Furthermore, I realized I ought to know something of the
ancestors of the other guests, if I could, in case there was
some ancient scandal or disgrace that I might accidentally
dredge up. So I read until my vision flickered with the candle
flames. Before I left, I held my candle up, scanning that
barren desk. Why would Shevraeth work there when he had what
was rumored to be a fabulous suite of rooms in the Royal
Wing—including at least one study?
Because he could be alone, of course.
Except for a certain snotty countess bounding in and
starting quarrels.
Sighing to myself, I retreated to my rooms to think out my
strategy. I didn't notice the waiting letter until I sank down
on my pillows. I grabbed it, saw the familiar handwriting, and
tore into the envelope eagerly.
It was a long response to my letter, talking freely about
all manner of things. Several times I laughed out loud. Other
times I felt the impulse to go hunting books again, for he made
easy reference to historical events and people he assumed I was
familiar with. It was a relief that, though he knew I was
ignorant, he did not think I was stupid. Despite my tiredness,
I sat up most of the night happily penning my reply.
And so passed the next several days.
I prowled around the various Court functions to mark where
Shevraeth was, and if I spotted him I'd invariably sneak back
to the State Wing and slip into the memoirs room to read some
more—when I wasn't writing letters.
My response to the Unknown had caused a lengthy answer in
kind, and for a time we exchanged letters—sometimes
thrice a day. It was such a relief to be able to express myself
freely and without cost. He seemed to appreciate my jokes, for
his style gradually metamorphosed from the carefully neutral
mentor to a very witty kind of dialogue that verged from time
to time on the acerbic—just the kind of humor that
appealed most to me. We exchanged views about different aspects
of history, and I deeply enjoyed his trenchant observations on
the follies of our ancestors.
He never pronounced judgment on current events and people,
despite some of my hints; and I forbore asking directly, lest I
inadvertently say something about someone in his
family—or worse, him. For I still had no clue to his
identity. Savona continued to flirt with me at every event we
met at. Deric claimed my company for every sporting event. And
shy Geral always gravitated to my side at balls; when we
talked—which was a lot—it was about music. Though
others among the lords were friendly and pleasant, these three
were the most attentive.
None of them hinted at letters—nor did I. If in person
the Unknown couldn't bring himself to talk on the important
subjects that increasingly took up time and space in his
letters, well, I could sympathize. There was a
person—soon to be king—whom I couldn't bring myself
to face.
Anyway, the only mention of current events that I made in my
letters was about my own experience. Late one night, when I'd
drunk a little too much spiced wine, I poured out my pent-up
feelings about my ignorant past, and to my intense relief he
returned to me neither scorn nor pity. That did not stop me
from going around for a day wary of smiles or fans hiding
faces, for I'd realized that though the letters could be
pleasant and encouraging, I could very well be providing
someone with prime material for gossip. Never before had I felt
the disadvantage of not knowing who he was, whereas he knew me
by name and sight.
But no one treated me any differently than usual; there were
no glances of awareness, no bright, superior smiles of those
who know a secret. So it appeared he was as benevolent as his
letters seemed, yet perfectly content to remain unknown.
And I was content to leave it that way.
At the end of those three days my life changed again when I
received a surprise visitor: Azmus, our former spy.
Bran and Nee had already departed for some early morning
event. Unspoken between us was the understanding that they
would go off to enjoy purely social affairs for Shevraeth's
personal friends, and I would stay behind. They didn't mention
them ahead of time, they just went.
So I was alone that morning when Mora came in and said, "The
vendor you summoned is here to show you some new wares."
"Vendor?" I asked, surprised.
"I think—you wished to see him," Mora said quietly,
and so I thanked her, my surprise changing to intense
curiosity.
A moment later there was Azmus's round face and snub nose.
He was dressed as a goldsmith, and he even carried a bulging
satchel.
"Azmus!" I exclaimed in delight. "I didn't think you'd
come—I hope you didn't think I'd summoned you." I
finished on an apologetic note. "If anyone has earned
retirement, it is you."
