The Queen's Gambit (14 page)

Putting down the parchment, he took a step back. Now, he thought bleakly, it is over. My life is finished, all for the sake of duty.

“You have courage, Sir Talmor,” Sir Kedrien said while Salba sprinkled sand over the signature to dry it. “More than I expected.”

Talmor kept his gaze rigidly on neither man. “Thank you, sir.”

“Well,” Salba said in a much altered voice. “Courageous, yes. It seems that we must also describe this man as honest and loyal.”

The unexpected praise made Talmor blink. “My lord?”

Chancellor Salba's impatient scowl faded entirely. His brown eyes now twinkled although he did not smile. “I have
here another report, sir. A dispatch came this morning from Lady Alda, saying that the chevard has expired from his wounds.”

Disgust filled Talmor. He said nothing.

“I received, however, a prior report from another source, one which came by express courier mere days after the attack.”

Talmor felt suddenly alert. “My lord?”

“Yes. His majesty keeps an eye on his holds, especially those at key defense points. The agent's report came much faster than yours, sir.”

Hope was spreading through Talmor, yet he dared not believe too much yet. He frowned. “My servant had no horse, my lord. My own wounds slowed us yet more.”

“Don't give excuses!” Salba barked, and Talmor fell silent. “Lord Pace did indeed die in the attack. All, in fact, is exactly as you described. His majesty's agent did not know about the scheme to steal the treasury, but that is being checked out now. 'Tis not the first time greed has driven folk past their good sense, sir, and it won't be the last.”

“And what I just signed, my lord?” Talmor asked in relief.

“That will be used at Lady Alda's trial, once she's caught. Well done, sir. You stood for your duty despite all I could think of to frighten you into recanting. Truth doesn't frighten, does it?”

“Well—”

“Now,” Sir Kedrien broke in briskly. “What do you intend to do with yourself, sir? You have delivered your report, and be assured that his majesty is grateful. What position do you intend to try for? And where?”

“There's jousting this afternoon,” Salba added, “and plenty of lords about to impress with your skills.”

Talmor bowed. “Aye, my lord. I thought of that.” He shifted his gaze to the officer. “But I would prefer a different post than—”

“Yes, of course,” Salba said heartily. “You'd risen as far as you could there at Durl, hadn't you?”

“Nearly, my lord. I hoped to become Lord Pace's protector.”

Lord Salba chuckled, and Sir Kedrien smiled.

“Well, that's as may be,” Salba said. “An ambitious man like yourself, young and in your prime, why, of course you want to look higher. And so you should. What say you, Kedrien? He's honest to the bone, loyal, and stubborn.”

“He's proven that,” Sir Kedrien said.

Listening to them, Talmor ached inside with a hope so sharp, so keen it hurt to draw breath. Could he dare reach for an officer's post in the palace guards?

Salba slapped his desk. “Well, then, the very thing for you is to get you a posting with the church knights. I'll see to it straightaway. Which order might you prefer?”

Talmor's hope crashed. Without realizing it, he frowned and took a step back. “Nay, my lord!” he said sharply.

Salba frowned back at him, his good humor fading in an instant. “What? What's this? You refuse a splendid offer like a churl?”

Hastily Talmor tried to school himself. “Forgive me, my lord. I do not wish to seem ungrateful.”

“Fine way you show it,” Salba said gruffly.

“I beg your lordship's pardon.”

“So you should. Now then, it's settled. The order of—”

“No, my lord,” Talmor said, less stridently this time, but his voice was absolutely firm. Inside, he felt tangled with a mixture of emotions—disappointment and horror being the strongest. “Thank you, but, no.”

“Why not?” Sir Kedrien asked. “The church knights are among the ablest, most valiant warriors in Mandria's army. 'Tis a fine honor indeed to join their ranks.”

“I know, sir,” Talmor said miserably, knowing he could never explain. “I—”

“What ails you, man?” Salba demanded. “Are you not of the Circle?”

“Yes, of course I am, my lord. It's just—”

“What? What? Don't dither, fellow! Damne, have you lost
your wits? Speak up! They're not all celibate and spartan, you know. Some of the orders live quite well. Name your choice!”

