Tomorrow's Kingdom (22 page)

“Are you even
listening
to me?” demanded Lord Atticus, who occasionally seemed to forget that he was in the custody of a man who thought nothing of forcing people to cut off their own noses.

“No, I was not listening to you,” said Mordecai, taking a sip of his wine.

Lord Atticus pursed his lips. “I was
asking
what you intended to do now that your little scheme has failed and my father will be coming for us the very instant he finds out where we're hiding.”

Instead of answering, Mordecai let his gaze drift toward the threshold of the dining hall. What the addlebrained young lord clearly failed to grasp was that it wouldn't just be Lord Bartok coming for them. It would be Bartok and every able-bodied man that he and the other great lords were able to rally—legions and legions and
legions
of able-bodied men. Given that this was so, the slaughter of the tribes would clearly have to wait. Bartok's army would have to be defeated first, and since no New Man in the realm had a tenth of the battle sense that Murdock had possessed, there was really only one man who could possibly lead them to victory. The question was whether Mordecai, a cripple who could hardly sit upon a horse without his poor body screaming in protest, dared to step into General Murdock's empty boots.

Whether he dared to risk it all in the game that the eldest of his long-dead, better-loved brothers had once carelessly told him he'd never be fit to play.

He … did.

His cold heart thumping hard at his momentous decision, Mordecai bellowed for his private secretary and kept bellowing until the man hobbled into the dining hall a scant few moments later.

“Send a letter to every New Man camp and outpost in the kingdom,” barked Mordecai. “Order the commanders to send as many armed men as they can spare to the
training camp north of Syon, and order them to do so at
once
. Tell them that I will not tolerate delays.”

Still breathless from his hasty hobble, the secretary nodded vigorously, took a hesitant step backward, then stopped.

“Well?” barked Mordecai. “What are you waiting for? Get to it—now!”

The secretary—who'd clearly been waiting for a formal dismissal—jumped and then hurried from the hall as best he could with only one foot.

Mordecai glowered after him, then turned to Lord Atticus and said, “Prepare yourself, my lord, for within the week, we shall set out on a journey.”

Lord Atticus—who seemed genuinely oblivious to the existence of servants and their troubles—groaned loudly to show that the prospect of travel pleased him not at all. Then he took a long draught of his wine, wiped his small, pouting mouth with the back of his hand and sighed, “Where are we going?”

Suddenly exhilarated by the prospect of destroying the worm's noble father in a true blood-and-guts battle, Mordecai straightened his crooked back, lifted his heavy head and breathed, “We are going to war.”

TWENTY-SEVEN

T
HE NOBLEMAN
destined to face Mordecai on the battlefield strode briskly across the cobblestone courtyard of the imperial palace. His blue cape flapping behind him, he entered the royal stable and made his way down to the large stall at the end. In the stall stood two creatures—the spirited white mare Lord Bartok would soon ride into battle and the lanky, lowborn stable boy who'd been paying regular visits to his daughter's bedchamber for the past fortnight or so.

“I hope she's been ridden hard and often,” Lord Bartok informed the stable boy without preamble.

“M'
lord
?” choked the boy, so startled that he dropped one of the two heavy brushes he'd been using to smooth the last of the tangles from the horse's white-blond mane.

Lord Bartok pursed his lips ever so slightly. “I hope my new
horse
has been ridden hard and often, that she will have the stamina to perform as I require in the days to come,” he clarified in clipped tones. “I also hope she's been trained not to shy at crowds or loud noises, for I
would not have her falter beneath me in battle or panic if we get caught in the thick of it.”

“Oh,”
said the boy, grinning with relief. Hastily retrieving the brush from the straw at his feet, he dropped both brushes into a nearby wooden bucket, lifted the mare's supple leather halter off its nail on the stall wall and slipped it over the horse's pretty head. “You needn't worry about her shying, faltering or panicking, m'lord, for I trained her myself,” said the boy. “She's a good horse, aren't you, girl? You'll not let the great lord down, will you, sweetheart?”

In response to these questions, the horse snorted and tried to jerk her head away from the hands that were deftly adjusting the buckles of her bridle.

“Finish saddling her at once and bring her to me outside, do you understand?” said Lord Bartok.

“I do, m'lord,” said the stable boy, bobbing his head so briskly that his dirty dark hair flopped into his blue eyes.

As he wordlessly turned and strode back the way he'd come, Lord Bartok reflected that Atticus had done rather well in selecting a stud who bore sufficient resemblance to the dead king that the paternity of any child Aurelia might conceive would not be questioned on the basis of looks, anyway.

It is unfortunate that Atticus is not here to see to the second part of his instructions
, thought Lord Bartok absently as he stepped out of the stable,
for I cannot afford to delay my departure to personally execute them, and even the most trusted retainer is likely to wonder what a mere stable boy might have done to deserve—

“Godspeed, my lord!” a deep voice floated to him over the crisp morning air.

Looking up, Lord Bartok saw Lord Belmont leaning heavily against the sill of an open window on the third storey of the palace. He was dressed in an enormous doublet of crimson and flanked by his ever-present companion, the skinny mute. The golden crest of his new office dangled from the chain about his fat neck.

