The Charnel Prince Page 11

  The instruments fell silent, and the player acting the king suddenly spoke what seemed to Leoff to be gibberish.

  A sinister figure in black robes with a long, ridiculous goatee ran onto the stage. He fawned up to the queen. He did not sing, but spoke in a theatrical fashion that resembled chant.

  “Let me interpret!” the black-robed figure cried. “Good Queen, your son has proclaimed, in the voice of the saints, that I should be given the whole of the kingdom. That I should be handed the keys to the city, that I should have leave to fondle your—”

  The audience finished his sentence for him in a roar.

  “Our beloved praifec Hespero,” Artwair explained.

  “What’s this!” A group of three men dressed as ministers rushed up, tripping and bumbling into one another. Below them, a chorus began singing,

  Here, here are nobles three

  Who claim the Praifec wrong, you see

  Charles speaks in Fing, not Churchalees,

  And they say that his thoughts are these . . .

  They paused, and the music changed meter, became a rather jolly dance.

  Raise the taxes,

  Draw the gates,

  Bring them damsels, bring them cakes

  War’s a bother

  They don’t see,

  They are nobles foolish three!

  The “nobles” covered their eyes, and the chorus began another verse as they capered around the queen.

  “Our wise and beloved Comven,” Artwair said.

  The queen drew herself up in the midst of this.

  “The Queen implores!” she chanted. “Is there no one to save us in our time of darkness?”

  The chorus then launched into a song of loss and mourning for the queen’s children, while she danced a pavane for the dead, and the other songs came back as counterpoint.

  “Is that the sort of thing you compose?” Artwair asked.

  “Not really,” Leoff murmured, fascinated by the spectacle. “Is that the sort of thing that’s common around here?”

  “The lustspell? Auy, but it’s a thing for the street, you understand. The common folk like it. The aristocracy pretends it doesn’t exist—save when it goes too far in mocking them. Then the players might have a more tragic end to their play.”

  He glanced back at the singers. “We’d best move on.”

  Leoff nodded thoughtfully as Artwair spoke to the driver and the wagon creaked back to life, climbing through steadily wealthier neighborhoods.

  “The people seem to have scant faith in their leaders,” Leoff remarked, reflecting on the content of the tale.

  “Times are hard,” Artwair answered. “William was only a middling good king, but the kingdom was prosperous and at peace, and everyone liked him. Now he’s dead, along with Elseny and Lesbeth, who were truly beloved. The new king, Charles—well, the portrayal you just saw of him was not unfair. He’s a nice enough lad, but saint-touched.

  “Our allies, even Lier, have turned against us, and Hansa threatens war. Demons come from the woodwork, refugees crowd the streets, and the marshwitches all foretell doom. People need a strong leader in times like this, and they don’t have one.” He sighed. “Would that unflattering portrayals of the court were the worst of it, but the guilds are up in arms, and I fear bread riots are not far away. Half the crops withered in the field the night of the purple moon, and the sea catch has been bad.”

  “What of the queen? You said she was strong.”

  “Auy. Strong and beautiful and as distant from her people as the stars. And she’s Lierish, of course. In these times, with Liery making renegade noise, some don’t trust her.”

  Leoff absorbed that. “The news from Broogh won’t make things any better, will it?”

  “Not a bit. But better than if Newland had been drowned.” He clapped Leoff on the shoulder. “Worry not. After what you’ve done, we’ll find you a stipend of some sort.”

  “Oh,” Leoff said. He hadn’t been thinking about his own worries.

  The eyes of Broogh would not let him.

  CHAPTER NINE

  PROPOSALS

  THE VIEW FROM THE throne was a long one, a vista of knifepoints and poison.

  The buttresses of the greater hall rose like the massive, spreading trunks of trees into a pale haze of cold light coming from the high window slits. Above that smoky atmosphere lay another, deeper vault of darkness. Pigeons cooed and fluttered there, for they were impossible to keep out of the vast space, as were the cats that prowled behind the curtains and tapestries in search of them.

  Muriele often wondered how such an immense space could feel so heavy. It was as if—in entering the great bronze valves that were its entrance—one were transported so far beneath the earth that the very air itself became a sort of stone. At the same time, she felt perilously high, as if in stepping through one of the windows, she might find herself falling from a mountaintop.

  It seemed like all the worst of Heaven and Hell were present in the symmetries of the place.

  Her husband—the late King William—had seldom used the great hall, preferring the lesser court for his audiences. It was easier to heat, for one thing, and today the great hall was freezing.

  Let them freeze, Muriele thought of the assembled faces. Let their teeth chatter. Let pigeon shit fall upon their brocades and velvets. Let this place crush them down.

