regaling three Goreddi ladies-in-waiting with a tale: “I was part of his final hunting party, grausleine . We had just entered the Queenswood when the hounds scattered in all directions, as if there were twenty stags, not just one. We split up, some following north, some west, each group thinking Prince Rufus was with the other, but when we rejoined, he was nowhere to be found.
“We searched for him until evening, then called out the Queen’s Guard and searched all through the night. It was his own dog—a lovely brindle snaphound called Una—who found him, lying faceless and facedown in the nearby fens.”
The three ladies gasped. I had turned all the way around and was studying the earl’s face. He had pale blue eyes; his complexion was without a single blemish or wrinkle by which to gauge his age. He was trying to impress the ladies, certainly, but seemed to be speaking the truth. I disliked jumping in where I hadn’t been invited, but I had to know: “Are you so sure a dragon killed him? Were there clear signs in the fen?”
Josef turned the full force of his handsomeness on me. He lifted his chin and smiled like a Saint in a country church, all piety and graciousness; around him the choir of cherubic ladies-in-waiting stared at me and fluttered, silk gowns rustling. “Who else do you imagine could have killed him, Music Mistress?”
I folded my arms, proof against charm. “Brigands, stealing his head for ransom?”
“There’s been no ransom request.” He smirked; his cherubs smirked with him.
“The Sons of St. Ogdo, stirring up dracophobia before the Ardmagar arrives?”
He threw back his head and laughed; he had very white teeth. “Come, Seraphina, you’ve omitted the possibility that he spotted a lovely shepherdess and simply lost his head.” The heavenly host rewarded this comment with a symphony of titters.
I was about to turn away—he knew nothing, clearly—when a familiar baritone chimed in behind me: “Maid Dombegh is right. It’s likely the Sons did it.”
I stepped a little aside, letting Prince Lucian face Josef unimpeded.
Josef’s smile thinned. Prince Lucian hadn’t acknowledged the disrespectful innuendo about his uncle Rufus, but he’d surely heard every word. The earl gave exaggerated courtesy. “Begging your pardon, Prince, but why do you not round up the Sons and lock them away, if you’re so sure they did it?”
“We’ll arrest no one without proof,” said the prince, seeming unconcerned. His left boot gave three rapid taps; I noticed and wondered whether I had such unconscious tics. The prince continued, his tone still light: “Unfounded arrests would give the Sons more fodder and bring new ones out of the woodwork. Besides, it’s wrong in principle. ‘Let the one who seeks justice be just.’ ”
I looked over at him then, because I recognized that quote. “Pontheus?”
“The same.” Prince Lucian nodded approvingly.
Josef sneered. “With all due respect, the Regent of Samsam would never permit a mad Porphyrian philosopher to guide his decisions. Nor would he permit dragons to make a state visit to Samsam—no offense to your Queen, of course.”
“Perhaps that is why the Regent of Samsam was not the architect of peace,” said the prince, voice calm, foot tapping. “Apparently he has no qualms about receiving the benefits of our mad-Porphyrian-inspired treaty without having to shoulder any of the risks himself. He’ll be here for this state visit, more’s the headache for me—and I mean that with all the love and respect in the world.”
As fascinating as this polite, courtly aggression was, suddenly Miss Fusspots arrested my gaze from across the adjoining room. She accepted a glass of tawny port from a page boy. I could not get to her without ducking through the dancing, and they’d just started a volta, so there was a great number of flying limbs. I stayed where I was, but did not take my eye off her.
A trumpet flare brought the exuberant
“We searched for him until evening, then called out the Queen’s Guard and searched all through the night. It was his own dog—a lovely brindle snaphound called Una—who found him, lying faceless and facedown in the nearby fens.”
The three ladies gasped. I had turned all the way around and was studying the earl’s face. He had pale blue eyes; his complexion was without a single blemish or wrinkle by which to gauge his age. He was trying to impress the ladies, certainly, but seemed to be speaking the truth. I disliked jumping in where I hadn’t been invited, but I had to know: “Are you so sure a dragon killed him? Were there clear signs in the fen?”
Josef turned the full force of his handsomeness on me. He lifted his chin and smiled like a Saint in a country church, all piety and graciousness; around him the choir of cherubic ladies-in-waiting stared at me and fluttered, silk gowns rustling. “Who else do you imagine could have killed him, Music Mistress?”
I folded my arms, proof against charm. “Brigands, stealing his head for ransom?”
“There’s been no ransom request.” He smirked; his cherubs smirked with him.
“The Sons of St. Ogdo, stirring up dracophobia before the Ardmagar arrives?”
He threw back his head and laughed; he had very white teeth. “Come, Seraphina, you’ve omitted the possibility that he spotted a lovely shepherdess and simply lost his head.” The heavenly host rewarded this comment with a symphony of titters.
I was about to turn away—he knew nothing, clearly—when a familiar baritone chimed in behind me: “Maid Dombegh is right. It’s likely the Sons did it.”
I stepped a little aside, letting Prince Lucian face Josef unimpeded.
Josef’s smile thinned. Prince Lucian hadn’t acknowledged the disrespectful innuendo about his uncle Rufus, but he’d surely heard every word. The earl gave exaggerated courtesy. “Begging your pardon, Prince, but why do you not round up the Sons and lock them away, if you’re so sure they did it?”
“We’ll arrest no one without proof,” said the prince, seeming unconcerned. His left boot gave three rapid taps; I noticed and wondered whether I had such unconscious tics. The prince continued, his tone still light: “Unfounded arrests would give the Sons more fodder and bring new ones out of the woodwork. Besides, it’s wrong in principle. ‘Let the one who seeks justice be just.’ ”
I looked over at him then, because I recognized that quote. “Pontheus?”
“The same.” Prince Lucian nodded approvingly.
Josef sneered. “With all due respect, the Regent of Samsam would never permit a mad Porphyrian philosopher to guide his decisions. Nor would he permit dragons to make a state visit to Samsam—no offense to your Queen, of course.”
“Perhaps that is why the Regent of Samsam was not the architect of peace,” said the prince, voice calm, foot tapping. “Apparently he has no qualms about receiving the benefits of our mad-Porphyrian-inspired treaty without having to shoulder any of the risks himself. He’ll be here for this state visit, more’s the headache for me—and I mean that with all the love and respect in the world.”
As fascinating as this polite, courtly aggression was, suddenly Miss Fusspots arrested my gaze from across the adjoining room. She accepted a glass of tawny port from a page boy. I could not get to her without ducking through the dancing, and they’d just started a volta, so there was a great number of flying limbs. I stayed where I was, but did not take my eye off her.
A trumpet flare brought the exuberant
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