W E HAVE GOT TO DO SOMETHING about the teleport spells , Emily thought, as the magic field snapped out of existence. She felt as if she’d been punched in the gut, her stomach churning violently as she fought to gather herself. They’re just too uncomfortable .
She straightened up and looked around. The tiny castle – more of a watchtower, really – sat outside the walls, providing a place for meetings that were not supposed to take place in public. The towering building peered east, towards distant Alluvia; the wind shifted, blowing the scent of coal dust and burning fumes into Emily’s face. She tried not to grimace as she spotted a lone nobleman walking towards her, his uniform marking him as a royal messenger. His eyes lingered on her for a long moment, as if he couldn’t quite believe what he saw. Emily supposed it made a certain kind of sense. She was unique, as far as she knew, in travelling without an entourage.
“My Lady?”
Emily studied the man thoughtfully. He looked understandably nervous, as if he didn’t know quite what to make of her or what level of respect he should offer. She was a noblewoman, true, but she wasn’t surrounded by flunkies and cronies like so many others. It was true that insecure noblemen had vast armies of supporters, to make it clear they were a power to be respected, yet… she shook her head. It didn’t matter. Not to her.
“Yes,” she said, simply. Her lips quirked in sudden amusement. “Take me to your leader.”
The messenger bowed deeply, so low his nose almost brushed the ground. “If you’ll come with me, the carriage is waiting,” he said. “I’ll escort you to His Highness.”
Emily sighed inwardly – it seemed she wasn't going to escape pomp and circumstance – and allowed him to lead her to the carriage, a golden eyesore pulled by two massive black horses. She clambered into the box, trying not to roll her eyes at the strange combination of utter luxury and security. The carriage was so heavily warded she doubted anything short of a necromancer could make an impact, at least with brute force. Given time, she could unravel the spells or use a chat parchment to undermine them from within, but if the king’s defenders were on the alert, they could probably catch her in the act and stop her before it was too late. She settled on a sinfully comfortable cushion as the coach rattled to life – she was oddly amused to note that the spells didn’t ensure a smooth ride – and stared out the window. It was heavily warded too, so heavily no one could peek into the coach without permission. The king evidently didn’t want to show himself to his subjects.
Or he wants to pretend I’m not here , Emily thought, wryly. The king would happily claim the credit if the current crisis was resolved without bloodshed. It was important to let him save face, Alassa had said, if only to keep resentment from poisoning the air for the next decade or two. He would prefer to have everyone believe Valadon solved its problems alone .
She sat back and watched as the coach passed through the gates and entered the city. Valetta reminded her of the videos she’d seen featuring New York, a strange combination of towering apartment blocks and mansions that felt both immense and weirdly cramped, as if the city was expanding and yet had no room to do so. She spotted the remains of inner walls, left behind as remnants of the city’s former size as the buildings expanded outwards; she winced, grimly, as she spotted a handful of rickety-looking apartment blocks that were probably even less stable than they looked. A number of similar buildings had collapsed, in Cockatrice, and it hadn’t been easy to ensure that the remainder didn’t fall down too. There was no such thing as health and safety rules… she’d done what she could, making the builders liable for blood money and compensation if the blocks fell down too quickly, but it wasn’t enough. She felt her heart sink as she studied one particular building. It looked as if it were already tilting over.
Her mood darkened as the carriage kept moving, heading up the royal road. It was completely empty, the pavements lined with armed soldiers and mercenaries… very obvious mercenaries. Emily couldn’t tell if the king was trying to deter an uprising or provoke one, in hopes it could be crushed quickly when his people finally rose against him. Either was possible. Mercenaries were incredibly unpopular, to the point a lone mercenary who wandered out of camp in search of a good time was unlikely to return. The king might be counting on their reputation for ruthlessness to save his kingdom, she supposed. No one doubted the hired guns would put the kingdom to the sword if their paymaster commanded it.
She kept her eyes open, but there was little else to see. The homes and businesses were largely shut, with armed men standing outside the open shops. There were few men on the streets and no women or children, always a bad sign. She cursed the king under her breath. It would have been easy to walk to the castle, without shutting down the entire road and alienating even his loyal supporters. Her earlier thoughts came back to haunt her. Perhaps the king really was trying to spark an uprising. If he thought he could win…
I’m going to have to find a way to take a look around , Emily thought, darkly. She vaguely recalled someone complaining that diplomats spent all their time in embassies and kept company with the host country’s government, which meant they had no idea what was really going on and got caught by surprise when something went wrong. And I’m going to need a local guide .
