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GENERALS KANNAN AND Septime were waiting with the king, as well as Chancellor Uilleam. The military and the council were both represented. This was not a private audience—but it was serious.
Shianan should have expected this. He steeled himself and knelt.
“So you’ve finally returned?”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
The words were in his voice, but they seemed strange to him. How different it was, now that he knew his coin would never be welcome in this market and he no longer sought to buy.
“You cannot just abandon your duties and flee to your country estate!”
“I abandoned nothing,” Shianan answered as evenly as he could. “I had permission to take leave.”
“Your Majesty, that is true.” General Septime gestured apologetically but spoke in Shianan’s defense. “It was a legitimate and reasonable leave-taking, if a bit sudden.”
The king scowled. “Never mind that,” he growled, turning away.
He would not admit the bastard had fled after a quarrel with his royal father. Shianan clenched his fists.
“You have duties to this kingdom,” King Jerome said, turning back. “You cannot ignore them.”
“They were not ignored, Your Majesty. You know I have only ever served you. I made my request appropriately.”
It was a dangerous allusion, meant for the king’s ears only. It reached them.
The king scowled. “I can strip Fhure from you.”
Shianan’s stomach clenched. He did not care so much for the estate itself, but it was the basis for his comital title. Without it, he was not nobility, not a member of the court.
But what did those benefit him now?
“If you feel you must.” He swallowed against the thickness in his throat. “It was Your Majesty who bestowed the land and title upon me when you called me to Alham. You can of course take them back.”
General Kannan nodded. General Septime looked pained. Chancellor Uilleam coughed.
“If it means so little to you, perhaps it should never have been granted in the first place,” King Jerome said. “Perhaps you do not esteem the king’s gifts.”
“Whether I esteem them or not, they are yours to take.” Shianan’s voice was mostly steady, but his stomach was sinking. Without Fhure, without his title, he had less standing than ever to court Ariana or even to visit Soren. The king meant to strip him of status, but he was stripping him of friends.
“Your Majesty, I believe this sort of action is traditionally discussed with the council.” Chancellor Uilleam said, without looking at Shianan.
King Jerome was not pleased to be interrupted. “I can manage my own court,” he said curtly. “And it seems Bailaha—or rather, Becknam—is not anxious to keep his lands and title, so there seems to be little reason to debate it. The council can confirm this deprivation of title at our next convening.”
Sweet all, it was done. Shianan could not tell whether he truly did not care for the loss or whether he was too numb with the shock to feel the cut.
“Have you nothing to say?” demanded King Jerome.
The words seemed distant, muted. “What would you have me say, Your Majesty? It is your court to manage.”
“And if you were no longer commander?”
Ice shot through Shianan’s chest and he couldn’t draw breath. Not his military role—not the one thing he’d been raised to, excelled at, found purpose and respect in, not his one place in the world—
General Septime cleared his throat. “With respect, Your Majesty, that is under my authority, and I have no reason to remove Commander Becknam from his position.”
“And if I should give you a reason?” The king turned his eyes on the general.
General Septime took a breath. “I would take any well-founded report into consideration.”
King’s sweet oats, Shianan had never guessed that General Septime might stand up to the king for him. But he didn’t know if it would do any good. Could the king order him to demote Shianan?
He imagined for one moment going to his soldiers, the troops who trusted and followed him—or would there be a public ritual?—shamed before all their staring eyes, and the thought was nauseating.
The king disliked General Septime’s qualified answer. “We can discuss the military rank when we confirm the deprivation of title,” he said gruffly. “And with that, I think we have finished here.”
Shianan fled before General Septime or any of the others could call to him. He could not bear to face them, to answer the questions they would ask aloud or silently, to feel the shame of fresh rejection, derision, pity.
He slammed the door to his office as if he were pursued, and Luca looked up from his work. “Yes? What happened? Are you—all right?”
How humiliating that Luca knew even to ask. “The generals and chancellor were there. I—I’m losing Fhure. No longer a count.”
“Oh...” Luca’s dismay trailed away. “Why?”
“Because—well, he doesn’t have much of a reason, really. He claims I abandoned my duties, but General Septime confirmed I’d requested leave. But really, it’s because I dared to ask to marry, and because when he refused I said things I’ve never said and shouldn’t have said.”
“I’m sorry.”
Shianan shook his head. “I can live without the title. It’s not as if I make much of it now. But—sweet Holy One, I don’t know if I can even—but he’s trying to take the commandery too.”
Luca’s face showed he guessed the depth of this cut. “Oh, Master Shianan...” He started forward, and Shianan suddenly feared he was going to embrace him. He raised a hand to stave him off, regretting the gesture even as he made it. If ever anyone had earned the right—but no, Shianan couldn’t take a kind touch just now, or he would shatter.
He closed his eyes. “I still have to explain to Ariana—and king’s sweet oats, now I’m not even—” He drew a slow, shaking breath.
