Traitor's Masque (7 page)

Dressed in some stable-boy’s cast-offs, riding a magnificent hunter as though born in the saddle, she had been one moment as imperious as a duchess, and the next embarrassed by a simple courtesy. She spoke with the educated accents of a young woman of rank, though she seemed to possess none of their irritating conversational habits. Her demeanor had been neither coy nor cold, but rather disconcertingly straightforward, favoring honesty over flattery and argument over flirtation. And yet she had somehow managed to hide more than she revealed.

As he drew closer to town, Ramsey was forced to devote more of his attention to navigating the bewildering crowd of riders and wheeled vehicles. It was mid-afternoon, and the traffic would be at its peak. Parsifal, fortunately, was unimpressed by crowds or noise, and cared nothing for assessing, sidelong glances. Of which Ramsey could expect a fair number. The people in and around Evenleigh knew him by sight, and would be watching his progress through town with avid curiosity.

Ramsey hated being stared at. Hated the scrutiny that came with his position. Which, he could admit, probably accounted for much of his fascination with the woman he had met that morning. He was not accustomed to conversing with women unburdened by the shared knowledge of his identity. Her apparent ignorance of his rank had presented a rare opportunity to converse freely, without wondering what the other person might want from him. The experience had been immensely refreshing.

But the freedom he felt had involved more than the simple novelty of anonymity. Ramsey could not yet account for the bizarre conviction that he knew this girl. Not that he had met her before, but that they understood one another. For perhaps the first time in his life, he had talked to a female his own age and their conversation had been something more than a painful search for a topic that suited both participants.

Since leaving her, Ramsey had failed miserably in his efforts to achieve the peace of mind he had sought when setting out that morning. Instead, his stubborn mind insisted upon returning to a girl who tried unsuccessfully to hide beauty behind shapeless clothes. To disguise deep vulnerability with a fiery temper. She had met his eyes, amber to gray, and left him shaken. She had seen him, truly seen him, and the result could only be painful for both of them.

Ramsey knew she could be nothing to him. He was pragmatic enough to admit that she was probably an illegitimate child, or perhaps the daughter of an indigent nobleman. An unnamed woman wearing a man’s clothes and riding unescorted through the Kingswood was hardly an acceptable friend for a prince who could not afford to make mistakes.

Prince Rowan, despite his insouciance towards the succession, still had his supporters. They were few but vocal in repudiation of their favorite's disinheritance, and would exploit any weakness on Ramsey's part without a moment's hesitation. This unknown girl's acquaintance was precisely the sort of transgression they would take great delight in pointing out. If their objections could even be heard amidst the din of his own father's explosive objections.

And anyway, the girl was gone, and had given him no encouragement to pursue the acquaintance. He would never see her again, and would no doubt forget her quickly enough as he became ever more absorbed in the pressing details of economic unrest, his brother’s indiscretions and his father’s impatient temper.

Ramsey couldn’t afford distractions. Especially not attractive female distractions with exquisite taste in horses.

Reduced to rolling his eyes at his own idiocy, Ramsey pressed his mare forward and tried to think about something else. Anything else.

Too soon, Parsifal’s hooves echoed on cobblestone, as they made their way slowly through the crowded streets of the city. Too soon Ramsey spotted the stocky, gray-haired and green-coated guardsman waiting at the next corner for him to draw even.

Brawley. Looking harried and resigned.

“Your Highness, you promised.” The horses fell in beside each other without a fuss.

“No, Brawley, I didn’t,” Ramsey answered wearily. “I said I’d think about it, and I did.”

“This is thinking about it?” Brawley had been the captain of the princes' guard since Ramsey was five, and the years had worn their exchanges to a blunt familiarity Ramsey treasured. Most of the time.

“This is me
not
running mad, Brawley. The rest of the world can either deal with it or stop pretending I’m supposed to be a saint.”

“I never asked you to give up riding, Your Highness.” Brawley’s persistence was one of the man’s most useful characteristics. When it wasn’t being used against his prince. “Only that you tell me when you go and take a guard.”

“Which would necessarily defeat the purpose of being
alone
,” replied Ramsey, “and therefore be a waste of time for all of us. Stop worrying. I only ride in the Kingswood and you did train me to take care of myself.”

Brawley eyed his charge with evident disgust. “I tried,” he snorted. “About the only thing I can say for you is that you paid more attention than your brother.”

Ramsey sensed defeat in this admission and decided to exploit it, hoping to cajole his guard captain into a better mood. The last thing he needed was another lecture. “You were an impeccable teacher,” he insisted, “and you know I was a better than average student.” He offered Brawley a disarming grin. “And of course there’s Parsifal to consider. If you can name me one horse that can outrun her I’ll repent.”

Brawley’s lips twisted sourly. “No, Your Highness, you would go out and buy the other horse and keep disappearing.”

Ramsey shrugged, a tacit admission of agreement, containing not a shred of repentance. He regretted disappointing and inconveniencing his keeper, but the two of them had had this discussion many times in the past few months. Especially since the economic troubles had fueled further discontent over the issue of the succession.

Prince Rowan was not only the elder, but had always been more popular amongst the younger, more ambitious members of the peerage. Of late their stridently vocal minority had grown, both in size and volume. They now numbered among their ranks a startling percentage of the merchant nobility, who claimed to fear the precedent of passing over a legitimate and healthy heir. Considering that none of them had shown much inclination to care ten years ago when King Hollin first announced his decision, their current complaints seemed as spurious as they were suspicious.

