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“He’s over there, my lord.” Sir William Aitken pointed down the Ealdmund docks, gray and wet in the misting rain, to a solitary figure with a fishing pole over the river.
“Well done,” said Broderick. He gave William a congratulatory handshake, and then walked over to join the lone fisherman, who happened to be the Earl of Ardenford, Lord Chancellor of Myrcia.
The earl smiled when he saw Broderick approaching. “I knew someone would find me down here one of these days.” He wagged a finger. “Now, don’t go poaching all my best fishing spots.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” said Broderick, sitting next to him and looking out over the gray river toward Abertref. The little suburban village looked all bundled and huddled up against the weather. “Of course I’d love to have a place like this where I could come during the day for an hour or two. I’m so blasted busy now. I swear there’s a quarter inch of dust on my hunting bow. Damned shame, really.”
“Damned shame,” agreed the earl. “But don’t think we don’t all appreciate what you’re doing to keep the city safe. And the new king, too, obviously.”
Broderick smiled. He had thought it would take him a lot longer to bring the conversation around to this topic. “I do what I can. But there are so many threats, and I worry we’re neglecting the foreign ones.”
“Loshadnarod, you mean?”
“Yes, Loshadnarod, but the Empire, too. And Odeland and Sahasra Deva. Even Annenstruk, if you want to know the truth. They’re all watching to see what we do, see what the new king and his regent are made of.”
The earl heaved a sigh. “I suppose you’re right. And there are plenty of people who don’t particularly like the queen.” He held up a hand. “Look, I can even sympathize with them. She’s my niece, and I love her, but Earstien knows, she doesn’t go out of her way to make herself likeable, especially when she’s focused on protecting her son.”
“I’ve admired her fortitude a great deal in recent days,” said Broderick, bowing his head respectfully.
“Yes, yes. Don’t get me wrong, she’s a wonderful girl underneath it all. But my point is that foreigners look at what’s going on here, and they hear people griping about her, and it makes us look weak.”
“You know what would help?” said Broderick. “If we could somehow get all the nobles together and give her a vote of confidence. And a vote of confidence in the king, too. It would really show the rest of the world that we’re united.”
“Well, I’ve heard people talking about having a Gemot for some reason....”
“Brilliant idea!” said Broderick, beaming. “Why don’t you bring it up at the council meeting tonight?”
The earl instantly agreed, with a proud smile on his idiot face like it really had been his idea. Broderick left the docks with a spring in his step, whistling “The Fair Maid of Brawley.” His next stop was Flora Byrne’s house, and when she saw he’d been out in the rain, she insisted on giving him a big cup of her special spiked coffee.
“There you are,” she said, handing him the mug. “Light on the whiskey, the way you like it.” Flora’s idea of “light on the whiskey” was to only make it a third of the drink, rather than half. But it certainly did a marvelous job of warming him up.
The parlor where she received him was warm and comfortable, and he would have known it was hers, even if he hadn’t been coming there for years. Hunting trophies hung on the walls with old standards and shields captured by Byrne men and women in battle centuries ago. Along one wall, she also had an odd collection of ancient Kenedalic totems—carved images of animal spirits that had supposedly protected the old tribes. Some of them were sweet and amusing, like grinning badgers and sly-looking little foxes. Others were almost shockingly vulgar, like bears and stags with tremendous erections.
Flora had once told Broderick, “If other people can have the boring old armor and shit from their ancestors on display, then I can have mementos of my people, too.”
They sat with their drinks and talked a while about their families. Her youngest daughter, Lauren, was in her last year at Atherton, where she was close friends with Broderick’s daughter, Donella. Lauren was considerably more candid in her letters home than Donella, so he got to hear what his daughter had actually been up to. Nothing very bad at all, of course—sneaking out of their dormitory, drinking a little too much at the Crown and Gown, playing pranks on boys they liked. Certainly nothing close to what Broderick and Lukas had gotten up to during their two wasted years at the Brancaster School.
Then he saw his opening. Putting on a pensive look, he said, “I think of my young cousin—the king I mean—and it breaks my heart to think he’s going to miss out on all that.”
“Oh, I know,” said Flora sadly. “He’s such a sweet little boy, but honestly, school would have been good for him. Rohesia...well, I won’t say a word against her, but she spoils him and Alice. She really does.”
For a brief second, Broderick wished he could shake her and say, “Then why did you think she would be a good regent for him?” But he restrained himself.
What he said was, “Edwin has had such a sheltered life. I worry that he’s not prepared for the kind of pressures he’s going to face now.”
