The Queen's Gambit (10 page)

“What—”

“Desert,” Inthiere said fiercely, “and I'll see that you become known throughout the realm for breaking your lance.”

Fury boiled through Talmor. Was that all the threat Inthiere could muster? Yet as he glared at the commander, Talmor saw villainy in Inthiere's heart. The man was as vicious as he was weak of character, and he hated Talmor with a sick, jealous intensity.

Talmor frowned, knowing he could break the commander in twain if they fought, yet just as he was about to issue challenge, a wave of clammy weakness passed through him. His knees nearly buckled, and little black spots danced before his eyes. Fighting off the swoon, Talmor realized he must take care. He was in no condition actually to fight Inthiere, and he'd said more than was prudent in the circumstances.

“I—I see,” he said.

Surprise widened Inthiere's bloodshot eyes as though he'd not expected so mild an answer. He puffed out his chest. “Then you'll stay on, and there'll be no more of your nonsense?”

“I'll cause you no further trouble this day,” Talmor replied through gritted teeth.

“You'll submit to my command? Follow my orders without insubordination?”

Talmor bowed his head.

Smiling, Inthiere bounced on his toes. “Well, well. Your temper has cooled, I see.”

“You mentioned a reward.”

“Aye, we'll talk of that tonight at supper. You realize that you're too quick to find fault. Too hasty to judge. I must command respect if discipline is to be maintained.”

“I understand,” Talmor said.

Inthiere's eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Then you'll retract your insulting remarks?”

“Of course.”

“Good. You look very pale, sir. Perhaps you'd better return to your sick room.”

“Thank you, but I'll do better to work.”

Inthiere gestured arrogantly. “Then you have your orders. Dismissed.”

Talmor went down the steps as rapidly as his wobbly knees would carry him. It was all he could do to keep his hand off his dagger hilt, all he could do to hold his tongue.

His heart was thudding, and he felt hot with fever, but his mind was cold and clear. He knew exactly what he had to do.

At the bottom of the steps, he crossed the cramped courtyard for the stables. Just before he entered, he paused at the threshold and leaned a moment against the wall.

“Sir Talmor?”

It was Lutel, the village boy who yesterday had been the first to see the incoming raiders. Smeared with soot and grime, his bony wrists dangling from his sleeves, the boy looked dazed with grief and misery.

Pity touched Talmor's heart. “Yes, boy?”

“I'm glad ye be hale an' whole.” Lutel's gaze darted to the bandages around Talmor's head. “Most everybody's been killed, seems like.”

“I did warn your mother, as I promised,” Talmor said gently.

Tears welled up in Lutel's eyes. “Aw, that be good of ye, sir. Ye saw her? And my sisters?”

“Aye.”

“They ain't been killed, sir. I looked an' looked through all
the dead, an' they ain't there.” He swallowed hard. “I reckon they be slaves now, taken away—”

Talmor reached out and gripped his bony shoulder. “I'm sorry.”

Lutel nodded with a great sniff and wiped his face with his sleeve. “Thanks for bein' kind, sir. If that's all, I got to go muck out the stalls.”

Talmor frowned. “I want you to take a message to my squire.”

“Aye, sir.”

“Can I trust you?”

Lutel's eyes grew round and fierce. “Ye know it!”

“Will you enter my service and—”

“Aye! That I will! Oh, sir!”

“Hush,” Talmor said, glancing around to make sure no one noticed his excitement. “Your family is gone, but perhaps you wish to remain here. They might return.”

“How?” Lutel asked bleakly. “They got no way to do it. Old Othen says they don't never come back. He was a wee tot when the last raid came, an' he says folk talked of it for years, afeared to stray far from sight of the hold. He said he lost a sister an' a brother both to 'em, sir. An' years later he heard his brother was seen fightin' as one of the skull folk. Turned, he'd been. Turned to their evil.” Lutel sniffed. “Elsa and Denine be too little to remember us long. They won't come back. And my mother . . .” He buried his face in the crook of his arm, trembling.

“I need you,” Talmor said quietly.

Lutel looked up, tears streaking his grimy face. “Then I be yers to the rattle, sir.”

The boy's swift loyalty warmed Talmor's heart, but he kept his face without expression. This first service would test the boy's ability to do as he was told, and show if he could keep his wits about him.

