The Belegonian ambassador had outstayed his welcome. Finnikin knew it. Everyone in the room, including the ambassador’s own scribe and guard, knew it. It had been too long a day, with little compromise. No, the Lumaterans could not send fleece down the river through Belegonia to Yutlind. Belegonia now had a strong market selling their own fleece to wool merchants in Yutlind and Osteria. Did they not have the right during Lumatere’s curse to breed their own sheep for such purpose? And no, Lumatere should not expect the Belegonians to buy their ore when the kingdom of Sorel was selling it for half the price. Then there was the subject of Charyn. Belegonian conversation always came back to the subject of Charyn.
“I will repeat this one more time, Your Majesty,” the Belegonian ambassador said. “My king is urging you to take up this opportunity. It’s what Lumatere has been waiting for.”
“Do not presume to tell me what we’ve been waiting for, sir,” Isaboe said sharply.
“The Charynite capital is in anarchy,” the Belegonian ambassador said. “The Osterians and Sarnaks have armies in place with our Belegonian soldiers standing by their side, ready to enter at any moment.”
“The last I heard, one does not invade merely because another kingdom’s capital is in anarchy,” Finnikin said from the window overlooking the garden, where he could see Vestie of the Flatlands and Jasmina playing blindman’s bluff with Moss, who was guarding them.
He turned back and saw the Belegonians exchange looks. They were going to change tack. He was certain they were going to mention Sorel. They always used that kingdom as a threat in their negotiations. Finnikin tried to catch his wife’s eye.
“The Sorellians will take advantage of this,” the Belegonian ambassador said.
“You know this for certain, do you?” she asked.
“No, but our spies tell us that Sorel has been in constant discussion with those on Avanosh Island, who have claimed for hundreds of years that the Charyn throne was once theirs. The heir of Avanosh could be what the Charynite people want.”
Isaboe looked to Sir Topher. “Why would these people of Avanosh be what the Charynites want?” she asked.
“Because —” the Belegonian ambassador went to answer, but Isaboe held up a hand to stop him. Finnikin was used to the hand. The hand was held up at times when Jasmina tried to argue about what to wear on certain days, and the hand came into play when Finnikin tried to insist that Isaboe had no idea how to win a game of Kings and Queens fairly. His wife’s hand was mightier than a sword.
“Because Avanosh is neutral,” Sir Topher explained. “During times such as this, a neutral leader will prevent Charyn’s provincari from going to war with each other if one tries to take the throne.”
Isaboe stood and walked to Finnikin, by the window. She leaned against him, so unlike her when they were surrounded by foreigners. He reached out a hand and kneaded her shoulder. As much as he wasn’t allowed to say that she looked tired in front of others because No one walks around saying that men and kings look tired, Finnikin, he wanted to say the words all the same. Isaboe, you look tired. Isaboe, you work too hard. Isaboe, you can’t solve everyone’s problems. Isaboe, you are not responsible for the happiness of every person you meet.
“Then why not leave the Charynites to be ruled by the Avanosh lot, who will keep their people from going to war?” Finnikin suggested.
The Belegonian ambassador shook his head emphatically.
“If the Avanosh heir ends up in the palace, the kingdom of Sorel will play a role in the running of Charyn,” the ambassador said. “We don’t want that.”
“But you have absolutely no qualms buying Sorellian ore when they are undercutting an ally of yours?” Isaboe asked sharply.
The Belegonian grimaced. “You are misunderstanding the matter, Your Majesty.”
“I don’t misunderstand matters, sir,” she snapped. “I can’t afford to misunderstand matters. Each time a queen or king in this land misunderstands a matter, many people die. So I would advise you to think carefully of your words.”
“Sorel and Charyn have been thorns in our side since the beginning of time,” the ambassador said. “Nothing can be worse news than if they unite.”
“Not a thorn in your side, Sir Osver,” she said, her tone so frigid Finnikin hardly recognized it. “Not a thorn in the side of Belegonia. Perhaps the kingdoms of Osteria and Lumatere and Sarnak, but you share no border with the Charynites. Yet you stand to gain much if they are forced to surrender to these joint armies you have in place.”
Finnikin watched his daughter, below, look up from her play, straight to their window. He moved Isaboe aside. If Jasmina saw them now, they would be ending one series of negotiations and entering another. At least they had a chance of winning against the Belegonians, but Jasmina was another matter.
He watched as his father rode into the garden on his stallion. Vestie and Jasmina ran to him with excitement, and Moss lifted them, seating Vestie behind Trevanion and Jasmina in his lap. Trevanion proceeded to canter around the garden while both girls chortled with joy. It made Finnikin smile to see them. Who would ever have thought that Trevanion would be softened by two little girls?
But Finnikin’s attention was brought back to the Belegonian ambassador.
“The Charynites murdered your family! The Sorellians imprisoned your captain. The father of your consort. Take this opportunity, Your Highness.”
