“No. Let Morel have the Old Temple. All I ask is that you keep him there. Right now, there are more important matters: let’s see what happens with Commandant ca’Talin at Villembouchure. When we know how he’s fared, we can decide what must be done with Morel. Just keep him there, snared in a hole of his own making. Can you do that much, A’Offizier?”
Ci’Santiago flushed and nodded quickly. “Is there an answer I should send to Morel?” he asked.
“I think that the lack of an answer will be all the answer he needs,” she said. “That is all I require of you for the moment, A’Offizier. Please send in Talbot on your way out…”
Ci’Santiago saluted her and spun on the balls of his feet. She watched him leave, glancing at the portrait of Marguerite as he closed the door. “I’m sorry,” she told the stern face in the painting. “I’m sorry I ever thought it would be easy to be on the Sun Throne. Every day, I appreciate what you accomplished all the more.”
Kraljiki Audric might have thought that the painting of his great-matarh could speak and respond, but it did nothing for Allesandra. Kraljica Marguerite only stared at her, frowning and eternally stern.
“If you don’t act, the people will start to think you weak.” The voice came from the direction of her bedroom. The door had opened and she saw Erik there, dressed in one of the robes she’d had Talbot bring up for him.
“I know,” she told him. She tried to keep the sudden annoyance she felt out of her voice: at the tone of his voice, at the nonchalant and confident way he leaned against the doorway. Something about his demeanor gigged her; she told herself that it was because of the news, because of ci’Santiago’s uselessness and cu’Ingres’ incompetence and ca’Paim’s death. “And I will act,” she finished.
“Let me talk to this ci’Santiago,” Erik continued. He pushed off from the wall, coming toward her with his arms opened. She allowed his embrace but did not return it. His voice was a low growl in her ear, his Magyarian accent more pronounced than usual. “Or give me command of the Garde Kralji in his place. I have experience commanding an army, my love. I can tell them how to take down this Morel. Let me help you, Allesandra, as you have helped me.”
I have seen your vatarh command his army, and I have watched him go down to defeat… She did not say that. Instead, she allowed herself to relax in his arms. “Talk to him if you’d like,” she told him. “Tell him that I’ve asked you to consult for me. But do nothing without telling me first.”
He kissed the top of her head. “I will do that. Immediately.” He kissed her again and released her, striding quickly toward the bedroom. He paused there a moment, looking back at her. “We make good allies, you and I,” he said. “Perhaps even of the more permanent variety, eh? We don’t need the damned Firenzcians.”
It did not seem to occur to him that she herself was Firenzcian. He left the room. She could hear him dressing, humming some Magyarian folk tune.
He was right, she knew. She had to act, and forcefully. But the prospect did not please her.
Nor, at the moment, she was afraid, did Erik.
Rochelle Botelli
The encampment was loud, dirty, and malodorous. It stank of horses, mud, men, and fires; it boomed with orders, curses, laughter, and a seemingly eternal hammering of smithies. The tents of the Firenzcian army covered a rolling field not far from the Nessantican border town of Ville Colhelm. The field might once have been lush and beautiful, dappled with grass and wildflowers. Now it was a muddy, torn mess rutted with makeshift lanes between the canvas ramparts of a portable city. It was impossible to stay clean here. Just walking to the kitchen tents caked Rochelle’s legs halfway to the knee. A midden had been set up downwind of the encampment, but on still days, one could catch the odor of rot and filth.
The soldiers themselves grumbled about the inaction, fretting over their wait while the offiziers endeavored to keep them busy with maneuvers, with drills and meetings, and with keeping their equipment in order.
But there was tension in the air. They knew that they might be going to war at any moment, and that made everyone here nervous and short-tempered. There was no escaping the foul mood of the soldiers, the chevarittai, or the royal family.
