Recha methodically read each line of the proposal and tried not to bite her left pinky’s fingernail. She had chipped it somehow, and her subconscious craved a distraction from reading the overly long fifteen-page document.
It was only eight pages last year, she recalled. Marqués Dion’s either pushing his luck or . . . worried.
Recha and her delegation sat with a delegation from Quezlo in the Velvet Room of her new mansion in Zoragrin. She called it the Velvet Room because of the plush, velvet carpet, and with its open space and large window, it was the ideal choice for her official negotiations with other marcs. Provided they were friendly.
She wore a velvet dress to match the room with a flock, white bodice, and high lace collar. The long sleeves and collar didn’t bother her so much, but with her hair done up in a bun, covering her left ear, she had to endure sweating while she read.
Recha’s eyebrow twitched at the next line item she read.
The Marc of Quezlo pledges that should the Marc of Orsembar invade the Marc of Quezlo’s staunch ally, the Marc of Lazorna, Quezlo will marshal an army of fifteen thousand troops to send to its staunch ally’s aid.
She glanced over the thick parchment at the man sipping tea on the opposite side of the table. Quezlo’s somber ambassador, Baron Perde Westendor, tediously drank his tea, holding the cup precisely so not to dampen the points of his long mustache or smash the oiled tip of a beard on his chin. His unassuming and quiet nature was one Recha had come to respect in the years after becoming marquesa. The unassuming baron might be a little vain about his looks, considering no amount of combing or oil was going to bring his fleeing hair back, but at least he behaved respectfully toward her.
However, that didn’t make him any less shrewd.
She looked down at the following line items, turning through three more pages for the clause that required Lazorna to provide twenty thousand or more troops should Orsembar invade Quezlo or some other near impossible stipulation. She didn’t find it.
That must be a mistake. Dion wouldn’t pledge support for nothing.
The lack of requirement for Lazorna wasn’t the only thing that Recha found out of character. She supposed she wouldn’t find some inkling of an answer unless she started probing.
Let the negotiations commence then.
“Your marqués’s proposal is very extensive, Baron Perde,” Recha said, holding up the pages and putting on a diplomatic face. “He must really be trying to put my counselors to shame.” Her two-page proposal was simple—lower trade tariffs, provided both marcs agreed not to campaign against each other this year. She had hoped that would make these negotiations go faster.
“Not at all, La Dama, not at all,” Baron Perde protested. His crisp speech cut off every constant and made the tips of his mustache twitch as he set his teacup in its saucer. “Si Don Dion assured me himself that he wished to further our relationship with you. Especially since you have been our best neighbor these past three years.”
Recha snickered. Not just from how obvious the comment was, but also Perde’s smile made his mustache frame his cheeks and looked to be reaching for his ears. “Yes, well”—she cleared her throat and tried not to stare—“considering our other neighbors, that isn’t too difficult.”
Perde laughed, and the rest of the Quezlo delegation joined him.
Recha chuckled along … for diplomacy’s sake. They were allies, after all.
Although, Perde did have more people with him than she did. He had his secretary shadowing him, but also his staff of no more than fifteen other people just standing around in the back. Beside him sat five counselors, each one reading a copy and going over every line item in Recha’s proposal. Every now and then, one would scratch a word out or scribble a note to one of their colleagues down the table.
In contrast, Recha had brought one counselor. Esquire Valto Onofrio sat back in his chair with his head propped against it. His pursed lips made his weathered, pox scars stand out on the left side of his face. The old counselor was a former, long-sitting judge, well into his retirement years, yet he remained in Recha’s service.
He wouldn’t admit it, but Recha knew it was because he found retirement boring. His wife, Golina, had told her so. The elderly woman sat beside her husband, pen in hand to interpret whatever Valto told her.
The counselor frowned at his copy of Marqués Dion’s offer, flipping through page after page and squinting through his thick spectacles, making his bushy eyebrows shake. Finally, he looked up at Recha, perplexed.