Talmor knew the church knights were fine warriors, brave and favored by both crown and church. They were well paid, well fed, and well housed. But he'd never considered that route of advancement for himself, knowing he could not pass the spiritual examinations. The priests would uncover his darkest secrets, and he would never be allowed to join the their fighting orders. Instead, he might be executed as a heretic or at best driven away and forbidden to take up arms for any lord in the realm.

Drawing in a deep breath, Talmor battled to keep his thoughts and emotions under control. Realizing his fists were clenched hard at his sides, he forced them to relax. “I would prefer to join the palace guards, my lord.”

Salba threw back his head and laughed, but the smiling interest on Sir Kedrien's face vanished, and his expression became blank and wooden. His eyes turned flat and cold with unspoken refusal.

“Damne, I took one look at you, sir, and knew you had ambition,” Salba said, wiping his eyes. “Well, Kedrien? What think you?”

“Impossible,” Sir Kedrien said.

Talmor stiffened, and it was his turn to look blank and cold. Inside, his pulse throbbed, and he did not have to soulgaze Sir Kedrien to recognize his bigotry.

“Now, now, Kedrien,” Lord Salba said. “Don't be difficult, man. It's not the usual thing, of course, but—”

Sir Kedrien turned on him. “My lord, it cannot be permitted. Only the finest men, the best Mandria has to offer, make up our numbers.”

“And is this young man not fine? Is he not valiant? Look at his shoulders and that strong, deep chest. You know he can wield a sword.”

“I would have to see him in the field to judge his skills. I have no doubt they are adequate,” Sir Kedrien said coldly.

“They are more than adequate,” Talmor retorted. “As I will be happy to demonstrate.”

“Gently, sir, gently,” Lord Salba said to him in reproof. “Grow not too fiery here.”

The rebuke was like a slap. Talmor made haste to bow in apology. But inside he felt a mix of anger and shame. It was always the same, he thought angrily. The same wall of prejudice blocked him again and again. Seething at the injustice of it, he threw caution aside.

“Let us meet on the practice field,” he said to the officer. “I'll show you my skills.”

Sir Kedrien's brows lifted haughtily. “Do you challenge me, sir?”

“Nay,” Talmor replied evenly. “No challenge, except the chance to demonstrate my—”

The officer turned away from him with a shrug. “You see how it is, my lord. The lack of manners and discipline, the inability to take orders.”

“Nonsense, Kedrien! Your sergeants can whip that out of him in a day. Why not accept the fellow if he wants a green cloak?”

Sir Kedrien's tanned cheeks darkened. “My lord, aye, I could put him in the bottom ranks and gladly so, on ability alone.”

“Then do so, and let the matter rest.”

“No.”

Lord Salba's jutting eyebrows pulled together, and he glared at the officer while Talmor stood rigid with humiliation.

Sir Kedrien glanced at Talmor. “Must I go on with this or will you withdraw?”

Talmor felt as though he were on fire. Before he could master himself and answer, Lord Salba cleared his throat. “Go on, sir. Go on! Speak up!”

“Very well.” Sir Kedrien frowned. “I object because he's intelligent and quick-witted. He's strong, and he's ambitious. He won't be content to stay in the bottom ranks, my lord. He'll want advancement, and that is impossible.”

“Why?” Lord Salba asked.

Talmor wanted to close his eyes and hide, but he did not
allow himself to move. He stood at attention, rigid, furious, hating privileged men of good birth like Sir Kedrien who would forever keep the door barred against anyone different.

“He's of mixed blood, my lord.”

“Aye, so he is. Not very obvious, though, is it? And surely not the first such man to creep into your ranks, for all your ideas of elitism.”

Sir Kedrien's face reddened again at Salba's blunt comments.

“Now give way, Kedrien,” Lord Salba said. “I know you like to think there's no one but sons of the finest families in your precious guards, but 'tis far from true.”

“Officers are—”

“Oh, officers.” Salba shrugged off the protest and let his brown eyes twinkle at Talmor. “He's paying you a high compliment, sir knight, for see how he believes you'll advance quickly? Very well. A guard you'll be. I'll sign your commission as soon as it's drawn up. In the meantime, report to the barracks.”

The suddenness of it, after all Kedrien's protests, made Talmor dizzy. A smile spread across his face. “Thank you, my lord. Thank you!”

Salba smiled back. “You've done his majesty good service, and you deserve the reward you seek. That is all. Any page can direct you to the barracks if you know not the way.”