The Hirzg and Hirzgin’s quarters were commodious and luxurious, comparatively. There, the muddy ground was covered by rugs, the furniture had been carted from Stag Fall, and paintings were hung on the walls of the several tents which, together, made a traveling “palais” for them. There was a pretense that the royal couple were simply at yet another of their estates-at least for the moment-and the usual routine should be followed despite the circumstances. The small personal staff, under Paulus’ relentless and tedious direction, brought in meals and refreshments, made certain that the tables and chairs were stable despite the rather uneven ground underneath, and that the worst of the mess stayed outside the tents.
The staff was nearly as unhappy as the soldiers. Keeping up the pretense was far harder work than actually being at the palais.
Rochelle grumbled with the rest of them because she knew it was expected, but her efforts were half- hearted. True, she could not avoid Hirzgin Brie and her suspicious glances, but here the Hirzgin could hardly fault Rochelle for being around Jan. Her vatarh, for his part, seemed to take a renewed interest in her. He would nod to her if she passed him among the tents, and she often caught him glancing her way as she served the two and their guests-usually Starkkapitan ca’Damont and others of the high-ranking offiziers, as well as the occasional adviser from Brezno.
She hated that. She hated that Hirzgin Brie invariably noticed, and that it obviously bothered her.
As within the palais, though, she tried to avoid being alone with him. Part of that was the memory of what had happened at Brezno Palais, part of that was to avoid Brie hearing of it and sending Rochelle away. The conflict tore at her. Rochelle wanted to be with Jan, wanted contact with the man who had given her life, yet she was certain that if he knew the truth, if somehow she blurted it out to him, he would deny it. He would be angry. He would want nothing to do with her.
She knew that her matarh’s advice had been right, that she should never have sought him out, yet, knowing that she should leave, she still stayed.
They had been there nearly four days already when Paulus handed Rochelle a sealed letter that had just arrived by fast-rider. “Take this to the Hirzg,” he told her. “I have to deal with a crisis in the kitchens.”
“But you’re the chief aide. Aide ci’Lawli would have taken it himself…” Rochelle started to protest. But Paulus cut her off.
“I don’t care what you think, girl,” he snapped. “Just do it.”
Rochelle bowed as required, and hurried to the Hirzg’s tents.
The servant stationed at the door to the series of royal tents, set somewhat apart from the others, told her that Hirzg Jan was in his “private office,” a tent set in the middle of the complex. “And the Hirzgin?” Rochelle asked.
The man shrugged. “Starkkapitan ca’Damnot invited her to oversee today’s maneuvers down near the river. Said that the men would perform better if they knew she was watching.”
Rochelle nodded and hurried past him. The hubbub of the rest of the encampment was muffled and distantsounding here. She moved through the “rooms” of the palais, seeing no one else about. Rochelle tapped at the board hung by the flap, then went in at Jan’s muttered “Enter.”
He was alone. She noted that immediately. The “office” tent was small, with room for only two or three people. He was seated behind a traveling desk that took up much of the available space, the front painted with ornate battle scenes. Papers and maps were scattered over it, and Jan was poring over them with one hand cupping his forehead. Rochelle thought that he looked worried. “A message from a fast-rider, my Hirzg,” she said, curtsying and handing him the sealed parchment as he stood up. Jan glanced at it. He gave her a smile.
“Kraljica Allesandra’s seal,” he said. “Wonder what she has to say, eh?” He let the missive fall to the desk as he came around the side. “The rider gave this to you rather than Paulus?”
Rochelle shook her head. He was an arm’s length from her. She could smell the cologne Paulus had put on Jan’s bashta this morning. She lowered her eyes, staring at the tapestry that covered the grass. There were mud tracks from Jan’s boots, smearing across a mountain meadow in which a unicorn pranced-a rug she might well have to clean this evening. The beast’s crown seemed to spear a clump of the mud. Rochelle found herself wondering- strangely-if the mud would come out of the tapestry or if the fibers were to be eternally stained. “Paulus gave the
