Krasta asked irritably.
“Making sure neither of us is an assassin in disguise,” Lurcanio answered. “Still a few malcontents loose in the provinces. They’ve murdered some nobles who cooperate with us, and some of our men, too. If they managed to sneak a murderer in here, they could do us some harm.”
He thought of harm to his kingdom. Krasta thought of harm to herself. When she looked around the room, she found it odd to realize Algarvians were more likely to keep her safe than her own countrymen. She made a beeline for the bar and got herself a brandy laced with wormwood. She tossed it back as if it were ale. The sooner the world got blurry, the better she’d like it.
Lurcanio took a glass of white wine for himself. He drank. He enjoyed drinking. Krasta had seen that. But she’d never seen him fuddled. She doubted she ever would. Foolishness, she thought. Anything worth doing was worth doing to excess.
“Shall we go over and greet his Majesty?” Lurcanio asked, glancing toward the receiving line at whose head Gainibu stood. His mouth tightened. “Perhaps we should do it now, while he will still remember who we are—and who he is.”
Gainibu held a large tumbler half full of amber spirits. By the way he stood, by the vague expression on his face, he’d already emptied it a good many times. Krasta remembered Lurcanio’s sardonic comment outside the palace. The Algarvian commissioner must not have given the king any trouble about refills.
Krasta and Lurcanio worked their way up the receiving line. It was shorter than it would have been before the war. Not all the guests bothered presenting themselves to Gainibu. He was not the most important man in the room, not any more. Several of Lurcanio’s superiors possessed more authority than he. Again, Krasta had the sense of ground shifting under her feet.
Gainibu’s decorations, honorary and earned, glittered on his chest. Lurcanio saluted him as junior officer to senior. Krasta bowed low. “Your Majesty,” she murmured.
“Ah, the marchioness,” Gainibu replied, though Krasta was not sure he knew which marchioness she was. “And with a friend, I see. Aye, with a friend.” He took another sip from the tumbler. His eyes followed it as he lowered it from his mouth. Before the war, his eyes had followed beautiful women that way. They’d followed Krasta that way, more than once. What was she now? Just another noblewoman on a conqueror’s arm, less interesting than the spirits that swirled in his glass.
Lurcanio touched Krastas elbow. She let him lead her away. Behind her, King Gainibu mumbled something courteous to someone else. “He is not the man he was,” Lurcanio said, hardly caring whether Gainibu heard or not. In a different tone, it might have been pity. It was scorn.
To her surprise, sudden tears filled Krasta’s eyes. She looked back toward the king. There he stood, impressive, amiable, drunk. His kingdom was a prisoner of Algarve. And he, she thought with a burst of insight that surely came from the wormwood, was a prisoner within himself.
“Now we have done our duty,” Lurcanio said. “We can enjoy ourselves the rest of the evening.”
“Aye,” Krasta said, though she had seldom felt less like enjoying herself. “Excuse me for a moment.” She hurried over to the bar. An expressionless servitor gave her another glass of the wormwood-flavored brandy. She gulped it down with reckless speed.
“Have a care, there,” Lurcanio said from behind her. “Will I need to carry you up the stairs to your bedchamber tonight?” An eyebrow quirked. “I do not think I need to make you pass out drunk to have my way with you.”
“No.” Melancholy and insight were not natural to Krasta. Ingenious lubricity was. She ran her tongue over her lips, tilted a hip and gazed saucily up at the Algar-vian officer. “But would you enjoy it that way?”
He considered. Slowly, he smiled. “Once, perhaps. Everything is interesting once.” Krasta needed
“Making sure neither of us is an assassin in disguise,” Lurcanio answered. “Still a few malcontents loose in the provinces. They’ve murdered some nobles who cooperate with us, and some of our men, too. If they managed to sneak a murderer in here, they could do us some harm.”
He thought of harm to his kingdom. Krasta thought of harm to herself. When she looked around the room, she found it odd to realize Algarvians were more likely to keep her safe than her own countrymen. She made a beeline for the bar and got herself a brandy laced with wormwood. She tossed it back as if it were ale. The sooner the world got blurry, the better she’d like it.
Lurcanio took a glass of white wine for himself. He drank. He enjoyed drinking. Krasta had seen that. But she’d never seen him fuddled. She doubted she ever would. Foolishness, she thought. Anything worth doing was worth doing to excess.
“Shall we go over and greet his Majesty?” Lurcanio asked, glancing toward the receiving line at whose head Gainibu stood. His mouth tightened. “Perhaps we should do it now, while he will still remember who we are—and who he is.”
Gainibu held a large tumbler half full of amber spirits. By the way he stood, by the vague expression on his face, he’d already emptied it a good many times. Krasta remembered Lurcanio’s sardonic comment outside the palace. The Algarvian commissioner must not have given the king any trouble about refills.
Krasta and Lurcanio worked their way up the receiving line. It was shorter than it would have been before the war. Not all the guests bothered presenting themselves to Gainibu. He was not the most important man in the room, not any more. Several of Lurcanio’s superiors possessed more authority than he. Again, Krasta had the sense of ground shifting under her feet.
Gainibu’s decorations, honorary and earned, glittered on his chest. Lurcanio saluted him as junior officer to senior. Krasta bowed low. “Your Majesty,” she murmured.
“Ah, the marchioness,” Gainibu replied, though Krasta was not sure he knew which marchioness she was. “And with a friend, I see. Aye, with a friend.” He took another sip from the tumbler. His eyes followed it as he lowered it from his mouth. Before the war, his eyes had followed beautiful women that way. They’d followed Krasta that way, more than once. What was she now? Just another noblewoman on a conqueror’s arm, less interesting than the spirits that swirled in his glass.
Lurcanio touched Krastas elbow. She let him lead her away. Behind her, King Gainibu mumbled something courteous to someone else. “He is not the man he was,” Lurcanio said, hardly caring whether Gainibu heard or not. In a different tone, it might have been pity. It was scorn.
To her surprise, sudden tears filled Krasta’s eyes. She looked back toward the king. There he stood, impressive, amiable, drunk. His kingdom was a prisoner of Algarve. And he, she thought with a burst of insight that surely came from the wormwood, was a prisoner within himself.
“Now we have done our duty,” Lurcanio said. “We can enjoy ourselves the rest of the evening.”
“Aye,” Krasta said, though she had seldom felt less like enjoying herself. “Excuse me for a moment.” She hurried over to the bar. An expressionless servitor gave her another glass of the wormwood-flavored brandy. She gulped it down with reckless speed.
“Have a care, there,” Lurcanio said from behind her. “Will I need to carry you up the stairs to your bedchamber tonight?” An eyebrow quirked. “I do not think I need to make you pass out drunk to have my way with you.”
“No.” Melancholy and insight were not natural to Krasta. Ingenious lubricity was. She ran her tongue over her lips, tilted a hip and gazed saucily up at the Algar-vian officer. “But would you enjoy it that way?”
He considered. Slowly, he smiled. “Once, perhaps. Everything is interesting once.” Krasta needed
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