“It is illogical that there be such a volume of gratuitous guarantees without demands in return.”
Recha glanced at Golina.
“Not enough tit for tat,” the esquire’s wife interpreted.
Valto was an impressive jurist; however, his mind had thought in terms of jurisprudence for so many years that he had difficulties speaking normally. Fortunately for everyone, the Savior had guided the perfect woman to sit at his side to do that for him.
“Too much pledging and not enough requiring something from us?” Recha added.
Valto grunted in the affirmative and dropped his copy on the table.
“Ambassador Perde,” Recha started, “your terms are very generous this year, but”—she leaned forward and picked at the edges of proposal in front of her—“I’m afraid I can’t accept them.”
The small conversation that had broken out between Perde’s staff in the back fell silent. His counselors stopped what they were doing. One paused writing mid-sentence. Another rapidly blinked at her. Another looked up at her dumbfounded.
They weren’t expecting that.
Perde, to his credit, remained placid. “Is there something wrong with them, La Dama? Surely you don’t feel Si Don left anything out?”
“Well”—she flipped through proposal for show—“he didn’t mention anything about a decrease in tariffs?”
“A minor thing,” Perde scoffed. “Something the counselors can write in.”
“It doesn’t mention further de-escalation on our borders.”
“We’re allies!” Perde cheerfully waved. “We barely station a garrison on our small border with you.”
Recha’s face hardened. “There’s nothing about further release of Lazornian sioneroses.”
The room grew still. Perde’s smile slipped, and his staff and counselors nervously turned inward.
“Forgive me, La Dama”—Perde’s voice was stern and strained—“but I’m afraid I do not have the authority to discuss this matter. Si Don Dion gives you his word he is having every roll check for any sioneros hailing from Lazorna. But it’s going to take more time and a matter he’s reserved to speak with you about it personally.”
Sioneroses were prisoners of war. Traditionally, they were taken directly by the victorious marc in the aftermath of battles. However, a bartering practice had grown between the marcs, a form of payment so the barons wouldn’t have to give up their wealth, or the calleroses wouldn’t have to sell their skills to the larger force. They would sell their men off instead, especially to avoid battle with a large army. Some soldiers were traded and never seen again. Many formed free workforces for the larger marcs and barons. Serfs essentially.
The vilest of betrayals.
Recha had torn that entire system down in Lazorna, along with a great many other changes. She granted all the sioneroses a choice—go home or stay and work as free men. Many went home. Others stayed. That was easy. It took more . . . force to deal with some of the barons who objected. Getting her own people back from the other marcs required something more, even from her self-proclaimed allies. She wasn’t in a position for such action.
Yet.
“Very well,” she said, turning back to their proposal.
The tension slowly evaporated from the room, staff softly exhaling and shoulders slumping.
“Besides what I mentioned”—she held up their proposal—“these are exceptionally good terms of peaceful alliance, as you said, Ambassador. What concerns me—and my counselor agrees with me—is that this proposal mentions you using your military . . . a lot to aid us.”
“Again, we are your allies,” Perde said, picking up his tea again. “Right?” He took a small sip but noticeably avoided gazing over its rim at her.
Recha wasn’t going to be deterred. There was something here. Another purpose for this alliance, and Quezlo was using everything, down to a written treaty, toward it. She was concerned by it all aiming toward her and Lazorna, too.
“Right,” she agreed. “But if I must say, you’re being very loud about it.”
Perde snorted, shooting some tea back into the cup and hurriedly jerked away, fumbling not to drop the delicate porcelain. His secretary hastily brought a handkerchief and dabbed his nose and face, careful to avoid his mustache and chin-beard.
“Loud?” Perde coughed, waving his secretary away. “We’re being too loud about our alliance?” He looked to his counselors, and they shook their heads and shrugged, confused. One snickered.
