powerful, but cold and emotionless, voice. “My Order has only recently come into your land, last Harvest, in fact, and as is our way, we came to establish our first Temple in your capitol. We are shortly to open it to the public. We have, for some several moons now, been altering the building we purchased to suit our needs, and making much-needed repairs.”
“Is there some public ceremony involved with thi
s opening at which you would like a royal presence?” Kyril asked politely.
The Priest shook his head. “No, Majesty. We are a simple Order, and have few ceremonies. We prefer to confine our ceremonial and liturgical activities to our believers. We were fortunate to find a suitable sanctuary nearly ready to move into. The Sisters of Ardana were happy to sell us their building, and move themselves to another, more suited to their dwindling numbers. Perhaps you know the temple? As I said, it required some extensive repairs, minor alterations, and reconsecration to our purposes, but otherwise it was nearly perfect for us.”
The King shook his head, but Amily did recognize that name; the Sisters of Ardana had once—as far back as long before Vanyel’s time—been a large enough group of female votaries to require a truly substantial building. But over time, and as the neighborhood in which the Temple stood declined, their numbers thinned and dwindled. Now they were just a handful of old women, much too frail to do the needed maintenance on their building themselves, and who clearly did not have the financial means to hire someone else to do it for them.
“We found the Sisters a small farm, much more suited to their needs, on the outskirts of the city. Not so much a farm anymore, really; but there was a handsome floored barn that could be converted to a chapel, and enough land to give them ample room for gardens.” The smooth, cold voice made it all sound perfectly reasonable, and exactly the sort of thing that surely the women would have welcomed. Amily could not find any fault with what he was saying, rationally speaking. Was it his inflection? The way he was saying this as if from the moment his group had entered the city it was a foregone conclusion that he would get whatever he wanted?
Well . . . all right, this god of his is titled “the Patriarch.” So this religion is probably one of those that thinks that women should be properly subservient, give whatever a man asks for, and take what men are willing to give them. Irritating, to be sure, but unless they did something illegal—and she was rather sure, looking at that smug profile, this fellow knew Valdemaran law—it was their business and the business of the worshippers of this “Sethor the Patriarch” how they conducted their lives.
:We allow the Holderkin to live as they will,: Rolan pointed out. :We can do no less for any other religion. “There is no One, True Way,” Amily.:
If she had been alone, she would have pulled a sour face at that. Hadn’t that been drummed into her head from the time she could talk? It wasn’t as if she was going to forget it. As it was she kept her expression as stony as that of the priest. :I know. Unless he starts sacrificing virgins, scourging “harlots,” or doing something equally illegal, he and his cult can do what they please. But I don’t have to like it.:
She resolved, however, to find out where the Sisters of Ardana had gone, and look in on them. Just to be sure they were all right, and that they hadn’t been packed off to some ramshackle hovel with a leaky roof and rotted floors.
:The Temple roof leaked,: Rolan reminded her. :And they had had to close off much of the building because they could not repair it . . . :
If she hadn’t been standing here on her best behavior, she’d have rolled her eyes. :You know very well what I mean.:
:I’ll find out where they’ve been relocated to,: Rolan replied. With the implication that she should remember what her job was, and stick to it.
She thought about making some sort of sharp answer, given that the Companion was playing “conscience” in the most patronizing manner possible, but then she reminded herself that this was relatively “new” to Rolan as well as to her. He hadn’t had a female Chosen before. They didn’t have precisely the sort of open, accessible communication he’d had with her father. And he surely knew just how badly she wanted to rattle that arrogant old Priest. He was just being cautious.
The King continued to make polite . . . but pointed . . . conversation. She could see what Kyril was doing; of course, the King had decades of practice at getting people to reveal far more than they thought they were revealing. Under the guise of idle interest, he was finding out just how big the group was, what their source of income was, and as much of their core beliefs as it was politic to discover. During all of this, she might have been part of the furnishings for all the attention the High Priest paid to her. It was pointed. The more she stood here, the more certain she became that this was not merely that he had some sort of vow against acknowledging the presence of a female. He was making it absolutely clear that she was utterly beneath his interest.
On the other hand . . . it might be irritating, but it means he’s going to underestimate me.