“I'll give the man directions,” Sir Kedrien said.

Together they left the chamber, with Lord Salba already digging through more papers and bellowing for his clerk. In the short hallway they paused. Talmor turned warily to face Sir Kedrien, whom he could have liked had not the door of bigotry slammed so harshly between them.

Sir Kedrien scowled. “I do not apologize for questioning you. The safety of the royal family demands that every man be true to the core.”

Talmor kept his face frozen and did not make the mistake of offering additional reassurances of his loyalty. “I understand perfectly, Sir Kedrien.”

“The barracks are through that gate, down past the stableyard.”

“I can find them.”

“One last thing,” Sir Kedrien said.

Talmor swallowed a sigh. “Aye, sir?”

“Report to Sergeant Goddal in Barracks Seven. Tell him to assign you to sentry patrol.”

“Aye, sir.”

Sir Kedrien's astute eyes searched his face. “If I thought for a moment you were part Gantese, or even Netheran, I'd have you out of here.”

Talmor said nothing.

“You won't be assigned near the king,” Sir Kedrien said harshly. “Put your ambitions aside, for you'll not advance.”

“You make yourself very clear, sir.”

“I hope so. As for any aim of one day becoming his majesty's protector . . . forget that as well.”

Talmor blinked. So
that
was what Kedrien feared. He nearly reassured the man that such was not his goal, but then stopped himself. Kedrien would not believe him.
Let him worry,
Talmor thought grimly.
No doubt 'tis his own ambition, and he fears I shall use magic to block his way.

He understood Kedrien now, saw through him as clearly as though he'd soulgazed the man. There was no point in trying to win Sir Kedrien's liking, or even his admiration, for never would the officer allow himself to grant either.

Talmor met Sir Kedrien's eyes. “If that is all, I'll report now to Sergeant Goddal.”

“Barracks Seven,” Sir Kedrien said.

Talmor walked away, feeling the officer's hostile gaze boring holes in his back, and wondered if every day would bring the same degree of bigotry and petty persecution. For an instant, Talmor felt wearied by it, knowing all too well how it could drag down a man's spirit, but then he straightened his shoulders. Efficiency and outstanding performance had long been his defense against prejudice, and he would use them again. He would prove his worth here at Savroix, no matter what it took.

Ten days later, the king returned to Savroix from his hunting trip. The royal party arrived with the usual fanfare of trumpets. His majesty rode in on a magnificent stallion, his hunting dogs dashing to and fro, barking in excitement. The falconers followed, bearing the large, hooded birds on wooden perches affixed to the front of their saddles. The huntsmen, garbed in foliage colors, rode with their curved horns slung over their shoulders, and behind them came the game wagons mounded high with trophies of pelts, antlers, and meat already dressed, seasoned, and salt-packed in wooden barrels.

As the king's cavalcade filled the main courtyard, members of the court came outside to welcome his majesty. Hearty greetings were called out on all sides. The Countess Lalieux, gowned beautifully in celestial blue, her curls arranged artfully around her face, waved and blew kisses to the king from a small balcony.

Smiling, Verence waved back to her before dismounting. Coated with dust and looking tired, he walked inside leisurely, with his lord protector at his heels.

Standing in the crowd of welcoming courtiers, Pheresa curtsied as the king passed. His gaze slid past her face without interest, then shifted back to her. He smiled at her but did not speak.

She saw the melancholy in his eyes, and knew that his hunting trip had not accomplished its purpose. The king still grieved for his lost son, and no amount of activity or distance could alter the grim results of last winter.

“The king looks well,” Lady Carolie said beside her. Pretty and kindhearted, she was becoming a friend to Pheresa. Intending to marry at the end of summer, she stayed lit up with happiness. “I think his hunting has rested him, as usual.”

Pheresa frowned. “I thought his majesty looked unhappy and tired. He is not well.”

“Do you think he will cancel the summer ball?” Lady Carolie asked in dismay. “Are we to stay in mourning forever? Give up all our pleasures?”

“Hush!” Pheresa admonished her, as they followed the others back inside. “There can be no pleasure when his majesty is sad.”

That afternoon, while the king strolled in the gardens and the court wandered with him in attendance, Pheresa was joined by her father.

