She shook her head. She regretted nothing she had done, or planned to do.
She sipped the last of her tea, put the cup down on the table, tugged her cloak closer, and went out. The next step of her plan was in Falk’s hands, though he didn’t know it. When he “dealt with” Verdsmitt, arresting him at the Palace, he would be doing exactly what he was supposed to.
Mother Northwind smiled as she stepped out of the front door of the manor into the cold embrace of the still wintry air. She had only been inside Falk’s head that once, when, as Healer Makala in the Palace, she had learned of his Plan. She had never manipulated his thoughts as he wanted her to manipulate Anton’s. And yet off he would go this very day to do exactly what she wanted and needed him to do.
Mother Northwind found that very satisfying indeed.
CHAPTER 10
Prince Karl spent the afternoon before Davydd Verdsmitt’s much-anticipated premiere in a boring meeting of the King’s Council-although using “boring” to describe a meeting of the King’s Council was redundant.
Still, this one was even more boring than most, due in part to the absence of Lord Falk, who had not yet returned from his manor, though he had passed word to the Council through his secretary, Brich, that he “anticipated with delight the prospect of being in the audience” that evening.
Karl had had some hope that the meeting might be livelier than most due to the attempt on his life just three days before, and had looked forward to Falk’s report on his investigation into it, but with Falk absent, the matter was simply deferred and he was left slumped in the magnificently carved, richly upholstered, and hideously uncomfortable throne that was his reserved seat at the table, feeling his buttocks going numb and wishing that, just once, King Kravon would attend his own King’s Council meeting in his own Royal Person.
But that, alas, was about as likely as a bald eagle erupting from his blood-starved butt and warbling a popular pub tune.
When he had seated himself, he had given the usual fiction about the King being indisposed, when he knew very well, as did every member of the Council, that the King was at that moment sleeping off a hangover in his massive bedchamber high in the central tower of the palace, probably in the embrace of some beardless youth who might, if pressed, give the lie to the King’s reputation for being omnipotent. .. or potent at all.
Prince Karl tasted the bitterness of his own thoughts and felt ashamed. He’s my father, he thought.
Sometimes that unpleasant realization frightened him. When he became King, would he take after the old man?
We’re nothing alike, he told himself vehemently. We don’t look alike, we don’t think alike, we don’t act alike.
Which he supposed meant he took after his mother… but there was no way to know for certain, since she had died when he was born.
In the past, he had given tours of the Great Hall to groups of Commoner children from New Cabora, a task he enjoyed, because it represented a break from monotony, and at least some connection with the majority of the Kingdom that did not breathe the rarified, stultified air of the Palace. (He had been scheduled to give such a tour that very morning, but with Falk currently suspecting Commoners of having attempted to kill him, all such visits had been canceled.) He always envied the children, staring wide-eyed at everything he showed them, awed that the Heir to the King was personally conducting their tour. They might be Commoners, forced to live a life of drudgery without the comforts provided by magic, but they each had parents who loved them and cared what happened to them, and in that respect they were richer than he had ever been or ever could be.
Instead of a parent, he had been taught by a series of tutors, including Tagaza. Tagaza was closer to a father to him than his own: or perhaps Tagaza was more like his mother, and Falk his father, ready to correct and discipline as required. Although now that he was past eighteen, Falk’s authority no longer seemed as absolute as he had once thought it. He was the Heir, after all, and would be King.
I will be King, he reminded himself again that morning. But for now, he was just the Heir Apparent, and so, even though he had the grandest chair in the Council chamber and represented the Crown, he wasn’t permitted to speak. He was expected simply to listen and learn-though mostly what he learned was that it was a miracle the Kingdom operated at all, and had not long since devolved into squabbling satrapies.
The Council did not meet in the vast and echoing Great Hall, though the heavy oak doors Karl now faced opened into it. Instead, it met in this much smaller chamber, as close to utilitarian as any room in the Palace could be. Karl had long since exhausted every possible bit of interest to be gleaned from the examination of the meager furnishings: plain marble walls, plain marble floor, long wooden table, plain wooden chairs (except his, unfortunately). Instead, he studied the five Councillors. Of course, he’d examined them in minute detail multiple times as well, but this time, as he studied the Councillors, he found himself wondering if any of those who sat with him at the oval table could have been behind the assassination attempt.
Lord Athol, Prime Adviser to King Kravon, sat at the opposite end of the table from Karl, chairing the meeting as always. Enormously tall and enormously fat, he took up the space allotted to any two normal people, and it sometimes seemed to Karl that his bristling gray-streaked black beard took up the space of a third.
The fact the Kingdom managed so well without any significant input from its King was a tribute to Athol’s effectiveness. But Karl had never warmed to the man, who seemed to regard him as a child who couldn’t be trusted with anything important. Still, that very disdain argued against him having any reason to attempt to kill the Prince.
Lady Estra, the King’s Purse, sat to Athol’s right. She was a little on the small side, which made her look positively elfin next to Athol, though there was nothing elfin about her habitually sour expression, as pinched as though she had just bitten into an unripe crabapple. Perhaps it was being in charge of the Kingdom’s finances that gave her that expression; the previous King’s Purse, an elderly man who had died when Karl was a small boy, had had a similar look about him and used to terrify Karl whenever they crossed paths.
To Estra’s right, Karl’s immediate left, sat Lady Vin. Tall and thin, she had a natural expression that also tended toward the dour-though not as dour as Estra’s-but one she made up for with a ready, radiant smile that took twenty years off her age and made it impossible for Karl not to smile back.
As Goodskeeper, Lady Vin was responsible for agriculture and internal trade. She awarded the government contracts on which many merchants depended-and for which they were prepared to bribe government officials. Throughout the Kingdom’s history the Goodskeeper’s office had been more or less corrupt, depending on who was running it. At the moment, it tended toward the “more” side of that balance, but nobody seemed to mind because Lady Vin, despite rolling in presumably ill-gotten wealth, was so personally likable and generous.
Across from Lady Vin, to Karl’s right, sat Tagaza. As First Mage, he was responsible for the magical lifeblood of the Kingdom, including maintenance of the Barriers (not that any had ever been required), long-distance communication via magelink (for those Mageborn who could not manage the necessary spell themselves), and, most importantly, the MageFurnace, source of energy for the Lesser Barrier and other magic of the Palace. (He also had responsibility for the Cauldron, the vast lake of molten rock that powered the Great Barrier, but since giant lava lakes tended to look after themselves rather well, in practice that just meant maintaining the road to it and accompanying Falk on the annual trip north to inspect it.)
There was one other member of the Council, but he did not sit at the table with the others. In a corner of the room the Commoner sat at his own small table, papers strewn across it.
He had a name, of course, but it was never spoken. He was just “The Commoner,” the liaison between the Council of MageLords and the Commons. Chosen by lottery every four years, he had given up his personal identity for the duration. It was he who passed on the decisions of the MageLords to the Commons, and he who brought petitions from the Commons to the MageLords.
The Commons had its own Council, a group of twelve men and women chosen, again by magic-guided lottery, from an approved slate of candidates drawn up by the Prime Adviser’s office. The Commons Council had limited powers but was permitted to deal with matters of land ownership, roads and sewer systems, and the like. Anything outside its purview it sent to the MageLords via the Commoner.
Although the Commoner attended all Council meetings, he was magically prevented from saying anything about what he heard in the Council Chamber outside its walls. Within the chamber, he could only speak at specific