Finnikin could see that Isaboe was speechless with fury at the mention of her family’s death.
“Thirteen years ago,” he reminded her, “your king and the Charyn king, among others, stepped in and made a decision about who would run this kingdom. Did you see any good coming from that?”
“Regardless of what has taken place in the past, Charyn will be ruled by her own,” she said.
“A peasant heir from the mountains of Lascow or a Sorellian puppet from Avanosh?” the ambassador scoffed.
“As opposed to a leader controlled by the strings of Belegonia?” Isaboe asked. “We won’t be part of that. Take that back to your king.”
When they were finally gone, Isaboe sat back in exhaustion.
“Give me names,” she begged Sir Topher, “of men inside Charyn who are prepared to be king. Fair men. Good men. If there is such a person, then I will be the first to offer them a neighbor’s recognition of their right to rule. Better that than a war among every kingdom of this land.”
“I’ll find out what I can,” Sir Topher said, “but from what we know, Tariq of the Lascow Mountains could be our best chance for peace.”
Finnikin watched a grimace cross Isaboe’s expression. “Did I do the right thing with the Belegonians?” she asked them both. “Or were my emotions ruling me?”
“Nothing wrong with emotions ruling you,” Sir Topher said gently. “I think the important thing is to keep our ears open to the events in Charyn. If it’s true what they’re saying, we need to be cautious. A new king could be a good thing, but Sorel being involved causes me concern.”
She looked at Finnikin.
“Would you have made the same decision?” she asked. “That’s what I’m asking you, Finnikin.”
“What I would have done differently . . .”
She bit her lip, and he knew that look. They were never happier than in the moments when they acknowledged that they would have made the same decision.
“. . . is that I would have told the Belegonians what they could do with their plan using different words.”
“What words?”
“Shut your ears, Sir Topher,” Finnikin said, then spoke the words. He saw a ghost of a smile on her face.
“Ah, my wife likes it when I speak filth,” he said, and they all laughed.
Sir Topher excused himself. “We need to prepare for the Fenton lot,” he reminded Finnikin.
“The Fenton lot,” Finnikin muttered, kissing her a quick good-bye. “I forgot about them.”
“I’ll walk with you,” Isaboe said.
He was quiet as they made their way down to the garden. She spoke to each person they passed. She would ask about a husband’s health, comment about the bloom in one’s cheek, gently remind another that the hounds needed exercising, marvel at the taste of the grapes served that morning at breakfast. Their people, in turn, would walk away beaming, and sometimes Finnikin wished for the ease Isaboe possessed with the world.
Outside in the garden, they watched Trevanion with Jasmina and Vestie.
“I’m worried about my father,” he said. “I think he’s beside himself, although he’d rather not admit it. This thing with Beatriss. She’s not turned up for the last two meetings with the Flatland Lords and is rarely seen around her village. Lady Abian is out of her mind with worry.”
“What’s he said?” she asked. “Trevanion?”
“He can’t get past Tarah. Each time, she has said Beatriss is resting.”
They watched Trevanion hand Jasmina to Moss before dismounting. A moment later, their daughter was hurtling toward them. She’d go to Isaboe first. She always went to her mother first. Lord August had once told Finnikin that there were years when his children were so attached to their mother that he could hardly approach for fear of being cursed by their wails. Finnikin knew those moments well.
With her cheek pressed against Isaboe’s shoulder, his daughter stared at him. After a moment, she extended a hand and he pretended to bite at her fingers. Finally she smiled.
Trevanion approached with Vestie clinging to his hand.
“This situation in Charyn makes no sense,” his father said quietly.
“Isn’t it exactly how we planned?” Isaboe asked.
Trevanion shook his head and looked at the little girls.
Isaboe placed their daughter on the ground. “Can you help Jasmina find a chestnut for Finnikin, Vestie?”
Vestie took Jasmina’s hand and went searching.
When the girls were a distance away, Trevanion continued. “They’re saying the king’s First Adviser, not a nameless assassin, has killed the king.”
Finnikin and Isaboe exchanged a look.
“Then where is our nameless assassin?” Finnikin asked, trying to keep the worry out of his voice.
“If he killed the king, he should have been back by now,” Isaboe said.
Trevanion nodded, and Finnikin knew his father didn’t want to voice their greatest fears.
Isaboe sighed. “You may need to speak to the Charynite up in the mountains again.”
“Easier said than done. Lucian sends word that the Monts are making threats against Rafuel of Sebastabol.”
“Well, he’s going to have to control them,” Finnikin said, irritated with the Monts more than Lucian. “He has to be firmer. He can’t be one of the lads anymore.”
Isaboe turned to Trevanion. “I want you to find out anything you can about what took place in the Charyn capital and keep an eye on the situation with my cousins. If it worsens, send Aldron to take care of it and warn the Monts that if I have to travel up to speak to them, the regret will be theirs.”