That gave her a little more sense of satisfaction. I think I’ll see if Mags is willing to find out about these people for me. If there was anything going on, she was sure Mags and his gang of streetwise children, or his system of informants, would ferret it out.
Finally the High Priest held up a hand to forestall any more questions. “I have taken up far too much of your time, Majesty,” he said, still as smooth and cold as polished stone. “I will take my leave. We thank you for welcoming us so graciously to your land and your city.”
And with that, he bowed himself out, leaving the room with his silent entourage for the entrance of the last of those scheduled for an audience today.
“Lord Semel Lional and family!” announced the page at the door, and suddenly the little Audience Chamber was . . . very full.
So full it took Amily a moment to sort everyone out, as Lord Lional made the introductions of his family to the King, the Prince, and by broad gestures, including Amily and her father as well. No snubbing here!
First, of course, Lord Lional; a handsome, vigorous man of late middle age, his hair still defiantly black, his eyes a warm brown, with a decided chin but a smiling mouth, a nose a little too big for perfection, and animated brows. Amily liked him immediately, and from the relaxed look of her father’s eyes and shoulders, so did he. The King obviously knew him already, and it was clear he was delighted to see the man.
Lord Lional—indeed, his entire family—were dressed formally, in matching outfits made of excellent deep brown and cream linen, with ornamental embroidery and cutwork of deep golden yellow at the neckline and hems. Not in the first mode of fashion, the cut of the mens’ tunics and the womens’ gowns were almost a decade out of date. This made perfect sense, since Amily knew that Lord Lional had made a name for himself in the Northeast, far from Haven and the Court.
His wife, Lady Tyria, smiled often and warmly; she looked as if she might be distantly related to her husband—a cousin, perhaps—as they had similar features, although her nose was small and tip-tilted. Amily liked her just as much.
The four children all had raven hair and similar features, although it was a little difficult to see what the two youngest would grow to look like. Amily set them aside in her mind for the moment, and considered the two eldest.
The oldest boy—Hawken—was handsome enough to be popular with girls, but not so handsome that he was likely to be conceited. And, in fact, his expression suggested a personality much like his father’s with just enough youthful rebellion to make him interesting. But the eldest girl!
Helane, was her name, and she was nothing short of stunning.
Everything about her was perfect—and it was none of that too-still, too-poised perfection of a girl who is far too aware of her beauty and reckoning to take advantage of it. She was animated; she was clearly excited to be here, a little intimidated at being in the presence of the King and Prince, but drinking in everything eagerly. As for her looks . . . Amily had rarely seen a face that could be described as “heart-shaped,” but hers certainly was. Her complexion was flawless, her cheeks the exact color of wild rose petals, and her rosebud of a mouth a slightly deeper hue. Her eyes were huge, meltingly brown, and guileless. Her raven-wing hair had been done in a style Amily had never seen before—braided into a single fat plait down her back, but with a black and c
ream linen covering bound over and around it. The plait nearly reached her knees; unbound, her hair surely would pool on the floor at her feet. Amily was fascinated; how long did it take to brush out? To wash? To dry? That was probably the reason for the cover, to keep that mane as clean as possible.
And her body was neither thin nor plump, but once again, perfect for a girl who surely was athletic and active. Even her hands were perfect, graceful, long-fingered, each nail a perfectly polished pink.
The girl was called up to make her curtsey to the King; blushing, she did so, making a very good job of it, and staying down just long enough to make it clear that she was as graceful and poised as she was beautiful.
Truth to tell, she eclipsed the rest of her family; both Kyril and his son were giving her very appreciative looks, and Amily didn’t blame them. For that matter, so was her father Nikolas!
I hope he’s not getting ideas, she thought, more amused than anything else. I would not appreciate having a stepmother younger than I am.
It appeared that the two youngest children, a boy and a girl, were used to being cast in the shade by their enchanting older sister. They exchanged a slightly chagrined look. The boy shrugged, as if to say, well what did you expect? and the girl shook her head.
The oldest boy came up to make his bow, then the youngest siblings. Finally Amily learned the names of the youngest members of the family, Lirelle, and Loren.
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