The Shadow Within (43 page)
He advanced slowly, mindful of the dignity of his position, greeting first Gillard, then Simon, then the high lords after them. He had been well coached, though Simon sensed he was nervous for perhaps the first time since his return. Even so he conducted this initial portion of the procession flawlessly, and they started off, down the stair, across the King’s Court, and along the Hall of Mirrors to the Grand Ballroom, Simon following on his right, Gillard on his left.
The ballroom’s four crystal chandeliers filled the vast chamber with light. Oak-leaf garlands draped the walls, entwined with masses of red, gold, and russet autumn flowers. More flowers decked the tens of buffet tables lining the perimeter of the vast marble floor, accented by the traditional wheat sprays, crimson-spiked fire gourds, and brown shepherd’s bowl. Among these sat countless platters of meat cakes, sandwiches, pasties, plum coudles, grapes, fruits cut into all manner of shapes, and crimped and curled candies and chocolates.
They were met at the edge of the dance floor by the ladies chosen to dance the various waltzes with the king, Lady Madeleine among them, looking her plain and pained self—these affairs were not to her liking—a sad contrast to Lady Leona, who, having drawn the honor of being Abramm’s first partner, stepped forward into a graceful curtsey. As always the sight of her caught at Simon’s heart for the way she resembled her mother, especially in that russet gown, its décolletage filled with a necklet of diamonds and sapphires, her flaxen curls piled elegantly atop her head. She looked up at Abramm with open adoration as he took her hand and complimented her beauty, while those in their periphery smiled and traded speculative glances. The couple started toward the dance floor, and from the far corner, the orchestra burst into an introductory fanfare. Traditionally the king and queen—or king and his lady—danced the first round of this opening piece, to be joined by the other attendees on the second. The guests hurried to find their places around the silver-and-white marble floor.
Anticipation intensified. At Simon’s side, Lady Gwynne caught her breath. Her old friend Lady Jenevieve rested a hand on her arm and watched with keen attention. Even Simon felt a fascination for what would happen next, interest piqued by the rampant rumors of Abramm’s bungling efforts at practice this morning. But those who expected the former Guardian-slave to be tentative and uncertain were disappointed. Abramm led Leona to the center of the marble ring with a confidence that belied his religious past, and at precisely the right moment he moved into action, sweeping her dramatically around the floor, as graceful and sure of himself as if he had had years of practice.
At Simon’s side, Lady Gwynne sighed. “Goodness. He’s exquisite. Who would have believed it?”
“He ought to be,” Gillard said acidly. “He spent weeks practicing.”
Abramm and Leona completed their portion of the dance and returned to floor center, finishing with a flourish perfectly timed to the music’s end. The chamber filled with the rising sound of the onlookers’ murmurs of approval, then the rustle of hundreds of satin skirts and trousers as the other dancers joined the king to complete the second half of the dance. After that, judging his obligations to Gwynne fulfilled, Simon left her and Jenevieve deep in their analysis of the king’s performance, his dress, his manner, the way he had received Leona—
“I don’t believe she has a chance of winning his
heart, Jen!”
—and a host of other minutia Simon could not imagine even thinking about, much less dissecting and debating in endless conversation. Nor was Gwynne’s and Jenevieve’s the only such conversation here tonight. All around him the ladies eyed their new king and compared notes on their observations. It was times like these Simon was truly thankful he’d never been in line for the crown, for he knew he would never be able to bear such scrutiny.
He wandered around for a while, visited with a few friends, and finally found himself on the mezzanine overlooking the dance floor. The two side loges had been closed and darkened, leaving only the front balcony open. For not the first time he thought there were too few royal guard in attendance tonight—although Abramm had already gained a reputation for being difficult when it came to matters of his safety. Not only did he tend to take blatant risks—the trip to Graymeer’s, for example—but he was also given to riding alone and rowing alone, and he absolutely refused to go about surrounded by a cadre of guards.