Azmus grinned. "Neither Khesot nor I like retirement," he
said, his voice so quiet it was just above a whisper. "Makes us
feel too old. I believe Oria informed you that he's now the
head of your border riders—"
"Yes."
"—and as for me, I was glumly sitting at home planning
out a garden when your most welcome letter came."
"You can speak to be heard," I said, and grinned. "I think
Mora knew who you were—and even if she's listening, I
believe she's got our interests to heart. As to why I wrote;
oh, Azmus, I truly need help. The Marquise of Merindar wrote me
last winter, hinting that I ought to join her, and the one time
I spoke with her she twitted me for not keeping the vows of our
letter last year. But I do want to keep those vows, and those
we made to Papa as well!
Ought
I to help her gain the
throne? Would she be better than Shevraeth? Or will he make a
good king? I can't find out on my own—either the
courtiers don't care, or they take sides, and the one person I
could ask..." I thought of my unknown admirer, and sighed.
"Well, I can't ask him, either, lest my asking be
misconstrued."
He bowed his head slightly, his brows knit. "May I speak
freely, my lady?" he said at last.
"Please," I said, and hastened to point to the pillows. "Sit
down, Azmus. Speak plainly with me. I desperately need
that."
He pursed his lips. "First. Have you gone to Petitioners'
Court, or talked
to
the Renselaeuses? When his grace
the Marquis of Shevraeth was up at Tlanth during winter, he
rode around the county with Lord Branaric and answered
questions very freely, no matter who asked."
"No. I... keep running afoul of him."
"Running afoul on political questions?" he asked.
"It never gets that far." I felt my face burn. "Purely
personal questions—usually with me misconstruing his
motivations. I can't ask him."
Once again he pursed his lips, but this time his countenance
seemed more serious. "We can begin with your question to me,
then. The Princess of Renselaeus did indeed aid us in our
escape that day, though it was indirect aid. I retraced the
steps not long after, for my own peace of mind. The Marquise
had no involvement whatever with the escape. If she spoke to
her brother on your behalf, there's no way of knowing. From
what I know of her, I doubt it. But it is entirely possible,"
he amended scrupulously.
"Ah-hah," I said. "So
she
lied to me. Go on."
"It wasn't a lie so much as indirection," Azmus said. "She
did make certain that copies of your letter to Galdran were
given into important hands." He grinned. "Her servant was most
discreet, yet most insistent that the copies be distributed
through the Marquise. I didn't mind, so long as they got
read."
"Yet from what you hint about her character, there ought to
be a reason beyond altruisim, am I right?"
"You are." He nodded. "More than one person in Court was
overheard surmising that it was her way of undermining her
brother's position even more thoroughly than he was doing on
his own."
"Shev—it's been hinted that she wants the throne."
He nodded again. "Of course I have never overheard her say
anything to prove it, nor have I intercepted any correspondence
to prove it. But I can well believe it."
"She has recently gone home," I said. "Do you think she gave
up?"
He shook his head. "She has never retreated in her life.
Every movement was an advance, even when it seemed she
retreated. If she went back to her estates, then she has some
kind of plan."
I thought furiously. "Her initial request to go home was
denied—this was just before we came. Shevraeth showed me
her letter. And the other day, I visited Lord Flauvic, and he
said that he'd had some kind of argument with his mother and
sister, just before they left for Merindar."
Azmus's eyes lowered to his plump hands. "You have
established a relationship with Lord Flauvic?"
I grimaced. "Well, let's say I had the opportunity. But I
suspect that even if I had continued talking to him, I'd be no
more knowledgeable than I am now. He's very good at deflecting
questions and giving misleading answers."
Azmus nodded slowly. "We can assume, then, that he wishes
this news of the family fight to get about."
"I'm not telling anyone," I said. "Not even about my visit
to him."
Azmus's face went bland.
"But you knew," I said, not even making it a question.