Despite the lack of any discernible uniting force amongst the dissenters, the increasingly volatile rhetoric had convinced the king and his advisors that there was some danger to the heir’s well-being, and Brawley took this suspicion very seriously. Ramsey remained unconcerned. Andar was a relatively peaceful kingdom, and wars had been rare throughout its history. He could not really imagine anyone committing violence against his person for the sake of his unconscionable brother. Especially since Rowan had never indicated publicly that he was anything less than pleased with the present situation.

Which made the outcry for his reinstatement all the more absurd. While Ramsey would be the first to agree that his own abilities were not an ideal match for his position, he also knew his brother too well to consider abdicating. Ramsey might not have wanted to be king, but neither could he stomach the idea of his kingdom’s fate resting in the hands of a charming, opportunistic wastrel.

“Anything I should know before we get back?” Ramsey asked his captain, not really wanting the answer, but knowing his daylong absence had no doubt provoked some degree of chaos.

Brawley didn’t answer for a few moments, never a good sign. “The guilds are restless,” he finally reported. “I know that’s not news, but I think His Majesty needs to take it more seriously. This morning’s collection of petitions sounded more like demands.”

Ramsey groaned in exasperation. “They always sound like demands. I think they’re required to include a threat of some kind, even if it’s worded politely. What are they fussing about this time?”

Brawley just looked thoughtful. “Well, the Vintners Guild is politely requesting that if you are to be the heir, you must give more serious consideration to securing the succession.”

Ramsey muttered a few half-hearted curses under his breath. Someone or other had been trying to force him into marriage since he had come of age at eighteen. He had managed to put it off for seven years, and resented the effort to bully him into it now. That he agreed it was probably time was no consolation. “That’s nothing new, Brawley. If you remember, I had my first betrothal offer when I was five. What else?”

“A coalition, of sorts,” Brawley answered, looking and sounding perplexed. “I’d have said the guilds would never agree on anything but it appears I’d have been wrong. As you know, there’s been more agreement than usual on several issues that have come up the last few months, and now…”

Ramsey waited. Given time, Brawley could usually see to the heart of a matter, oftentimes better than the councilors who were paid to do just that.

“Four guilds have banded together, put their names to a single petition.”

Ramsey’s eyes narrowed in thought. “I’m guessing they want trade concessions?”

Brawley nodded in brusque approval. “Yes and no,” he answered, obviously pleased that his prince had guessed correctly. “It’s actually worse. Probably the most direct challenge your father has ever faced.”

“Challenging Father?” Ramsey whistled in disbelief, or possibly admiration. He’d not thought the guild representatives possessed so much temerity. “Don’t they know he’s been in a mood for the past month? Or that he and Rowan are clashing worse than usual right now?”

“Aye, they do,” Brawley growled darkly, “and it’s plain they don’t care. They’ve pulled together, put on a convincing show of solidarity, telling His Majesty, not asking, that they want him to relinquish responsibility for the laws governing imports and exports.”

Ramsey was prince enough to prevent his jaw from dropping, but only just. “They want… have they gone mad?”

Brawley shook his head grimly. “My sources suggest not. They actually seem to have won the support of better than half the guilds with an interest in foreign trade, though most of them are waiting to see how the king responds before they go public.”

“They want complete control over trade law!” Ramsey’s brows lowered ominously. “They can’t possibly think Father would be fool enough to grant it. There’s something else they’re after.” He considered for a moment. “This is about Caelan, isn’t it?” Brawley was silent. “Caelan…” Ramsey continued, his expression thoughtful. “They’re going to ask for a reversal on the ban, aren’t they?” Brawley still said nothing, but he didn’t have to. Ramsey could read the grim expression on his captain’s face. “Half-wits,” Ramsey muttered, making little effort to quash his annoyance.

Caelan was their neighbor to the east, a large, powerful country that had all but ignored them for years. Andar had always been too small, too poor, and too surrounded by mountains. There had never been much point in conquest, even if one of their neighbors had been inclined to try. But a few years before Ramsey was born, all of that had begun to change.

Silver was discovered near the south Andari coast. Vast deposits of it. A new class of merchant nobility had emerged, and with it a sense of economic discontent. While the wealth had vastly improved the people’s standard of living, it had also given rise to several unpleasant consequences.

The luxuries market, until that point fairly small, had expanded enormously, almost overnight. Fine wines, exotic furs, elaborate jewelry, and fabulous delicacies had become the greatest concerns amongst the wealthier classes, and their burgeoning appetites had engendered a growing clamor for access to an ever wider range of commodities. The answer, of course, was trade. Andar had quickly established diplomatic relations with several nations eager to benefit from their neighbor’s new prosperity. But not with Caelan, despite the polite overtures of numerous Caelani ambassadors. King Hollin had flatly refused to even discuss the possibility.

The king did not object to trade, or to prosperity, but he did object to slavery, and Caelan had long been known as a place where you could buy or sell anything, including men, women and children. King Hollin remained adamant in his insistence that Andar not gain from such a disgusting practice, either directly or indirectly. Unfortunately, all that most of the court could see was the king’s obstinate refusal to permit them access to the most convenient source of fantastic and exotic goods from all corners of the known world. He had even closed the borders and put guards on the passes that led through the eastern mountains. This unyielding stance had proven to be a matter for increasing contention and concern. The merchant guilds were showing a swiftly diminishing degree of deference in their demands to have the ban reversed. And there were other, clearer heads amongst the nobility who feared that Andar's refusal to appease their larger, hungrier neighbor might lead to far more dangerous consequences than the petty wrath of a few blustering guild leaders.

Had Andar not been bordered on three sides by mountains and on the fourth by an easily defensible ocean harbor, Ramsey might have shared their worries. As it was, Andar was still too small, too isolated, and possessed of only the one commodity. He could not imagine anyone risking war for so little gain.