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The storm was moving off at last, giving way to the first weak red light of dawn. Down below in the Palm Court, servants were cleaning up the detritus of the party, gently nudging those courtiers who had fallen asleep on benches and tables. Broderick swung his feet up onto the railing of his apartment’s inner balcony, and his son did the same. They lit their pipes and sat back, sending wide smoke rings drifting up to the dome.
“A good party, I think,” said Broderick. “Did you get to spend much time with Elwyn?”
His son shifted in his chair. “Not really, Father. But I’m sure she had lots of important things to do.”
“I see.” Broderick rubbed his right temple and leaned forward, staring through a gap in the railing, down at the inner balconies of the royal apartments. Any moment now, they’d hear the screams. Any moment now, there would be shouts for surgeons, for physicians, for the court sorcerers. But it would be no use. Any moment now, and the problem of the succession would be solved for good.
Young Broderick puffed at his pipe thoughtfully. “Caedmon Aldred called her a word once, and I think it really fits her.”
“I can think of a great many words that describe Elwyn Sigor,” said Broderick. “Which one did Lord Aldred use?”
“’Mercurial.’ Yes, that was it. ‘Mercurial.’ She seems so pleasant one minute, and then the next minute, she’s....”
“A complete bitch,” said Broderick. He thought about the girl, and about how, very soon, she would discover her little brother was dead. So he patted his son on the shoulder. “My boy, you have to realize women are like that. They’re moody and changeable. They have fanciful notions, and the best thing you can do is ignore it and go on with your day.”
He didn’t believe that. Muriel didn’t have “fanciful notions.” Neither did Duchess Flora, or his mother, or Queen Merewyn, or any other woman he had ever respected or feared. But he was thinking of what might happen if Elwyn—beautiful, hot-tempered young Elwyn—ever said to his son, “I think your father killed my brother.” Best to establish early on that the girl was unreliable.
Squire Stanley, yawning broadly, stepped out onto the balcony. “My lord, pardon me, but Sir William Aitken is here to see you.”
“Keep calm,” Broderick thought. “Don’t reveal you were expecting it. Not even to your son. He has to remain unsullied by this.” Half a century from now, when he was an old man, and people asked him, “Did your father kill Edwin?” he needed to be able to say, “No,” with perfect sincerity.
Broderick stood and said to his son, “Pardon me. Probably some tedious business with the troops down in the city. Finish your smoke and do feel free to have some of that Rodvin over there.”
He took William into the outer parlor and locked the door. “Tell me you have good news,” he said. But the expression on the man’s face didn’t look promising. “Oh, Earstien. What happened?”
“My lord, I have failed. The...person you wished eliminated is still alive.”
Of course. Nothing could ever be that simple. Broderick puffed on his pipe, looking out the window, and said, “Very well. You can try again later, I suppose.”
“My lord, that may not be wise. He will be better protected in the future. And...,” William paused, as if searching for a thought he had misplaced somewhere. “And my lord, I believe I may have been recognized.”
The words hit Broderick like a sudden dip in an icy stream. Everyone in the castle—everyone in Myrcia—knew who William Aitken worked for. It was as bad as if Broderick himself had been spotted standing over the boy with a knife.
He rounded on William. “How is that possible? Didn’t you wear a mask?” That had literally been the entire point of Muriel’s Vinopoline Masquerade party—to ensure that William didn’t look suspicious walking around with his very distinctive features covered.
“I had a mask, sir. But I still believe I was recognized.”
There was one obvious solution. “Who saw you? We have to ensure that person...never talks.”
“My lord, the person who recognized me was.....” Again that pregnant pause. William had never been so awkward before. Then again, he’d never failed so badly before. A heavy sigh. “My lord, the person who saw me was Princess Elwyn.”
“Ah. I see.” Broderick bit down on the stem of his pipe so hard it broke, and he cast the thing into the hearth. “Damn and blast it all,” he muttered.
Of course it had to be Elwyn—the one person in this castle he couldn’t kill. Well, he supposed he could, but then who would his son marry?
This was already a serious threat, and if Elwyn really had recognized William, it could get much worse. If word got out that Broderick had tried to kill Edwin, he would become toxic. He would be shunned by all right-thinking people in the kingdom, and it wouldn’t matter if his son married Elwyn, or that his troops had acclaimed him king, because the Gemot would vote against him overwhelmingly. Rohesia would be put back in power, and her first act as regent would be to have him executed in the most painful possible way.
He studied William, standing there with his head bowed and arms behind his back, like a boy who’d been caught stealing apples. Broderick wondered if he could draw his dagger and put it through William’s heart before the man could defend himself. Probably so. That would certainly solve the problem. He could claim William had acted without orders. He might even say William had attacked him—that he had been working for some third party.
A third party. Now there was an idea. If no one but Elwyn knew who the attacker had been, then they still might be able to salvage the situation. Elwyn could be controlled. Elwyn could be kept silent, because now she knew, more than ever, the danger she and her family were in. Broderick just needed a good story to explain what had happened, and then Elwyn would have to go along with it.
And there was no need to kill William, at least not today. Good henchmen were hard to find. “Go get some sleep,” Broderick told him. “I’ll figure out how to deal with this.”