“Allow me to be blunt, Ambassador,” Recha said, dropping the proposal to straighten and put on a regal display. “Do you, or Si Don Dion, believe Orsembar plans to campaign against Lazorna this year? The amount of aid and number of pledged soldiers certainly suggests it.”
Perde’s lips formed a tight line. His eyes danced across the tabletop momentarily before he waved for his secretary. He whispered something and, moments later, the secretary began shuffling the staff behind them out. The counselors remained.
“As a gentleman and honest ally,” Perde said in a serious tone after the extra staff was gone, “I must respect your bluntness, La Dama, and return it. Si Don Dion does suspect Orsembar will campaign against you this year. Borbin is planning something.”
“So soon?” Recha inquired. “After arranging his son’s marriage to Si Don Narios’s daughter?”
Si Don Narios was the Marqués of Saran, the marc bordering Orsembar and Quezlo to the west and equal in size to them both. Borbin had campaigned against Saran the previous season and came out with a forced marriage between Si Don Narios’s daughter and Borbin’s son.
Perde nodded. “Five thousand Saran troops escorted Dama Emilia into Orsembar two months ago. They never left. Si Don Narios’s forces appear to be gathering close to our southwestern border, but”—he held up a finger—“my marqués suspects Borbin plans to use the additional support he has from his new in-laws to strike against you.”
It was possible; Recha could concede that. Their stalemate with Orsembar over Puerlato had left Borbin as frustrated as she was about the situation.
But there’s a much more obvious possibility.
“Has Si Don Dion considered Orsembar and Saran uniting to invade Quezlo?”
Perde jerked back and snickered. He chuckled, and his counselors joined him. “They could try, but both would have to invade through well-defended positions. Historically defended positions! Every time Saran has campaigned against us, we’ve forced them back on the Salamus Heights. And for Orsembar, Borbin will never take Compuert. Not even the White Sword could!”
Recha kept calm the best she could while Perde and his counselors laughed. She balled her fists in her lap. She was sure he didn’t mean it as a slight that their city could hold off the White Sword but hers fell. The memory of the hero who slew her beloved Sebastian always threatened to make her temper flare.
She flipped through the proposal to the back page with the signature lines. “Well, if you are so confident.” She dipped her quill in the ink and went to sign then paused. “Are you certain you don’t want an added provision that Lazorna must provide troops to you? You know . . . just in case.”
Perde waved her concerns away. “That won’t be necessary, La Dama. Si Don Dion knows the lengths you are taking to keep your marc out of the campaigns. He doesn’t wish to put too much of a strain on his now peaceful neighbor.”
Not much of a strain as you think.
“As you wish,” she said aloud and signed her name.
Nor as peaceful.
She slid the proposal back to him, and Perde eagerly took up his quill.
As he signed, Recha got another thought. “If you want, for good measure, we could add a couple lines about the tariffs,” she proposed. “Just to keep up appearances that this is more than a military alliance.”
“Let the counselors add that in,” Perde agreed without looking up.
“I do admire your confidence.” Recha leaned forward. “Tell me, ambassador, what really makes Dion so certain Borbin will campaign against me?”
Perde glanced up, his eyebrows arched as if it were obvious. “The Rules of Campaign, La Dama. The easiest fight to win is the one everyone chooses.”
Recha hoped her grin wasn’t too predatory. She was doing her best holding back a chuckle.
Those Rules are about to change, she inwardly growled. And we’re not so easy as everyone may think.
~~~
“Where did you get so many fine vintages?”
Recha wiped the edges of her mouth with her napkin and smirked at the strutting fool doubled over perusing her wine selection. She smoothed out her sleek, silk skirts before hiking her feet up under her and stretched out across her lounge. She fluffed out her wavy hair and made sure her square neckline didn’t reveal too much before posing and propping her head up by leaning against the lounge’s single cushioned arm.
“You’d be amazed what you can get when don’t go on campaign, Don Cristal,” she replied. “Merchants love shipping their wares down roads with no armies marching up them.”