“Tell my squire that he is to gather my possessions and stash them on the beach by midday. Tell him to make sure he's unnoticed.”

“Be ye—I mean—be we leavin', sir?”

“Aye. And quietly, mind. Say nothing to anyone but Pears. Is that clear?”

Lutel nodded.

“Saddle Canae for me. I've been assigned to duty today at the hold.”

“But, sir, yer not well enough. Ye—”

A look from Talmor silenced the boy.

Gulping, he made an awkward little bow. “Aye, sir. Yer horse. Anything else?”

“Get on with your work until midday. Then join Pears in the dunes to the southeast. Make sure you're not seen.”

“But—aye, sir. I'll do it sharp, just as ye say.”

Talmor meant to say more, but Sir Banjermel hailed him.

Giving the man a smiling nod in answer, Talmor glanced at Lutel. “See to it, then.”

“Aye, sir.” Lutel ran to do as he'd been told.

Sir Banjermel frowned after him. “That boy's a fool, always in the way.”

“He lost his family in the raid.”

Banjermel grunted without interest. “Thought we'd lost you.”

“I'm hard to kill,” Talmor said grimly.

Laughing, Banjermel clapped him on the shoulder. “So you are! Well, it's a mess, right enough, but I hear Lord Pace will recover. Word went round last night that he was done for, but today all's well.”

“Is it? The hold's in ruins, and most of the knights are dead.”

“Well, aye. There's that, of course. Damned savages caught us unawares, but they won't do that again.”

Talmor said nothing.

“And the treasury chamber's intact. They didn't get his lordship's gold. More knights can be hired. In the meantime, well, we've had some battle action, eh? Good for the sword arm, and next time we'll have the devils where we want them.”

Talmor started to warn Banjermel that if they stayed here under these conditions, they could be charged with treason,
too, but with a laugh Banjermel strolled on. The gold, Talmor thought with a little nod to himself. 'Twas that Lady Alda was after, with Inthiere her willing accomplice. Well, they were fools to steal from the king. And they would not even give Lord Pace the respect of a decent burial or the rites to ease his soul's passage to Beyond. Disgust swept Talmor, but he reminded himself to hide what he felt today, or he might find himself under close watch, confined to quarters. As it stood now, with order slack and the men scattered, he had the perfect opportunity to slip away unchallenged.

After all,
Talmor thought bitterly,
I was the perfect officer, always reliable and efficient.
Clearly it hadn't crossed Inthiere's mind that Talmor might fail, this time, to follow orders.

A small shiver passed through Talmor, but he wiped his brow of its fever sweat and when Canae, saddled and restless, was brought to him, he mounted up, swayed a moment in the saddle, and rode slowly out of the fortress that he would never see again.

Pheresa, attired in a new gown of mushroom-hued silk, its long sleeves quilted with pearl studs in the newest fashion, walked rapidly down a long gallery of the palace past gossiping merchants and ambassadors waiting for audiences with various ministers. Her hair was beautifully dressed and plaited in coils about her shapely head. Anxiety had given her face a becoming flush. She walked with only two female attendants in her wake, and all eyes turned to look at her as she passed, for she quite outshone everyone else in the gallery and was completely out of place there.

Merchants Walk, it was called, this endless gallery with its paintings of ships, foreign dignitaries, and exotic cities far from Mandria. A dozen different languages at least were being spoken around her. Many conversations died as she made her way along the central ribbon of carpet, only to start up again with laughter and renewed animation as she passed.

Her face was burning, but she kept her chin high and her shoulders erect. She did her best to look calm and refused to permit herself the luxury of gawking around her.

Once, she would have died rather than come to this part of the palace where foreign visitors and dignitaries were housed. The courtiers in favor with the king never ventured to this wing. It was considered quite low, and rumors and stories circulated about the goings-on that took place for evening entertainment.

Well, Pheresa was no longer as gullible as she'd once been. Nor as timid. She doubted that foreign banquets and dancing were more lascivious than the orgies that went on in other parts of the palace. Indeed, although she was stared at, no one she'd encountered here was rude or discourteous to her. Several men bowed to her most gravely, and she rewarded these courtesies with a slight inclination of her head as she walked by.