But he always wore that sword. And the dagger, too, Simon had noted the other day. Sheathed on the right where his left hand could draw it, instead of at his back, where most right-handers kept theirs. If they kept one at all. For where the sword was yet a piece of fashion, the dagger was not.
He found himself thinking of that song of Lady Madeleine’s again, toying with the possibilities, recalling her question the day of the picnic as to why Abramm had gone from scribe to galley slave. She was right: it was an unlikely transition. Unless the man who owned him had suddenly become aware that he had in his possession no mere scribe but the crown prince of Kiriath. A slave who, even if he died in his first game, would still bring in much money, and who, if he didn’t, would be very profitable indeed. There was the matter of the red dragon that had been burned into Abramm’s arm, as well, a device Madeleine claimed was the brand of the same prominent gamer as owned the White Pretender of her song. . . .
Reason overtook him then, and laughing at himself for entertaining such ridiculous thoughts, he put them aside, aware once again of the anxiety that weighed increasingly on his spirit. It was as if something terrible was going to happen tonight, though what it might be, he did not know.
Below, the dancers swirled in intricate, ever-changing patterns, Gillard shining among them in his golden doublet. Tall and regal, he glittered in and out of the line of ladies that passed through his arms and into those of the next man in line. On the surface he seemed relaxed, smiling, sometimes even laughing as he moved through the repeating cycles of the dance. But Simon perceived the tension in him; he looked like a man about to do battle, and his gaze strayed repeatedly across the circle to the dancers moving opposite him, where Abramm, no less striking, also met, danced with, and passed on the cycling progression of ladies.
Well, of course it must be hard for Gillard to be here, to go through the motions as if nothing were amiss, when the bitterness of being cast out of the starring role for this evening was surely eating at him. Especially so since Abramm had not been the bungling fool his detractors had hoped, but was, in fact, carrying it all off quite well. Too well, perhaps. For in one way, Gillard was right: all the admiration and acclaim that had but a month ago gone to him was now being directed toward Abramm. Not because Abramm was taking it; because he was
earning
it. That was what Gillard didn’t see. Maybe couldn’t see.
And maybe that was what was making Simon so uneasy. In their talk last week, he had not brought up the question of Gillard’s involvement in the continued attempts on Abramm’s life. Perhaps because he’d wanted to believe Gillard had kept true to his promise to desist. Now, as with every other conclusion he’d come to that day, he wasn’t sure, and wondered if he really knew his nephew anymore.
But surely he wouldn’t try to kill his own
brother
.
Simon blinked and gripped the balustrade before him, startled by his own thought, and then revolted by it.
No, he wouldn’t do that. Much as he hates
Abramm, much as he hates being supplanted, he wouldn’t do that
.
But what if he does? Then what will you do?
A thump and a muffled clatter drew his eye to the loge on his left where the guard so recently standing at the rail had momentarily left his post. Given the nature of Simon’s thoughts, it was not surprising he would see the absence as ominous, but then the curtain at the back swayed and here was the man back again, straightening his uniform jacket and taking up his post, his gaze trained alertly at the dancers below. Or, more precisely, on the king he was sworn to guard, who’d just settled on his throne at the far side of the dance floor to receive the respects of his courtiers, the line of them snaking around the side of the dance floor. Probably just a simple shift change.
Then again, it would be easy to steal a uniform and come up here, kill the real guard and take his place. Or even buy off one of the men already so employed. With loyalties as confused as they were these days, it might not take much to persuade a man he was serving the true king and not the pretender.
Below, Abramm continued to chat with his nobles, Captain Channon standing guard to his right, Will Ames to his left. Across the floor from him, Gillard stood with Lady Amelia on his arm again, laughing with Matheson and Moorcock. Ives, it seemed, was not in attendance tonight, though perhaps Simon simply hadn’t spotted him yet. As Gillard’s biggest supporter, it would be unlike him to miss the biggest social event of the year. Unless, of course, he was sick.
Simon looked at the guard again and a chill of foreboding swept over him. For a moment he stood there, thinking he really needed to do something. Then, realizing he was being paranoid, he laughed it off and went to find the food.