"Those who wanted to know, knew," he said.
"So there
is
someone spying on me?" I cried.
"Not on you. On the Merindar House. I arrived two days ago
and resumed some of my old contacts and found this out. I also
found out that the Merindars have their own spy network, and
not just here at Athanarel."
"Spies! Did one intercept my letter to you?" I asked in
alarm.
"I did not think a proper answer to your questions ought to
be put on paper—though your letter did arrive at my home
with its seal intact. I do know how to unseal and seal a letter
again, and I know how to tell the difference when it's been
done," he assured me. "It appears that the Renselaeus family
never did release my name after they identified me, and so most
folk believe me to be a retired goldsmith. The letter arrived
unmolested."
"Well that's good to know." I sighed in relief. "I hadn't
even thought about tampering. Maybe it's best that I stay
ignorant and foolish," I added bitterly. "You know how
successful Bran and I were with our revolt, and messing with
politics is just as likely to leave me mud-covered now."
"If you so choose," Azmus said, "I will return to
Tlanth."
"I don't know." I played restlessly with my fan. "I want to
do the right thing, yet I can't outthink Flauvic—I proved
that recently, over a relatively simple question of social
usage—and your reminder about the letters makes me
realize I could stupidly do something disastrous without
meaning to."
"If you want information," he said in his low tones, "I am
willing to take up my old connections and provide it. You need
write to no one or speak to no one. It's common enough for
people to summon their own artisans for special projects." He
patted his satchel. "You are wealthy enough to enable me to
sustain the cover."
"You mean I should order some jewelry made?"
He nodded. "If you please, my lady."
"Of course—that's easy enough. But to backtrack a bit,
what you said about spies on both sides worries me. What if the
Renselaeuses find out you're here? Will they assume I'm
plotting?"
"I have taken great care to avoid their coverts," he said.
"The two who met me face-to-face last year are not in
Athanarel. And none of the family has actually seen me."
Once again I sighed with relief. Then an even more unwelcome
thought occurred. "If my movements are known, then other things
have been noticed," I said slowly. "Are there any I ought to
know about?"
He gave his nod. "It is known, among those who observe, that
you do not attend any private social functions that are also
attended by the Marquis of Shevraeth."
So much for my promise, I thought dismally. Yet Shevraeth
hadn't said anything. "So ... this might be why Flauvic granted
me that interview?"
"Possibly," he said.
"I take it servants talk."
"Some," he agreed. "Others don't."
"I suppose the Merindar ones don't."
He smiled. "They are very carefully selected and trained,
exceedingly well paid—and if they displease, they have a
habit of disappearing."
"You mean they're found dead, and no one does anything?"
He shook his head, his mouth now grim. "No. They
disappear."
I shuddered.
"So whatever I find out must be by observation and
indirection."
"Well, if you can evaluate both sides without endangering
yourself," I said, deciding suddenly, "then go ahead. The more
I think about it, the less I like being ignorant. If something
happens that might require us to act, you can help me choose
the correct thing to do and the way to do it."
He bowed. "Nothing would please me more, my lady," he
promised.
"Good," I said, rising to fetch my letter from the Marquise.
"Here's her letter. Read it—and as far as I care, destroy
it." I handed it to him, relieved to have it gone. "So, what's
in your bag? I will want something special," I said, and
grinned. "For someone special."
SIXTEEN
THE UNKNOWN WAS NOT LIKELY TO WEAR THE JEWELRY I sent. I
knew that. Yet it gave me pleasure to plan the design and
select just the right gem.
It was a ring I wanted, a fitting return for my own ring,
which I wore frequently. Around it Azmus etched laurel leaves
in an abstract, pleasing pattern. Leaves, spring,
circles—all symbols that complemented the friendship. The
gemstone was the best ekirth that Azmus could find, carefully
faceted so it glittered like a night-star, so deep a blue as to
seem black, except when the light hit it just so and it would
send out brilliant shards of color: gold, blue, crimson,
emerald.