Cristal snorted, sliding a dark green bottle from the shelf. He tossed back his foppish, thick dark hair from his face so he could read the label. His handsome, square jaw stuck out as he ran his finger along the words, checking the providence and bottling date. His bright yellow jacket made him seem even taller because of its flaring tails.
“Please, La Dama, call me . . . Cris,” he said, taking his eyes away from the bottle and spotting her pose. Those light green eyes traveled along her frame, and a grin slowly spread across his face.
“I’m not so sure about that,” Recha replied. She picked at her dress skirts but allowed herself a small smile at how she took the man’s power of speech away. “We haven’t known each other for that long. And this was supposed to be a small luncheon to go over this upcoming campaign season.”
Cristal was the ambassador of Pamolid, the marc to the east, and a nephew of Marqués Hyles. They had met over two years ago, shortly after Recha’s coup at a diplomatic reception in Pamolid. She found him amicable, mostly because Recha picked up on a special family trait that seemed to run through the entire Hyles male line.
They all had uncontrollable wandering eyes for women. All it had taken was one dance with young Cristal, and he had become adamant with his uncle to make him his ambassador.
“Why should that be a problem?” Cristal asked. He rushed around the lounge meant for him and came to kneel beside hers, bottle in hand. “We have good food, good wine, and a terrific view.” He gestured out toward Zoragrin, laid out before them from Recha’s upper-story patio.
The shining lights of the suns reflected off the slated rooftops of the city below and spread across the Laz River. The river’s slow current made the soft waves dazzle like emeralds in the green water. Thanks to her patio’s covering, they were able to eat outside and enjoy such a view for a time before the Exchange became unbearable.
“And all the time in the world,” Cristal whispered, “to get to know each other better.”
Recha gave him a sly look. He grinned back, almost crookedly. It dimpled his cheek and made the small mole on the right side of his jaw stand out.
Well, at least he does have his own charms, she mused. Poor boy doesn’t have any brains, though.
“Sorry, dear Cristal,” she said, “but this isn’t a luncheon where we both get to lounge about and enjoy the view before the temperature drops. We have actual matters to discuss.”
Cristal sighed and rolled his eyes and head dramatically. “Fine. Can I at least pour for you?” He held out the bottle toward her cup, but Recha hastily reached over and covered it.
“None for me.” She shook her head. “But you may drink as much as you want.”
“You’re not being fun.” Cristal pouted to be cute or charming, but it was easy for Recha to hold her ground. She had no interest nor felt any temptation. She was playing with him, and not the game he thought they were playing.
“All right, all right,” he said getting to feet and walking around her lounge. “Just let me know when you get bored and—”
Recha closely watched him, expecting him to try something. The instant he moved like he was about to sit on the edge of her lounge, she shot her feet out, risking showing too much ankle to deny him a seat.
“Ah-ah.” She wagged a finger at him then pointed at the lounge opposite her. “You have your own.”
“You are such a tease,” Cristal said through gritted teeth. “I adore it.”
“You may adore it from over there.”
Finally, Cristal retreated to his seat. He causally poured the sparkling blue vintage in his glass and fell back into the lounge’s pillows with a sigh.
Recha had constructed her patio for this purpose alone. The best view her mansion could offer, covered by elements of thick golden canvas, stocked with the best wines she could purchase, and all the comforts. It provided the perfect atmosphere for dealing with diplomats and nobility like Cristal. Once they were relaxed and entertained, they were much easier to deal with.
Even if she had to endure banter and advances from a few who had no chance of receiving her affections.
Cristal sipped his wine then let out a long, content sigh. He propped his foot on the small table, clattering the silverware and remains of their luncheon, and leaned his head back.
“Comfortable?” Recha asked, arching an eyebrow at his foot.
“Very,” Cristal replied without looking open.