She'd come here because the stakes were too high now to be weak or fearful. Although she had foiled the church's efforts to remove her from court, she knew her success was only temporary. Sir Brillon still dogged her unless she managed, as she had today, to elude him. Worse, her mother was circulating rumors against her. Pheresa needed help, and she'd come here to get it.

At the end of Merchants Walk, she reached a set of tall doors, heavily carved and imposing behind armed guards. An official hovered there, and he moved quickly to intercept her.

“May I be of service, my lady?” he asked in a thin, rather nervous voice. “Is your ladyship lost or—”

“I am not lost,” she said in a quiet, clear voice, permitting none of her inner doubt and turmoil to enter her tone. “I have come to see Lord Meaclan. Will you announce me? I am Lady Pheresa du Lindier.”

The official's eyes grew very round. He bowed with a jerk and seemed taken aback at her request. “My lady, I—I'm not sure—”

“Is Lord Meaclan here?”

“Yes, my lady.”

“I am informed that he usually meets with the other ministers in council chambers on this day of the week, and that the meeting is usually finished by this hour. Am I correct?”

“Yes, my lady.”

“Is Lord Meaclan finished today with his meeting?”

“Yes, my lady, but he has other appointments awaiting his—”

“I, too, have an appointment,” she said boldly, and held the man's flustered gaze until he looked away. “Will you conduct me to his lordship?”

“Indeed, yes, my lady. But—but would it not be more seemly were his lordship to come to you? I believe—”

“I am not interested in what you believe,” she said coldly. “Please do as I have requested.”

Frowning, the official wrung his hands but obeyed, ushering her through the doors despite a protest from a foreign dignitary who evidently had been waiting these past two hours for some of Lord Meaclan's time. Pheresa regretted the necessity for rudeness in cutting past him, but her business could not wait. Pheresa had just learned that her mother had written to Verence, requesting permission to take Pheresa home.

Home,
Pheresa thought with scorn.
Yes, and then Mama will hand me to the church for cloistering.

Her home was Savroix, and she intended to stay.

She was shown into a rather plain antechamber, fitted with two hard benches and a small window that permitted scant illumination. The official vanished, and Pheresa's attendants began to giggle and whisper behind her until she quelled them with a swift glance. She seated herself with more pretense of patience than she actually felt, and knew that within minutes the news of her presence here would fly through the court.

Worry fluttered inside her heart, and she swallowed hard.
I must make this work,
she thought to herself. She was here only because no one suspected she would attempt so bold a move. She would not be allowed another such opportunity.

Her wait seemed endless, but lasted perhaps half an hour before the door opened and a servant in dark livery permitted her to enter the office beyond.

It was a room designed for work, not ostentation. Two large tables of stout oak filled most of the available space. A
bench ran along one wall beneath windows overlooking the stableyard. Papers and scrolls were stacked everywhere, and a shelf held map cases and inkpots.

For a moment Pheresa had the feeling she'd made a mistake, but then Lord Meaclan rose from his chair behind the largest table and bowed to her. He was a middle-aged man of small stature and lean girth. His graying hair curled about his cheekbones, and he sported a narrow, neatly trimmed beard. His clothing was impeccable, richly patterned and fashionable without being too much the dandy. His dark, astute eyes swept over her with a blink of admiration, and she knew then that her instincts had been correct after all. Whether she could afford it or not, she must look the part she wanted, if ever she was to have it.

“Lady Pheresa,” he said, his voice deep and cultured. He bowed to her and directed his servant to offer her a chair equal in comfort to his own. When she was seated, her magnificent skirts spread out around her, the servant was dismissed, and her own ladies were left, giggling and craning their necks, in the antechamber. The door closed firmly, and she and Lord Meaclan were alone.

He came around his desk to bow over her hand. “You surprise me by this unexpected visit. Indeed, this office is hardly the proper setting for such a resplendent lady of high rank and fashion. Have you not received my reply to your letter of inquiry?”

“Yes, my lord,” she replied. Her mouth was quite dry, but she managed to keep her voice clear and even. She knew how important it was to hide her nerves. “It was most kind of you to grant me an interview in the public rooms ten days from now. Unfortunately, I lack the leisure to keep such an appointment.”

His expression remained bland and courteous, but she saw the flicker of impatience in his dark eyes. “I am a busy man, my lady, and you—”

“In ten days I am likely to be ousted from my place at court and gone forever,” she said swiftly, deciding to lay everything before him.