Once William had left, Broderick headed through the seldom-used door into his wife’s apartment. He found Muriel still awake, playing cards with Pedr Byrne on a table littered with empty wine bottles. Pedr wore only a long undershirt, and Muriel had on a dressing gown that hung open to reveal her legs all the way to mid-thigh.
“I would prefer that you knock when you come to visit,” said Muriel.
“My apologies.” Broderick pointed at Pedr. “Could you find somewhere else to spend your morning for once?”
Red-faced and stammering, Pedr gathered his clothes and shuffled out to the hall.
Muriel gave her husband a reproachful look. “Really, dear, there’s no need to be rude to the poor boy.”
He thought about that for a second and saw she was right, so he ran out into the hallway. “Listen, Pedr, why don’t you wait over here?” He pointed to one of Muriel’s other parlors. “I’ll only be a minute.”
Then he went back and explained to Muriel what had happened with William, Elwyn, and the boy king. She greeted the news with a shrug and a raised eyebrow. “I would have thought William would be more careful than that. Did you have some idea of what to do now?”
“As it happens, yes. Do you remember that old dagger of mine I gave you for hunting?”
It seemed to take her some effort to remember the thing. “Oh, that. Yes, it’s in the back of that drawer there. Why do you want it?”
He tried a few drawers before he found the right one. Not that his wife’s wardrobes were disorganized. Quite the contrary, in fact. Everything was boxed up and categorized and squared away according to some esoteric cataloging system that existed only in Muriel’s mind. The result was that for anyone who wasn’t Muriel, it was almost impossible to find anything.
At last he did, though, and he brought the old knife over to her, pointing to the maker’s mark on the blade. “That’s from Presidium. Anyone who knows weapons will recognize it.”
A tiny smile curled the corner of her mouth. “So, the Immani did it, then?”
He answered with a little smile of his own. “Exactly.” Amazing how quickly she always understood him. “Now let me go get Pedr.”
Once the boy returned—fully dressed now—Broderick told him about the attempt on Edwin’s life, and showed him “the weapon the assassin left behind.”
“Oh, this is so awful,” said Muriel, right on cue. “To think the Immani would turn on us. Oh, that poor little boy.”
Pedr was indignant. As Broderick had predicted, he instantly recognized the knife as Immani-made. “Is there anything I can do, sir?” he asked, puffing out his broad chest.
“Perhaps later,” said Broderick, barely able to conceal his glee. “Help me spread the word about what happened. Start with your mother, if you could.”
***
WHAT AN ODD SITUATION to be in. Hours earlier, William Aitken had been trying to kill her. But now she was trying to get Moira’s help to protect the man’s family. If it worked out, it was a fair trade. William seemed like the sort of man who would keep a bargain—Lily had that sense about him.
Writing out the message took a good deal longer than she anticipated, though, because now that she was safe at the inn, her mind kept slipping back to that earlier part of the evening, where she had been with Elwyn. Everything had been so beautiful and perfect, right until it had started going horribly wrong. In all her life, Lily would never have guessed that she would have found herself in a princess’s bed. It seemed like some sort of strange Thessalian fairy tale.
It had been a mistake, no doubt, and she would have to be more careful. Elwyn was starting to have deeper feelings for her. And if Lily was being honest, Elwyn wasn’t the only one in danger of that. She leaned back in her chair at the inn, closing her eyes and remembering the feel of Elwyn’s fingers on her.
Then she sat forward, smacking her face with her hands. “No, I can’t let myself go like this,” she thought.
She forced herself to finish the letter to Moira, and then, after checking that Pellus was still asleep, she got dressed and headed over to the diplomatic legate’s residence.
The guard in the front hall—a strapping legionnaire from Brigantia—was a friendly fellow and asked a few questions about the party. But then the legate’s secretary came out and was very rude. The legate, he said, was still recovering from the effects of “Myrcian hospitality” and was not to be disturbed.
“He did leave instructions for me regarding you, Miss Serrana,” the secretary sniffed. “He said I’m not to accept any more letters from you unless Senator Pellus comes here and makes the request personally.”
There was no way Pellus would ever do that. The secretary went away, and Lily threw the message into the brazier that stood by the guard’s little cubicle.
“Letter to a friend?” the big guard asked. He looked back at the secretary’s office. “Don’t let it bother you. That fellow is a prick to everyone.”
“I get that feeling,” said Lily, watching the parchment crumple to ash.
“Listen, I hate to bother you,” the man went on, “but I don’t suppose you’re free for lunch today, are you?”
Oh, gods. He was asking her out. It certainly wasn’t the first time she’d been approached, and it surely wouldn’t be the last. But at this moment, it was hardly welcome, even if he was rather good-looking. At this moment, when she really needed to figure out how to find someone to protect the Aitken family....
She turned and looked at the man, seeing him now in an entirely new and promising light. “Listen, if I go to lunch with you, do you think you could do me a favor? It’s nothing terribly difficult. Just a little something to do when you’re not on duty.”
So the Aitkens gained a part-time guard, and all it cost Lily was half an hour, a little wine to wash her mouth out afterward, and a few tiny shreds of her dignity. It was a bit of a letdown after a moonlit rendezvous with a captive princess, but it was a lot closer to what she was used to.