Better for a hot soak, Sabrino changed into a fresh uniform, one that didn’t bear the effluvium of dragon. Then, after a last nod to his wife, he caught a ley-line caravan for Palace Square, the power point--in more ways than one--at the heart ofTrapani.
Walking into the palace, he felt a curious sense of diminution. Anywhere else in the kingdom and he, a count and a colonel, was a presence of considerable consequence. In the building that housed the king, though ... The servitors gave him precisely measured bows, less than they would have given were he a marquis, much less than they would have given were he a duke.
“His Majesty is not receiving at present,” a gorgeously dressed fellow informed Sabrino. “A reception is planned for later this evening, however. Is your name on the list of invited guests, your Excellency?”
“Not likely, since I was in combat in Unkerlant till day before yesterday, but I’ll be there anyway,” Sabrino answered.
Had the palace official argued with him, Sabrino would have drawn the sword that was for the most part only a ceremonial weapon. But the man nodded, saying, “His Majesty is always pleased to greet members of the nobility who have distinguished themselves in action. If you will please give me your name ...”
Sabrino did, wondering how pleased King Mezentio would be to greet him.
He’d roused the king’s ire by trying to talk him out of slaughtering Kaunian captives to power sorcery against the Unkerlanters. Mezentio had been sure that would win the war. It hadn’t. No king was fond of meeting subjects who could say, “I told you so.”
But there were other things Sabrino wanted to tell Mezentio. And so he nodded his thanks to the splendid flunky and then left the palace to sup and drink a couple of glasses of wine before returning. When he came back, he wondered if the servitor had just been getting rid of him. But no: now his name was on the list of Mezentio’s guests. A serving woman whose kilt barely covered her buttocks led him to the chamber where the king was receiving. He enjoyed following her more than he expected to enjoy talking with his sovereign.
Flutes and viols and a tinkling clavichord wove an intricate net of sound as background to the gathering. Sabrino nodded approval as he headed over to get a glass of wine. No strident thumpings here. However civilized the Kaunians claimed to be, he couldn’t stand their music.
Goblet in hand, he circulated through the building crowd, bowing to and being bowed to by the other men, bowing to and receiving curtsies from the women. He wouldn’t have minded receiving more than a curtsy from some of them, but that would have to wait on events: and besides, he hadn’t called on Fronesia yet.
King Mezentio seemed in good spirits. His smile didn’t falter as Sabrino bowed low before him. “I greet you, my lord Count,” he said with nothing but courtesy in his voice. But then, he was Sabrino’s age or older; he’d had plenty of time to learn to hide what he thought behind a mask of policy.
“I am very pleased to greet you, your Majesty, though only briefly and in passing, as it were,” Sabrino replied, bowing again.
“Briefly, eh?” Mezentio said. He planned Algarve’s grand strategy; he didn’t keep in mind where every colonel commanding a wing of dragons was going.
“Aye,” Sabrino said. “My men and I are ordered across the Narrow Sea to help the Yaninans in their fight with Lagoas. If your Majesty will pardon my frankness, I think we could do better fighting the Unkerlanters.”
“I have pardoned your frankness before,” Mezentio said, now with an edge to his voice--no, he hadn’t forgotten their disagreement in Unkerlant. “But I will also say that, unless we keep the cinnabar that comes from the land of the Ice People, your dragons will have a harder time fighting anyone.”
Stubbornly, Sabrino said, “There’s also cinnabar in the south of Unkerlant, across the Narrow Sea from the austral continent.”
“And I intend to go after it this summer, too,” the king answered. “But I also intend to keep what I already have, and to do that I have to prop up the Yaninans on the other side of the sea.” He sighed. “Since I see none in attendance here this very evening, I can tell you the truth: being allied to them is like being shackled to a corpse.”
Any joke a king made was funny by virtue of his rank. This one actually amused Sabrino. Bowing once more, he said, “Very well, your Majesty. My men and I will do what we can to keep the corpse breathing a little longer.” That, in turn, made Mezentio laugh--and when the king laughed, everyone around him laughed, too.
Sixteen
Marshal Rathar gnawed on chewy barley bread and knocked back a slug of raw spirits that made his hair try to stand on end under his fur cap. The campfire by which he sat sent a plume of black smoke