Surprised, she curtsied to Lindier and allowed him to escort her to a bench surrounded by tall hedge. As she sat down, he clasped his hands behind his back. A cold, aloof man, the Duc du Lindier seldom gave his daughter much attention. Graying and afflicted with a stiff leg from an old battle wound, he had grown raddled from his life of courtly dissipation.

Today he seemed nervous and uneasy, which was most unlike him.

Pheresa sat with her posture perfect as usual, her wide skirts arranged prettily, her hands clasped in her lap. She stared up at him with a level, calm gaze, curious, but suspecting that he might be bringing her fresh trouble.

Frowning, the duc cleared his throat. “This Lervan de Waite fellow, have you met him?”

“No, of course not,” she said, surprised by the abrupt question. “He has not yet been officially presented. How could I—”

“Oh, come, Pheresa, don't simper and play games. Officially at court or not, he hangs about, rides in the park, flirts with any girl he sees. Have you met him?”

“No, your grace. I have not.”

“Would you meet him?”

“Before he's seen the king? Why?”

Her father's impatience grew more pronounced. “I think you know quite well why.”

“Do you believe he has any chance to be named Verence's heir?”

“I think it very likely. He has looks, charm, wit, can sit a horse well, knows how to wear his clothes, and can handle weapons like a man.”

Pheresa laughed. “And your grace thinks this makes him kingly?”

“If a man has the look and manner, daughter, very likely he has the heart as well.”

She looked up at him, yearning for the affection he'd never shown her. “Do you value heart above intelligence?”

“Cleverness does not always win,” he replied. “I do not often advise you, Pheresa. But you will have better luck using your beauty to make a good marriage than reaching for the throne.”

Bitterness filled her, curling her hands into fists in her lap. If this was her father's notion of parental advice, she could do without it. She stared grimly out across the lawn, where the rest of the court divided itself into a game of ball and pins. Laughter carried on the air.

“So your grace opposes me as well. Do you support my mother?”

He snorted. “Never. Dianthelle's being absurd, indulging in fantasy and abandoning common sense. Take care you're absent when she gets her reprimand from Verence, for she'll turn on you in vicious temper.”

“I thank your grace for the warning.”

“Why not marry Lervan?” the duc asked her.

Surprised anew, Pheresa sent him a sharp look and found him studying her with eyes as opaque as stone. “Is he looking for a wife?”

“What man of good fortune and prospects is not? Consider it, daughter. Fortune favors him, and perhaps through him you may yet sit a throne.”

“But he isn't—”

“Forgive me. I am being summoned,” the duc said, and walked away from her without farewell.

She sat there a moment, frowning as she mulled over this strange little conversation. Her father was not known as an intriguer. He seldom plotted, unlike his wife. What, then, was he up to? Pheresa supposed everything he'd just said could be taken at face value. Perhaps he simply thought this Lervan had good prospects, as he'd said. Or perhaps Lord Meaclan's support was already stirring the deep waters of court.

“My lady! Come and play! We need you on our team.” Laughing, Lady Carolie and her two sisters came skipping up, ribbons fluttering and lace awry. They grasped Pheresa by the hands and led her over to the lawn. Everyone applauded when she arrived, and there was no more time to think of schemes and convoluted plots.

A shower of rain ended the fun shortly thereafter, and the court scattered indoors to find other amusements. The king retired to his private apartments, and little murmurs of consternation ran through the court.

Lord Meaclan approached Pheresa casually after dinner. His wife was at his side. A plump lady with a good-natured smile, she curtsied to Pheresa, and said, “It is a tremendous honor to meet you at last. I have heard much of your beauty, and I did pray fervently last winter for your safe return.”

“How kind of you,” Pheresa replied with a reserved smile. She expected the woman next to question her about the Chalice or exotic details of Nether, but the lady fell quiet and let her husband take over the conversation instead.

“Have you heard the latest news?” he murmured, his eyes darting past her to observe the rest of the room.

She wondered who was staring at them, but her back was
to the company. Lips could be read from a distance, and Pheresa had learned to position herself to thwart such efforts. Lord Meaclan seemed equally adept. Although his face could be observed, he'd learned a trick of speaking from the corner of his mouth, and his lips hardly moved.

“I fear 'tis not good news,” he added.

“What has happened?” Pheresa asked.

