Princeps

room that had once been graced by Tyrena, who had been Khanara in fact, if not in name. There the ceramic stove radiated a comforting warmth.

Quaeryt seated Vaelora on one side of the table, then took his place to her left, at the end of the table, where Vaelora had insisted he belonged from the very first day of their marriage. In moments, a ranker in a winter-green uniform appeared with a teapot, a basket of warm dark bread, and a platter on which were cheese omelets and fried potatoes-exactly the same fare as in the officers’ mess, if served on porcelain, and if not quite so warm.

Quaeryt poured her tea, then his. “I do enjoy breakfast with you.”

“As opposed to dinner?” She raised her eyebrows.

“No. As well as dinner.” He grinned, enjoying the game, holding the platter so that she could serve herself.

“What will you do today?”

“What I do every day. I have a meeting at eighth glass with Cohausyt-”

“He’s the one with the sawmills who wants to pay to harvest timber on the lands Bhayar got from the rebel hill holders?”

“That’s the one. I put him off because I needed to find out what finished timber and planking goes for in Tilbora.”

“Did you?”

Quaeryt snorted. “In a way. I ended up finding out what the carpenters and cabinetmakers pay for wood. I had to work backward from that. Later, I have to meet with Raurem-he’s a produce and grain factor-to see if he can supply grain cakes for the regiments.” After eating several mouthfuls, and taking a swallow of the tea, he asked, “How are your plans coming for the spring reception?”

“Madame Straesyr has been somewhat helpful … as has Eluisa D’Taelmyn.”

Eluisa D’Taelmyn? Then Quaeryt realized she was talking about Rescalyn’s mistress, the Bovarian High Holder’s daughter the former governor had introduced as Mistress Eluisa. “She’s still here? I thought she had never married.”

“That’s her father’s name. He’s one of the lesser Bovarian High Holders. She has nowhere else to go, and Emra begged her husband to let her stay and teach their children singing and how to play the clavecin.”

“I heard her play once.”

“You told me. So did she. You upset her, you know?”

“I had that feeling. I was trying to see if Kharst was as terrible as they say.”

“He’s worse, according to Eluisa.”

Quaeryt wasn’t about to pursue that subject. “From your tone, I take it that neither one has been that helpful.”

“They’re really only interested in the wives of High Holders, not the wives of factors.”

Quaeryt wanted to shake his head. “How are your writings coming?”

“I write some every day.” She smiled. “The palace library has so many wonderful books.”

“I know. I even read parts of some of them.”

“You did mention that.” Vaelora took a sip of tea. “I wish this were hotter.”

“They have to carry it up from the kitchen.”

“I know. What do you think she was like?”

“Who?” Quaeryt had no idea to whom his wife was referring.

“Tyrena. The Khanara who wasn’t. You told me about those few scraps of paper you found with her writing.”

“She was too strong in a situation where there were no intelligent men to marry and manipulate.”

“Are you suggesting…?”

“Me?” Quaeryt laughed. “All men react to women. All women react to men. Intelligent men and women react intelligently.” Usually, but not always, unfortunately. “From all the documents I’ve read, none of the men in power after her father fell too ill to understand were intelligent enough to listen to her. Probably the only man in Telaryn who might have been was your brother, and he’s much better off with Aelina.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because you said that, and you know them both far better than I do.” He swallowed the last of his omelet, and the remainder of his tea. “I need to go.” He stood, then moved beside her chair, bent and kissed her neck. After a long moment, he straightened.

“Remember,” she said, “make the factors explain. In detail.”

Quaeryt smiled. “Yes, dearest.”

“You’re close to disrespecting me.” Her tone was bantering.

“Close doesn’t count.” Except in bed.

“I know what you’re thinking.”

He managed not to blush. “I’ll see you later.”

After leaving the third-level apartments, he made his way down the circular staircase to the second level, and then to the princeps’s anteroom and the study beyond. After almost a month and a half as Princeps of Tilbor, he was still slightly amazed when he walked into the study, although the view to the northern walls and the hills beyond was largely blocked in winter by the mostly closed shutters and hangings.

Princeps or not, he still met with Straesyr at the seventh glass of the morning every Lundi, and once he had checked with Vhorym, the squad leader who was his assistant, he walked back across the second level to the governor’s chambers.

“He’s waiting for you, sir,” offered Undercaptain Caermyt from his table desk in the anteroom.

“Thank you.”

Quaeryt closed the study door behind himself and took one of the seats in front of Straesyr’s wide table desk. “Good morning.” He spoke in Tellan, because that was the language used normally by the military-although officers were strongly encouraged to learn Bovarian, and failure to do so was usually a bar to promotion above captain.

“I have to say that you’re much more cheerful these days,” offered the governor, squaring his broad shoulders and running a large hand through still-thick silvered blond hair, as he straightened in his chair and pushed a map to one side.

“No one’s fighting or attacking, and the winter storms haven’t been that bad.” Quaeryt laughed ironically. “That’s according to the locals. I’ve never seen so much snow and ice in my life, and they’re saying it’s not so bad as it often has been.”

“You read Lord Bhayar’s last dispatch, I take it.”

That was a rhetorical nicety. Straesyr routed all dispatches to Quaeryt. Quaeryt, in turn, made sure that the few letters and dispatches, other than those of a personal nature, that came to him also went to Straesyr. “I did.”

“Once the roads to the south are clear, he’s ordered First Regiment to depart and take the route from Bhorael to Cloisonyt and from there to Solis.”

“And from there,” said Quaeryt dryly, “Bhayar will post them either to Lucayl or Ferravyl.”

“Ferravyl’s the greater danger,” said the governor mildly.

“But, if Bhayar can determine how to conquer Antiago, that offers an opportunity to obtain greater resources and to deny them to Kharst. Not to mention the fact that Bhayar has never felt that Autarch Aliaro treated Chaerila with the respect she deserved.” Which is why you worry about his notes mentioning “respect.”

“Chaerila?” Straesyr’s silver-blond eyebrows lifted.

“His oldest sister. She died in childbirth. According to Aliaro, her daughter died also. The daughter’s death was mentioned as an afterthought.”

“Did the Autarch express profound sympathy? Do you know?”

“I gained the impression that the sympathy was slightly more than perfunctory.”

Straesyr shook his head. “Has Lord Bhayar conveyed anything … personally … to you?”

“Outside of brotherly missives to Vaelora and two rather short and polite notes reminding me to respect her at all times, I have heard nothing since the wedding.” He paused, then asked, “How do Myskyl and Skarpa feel