“That’s so true,” said Flora. “And people are already being so abominably cruel. The other day I was talking to the abbess of one of those convents I support, and do you know what she said? She said Edwin ‘wasn’t doing enough to help the poor.’ Can you believe it? I told her, ‘He’s 8 years old, and he hasn’t even been king for two weeks. Give him a fucking break.’”
“It will only get worse,” said Broderick, “unless....” He paused, then raised his eyebrows, as if some new and exciting thought had just arrived in his mind.
“Unless what?”
“Unless there’s a clear statement of support by the nobles. A vote of some sort that shows we’re all behind him.”
Flora set down her mug and looked at him through suddenly narrowed eyes. “You mean...like a Gemot, Broderick?”
“Everyone’s talking about it,” he said, with a sheepish grin.
She burst out laughing. “Oh, you’re too funny, my dear. And yet....” She sat up straighter, and her smile faded. “And yet, you’re absolutely right. If we have a Gemot, we’ll know who’s on his side. And who’s not.”
***
“WHAT THE HELL IS A Gemot? It sounds like a card game, and not one of the fun ones.” Pellus slouched in the seat of their carriage, not even caring that he was putting deep creases in his silk party clothes.
“It’s a meeting of all the peers of the realm,” said Lily. “It’s like the Senate, basically, except it hasn’t met in over a hundred years. It has the power to appoint a new king, like the senate appoints our emperor.”
She was quite proud of knowing the answer—it had been so long since there had been a Gemot that the Prefect hadn’t bothered putting anything in Lily’s notes about it. So she’d had to ask around and figure it out for herself. The sudden news that the privy council had voted to call a Gemot in six weeks had rocked the court, and the whole Myrcian government was in turmoil.
“Oh, fantastic. Instead of staying home and being bored by my own country’s politics, I get to be bored by someone else’s. I can’t wait.”
His original mission, given to him by Emperor Tullius himself, had been to sound out King Edgar on the subject of a continued military alliance. How he thought he would have done this without discussing Myrcian politics was a mystery to Lily.
She patted his knee. “Darling, you know what might be fun? If we talked to people at the party and tried to figure out if they’re going to support the young king at this Gemot, or if they might vote for someone different.”
“You have a very odd sense of ‘fun,’ Lily.” He flopped over to slouch the other way. “Good gods, I hate this place. The weather stinks, and everything smells, and all these houses are so drafty. And the parties are so blasted boring. And the people are so damned rude.”
Lily bit her lip, refraining from comment.
“They hate us here,” the senator continued. “You’ve surely noticed that, right? That last party we went to, the one at the house of the Duke of Whatever-His-Fucking-Name-Was, a woman came up to me, and do you know what she said? She said, ‘My brother died fighting in Loshadnarod.’ And she told me, ‘I hope you Immani are proud of yourselves.’”
“Oh? What did you say?”
He waved a hand. “Don’t worry. I was very diplomatic. I politely informed her that we’re the richest, most powerful nation in the world. So yes, we’re quite proud of ourselves. Then I subtly implied that, since the Empire seems to win every war we’ve ever fought, except the ones where Myrcia is our ally, then perhaps—and this is a wild theory here—the fault lies somewhere other than with us. Then finally, and with the greatest delicacy, I posited the theory that perhaps her brother died getting fucked by a Loshadnarodski warhorse.”
Lily put her head in her hands. “Linus, could you please try not to offend people?”
“What difference does it make? Our glorious Legate Faustinus, sorcerer to the Emperor and leader of men, talked these idiots into war, and now they hate us for it. There’s nothing more to be said.”
She sighed and looked out the window, wondering what would happen if she could say what she wanted, which was, “I know Legate Faustinus. And Prefect Darrow. And they’re lovely people, thank you very much.” Not for the first time in the last two years, she wished that Pellus was someone else. But he had been the one who had chosen her, and if he hadn’t done that, then the Prefect never would have found her. And then her life would be...oh, gods, it would be so much worse. She knew what she owed Pellus. But would it have killed him to make an effort at being nice once in a while?
It wasn’t Legate Faustinus’s fault that Pellus didn’t get along with people here. Pellus didn’t get along with people anywhere. In contrast, Lily was on a first-name basis with a dozen young noblewomen already, and probably four dozen young knights and noblemen. Yes, people were angry about the Loshadnarodski War. But even still, they loved the Empire, and they loved to hear about the latest fashions and the newest books and music.
“Oh, look, we’re here,” grumbled Pellus, as the carriage slowed. “Let’s go do this. The sooner we start, the sooner we can leave.”