“You heard something, I am sure, of the sea raids on one of the northwest holds last month?”

She nodded, although she had no more information than that.

“A messenger came this afternoon with dispatches from the eastern border.”

She frowned. “Trouble with Klad?”

“I'm afraid so.”

“War?”

He smiled. “Nothing that grievous yet, my lady. Our information is that three of the Kladite chieftains have united forces to raid Mandrian pastures. Hard on the messenger's heels came representatives from the wool guild, with merchants demanding armed protection for the eastern trade route.”

“The king will, of course, provide it.”

“He has not seen them, nor has he heard their petition.”

Her frown deepened. “Tomorrow—”

“Who can dictate when his majesty will grant an audience?” Lord Meaclan asked in exasperation.

“Surely the raids require swift action. Retaliation—”

He raised his hand in warning, and she stopped just as a baron joined them with an unctuous bow. Meaclan returned the man's greeting and, with a grave nod to Pheresa, moved away, drawing the baron with him. Pheresa realized she'd been given information ahead of the rest of the court. The privilege was rare, but it meant the minister of finance was keeping his end of their bargain by helping her all he could. Information, she knew, was sometimes as effective as a sword, perhaps more so. The question was, what could she do with it?

During the next few days, she watched and listened, but apparently the king took no action against Klad. Although he was no warmonger, he'd always been a vigilant ruler, watchful of his borders, protective of the trade routes that kept Mandria rich. Now, he did not seem to care. Rarely did he hold audiences. Often he shut himself away in private, seeing no one. Rumors spread through the court that his majesty was ill. His grieving seemed unnaturally prolonged, and the more foolish courtiers began to question Pheresa about what had really occurred in Nether. Had the king been harmed by evil spells? Was he trying to persuade the priests to resurrect Prince Gavril by some blasphemous means? Had his majesty turned to dark paths in search of unholy comfort? Why did he no longer care about his subjects? Was he going to grieve forever? Was he dying?

Impatient of such nonsense, Pheresa shook off their speculations and tried to dampen the worst rumors whenever she could. “Would you have his majesty forget the prince so quickly?” she said in mild rebuke to the Duchesse of Clune, a fat, particularly stupid woman. “Gavril is but two months in his grave, and the king loved him deeply. Give him time.”

“But his majesty turns away even from Lalieux—”

“The king has changed mistresses before,” Pheresa said curtly.

“You mean—”

“I mean nothing,” she said, aware that a new rumor would commence at once. She did not want to cause trouble for the countess, but Lalieux was able to take care of herself, and at least speculation of this kind was better fodder for weak minds than political gossip that might do real harm.

But although she pretended all was well, she knew it was not. Worried about her uncle, she watched him sit listlessly at an afternoon presentation in which those newly arrived at court were paraded forth and introduced formally to the king. Lervan de Waite was among the presentees. Fashionably dressed and sporting a vivid jadecock feather in his cap, he bowed to the king, smiled without any evidence of nervousness, and offered a joke that made Verence chuckle. That
social triumph made Lervan immediately popular with the court, and he was soon surrounded by new friends and acquaintances, most of them ladies.

Pretending indifference, Pheresa looked him over. He was passably good-looking, although far less handsome than either Faldain or Gavril. His wit and charm seemed bountiful, judging by the way everyone around him laughed. He talked a bit too loud for her taste, and acted a bit too bold in his look and manner. She noticed how he eyed the ladies and how deeply he emptied his wine cup. Very thick and strong through the chest and shoulders, he was the type of man who would grow fat in middle years. Yet his cheerfulness was a welcome contrast to the king's gloom. When Verence retired early for the evening, the atmosphere lightened noticeably.

The Duc du Lindier introduced Lervan to Pheresa. Well aware that everyone was watching, including Cardinal Theloi like a thin little spider in one corner of the room, Pheresa curtsied to the young man and gave him her rather reserved smile when he bowed over her hand.

I do not like him,
she thought.

Lervan straightened, his eyes meeting hers. She saw them widen a little, saw the quick flare of his nostrils. His smile showed genuine pleasure. “We meet at last, cousin.”

She stiffened at the term and would have withdrawn her hand from his warm clasp had he not tightened his fingers. His gaze ranged over her in bold appreciation and lingered a moment at her bodice before returning to her face.