“Well, don’t get too comfortable.” She leaned across and smacked his foot off her table. “We still need to talk about your proposal.”
Cristal suddenly perked up, wine dripping from his lips and running down his chin, and his eyebrows leaped up.
“My dear Recha!” he exclaimed. “I’ve been waiting, hoping, for the moment to tell you how I feel!”
Savior, help me not to throw this boy off the patio! she prayed, struggling not to roll her eyes. Her sentiments about his age were a little unforgiving. Cristal was only a year younger than her, but his behavior, like a love-sick teenager, was especially taxing on her nerves.
“Not that kind of proposal, Cristal,” she replied with a pointed look. “I meant mine and your uncle’s proposals for this campaign season.”
Cristal deflated and fell back in a huff. “Why so boorish? You’re the marquesa of an entire marc! You have all the food, money, this! Why can’t we enjoy it? It’s not nearly as fun at home.” He pouted again and sipped his wine.
Cristal failed to realize the reason he led such a luxurious life as ambassador to her marc was because, one, she allowed it; and secondly, his uncle didn’t have much interest in Lazorna presently. He bordered larger marcs to his north and south, and Recha was eager to keep him distracted.
As for Cristal himself, not a weekend went by without Recha receiving word of him attending a party where he would become a little too wild. He was enjoying his youth. Sowing wild oats. Being completely incompetent in his official duties, as she had hoped. The added headache of not getting the official business with him done quickly was becoming the glaring price.
“Work before play, Ambassador,” she said comfortingly. “It’s a rule you learn if you get to rule a marc. If we get it finished quickly, I promise some after-luncheon entertainment you’ll find very fun.” She winked at him teasingly, and his grin split his face.
“Very well then!” Cristal set his glass down and cupped his fingers in his lap. “I sent your proposal to my uncle two weeks ago, but I’m afraid I haven’t heard back yet.”
“What?” Recha blinked rapidly.
Cristal threw his hands up. “Uncle left before the proposal reached him. He traveled east, but my so-called counselors won’t tell me where. It’s like they don’t trust me sometimes.”
I wonder why, Recha mused. Although, hearing his uncle was looking east was encouraging.
If it was true; if his uncle’s counselors didn’t trust him, it was also possible his uncle no longer trusted Cristal, either. He could be using Cristal’s loose tongue to lull her in a false sense of security before blindsiding her while she worried about the other marcs.
Recha shook her head. Hyles isn’t that clever.
She still needed more, though.
Turning back to Cristal, she smiled softly. She reached over and began meticulously dropping sugar cubes into her teacup. Her pose and dress’s square neckline teased the undisciplined Cristal.
“But can I take your word, though, that we’ll still have peace this campaign season?” she asked. “I’d hate to lose all the good will we’ve built up.” She poured her tea and tried not laugh as Cristal blushed. He had some natural charm, sure, but still … love-sick, teenaged mindset.
“Ah . . .” he coughed, but his eyes kept wandering. “No. No! My uncle would never campaign against you! I swear, if he does, I’d protest to my mother and have him stop.”
Oh, that means a lot.
“So, can I assume we’ll still have peace?”
“Absolutely!” Cristal’s wandering-eye-blood was winning, almost turning into a leer.
Recha sat up before the desire to slap him became too overwhelming and took up her cup. “Excellent! Just have your counselors send over a temporary proposal, and I’ll sign it.”
“Sure!” Cristal raised his wine glass, as if expecting a toast.
Recha sipped her tea to hide her disappointment. She wanted to get all these proposals settled, but it appeared she would need something more to make sure Pamolid didn’t surprise her this year.
“Didn’t you promise some after-luncheon entertainment?” Cristal teased after draining his wine.
“So, I did,” she replied. Recha set her teacup down and clapped her hands.