She put the thought out of her mind as the coach turned towards the castle and drove through the gatehouse. The keep was fully manned, she noted; the king, unlike many others, had invested in cannons as well as more traditional weapons to protect his fortress. Guardsmen swanned about, wearing uniforms that made them stand out. Emily couldn’t tell if they knew what they were doing, although in her experience the more attention someone paid to appearance, the less they paid to effectiveness. But then, a king had to show his strength to deter enemies. It was better to prevent a revolution than crush it – or lose to it.
The coach rattled to a stop. The door opened a moment later. Emily stood, brushing down her dress as she stepped through the hatch. A young man – roughly the same age as she was – held out a hand to help her down the steps, his bright blue eyes studying her intently. Emily studied him back, her skin crawling. The prince – there was no one else who would wear a simple golden coronet – was a little too handsome for her peace of mind, his bearing bothering her at a primal level. His blond hair was cut too neatly, his eyes too bright and piercing… there was something about him that was subtly wrong . A flicker of alarm ran down her spine as she took his hand – she couldn’t politely decline – and allowed him to help her down. He didn’t seem to have any magic, but he could be masking very well.
“Lady Emily,” the prince said. “I am Prince Jeremy of Valadon. I welcome you to my father’s castle.”
Emily kept her face blank. Prince Jeremy reminded her, all too much, of the actor who’d played Prince Joffrey. His voice was warm and welcoming, yet there was something in his tone that made her wary. The prince was someone who would be as sweet and kind as anyone could want, as long as he got his way. She knew the type. Prince Jeremy would be married soon, if he wasn’t already, and his poor wife would find herself in hell. His eyes flickered over her, dropping to her chest and rising so quickly she wouldn’t have noticed if she hadn’t been watching for it. He was already standing far too close for comfort…
“I thank you,” she said, curtly.
“My father is looking forward to meeting you,” Prince Jeremy continued. If he noticed her discomfort, he reveled in it. “If you’ll come with me.”
Emily couldn’t help noticing how the servants backed away as their prince led her through the doors and down a long corridor towards the throne room. She doubted any of them wanted to spend any time in the prince’s company, not when they lacked any sort of protection from his whims. The prince smiled too much, chatting about nothing in particular as they passed a handful of guards. He was still too close to her, brushing against her personal space without intruding so blatantly she could make an issue of it. Her magic twisted, shimmering at her fingertips. The prince’s armor was enchanted, but she had more than enough power and skill to cut through the protections as if they weren’t there.
“I understand you fought in several wars,” Prince Jeremy said, conversationally. “It would please my father if you were to share your expertise…”
Emily gave him a sharp look. It was hard to be sure, but Prince Jeremy didn’t have the manner of Jade or Cat or Sergeant Miles or someone – anyone – who’d seen actual combat. Valadon was a small kingdom. She didn’t recall seeing any of their troops joining the army that had invaded the Blighted Lands, let alone their Crown Prince. Prince Jeremy would have been honored if he’d joined the fight, even if he brought no one other than himself. She would have seen him at the endless banquets. He certainly wasn’t the kind of person to sit in a tent, sharpening his sword, when there was drinking and bragging to be done.
He wants a fight , she thought, suddenly. Traditionally, a Crown Prince would lead his father’s troops in the field. Prince Jeremy wanted a revolution, so he could earn his spurs by crushing it. Shit .
“I am here as a neutral arbiter, nothing else,” she said, finally. “It would be a breach of my neutrality to advise either side.”
The prince’s expression darkened, just for a second. Emily tensed, bracing herself to duck a blow. She knew his type too well. The moment they were crossed, they lashed out. No one would fault her if she turned the prince into a toad after he took a swing at her. His father would be too busy making groveling apologies for his son to be more than a little annoyed with her, although that would change if she refused to undo the spell. The moment passed, just as quickly as it had come. The prince had more self-control than she’d thought.
She kept a spell at the ready as they passed through a large pair of doors, a herald standing to attention and loudly announcing the prince, listing his titles before adding Emily at the end almost as an afterthought. Emily couldn’t tell if it was a deliberate insult, an honest mistake, or an attempt to flatter the prince by giving him more titles than she had. Alassa would be fuming at the lack of titles, Emily knew, but she didn’t care. Her position wouldn’t be weakened by a herald listing only her name.