The party was being held at the Formacaster mansion of the Earl of Hyrne, who (Lily’s notes had reminded her) was the queen’s brother, nephew to the Lord Chancellor, and a member of the privy council. She tried to share this information with Pellus as they made their way up the front walk, between willow trees hung with Shangian paper lanterns, but he cut her off.
“Find me a card table and leave me alone for a while.”
The earl’s mansion had been built in the style of an Immani villa, with a central garden, surrounded by a vaulted arcade, and doors on all sides leading to the rest of the house. Canvas pavilions and canopies in bright reds and blues had been hung over the garden paths against the threat of rain.
As they circled the arcade, looking for the card room, the earl rushed over to greet them. “Ah, Senator Pellus. Lady Serrana. I’m so very pleased you could make it.”
Pellus rolled his eyes. “She’s just ‘Miss Serrana,’ you know,” he said, jabbing a thumb toward Lily. “She’s not a Patrician.”
Even Lily, who had thought herself immune to the man’s rudeness, was rendered speechless.
Luckily, the gallant earl stepped into the breach. He bowed, kissed Lily’s hand, and said, “To the true knight, every woman, particularly one as cultured as Miss Serrana, is a lady.”
Pellus was undaunted. “Lovely sentiment. There’s this fat old bag who cleans the chamber pots at our inn. I can’t wait to tell her that the mere fact of her sex has ennobled her.” He looked around impatiently. “Now where are the damned card tables?”
The earl started to tell him, but then, looking over Lily’s shoulder, he suddenly stopped himself. “Oh, hold on. You simply have to meet her royal highness.”
He disappeared, but then returned, not ten seconds later, with a young, dark-haired woman on his arm. The girl was slim—almost boyish from the waist up, though rather less so through the hips. She wore a mourning dress of black velvet and gray lace, cut to show off her figure. Her jaw and her cheekbones were sharp and perfectly defined. Her brown hair was tied up under a net of white silk and silver chains, glistening with diamonds, though a pair of long, curling strands framed her face. Her eyes were unsettlingly blue and wide.
Princess Elwyn Sigor stood out in this company like a gold aureus slipped into a purse of small change. In short, she was almost too beautiful to be plausible. And this in spite of the fact that her full lips were set in a sullen pout, and she had her arms crossed, and a hip cocked. She couldn’t have made it more obvious that she didn’t want to be there if she had screamed it at the top of her lungs in four languages. But then, the girl had recently lost her father, so of course she couldn’t be expected to enjoy socializing yet.
The earl quickly rushed off to greet other guests, and Lily made her best attempt to start a conversation. She gave the usual compliments, and expressed the usual condolences over the dead king, and then she gestured to Pellus, saying, “I’m not sure if you know this, your royal highness, but the senator here was a Military Legate in Terminium, and he often visited Rawdon, which is, of course, the ancestral home of your royal house, the Sigors.” She had been quite excited when she had found that little fact in her notes.
Pellus snorted. “Really? We’ve both been in the same city? My gods, we’re practically family. Rawdon is a privy pit, and I congratulate the Sigors in getting out of there. Now where are the damned card tables?”
This was the moment for the young princess to save the situation. She could have said something witty, or maybe a kind word or two. Or at the very least, she could have pointed the senator toward the parlor where people were playing cards. But she stood there, arms crossed, gazing sullenly off into space, not saying a word.
“Don’t mind me, then,” said Pellus. “I’ll go find it myself. You can always tell the card room by the stench of desperation wafting out if it. Lovely to meet you, princess.”
Lily and Elwyn stood there, drenched in awkward silence. Then Lily smiled and said, “I do apologize for the senator. He’s not used to Myrcian ways.”
The beautiful young woman cleared her throat loudly. “He’s the first sensible person I’ve met at this party. But he’s still an asshole.” Then she turned and walked away.
And oh, how she walked away. The black velvet swished and clung, and swished and clung as she walked. Good gods, the girl must spend hours in the saddle every day to build muscles like that. A shame she was such a snotty bitch, but Lily didn’t have to like her to admire her ass. Lily’s mouth went dry, and she had to have a couple short glasses of whiskey before she trusted herself to speak again.
Then she went around, chatting and laughing, until she fell into a little circle with Baroness Muriel Gramiren and Duchess Flora of Keneburg. They were both marvelous conversationalists, and lovely women, as well. But neither of them could hold a candle to how the princess had looked, stalking angrily off in that black dress.
Later, after Pellus had won enough at cards to make him feel the night had been worthwhile, he came around to collar Lily and take her back to their inn. “Not a bad night, in spite of it all,” he said, as they drove away from the party. “But all anyone wanted to talk about was this stupid Gemot, and for the life of me, I have no idea what that is.”