“I’d rather the heat and Iversly, Your Majesty, no matter how cool Freston may be,” a man standing on the other side of the throne said. His blue eyes rested on me, derisive in an otherwise open, pleasant face. “Such a small, mountainous town.”
Looking more fully at him, I realized he was the same person I’d seen on the palace steps that morning. Up close he appeared much as he had from a distance, of middling height and build. The candlelight picked out the silver in his hair and the splendor of his raiment. Jewels sparkled on his fingers and on the lapel of his coat, all in blazing contrast to the austerely dressed king. Then he turned his head to King Jusson, and I blinked, once more startled at his resemblance to Slevoic.
I hesitated for a heartbeat; then the thought came to me that as Jusson claimed me as cousin, I either equalled or outranked everyone else in the room, no matter how comfortable they felt about horning in on the king’s conversation (the words sounded an awful lot like Suiden). I shrugged at the man. “You forget, gracious sir, that I come from an even more provincial place—a Border farm. To me, Freston is a big city, full of riotous living.” I smiled. “And I like the mountains.”
The king laughed again. “No, not an idiot at all.” His black eyes gleamed at me. “We will talk again, cousin.” He nodded at Laurel. “As we will also, Ambassador. We have spoken with Chancellor Berle about our meeting and are looking forward to it.”
Laurel bowed. “Thank you, Your Majesty.”
“You’re very welcome. But for tonight, please enjoy our hospitality.” King Jusson nodded again and his attention shifted to the party behind us. Dismissed, we made our way back into the main reception hall.
“Well, we survived,” Javes remarked. “Though for a moment it was close.” He snagged a glass from a passing server’s tray and took a sip. “Nice recovery, Rabbit.”
The server offered us glasses also and I took one, looking at the pale amber liquid with tiny bubbles floating up. “Ale?”
“No, sparkling wine,” Suiden said. He gave me a cool look, and I knew that I’d hear later about woolgathering while in the presence of royalty.
Laurel took a cautious sip and delicately sneezed. “My goodness.” He gave a discreet lick of his whiskers and took another, bigger sip.
“Careful, Ambassador,” Javes said. “The bubbles make it light on the tongue but potent in the blood.” I took a sip myself and was startled at the effervescence. I allowed it to linger before swallowing and taking another mouthful. Javes smiled. “We’d better get some food in you both before you both become fall-down drunk, what?” He led us over to where long tables were set up against one wall, next to where the musicians were playing.
“Sirs, who was that man next to the king?” I asked, taking another sip.
Suiden waited until we reached the food tables. “Lord Gherat of Dru.” His voice was barely audible over the music.
I lowered my glass. “Losan eso Dru’s father?”
Javes picked up a plate, turning away from the crowded hall. “No. She’s a distant cousin.” He shrugged as he began to fill his plate. “Nepotism is alive and well, Rabbit. Gherat is Lord Treasurer and Chancellor of Financial Affairs and Revenue. All taxation, all domestic trade policies, all government accounting—except for the Royal Army—issue from, cross, or end up in his hands. He is a very powerful man.” He was also a man sure enough of himself to intrude into a king’s conversation without invitation. And even more sure enough to denigrate someone whom the king welcomed with favor.
“Lieutenant Slevoic is Gherat’s close kinsman,” Suiden said, “as is Commander Loel of the Royal Garrison. They’re all of the House of Dru.” I blinked at my captain, surprised. Then, remembering Gherat’s startling likeness to Slevoic, I wasn’t so surprised. They even had the same look of derision in the same blue eyes. Thinking on Slevoic’s easy access to the throne, the gray apathy began to weigh down on me again, and I drank the rest of my wine, feeling it bubble down my throat.
“You’ve had a series of shocks, Lieutenant,” Javes said in my ear, “but you better get over them fast.” I turned and stared at the captain. There wasn’t anything silly about his expression.
“One blunder will be overlooked, no matter that it happened before the king. Especially since you made such a swift recovery. But if you want to stay reasonably whole, I suggest that you pay attention.” His eyes shifted off to the side and snapped back to my face. “Your uncle, Lord Chause, has deigned to recognize you and is coming this way.”
“It appears that your Flavan cousins have also decided to welcome you into the fold,” Suiden said, facing another direction. He barely wetted his lips with his wine.
“And please forgive my presumption, Your Highness,” Laurel said, “but is that your cousin the ambassador?”
“Nothing like a king’s favor to work wonders for one’s social life,” Javes said. He thrust his full plate into my hand. “Here, try to soak up some of that wine you just guzzled.” I looked down. Stuffed eggs, stuffed mushrooms, stuffed grape leaves. Different cheeses. And fish eggs on crackers. With a wedge of lemon. I popped a mushroom into my mouth and chewed, swallowing just as the Turalian ambassador reached us.
“Good evening, gracious sirs.” The man bowed, an elaborate affair with arms and hands waving, his top-knotted braid’s beads clicking together. “Your Highness.”
Suiden took another, bigger sip of his wine, and sighed. “Stow it, Kenalt.”
The grayness receded fast again, as there was nothing like a family row to enliven a gathering. Then I remembered what had happened earlier when Suiden was inclined to squabble, and eased a couple of steps away. But the Turalian ambassador came out of his bow grinning.
“Ah, cousin, it gladdens my heart to see that Freston hasn’t dulled your wit.” His brown eyes danced. “Aren’t you going to introduce me to your companions?”
“Ambassador Laurel, Captain Javes, and Lieutenant Lord Rabbit ibn Chause e Flavan.” Suiden waved a hand at his cousin. “The Amir of Tural’s eldest son, Ambassador Sro Kenalt.” I bowed with the others, puzzled that the ambassador wasn’t a prince.
“The royal line in Tural flows through the women, Lieutenant, mainly the amir’s sisters’ sons.” Suiden took another gulp of wine.
It was Kenalt’s turn to look briefly puzzled; then he shrugged. “Yes, as the wise man said, ‘At least you know who the mother is.’ ” He grinned again, his clan markings crinkling in his dark face.
Though accused time and again of being a peacock, looking at Sro Kenalt I realized that I was an amateur. I took in his red and green silk runic echoing the crystal beads in his hair, his thin overcoat of black silk matching his black pants that stopped midcalf, the gold ankle chain above sandaled feet, and opened my mouth to ask who his tailor was.
“Grace to you, messirs.” We turned at the voice coming over my shoulder.
I had expected my da’s people to look like him, as my ma’s family would look like her. And while there was a strong resemblance between Lord Maceal of Chause and his youngest brother, he must’ve looked exactly like his own father, my grandda, because, as I turned, I saw my mirror image, aged a few decades. His dark hair was streaked with gray, deep lines bracketed his aristocratic nose on his thin face and creased his high forehead, his brown eyes were as world-weary as (so everyone said) my own oozed naivete, his frame just a little thicker than mine. “Good evening, Rabbit.” He looked over the rest of my group and bowed. “Your Highness, Ambassador Sro Kenalt—and, Captain Javes, is it?” A server walked by with a tray of sparkling wine and Lord Chause paused to take a glass, then a sip. “Ambassador Laurel,” he finally said with a nod.