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William rarely got truly angry—a fact that might have surprised some of the people he met in his work. He did his duty and followed orders, and if he was better than the other fellow (and he usually was) and lucky (which he always had been, knock on wood), then he got to go home to Gwen at the end of it. He didn’t necessarily hate the people he talked to on Lord Broderick’s behalf. He quite liked some of them, in fact. But he had a job to do, and he did it as well as he possibly could.
He wasn’t really even angry now. But he was frustrated and confused. And not about that business of checking the nursery. William had been quite serious when he had said he was doing it for the children’s protection. Some of those Severnshire men that Duke Lukas had sent over weren’t very bright. All it took was one idiot who thought he was doing his master a favor, one fool who thought he’d remove a few little obstacles in Baron Broderick’s way, and next thing you knew, you’d have a civil war on your hands.
No, what annoyed him was Elwyn’s reaction to the proposal. She was a princess of the House of Sigor—the daughter of one king and the sister of another. Had she imagined that she wouldn’t share the fate of every princess in history, and be married off at her family’s convenience? And not merely for convenience in this case—for the safety and security of the whole realm.
Many a nobleman’s daughter had been sold off like cattle for stupid and selfish reasons—winning the rights to a new estate, or paying off her stupid father’s gambling debts. But Elwyn had a chance that few people had ever had in history. She could stop a civil war by saying, “I do.”
Yes, it would mean marrying a man she didn’t love. But how many noblewomen and princesses ever got to do that? Probably none of them. That was a luxury of the poor—something in the way of compensation for the fact that they lived short, hard lives with few other luxuries. Those people, the common people, would be the ones who suffered if Elwyn refused to marry Young Broderick and those idiots up at Hamstowe decided to start a war.
Yes, it was a sacrifice for her; William understood that. But was it more of a sacrifice than all those lives and limbs that would be lost if the country fell apart? William had been through a war; it had lasted a decade, and that had been more than enough for him.
All she had to do was marry Young Broderick. And the boy wasn’t even a bad match. His father thought he was a bit simple-minded and weak, but William knew he was honorable and decent, and there was something to be said for that. Plus, the boy always seemed mortified and repulsed by his parents’ constant affairs. William would have been willing to bet a great deal of money that Young Broderick would never, ever cheat on his wife. Beyond that, he had an excellent war record, and he was one of the finest archers in the army, which had to count for something, even to girls. And he certainly wasn’t bad looking.
William reported his conversation with the princess to Baron Broderick, who laughed a great deal when he heard about Elwyn’s tantrum, and pronounced her final statement “promising.”
His lordship was in his office at the guards barracks, and for some odd reason, his desk was covered in trays of slim little rolled-up pastries. “Annenstruker Krumkaker,” he said, holding one out. “I had them made specially. Here. Try it.”
William did, and it tasted quite good. Hard and crunchy on the outside, but with a sweet cream filling. He’d had Krumkaker before, from a street stall back during the war, when he’d gone to Annenstruk on a mission for the baron. But these were better. “Are you preparing for a party, my lord?” he asked.
“In a manner of speaking, I suppose.” His lordship swept up a couple dozen of the pastries and put them in a basket, which he handed to William. “There you are. Take the rest of the day off, and go share these with your wife and son.”
William didn’t want to look a gift camel in the mouth, as the Odelanders said, but he knew there was an awful lot of other work to get done, and he asked his lordship if he really meant it.
“I have nothing at the moment deserving of your talents,” said Baron Broderick, flopping down into his chair and leaning back. “Go on and enjoy yourself.”
Twenty minutes later, William arrived home to find the place full of the Rowley children. Hazel Rowley was out shopping, and Philip was at a meeting of the blacksmiths’ guild, where he was the treasurer. So Gwen had naturally agreed to watch the kids for them.
There were five of the young Rowleys, ranging in age from 12 down to 2—Winnie; Charles; the twins, Tilly and Stanley; and little Laura, who had been born within two weeks of Robby. William enjoyed his occasional job as referee to their backyard games. He always liked when they came to visit, because these were the only times in his entire life where he got to walk into a room full of people who were all glad to see him.
Gwen took his coat and put his boots away and brought him some ale, and then he brought out the basket of Krumkaker, which proved a tremendous hit with the children.
“Did you buy these?” Gwen asked, looking pleased, but slightly worried about the cost.
“They were a gift from Lord Broderick Gramiren,” he said, as he passed another pastry to Tilly Rowley.
“He’s such a nice man,” said Gwen fervently.
The children all cheered “Lord Gramiren,” and then they demanded a game. So they all had a few rounds of Tafel and a few more of Going to Oasestadt, after which everyone was out of breath from laughing too much, and little Tilly asked Gwen if she would sing them a song.
So, as they finished the pastries, Gwen sang the Kenedalic lay of the Maid of Glen Taran, which everyone knew, and everyone loved. Then she tried to teach the older children how to dance the Mt. Nellis Reel, while William sat back in his chair, with his son on his lap, and started to doze off.
“Anyone who doesn’t want to get married,” he thought, “is an idiot.”
***
NEAR THE SOUTHERN END of the castle hill stood the Magnarhus, the residence of the court sorcerers. Anyone approaching the palace, which was at the northern end, would have to pass by the home of the hillichmagnars, and in theory, this made the castle hill far more safe and secure than any wall or army ever could. It was an odd building, seemingly made up of jutting balconies and verandas, having been designed with an obsessive attention to symmetry. It could probably have accommodated dozens of people, but at the moment, there were only three residents.