A trio of musicians walked out onto the patio, carrying drums, a flute, and a clarinet. They were followed by a trio of women with blazing red hair and matching dresses, carrying a train of their flowing skirts in hand. They wore sashes wrapped diagonally across their bodies with jingling coins hanging down the sashes’ hems. Their high heels knocked against her patio boards. One woman carried a fan while another clicked finger cymbals together that she wore on her index finger and thumb.
“Trio Bailer!” Cristal exclaimed, excitedly bouncing on the edge of his seat.
Recha gave him a smiling nod.
The Trio Bailer was a tradition dance performed by three women during which one selects a man to join. The man selected was supposed to be heralded as the Lord of Dance for the night, and the dance was usually only held for special events—birthdays, celebrations, and parties—but not weddings.
Being the lone man on the patio, as soon as the musicians started playing, the dancer not carrying anything held out her hand for Cristal to join them while her companions swirled around them. The poor boy was so eager that he didn’t even spare Recha a second glance before he was spinning and laughing with the dancer in his arms. He wasn’t half-bad, either.
Recha lounged back and let them have their fun, her mind turning over what Cristal had said. I might need extra insurance against Marqués Hyles. To her amusement, such a plan quickly formulated while watching Cristal laugh, being passed from one dancer to another.
~~~
Bars of light sliced through the repurposed observation room in Zoragrin Castle, striking mounted crystals to light up the sparce surroundings.
Recha sat with her back straight and fingers laced in her lap. Her wide-open sleeves hung from her sides like drapes. That kept her from messing with the white ribbons lacing her dress instead of buttons. The sleek, black silk of her dress glittered from the reflected crystal light. Once again, she made sure not to show her discomfort from the sweat of a high collar and her hair pulled back from her face, bound in a braid against the back of her neck.
Her eyelids fluttered, and her head felt heavy, longing to droop. Longing for rest.
She breathed heavily through her nose and forced her eyes open. She couldn’t rest now. She couldn’t show any weakness. Not with the odious man opposite her.
The hook-nosed Orsembian, Ambassador Valen Irujo, sniffed sharply at the parchment in his hands. Despite his thin eyebrows arched like arrowheads, his ebony eyes were bored. His placid expression was starting to skew to the right side of his narrow face, threatening to purse his lips.
This isn’t that complicated! Recha wanted to scream. It’s the same proposal as last year.
And simple. A guaranteed peace for this year’s campaign season or a promised five-year peace if Orsembar relinquishes its dominion of Puerlato and return it to Lazorna. No mentions of tariffs. No requirement neither harassed the other’s trade at the mouth of the Laz River. No exchange of sioneroses.
Valen was intentionally dragging it out. He’d been the same way three years ago. He had forcibly taken over Orsembar’s campaign after the White Sword hadn’t defeated Recha’s army fast enough to Borbin’s satisfaction. Once he had taken over, he had overextended Orsembar’s line, and Recha’s army had been able to take advantage of it, pushing them back and holding their defenses. Campaign season had been over for every other marc before Valen had entertained talks.
Valen turned the proposal over, as if he expected her to have something written on the back, and then held it up, unimpressed.
“Is this it?” he asked, annoyed. “You made me wait for days just to hand me the same piece of paper you handed me last year!” He slammed the proposal on the small table, a mere stool, between them.
Recha remained unfazed, but her ears twitched at her guards’ shuffling feet behind her. Because they moved, Valen’s two calleroses behind him shifted, as well, hands sliding toward their rapiers while setting their feet. Recha ignored the posturing and Valen’s dismissive grimace as he folded his arms.
“You brought me the same proposal, as well, Ambassador,” she calmly replied with a flickering glance down at his proposal. “This doesn’t seem to be any more important to you or Si Don Borbin.”
Borbin’s proposal was a simple counter. He promised lasting peace if Recha relinquished Lazorna’s claim to Puerlato and the surrounding land.
“Si Don’s proposal is genuine,” Valen said. “A show of respect for your dogged pursuit of peace and diplomacy in this time of such strife and hardship. Especially for a . . . young marquesa such as yourself.”