She couldn’t help thinking, as she dropped a brief nod to the king, that he looked a little like a jumped-up merchant. King Randor had been a jovial beefy man, his muscles slowly turning to fat, but King Fredrick was tall, thin, and dyspeptic. His eyes were sharp, yet darker – much darker – than his son’s, although she couldn’t help noticing they shared a cheek structure that made him look gaunt, almost skeletal. His robes were dark – King Randor had worn golden armor – and he carried no visible weapons, but that didn’t mean they weren’t there. She reached out, gingerly, with her senses, but picked up nothing beyond protective charms. The king was not, as far as she could tell, a magician.
“We welcome you to our kingdom,” King Frederick said. His voice was cold and hard. “It is our fondest hope that you will assist us in bringing our children back into our fold.”
“Thank you, Your Majesty,” Emily said, keeping her face under tight control. The king didn’t seem to have anything personal against her, which was a pleasant change, but he was clearly preoccupied with something else. The threatened revolution? Or what? “It is good to be here.”
“We have prepared a feast in your honor, where you will meet all the court,” Prince Jeremy said, a hint of eagerness in his voice. “It will be my pleasure to escort you tonight…”
“No, thank you,” Emily said. She didn’t want to attend a feast if it could be avoided, certainly not one where she would be the center of attention. “I am required to remain neutral, Your Highness, and I cannot allow myself to be put in a potentially compromising situation.”
Like being escorted to a feast by the Crown Prince , she added, silently. The escort and seating arrangements would be determined by the court, which would give the crown a chance to influence her… or, even if the crown didn’t, allow others to accuse her of being influenced. The prince could clearly be charming, if he wanted to be, and it would be very easy for someone to insist she’d been seduced. Luckily, I have an ironclad excuse not to attend.
“We quite understand,” the king said. If he was disappointed, he didn’t show it. “My son will show you to your suite. My servants will be at your disposal. They will bring you an evening snack and breakfast, before the conference begins tomorrow.”
Emily nodded, politely. Technically, the king should have invited her to join him for breakfast… she wondered, idly, if it was a subtle insult or a genuine attempt to smooth the way for the conference. She could be influenced over breakfast as easily as dinner… her lips quirked, recalling Alassa explaining how the right choice of food, drink, and conversation could put a guest in the right frame of mind for agreeing to almost anything, without methods that would come back to haunt the host later. It didn’t matter, though. She had no doubt the king would insist he was trying to be helpful, if she asked. It could easily be both.
She nodded again, then allowed the prince to lead her through a network of corridors to the guest suites. The chamber was large, but primitive. The air was cold, despite a fire burning in the grate, and the washroom lacked running water. Emily sighed, feeling a bit guilty. If this castle was anything like any of the others, the servants would have to carry the bathwater up several flights of stairs. She could use magic to heat it, and she would, but they’d still have a difficult job.
Remember to tip , she thought.
“I trust you will find these rooms comfortable,” Prince Jeremy said. He was standing too close to her again, just enough to be worrying without allowing her to push him away. Her magic twitched, yearning to be free. “If you require anything ” – the word was so stressed it sent a shiver down her spine – “just ask. It will be brought to you.”
Emily nodded curtly, dismissing him. He turned and left the chamber, closing the door behind him. Emily took a breath, then closed her eyes and reached out with her mind. The room was heavily warded, the charms so intermingled it was difficult to tell if they had a hidden purpose. They were designed to keep unfriendly eyes from watching her, but whoever had cast them might have hidden a spying spell of their own within the mix. She cast a privacy ward of her own, just to make life difficult for anyone who was spying on her, then searched the room with practiced ease. The first two peepholes were surprisingly easy to find. She gritted her teeth and kept looking, finally locating the third and fourth where they were hidden. Whoever had designed the room had done a very good job, she conceded sourly. They’d certainly thought she’d locate the first set of peepholes and stop looking for more.
Nice try , she thought, as she cast a pair of spells over the peepholes. She suspected the first two weren’t real , not in the sense anyone could peep through them, but it was better to be safe than sorry. She added a handful of other spells as she walked into the bedroom, making sure no one could come into the chamber without her permission. And if you spy on your guests…
She sighed inwardly as she checked her knapsack – the messenger hadn’t tried to open it, luckily for him – and then lay down on the bed. It was still early afternoon, but the teleport lag would catch up with her sooner rather than later. She’d be better off sleeping now and waking early the following morning, encouraging her body clock to adjust to the new environment. God alone knew how long she’d be here. She’d barely arrived and it was growing alarmingly clear the prince – if not his father – wanted a war. If they thought they could win, and they had enough mercenaries on the streets to make an uprising very bloody, they might decide to get it over with as quickly as possible.
They probably want a short victorious war to stem the tide of revolution , she thought, as she closed her eyes. But that didn’t work out too well for Nicolas II, did it?