As Broderick approached, carrying a large basket under his arm, he whistled an Annenstruker marching tune from his youth. He made sure his hair was straight, and then he rang the front bell. In half a minute, the door was opened by a skinny, young, dark-haired girl with an enormous smile and ears that stood out slightly too far. Her name was Evika Videle, and though she was only a student hillichmagnar, she probably knew spells that could kill every other person on the castle hill.
“Why, Lord Gramiren!” she said. “How nice to see you. Do come in.”
As she showed him to one of the front parlors, he said, “I was wondering if your Lareowess was here.” He knew she was, of course, having given a boy at the stables sixpence to let him know when Lady Jorunn’s carriage arrived.
Evika brought him a glass of wine, and he lifted the corner of the cloth that covered his basket.
“Fresh Krumkaker,” he said. And when the girl’s eyes lit up, he whispered, “Go on. Take one.”
She did and then, with her mouth still full, she said she would go tell her mistress he was here. Broderick had a minute alone to savor the wine and study the old painted scrolls on the walls. Then Evika was back, saying Lady Jorunn would be down in a minute.
“She’s changing out of her riding clothes.” Then, with a guilty little smile, “Can I have another one, please?”
“Go on, take two,” said Broderick, holding the basket out to her.
The girl was Immani by birth—he remembered hearing that—so he spoke to her for a while in her native tongue about his travels in her homeland. Back in their youth, he and Lukas had served as officers in a legion outside Presidium, and he had very fond memories of the place, even if he had long since lost his naïve faith in Immani superiority. He and Lukas had certainly enjoyed the Immani women, though he had the sense not to tell Evika about that.
Lady Jorunn swept into the room a few minutes later, wearing a bright dress of embroidered silk and lace. She didn’t look too much older than her little student, Evika, but Jorunn was over three centuries old. Hillichmagnars aged very differently from normal humans.
“Ah, Baron Broderick,” she said, coming over to curtsy, as he stood to bow. “It’s such a rare treat to have you here. Evika tells me you brought Krumkaker. Did you know those are my favorite? Well, one of my favorites, anyway.”
“Are they?” Broderick said. “I had no idea. I saw the castle kitchens were making some, and of course I thought of you.”
Her ladyship had been born in Annenstruk, and even though she served the Myrcian king now, she still had close ties to the land of her birth. The land whose king, Galt V, happened to be Broderick’s cousin by marriage. He was never so crass as to mention this connection openly. But from time to time, he tried to plant subtle reminders like this in her ladyship’s mind.
The conversation switched to Annensprak, which Broderick spoke as easily as Immani. Evika wasn’t quite so fluent, though, and she clearly had trouble following exactly what was being said, which was no doubt Lady Jorunn’s intention.
“So what do you think about this letter from Janet Follerberg?” Lady Jorunn asked. “Do you think little Edwin really is the son of Legate Faustinus?” She said the notorious Immani sorcerer’s name with visible distaste. Broderick knew she shared his own feelings about the man.
“It is hard to say,” Broderick mused. “I suppose you heard that Colonel Rath has found two more ladies that confirm they saw the queen speaking to the legate privately.”
Of course, that proved nothing at all. The queen could talk to whomever she liked, and it was completely normal and entirely appropriate for her to charm foreign guests at parties. But in the light of that letter, even the most innocent liaisons looked sordid.
“It’s a dreadful shame,” said Lady Jorunn. “Now the Gemot is going to have to sort all of this out. If Edwin isn’t Edgar’s son, then he has no claim at all. And there are no other legitimate claimants.” She paused to nibble at the Krumkake in her hand, while studying Broderick out of the corner of her eye. “Someone would have to be legitimized.”
“I suppose you’re right,” said Broderick, shaking his head and slumping down in his chair, as if a heavy burden had landed on his shoulders. “The Bishop of Leornian has this legal theory about that, as you’ll recall.”
“Yes, borrowed from Annenstruker law, of course,” said Jorunn, with a proud little smile.
“The bishop and I were talking a few nights ago. He showed me all these precedents in Annenstruker law—they went right over my head, to be honest. But one in particular stuck in my mind. There was a certain Baron Stollermach. Hundreds of years ago, apparently.”
“Yes, of course. Back in the days of the Urdal Dynasty, when I was Evika’s age. I remember the case well.”
“What I find so interesting,” said Broderick, “was that the natural son in the case seemed to significantly strengthen his claim by marrying his cousin, the only child of the last legitimate heir.”
Lady Jorunn nodded slowly. “Yes, that would certainly help his claim. It would help a great deal, in fact.”
She was about to say more, but at that moment, there was the sound of heavy boots in the entrance hall, and Caedmon Aldred walked into the parlor. When he saw Broderick, his eyes narrowed, and he crossed his arms.
“It seems we have a visitor,” he said softly. “How nice.”
“Caedmon, Caedmon!” said Evika, “His lordship brought us Krumkaker!”
“I can see that,” said the senior hillichmagnar. “That was most kind of you, my lord.” But he glared at the basket as if it contained live snakes. Lady Jorunn was reaching for another of the little pastries, but seeing Lord Aldred’s expression, she withdrew her hand.
Damn and blast Aldred! He had never liked Broderick, and the feeling was more than mutual.
Standing and bowing to them each in turn, Broderick said, “I fear I am taking up too much of your time. Feel free to keep the basket, though.”
Then Lord Aldred showed him out with icy formality, and Broderick could feel the hillichmagnar’s eyes on him all the way back up to the palace.