Lord Bartok nodded and waved briefly in acknowledgment of the other nobleman's salutation.

It had been his idea to put Belmont in charge of the city following the removal of General Murdock. He'd needed to put
someone
in charge and Belmont had been the obvious choice. In addition to being the second-greatest lord in the realm, he was so obese he could barely stand unassisted—he'd have been worse than useless on the battlefield, a gluttonous invalid they'd have had to worry about protecting
and
feeding. Moreover, it suited Lord Bartok's purposes to have Belmont out of the way. The fat lord would not take kindly to any actions he considered ignoble, and he held great sway with the other lords. Safer by far to have Belmont tucked away, beyond the ability to influence anyone. Once he, Lord Bartok, had wedded and bedded the queen, there'd be nothing Belmont or anyone else would be able to do about it.

Turning away from Lord Belmont before Lord Belmont could turn away from him, Lord Bartok gazed out over the beautifully manicured royal garden without really seeing a single exotic bloom, pretty pond or fluttering songbird.
The other noblemen had ridden out to muster their men and gather supplies days ago, but he'd stayed behind to search Mordecai's papers and personal effects for a clue as to where he'd taken the queen. Unfortunately, his efforts had been in vain. He'd have to hope that the looming war would draw the cripple out of his hole—and that he'd drag his royal wife along with him when it did.

A light
tap-tap-tapping
sound behind Lord Bartok caught his attention. Turning, he saw Aurelia flying toward him, her slippered feet tapping against the cobblestones as she ran, her skirts and petticoats lifted slightly higher than was necessary to keep from tripping on them. Lord Bartok's eyes flicked from his daughter to the dirty boy who'd just emerged from the stables leading the saddled white mare.

Lord Bartok said nothing until Aurelia had come to a flustered halt before him and dipped him an elegant curtsey. Then, his calm tone belying his irritation, he said, “You are
supposed
to be with child, Aurelia.”

“What? Oh! Yes, of
course
,” she panted. Hastily dropping her skirts, she coughed delicately into one hand before pressing it against the small of her back and pushing her nonexistent belly forward. “Is this better, Father?” she whispered hopefully, still gasping slightly in an effort to catch her breath.

Lord Bartok looked down at his daughter with something vaguely resembling distaste. “What do you want?” he asked, ignoring her inane question.

“I want to know why you did not send for me.”

“Why would I have sent for you?”

Lady Aurelia flinched. “Because all the other lords sent for
their
daughters when
they
departed the city,” she said.

“I am not the other lords,” said Lord Bartok. “You are not their daughters.”

“That is precisely why you ought to have sent for me!” she cried. “The city is yet overrun by armed New Men—”

“Not so well armed as they were, thanks to my clearing out most of their weapons depots,” said Lord Bartok with satisfaction. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the stable boy halt a respectful distance away.

“Even so,” continued Aurelia, “the lowborns grow more unruly by the hour. The market is empty, the merchants have closed up shop, the craftsmen—even the dressmakers!—are refusing to venture out. There are rumours of war. What is to become of me, left here all by myself?”

“You will not be by yourself,” said Lord Bartok, impatiently gesturing to the stable boy that he might approach. “You will have dozens of servants to tend to your every need.”

“Servants,”
sneered Aurelia, wrinkling her nose at the stable boy before deliberately averting her face.

Flushing deeply, the boy handed Lord Bartok the reins, hastily bowed to them both and hurried away.

“I
despise
Atticus for making arrangements for
that
to visit me each night,” hissed Aurelia through clenched teeth. “He purposely chose one that smells like horseshit, I
know
he did. Where is he, anyway?”

“Atticus?”

“Yes.”

“Gone.”

“Gone?” said Aurelia. “Gone where?”

Though Lord Bartok sincerely doubted that the news of her brother's fate would shock Aurelia into miscarrying in the unlikely event that she was pregnant, he did not think it wise to take chances. So he said, “It is none of your business where your brother has gone, Aurelia. Your business is to get with child.”

The girl looked outraged. “I am
trying
—”

“I believe you,” interrupted Lord Bartok. “But I also believe that there is every chance you will fail. If that happens, there is something I would have you do.”

“What?” muttered Aurelia, screwing up her pinched face and folding her arms tightly across her chest as though in anticipation of more horseshit-scented unpleasantness.

Lord Bartok regarded her coolly until she uncrossed her arms, dipped him a stiff curtsey and said, “What is it you would have me do, Father?”

“I would have you hide from your maids that your monthly courses have begun,” he replied. “I would have you begin padding your bodice and skirts.”

The scowl on her face vanished upon the instant. “You're going to find me an infant after all, then?” she asked eagerly, her eyes bright with the hope that even if she failed to conceive the stable boy's child, she might yet have all that had been promised to her. “An infant that I can claim to have given birth to—one that I can name as the dead king's son?”

With a fleeting smile at the thought of the sons he hoped to get upon the queen, Lord Bartok said, “All you need to know, Aurelia, is that I intend to keep my options open.”

With that, he swung up into the saddle, adjusted his cape about his shoulders, gave a brisk nod to the captain of his escort and galloped away without a backward glance.

TWENTY-EIGHT