And suddenly, despite the shame of it, he wanted to see her. To hear her voice, let her bright idealism burn even briefly on his behalf before he accepted his losses.
He opened his eyes. “But then, no letter has ever compared to true groveling.” He balled the half-filled sheet on his desk and tossed it into the glowing brazier. “If she won’t hear me, then I suppose I’ve lost nothing in the end, and if she will, the best I can hope for is understanding. But this will take me some time, and I don’t want to risk interruption.” He buckled his swordbelt, removed for the royal audience, about his waist, occupying his hands with the familiar movement. “Tell no one where to find me, you understand? No one. This will be touchy enough without some sergeant pointing in to tell me the fourth squad still can’t find the privies without help.”
Luca nodded. “Tell no one, I understand. I’ll say you are out with business and will return late.”
Shianan gave him a quick, nervous glance. “I don’t know how I’ll explain, but I’ve abandoned my pride before now, and I have precious little to preserve today. I’ll be back when I can.” He whipped his cloak over his shoulders as he hurried out into the slanting sun.
LUCA CLOSED THE DOOR after him, wishing he could think of a solution. Barbaric, all of it. The Wakari Coast had its share of faults, but at least there slaves could be freed with a living master’s manumission and royals did not brazenly beat or geld one another.
And Shianan’s military commission—if he lost that, he lost himself.
Luca had napped again and his headache had nearly disappeared. He had to be careful, going slowly when he bent or straightened, but he could manage.
He suspected relief played as much a part as the blessed sleep. Perhaps the residual ache would fade when he learned what had become of Marla and Cole. Worry for them had nagged at him while he lay on his comfortable mattress, at last warm and satiated and safe.
But if Shianan no longer held Fhure, even if he found Marla, he would have no connection to her.
He went to the little kit of physic Shianan kept and took out the healing ointment. He shed his shirt and stretched to dab some along the welts and bruising across his shoulders. He was glad Shianan had not known of the switch marks. He’d been angry enough at the merchants for Luca’s bloody nose and aching head and for having Luca at all. Luca didn’t want his sympathy for more.
A knock sounded at the outer door. Luca dropped his shirt over his head and pulled at the laces. He opened the door, prepared to offer an apology on his master’s behalf, and saw the prince.
Prince Soren stepped inside before Luca could collect himself enough to speak. “Brr,” he commented, shifting his cloak. He looked at Luca. “Aren’t you...?”
Luca bowed in hasty respect, wincing. “Luca, my lord. Your Highness.”
“I thought you had gone.”
The prince knew? “I’ve returned to serve my master.”
Prince Soren seemed to consider this a moment, but he did not ask further. “I’ve come to speak with Bailaha. Isn’t he here?”
Surely Shianan had not thought the prince himself would come to ask for him. “He is not, my lord. But I will tell him you would speak with him.”
“Where is he now, then?”
The question was casual enough, but Luca’s hesitation gave it unintended import. If the king were angry over Shianan’s intended courtship, could Luca betray Shianan’s mission to explain to Ariana?
Luca gathered himself. “I’m sorry, my lord, I cannot say.”
“He didn’t tell you where he went? Or is that not what you meant?” The prince’s voice darkened. “Where is your master?”
Luca sank to one knee. “I cannot say, my lord.”
A moment passed. When the prince spoke again, his tone was softer. “You doubt I mean well, and I suppose that’s only reasonable. But whatever things may have been in the past, I consider Shianan Becknam now my friend as well as my liegeman.”
Luca caught a breath, but he did not speak.
“Luca, I am your prince. Tell me where he is.”
Luca gulped. “You are indeed a prince and so worthy of respect—but you are not my prince. I am a slave and no citizen, and therefore I have no prince. I have one master, and by his order I cannot say where to find him.”
There was a long moment of silence, and Luca wondered desperately what he had done. How had he dared to speak so to the prince-heir? Would Luca even be here when Shianan returned?
But then, at last, he heard Soren chuckle. “You silver-tongued versifier! I knew you’d answered all but my own question the last time, but I had no idea what you could spin. King’s sweet oats, it’s good you’re a slave and not a diplomat.” He paused. “Stand, please, Luca. And don’t worry. I told you once I wouldn’t punish another man’s slave, and certainly not this one.”
Luca rose slowly, keeping his eyes low. There was no threat of imminent danger as he had felt from Ande and others, but he could not quite believe he had spoken so without repercussion.
“But hear me: all jests aside, I need to know your master is safe and yet in Alham. Tell me, very simply, if he has left the city again or if he intends to leave.”
Luca licked his lips. “He has not, for my knowledge, left Alham, nor intends such.”
A shout from the courtyard interrupted them. “To the Wheel! Ryuven in the Wheel! Hurry to the Shard!”
Soren spun, his cloak whipping about him. “In the Wheel? But the shield—how? The Wheel itself?”
Luca thought wildly of Shianan, going to the Black Mage.