“You surprise me.”

“I doubt that I do. You are minister of finance. You know everything that goes on at court. You know what's at stake now.”

Lord Meaclan went back to his desk and sat down. He said nothing.

She sent him a tiny smile. “I have come to you for help.”

Impatience flickered again in his eyes. This time, he did not attempt to hide it. “You wish a loan, my lady?”

Her hands curled into fists, which she kept in her lap. “My lord, let us not waste time with foolery. I seek to be named Heir to the Realm. I believe I can attain the king's favorable decision in time, but I need—”

“My lady, I am not in his majesty's confidence regarding these matters.”

She met his eyes with some anger. She did not like his patronizing air or his habit of interrupting her. “I guessed as much,” she said tartly. “That is why I am informing you of the particulars.”

Lord Meaclan frowned. “My area is finance, not—”

“I have enemies, my lord, people who do not wish me to succeed my uncle.”

“Ah.”

She drew a deep breath and forced herself to make her request although by now she believed it would be futile. “I need allies, my lord. Strong ones, or I shall not survive court intrigue.”

He said nothing, merely steepling his fingers together and studying her over the top of them. She endured the evaluation with outward composure, but inside she hated such scrutiny.
Someday,
she promised herself,
people will not look at me with such doubt.

“I have gambled in coming to you,” she continued, “for you may have already chosen to support a different candidate, as Lord Fillem has.”

“Lord Fillem is old-fashioned. He believes a man should sit on the throne. There's a remote cousin from the southeast, I believe.”

“Yes,” she said. “Lervan. I have never met him, but I am more closely related to the king than he.”

“Not as closely as your mother.”

Pheresa frowned. “Her claim is illegal. I do not think the king will alter the law in her favor.”

“It seems improbable.”

“I would like your support,” she said again. “You know we can help each other if I am successful.”

Lord Meaclan allowed himself a very small smile. “And your ladyship thinks I am powerful enough to ensure your success?”

“I know you to have his majesty's ear. I also know that you have tremendous influence within the court. Your position ensures that, of course, since you control the royal purse strings—”

“Manage, my lady. I manage them. I do not control them.”

She inclined her head. “Very well. You have that advantage, and your influence extends beyond Mandria's borders.” She drew in a deep breath. “If you support me, others will follow your lead. I have the love of the people. I require alliance with at least some of my uncle's ministers.”

“Well, that is plain enough. Let us consider a few other points, my lady.”

“Yes?”

“The church should favor your candidacy, yet it does not. I wonder why?”

She met his gaze without evasion. “If you say the church should favor me because I am a woman, and therefore weak or easily influenced or controlled, 'tis not the case. I think certain officials fear I would be too popular to be controlled. My miraculous cure and my contact with the Chalice are matters of unnecessary ecclesiastical concern.”

“Have you acquired magical powers, my lady?”

“No.”

“A pity. You could then sweep your detractors aside.”

She frowned. “I did not come here for your derision, my lord!”

“I spoke quite in earnest, my lady.”

Believing he was toying with her, she was tempted to depart. Instead, she tried to control her temper and stayed put. “I, too, am in earnest, my lord,” she said. “What is necessary to convince you?”

“Last year you arrived at court a wide-eyed innocent, if I may say so, my lady. To be blunt, you did not take. A timid mouse, I believe some called you. Many laughed at your attempts to catch the prince's eye.”

Pheresa's anger raged, but she held it with an iron hand. “I was laughed at,” she agreed evenly, “but in the end I was betrothed to Prince Gavril. I did not flirt or compromise myself in the wilder excesses of my uncle's court, because I believe in morals whether they are fashionable or not. I was poisoned, yet I lived. I was held hostage in Nether and nearly murdered, yet I have returned. It is a mistake, my lord, to underestimate me. In all that truly matters, I am not lacking.”

He pursed his lips and tapped his fingertips together. “And what would you offer me, my lady, in exchange for this alliance?”

Her heart leaped in hope although she tried to check it since he could still refuse. Her first thought was to ask him what he wanted, yet with sudden insight she knew that would be a fatal mistake.

“I offer you the continued favor of the monarch,” she began.

He frowned with a dismissive gesture. “My lady, that's hardly—”

“Allow me to finish, Lord Meaclan,” she interrupted sharply.