As the smiling, smarmy Lord Denniston bowed his exit from Abramm’s presence and the next peer approached to take his place, the king glanced up at the darkened loge again. The missing guard had returned to his station seemingly without incident. Abramm ran his eye across the balcony to the opposite loge and the other guard, noting the straight-backed, gray-haired figure leaning against the balustrade between the two loges. Simon was looking toward the wandering guard himself, and Abramm wondered again if he knew about the plot. Laramor said not, but Simon had recently mended the breach in his relationship with Gillard. Was it coincidence that it had happened shortly before this attack of Gillard’s was to take place?
It didn’t help that Abramm himself still didn’t know where he stood with his uncle. While Simon had done everything Abramm asked with full effort and efficiency and perfect decorum, he had maintained his cool professionalism. Possibly Abramm’s own directness regarding the man’s loyalties had something to do with that. He knew he’d not improved relations between them when he’d forced his uncle to betray Gillard’s involvment in the assassination attempt in the royal preserve. Nor did he doubt that part of the reason Simon had avoided Gillard these last two weeks was so he wouldn’t have anything to report should Abramm ask him for such information again.
Then again, most likely the guard really was just a guard, not the assassin in disguise Abramm’s jumpiness was making him. Channon had kept the possibility of an attack close to his chest, and by Abramm’s order had assigned only a minimum of obvious guards for the affair—although many of the usual servants were enjoying some unexpected time off this night, replaced by men whose swords were concealed in back-mounted scabbards under their tabards.
Abramm received a few more of the peers, including several young ladies put forth by their fathers and brothers for his consideration, and when he looked up again, Simon was gone. Then the orchestra signaled it was time for the paquay, and couples formed up, all of them selected by rank or lot for this honor. This was a dance Abramm had learned before he’d taken his First Vows in the Mataio, and after a year of almost daily practice, it was one he felt completely confident with. Instead of maneuvering around each other with a complicated series of steps and passes, this one had only a small number of steps, turning each couple in unison as they all revolved around the floor in a great circuit. Once they had completed two circuits, the couples split, each finding a new partner as in the rondella and dayard.
Abramm’s first partner was the shy young daughter of the Count of Runningvale. Probably not more than fourteen, she was overwhelmed at finding herself in the arms of her king and could hardly speak, even when asked a direct question. After the first few turns, he gave up and they completed the round in silence.
And then, here came his next partner, twirled off the hands of the first man into his own. He recognized her with a mixture of surprise, relief, and trepidation, for it was Lady Madeleine.
They had barely come together, however, when he realized something was wrong. She was cool, clipped, and kept her gaze fixed over his shoulder. Surely she wasn’t still miffed at the way he had dismissed her this morning.
As they finished their first turn he said, “Something has disturbed you.”
Her lips tightened a bit; then she tilted her chin up and finally looked him in the eye. “I understand you expect there to be an attack upon you tonight.”
He just kept himself from gaping at her, briefly considered denying the charge before realizing denial would be useless. Then he chuckled, shaking his head ruefully. “Your reputation as a busybody is very well deserved, my lady.”
“I won’t be put off by insults, sir.” Her chin came up even higher.
“It wasn’t meant as an insult. I begin to think I should enlist you as part of my intelligence network.”
“Compliments will serve you no better.” She was openly frowning now. “You are mad to be out here tonight if you are truly in such danger.”
“I have taken precautions.”
“Yes, I thought you looked a bit thicker about the waist than normal. But I was referring to the spore you must be carrying. I know very well you’ve not had time to do a decent purge.”
Again she derailed his train of thought. “Spore?” And then the connections came. “You knew what that ring was and you didn’t tell me?”
“You hardly gave me a chance. Even had I said anything, I doubt you would have believed me.” When he said nothing, she continued. “How long were you wearing it?”
“Only a few hours. In any case, the attack will not come from that direction.”
“You don’t know when that spore will start making you sick.”
“There can’t have been that much.”
“Unless you put the thing on last night.”