You mean inexperienced, Recha knew. She was also sure he and Borbin obviously thought her desire for peace trumped everything else, but something in their proposal didn’t read truly genuine.
She had given the proposal over to Esquire Valto to look at last year, and he had dismissed it in an instant. The promise of a lasting peace meant nothing because lasting had no definition. Lasting could mean an hour, a day, a year, or nothing. The entire proposal merely wanted her to relinquish Puerlato on paper.
“A more proper show of respect would be returning the city you stole from my marc,” she said.
Valen’s left nostril twitched, failing to hide his sneer. “That which is conquered during campaign cannot be seen as stolen, by the Rules of Campaign.”
That’s possibly the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard.
Although, in Valen’s case, he would cling to the Rules. They favored him, and he was a campaigning baron; a baron who went on campaigns personally to lead their calleroses and filled their own pockets along the way.
It suddenly struck Recha that he might have another reason to be annoyed about being made to wait for this meeting.
“Are you in a hurry, Ambassador?” she asked, noticing his leg twitching. “In need to be somewhere else, perhaps?”
“Anything to leave this decrepit, old castle would be appreciated, La Dama,” Valen replied.
“That’s understandable.” Recha smiled, enjoying Valen’s discomfort of being the only ambassador not permitted to attend her at her mansion. She reserved this room specifically to meet with any ambassador from Orsembar. The room in the old castle where Sebastian’s body had been laid out on display. A symbolic reminder to Valen what his marqués took from her.
“But really, Ambassador,” she said, “you seem very upset about a simple matter such as this.”
Valen exhaled loudly. “If I may be blunt, with all your talks of wanting peace with my marqués, Si Don Borbin finds your plots with Quezlo against him . . . distasteful.”
“Oh?” Recha tilted her head and blinked coyly. “Really?”
Valen wasn’t amused. “You talk of peace, yet instead of proving you can defend your land yourself, you connive for Marqués Dion to fight for you instead. Do you have no pride to fight your own battles?”
“I’m plenty capable of fighting my own battles, Ambassador. I mean”—she shrugged—“you should know.”
Valen glowered at that. “Says the woman who had another marc promise her fifteen thousand troops.”
Perde! You couldn’t keep our agreement confidential until after the Exchange!
Recha kept calm. Quezlo’s proposal was more a show of force for Borbin’s benefit. Perde had said as much. Still, more decorum would have been nice.
“What about the five thousand Saran troops still in Orsembar?” she retorted. “Your ally has already sent you soldiers, but you want to complain about mine supporting me if I’m attacked? Rather hypocritical, don’t you think?”
Valen drew himself up. “Those troops are garrisoned for the Dama Emilia’s protection.”
“Protection against whom?” she asked dryly, arching an eyebrow. “Her own husband? Or her husband’s father?”
Valen stared at her blankly. “This is getting us nowhere.”
“Agreed. Should we finish this then?” Recha tossed away his proposal. “I’m not agreeing to relinquish Puerlato, and neither are you. Shall we just agree to peace this year, like last year? You’ll get to take your leave sooner.”
Valen grimaced at his marqués’s proposal thrown on the floor and back to hers. With furious determination, he took up his quill to strike lines through the second line item on her proposal, almost ripping the parchment.
“This,” he hissed, signing his name, “has been a complete waste of time.”
“Most campaigns are,” she quipped back.
Valen gave her a dark look, slapped the quill down on the stool, then rose to his feet. “I trust this concludes our business?”
No, not until—
Recha cut off the thought so not to risk losing control.
“To another successful negotiation. I’ll have an official copy sent to your lodgings to take to Si Don Borbin.”
Valen turned on his heels and stalked toward the exit, not waiting to witness her signature. Recha motioned to the guards behind her, and they trailed after him and his escort to make sure he didn’t get lost. She signed her name and wondered if Valen’s signature was as dishonest as hers.