tall for a woman and unsettlingly young.
Seen this closely, she had the straight Antae nose and her father's
strong cheekbones. The wide-set eyes were a much-celebrated blue, he
knew, though he couldn't see that clearly in the candlelight. Her
hair was golden, bound up, of course, held by a golden circlet
studded with rubies.
The Antae had worn bear grease in their hair when they'd first come
to settle in the peninsula. This woman was not, manifestly, an
exponent of such traditions. He imagined those rubies-he couldn't
help himself-set in his mosaic torch on the sanctuary dome. He
imagined them gleaming by candlelight there.
The queen wore a golden sun disk about her throat, an image of
Heladikos upon it. Her robe was blue silk, threaded with fine gold
wire, and there was a purple band running down the left side, from
high collar to ankle. Only royalty wore purple, in keeping with a
tradition going back to the Rhodian Empire at its own beginnings six
hundred years ago.
He was alone in a palace room at night with the headache of his life
and a queen-his queen-regarding him with a mild, steady appraisal.
It was common opinion, all through the Batiaran peninsula, that the
queen was unlikely to live through the winter. Crispin had heard
wagers offered and taken, at odds.
The Antae might have moved beyond bear grease and pagan rituals in a
hundred years but they were most emphatically not accustomed to being
ruled by a woman, and any choice of a mate-and king-for Gisel was
fraught with an almost inconceivable complexity of tribal hierarchies
and feuds. In a way, it was only due to these that she was still
alive and reigning a year and more after her father's death and the
savage, inconclusive civil war that had followed. Martinian had put
it that way one night over dinner. The factions of the Antae were
locked in balance around her; if she died, that balance spiralled
away and war came. Again.
Crispin had shrugged. Whoever reigned would commission sanctuaries to
their own glory in the god's name. Mosaicists would work. He and
Martinian were extremely well known, with a reputation among the
upper classes and reliable employees and apprentices. Did it matter
so much, he'd asked the older man, what happened in the palace in
Varena? Did any such things signify greatly after the plague?
The queen was still gazing at him beneath level brows, waiting.
Crispin, belatedly realizing what was expected, saluted her with his
cup and drank. It was magnificent wine. The very best Sarnican. He'd
never tasted anything so complex. Under any normal circumstances, he
would .. .
He put it down, quickly. After the blow to his head, this drink could
undo him completely.
'A careful man, I see,' she murmured.
Crispin shook his head. 'Not really, Majesty.' He had no idea what
was expected of him here, or what to expect. It occurred to him that
he ought to feel outraged . . . he'd been assaulted and abducted
outside his own home. Instead, he felt curious, intrigued, and he was
sufficiently self-aware to recognize that these feelings had been
absent from his life for some time.
'May I assume,' he said, 'that the footpads who clapped a flour sack
on my head and dented my braincase were from the palace? Or did your
loyal guards rescue me from common thieves?'
She smiled at that. She couldn't be older than her early twenties,
Crispin thought, remembering a royal betrothal and a husband-to-be
dying of some mischance a few years ago.
'They were my guards. I told you, their orders were to be courteous,
while ensuring you came with them. Apparently you did some injuries
to them.'
'I am delighted to hear it. They did some to me.'
'In loyalty to their queen and in her cause. Do you have the same
loyalties?'
Direct, very direct.
Crispin watched as she moved to an ivory and rosewood bench and sat
down, her back very straight. He saw that there were three doors to
the room and imagined guards poised on the other side of each of
them. He pushed his hands
Seen this closely, she had the straight Antae nose and her father's
strong cheekbones. The wide-set eyes were a much-celebrated blue, he
knew, though he couldn't see that clearly in the candlelight. Her
hair was golden, bound up, of course, held by a golden circlet
studded with rubies.
The Antae had worn bear grease in their hair when they'd first come
to settle in the peninsula. This woman was not, manifestly, an
exponent of such traditions. He imagined those rubies-he couldn't
help himself-set in his mosaic torch on the sanctuary dome. He
imagined them gleaming by candlelight there.
The queen wore a golden sun disk about her throat, an image of
Heladikos upon it. Her robe was blue silk, threaded with fine gold
wire, and there was a purple band running down the left side, from
high collar to ankle. Only royalty wore purple, in keeping with a
tradition going back to the Rhodian Empire at its own beginnings six
hundred years ago.
He was alone in a palace room at night with the headache of his life
and a queen-his queen-regarding him with a mild, steady appraisal.
It was common opinion, all through the Batiaran peninsula, that the
queen was unlikely to live through the winter. Crispin had heard
wagers offered and taken, at odds.
The Antae might have moved beyond bear grease and pagan rituals in a
hundred years but they were most emphatically not accustomed to being
ruled by a woman, and any choice of a mate-and king-for Gisel was
fraught with an almost inconceivable complexity of tribal hierarchies
and feuds. In a way, it was only due to these that she was still
alive and reigning a year and more after her father's death and the
savage, inconclusive civil war that had followed. Martinian had put
it that way one night over dinner. The factions of the Antae were
locked in balance around her; if she died, that balance spiralled
away and war came. Again.
Crispin had shrugged. Whoever reigned would commission sanctuaries to
their own glory in the god's name. Mosaicists would work. He and
Martinian were extremely well known, with a reputation among the
upper classes and reliable employees and apprentices. Did it matter
so much, he'd asked the older man, what happened in the palace in
Varena? Did any such things signify greatly after the plague?
The queen was still gazing at him beneath level brows, waiting.
Crispin, belatedly realizing what was expected, saluted her with his
cup and drank. It was magnificent wine. The very best Sarnican. He'd
never tasted anything so complex. Under any normal circumstances, he
would .. .
He put it down, quickly. After the blow to his head, this drink could
undo him completely.
'A careful man, I see,' she murmured.
Crispin shook his head. 'Not really, Majesty.' He had no idea what
was expected of him here, or what to expect. It occurred to him that
he ought to feel outraged . . . he'd been assaulted and abducted
outside his own home. Instead, he felt curious, intrigued, and he was
sufficiently self-aware to recognize that these feelings had been
absent from his life for some time.
'May I assume,' he said, 'that the footpads who clapped a flour sack
on my head and dented my braincase were from the palace? Or did your
loyal guards rescue me from common thieves?'
She smiled at that. She couldn't be older than her early twenties,
Crispin thought, remembering a royal betrothal and a husband-to-be
dying of some mischance a few years ago.
'They were my guards. I told you, their orders were to be courteous,
while ensuring you came with them. Apparently you did some injuries
to them.'
'I am delighted to hear it. They did some to me.'
'In loyalty to their queen and in her cause. Do you have the same
loyalties?'
Direct, very direct.
Crispin watched as she moved to an ivory and rosewood bench and sat
down, her back very straight. He saw that there were three doors to
the room and imagined guards poised on the other side of each of
them. He pushed his hands
Similar Books