  Examining the people who had gathered before the throne, she hated them all. Someone—probably someone who was out there staring up at her now—had arranged or helped to arrange the murder of her children. Someone out there had killed her husband. Someone out there had left her with this, a life of fear and grief, and as far as she was concerned, it might as well have been all of them.

  Knifepoints and poison. Five hundred people, all wanting something from her, some wanting her very life.

  A few of the latter were easy to spot. There was the pale face of Ambria Gramme, the black lace of mourning on her head, as if she had been the queen and not merely the king’s mistress. There was Ambria’s eldest bastard, Renwald, dressed as a prince might dress. There were Gramme’s three lovers from the Comven, pressed near as if to hold her up above the crowd, blissfully unaware—or perhaps uncaring—that each was cuckold to the other.

  Gramme would kill her in a heartbeat if she thought she could get away with it.

  To Muriele’s left stood Praifec Hespero in his black robes and square hat, hand lifted idly to stroke his narrow goatee, his eyes nearly unblinking as he absorbed each word around him and arranged them in his plans. What did he want? He played the friend, of course, the advocate, but those who had slain her daughters had worn churchly robes. They were said to have been renegade, but how could she take anything for granted?

  And here, just approaching her feet, a new pack of dogs dressed in silk were crouching, peering at her, looking to see if her neck was exposed to their teeth. She wished she could have them killed out of hand, slaughtered like animals and fed to pigs.

  But she could not. Truly, she had few weapons.

  And one of them was her smile.

  So she smiled at the leader of the pack and nodded her head, and to her left, her son on the emperor’s throne copied her by nodding his head, indicating that the dog could rise from his bended knee and bark.

  “Your Majesty,” he said, speaking to her son, “it is pleasing to see you in good health.”

  Charles, the emperor—her son—widened his eyes. “Your cloak is pretty,” he said.

  It was indeed. The archgreft Valamhar af Aradal liked his clothes. The cloak her son so admired was an ivory-and-gold brocade worn over a doublet of sea green that matched the archgreft’s eyes. It did not, however, match his florid pink face with its standing veins or his corpulent form.

  His guard, in black-and-sanguine surcoats, were trimmer but no less garish.

  “Thank you, Your Majesty,” he said in a tone of absolute seriousness, ignoring the snickers, as if that were a perfectly reasonable response fro
m an emperor.

  But she saw the ridicule hiding in his eyes.

  “Queen Mother,” Aradal purred, bowing now to Muriele, “I hope I find you well.”

  “Very well indeed,” Muriele said brightly. “It is always a pleasure to welcome our cousins from Hansa. Please convey my delight at your presence to your sovereign Marcomir.”

  Aradal bowed again. “In that I will not fail. I hope to convey more to him, however.”

  “Indeed,” Muriele said. “You may convey my condolences on the recent death of the Duke of Austrobaurg. I believe the duke was a close friend to His Majesty.”

  Aradal frowned, very briefly, and Muriele watched him closely. Austrobaurg and her husband had died together on the windswept headland of Aenah in some sort of secret meeting. Austrobaurg was a Hansan vassal.

  “That is most gracious, Your Majesty. The whole matter is as puzzling as it is tragic. Austrobaurg will be missed, as shall Emperor William and Prince Robert. I hope—as I know you hope—that the villains behind that atrocity will be brought soon to light.”

  As he said it, he cast a brief glance at Sir Fail de Liery. The corpses on the headland had been riddled by Lierish arrows.

  Sir Fail purpled, but said nothing—which for him showed admirable and nearly unheard-of restraint.

  Muriele sighed, wishing she still had Erren by her side. Erren would have known in an instant whether Aradal was concealing something. To Muriele he sounded sincere.

  “There has been much regrettable loss of life, these past months,” he continued, glancing back at Charles. He bowed. “Your Majesty, I know your time is valuable. I wonder if I might come directly to the point.”

  “So I command,” Charles said, looking slightly aside at Muriele to see if he had spoken properly.

  “Thank you, Your Majesty. As you well know, these are unsettling times in many other ways. Uncanny things walk in the night, terrible prophecies seem to be fulfilled. Tragedy looms everywhere, most terribly for your family.”

  My face is stone, Muriele told herself.

  But even stone would melt if it contained her fury. She didn’t know for certain who had arranged the slaughter of her husband and daughters, but there could be little doubt that Hansa was involved, despite the puzzle of Austrobaurg. Hansan kings had once sat the throne her son now occupied, and they never ceased dreaming of taking it back and placing it once more beneath their buttocks.

  But if there was little doubt of their involvement, there was also little proof. So she did her best to keep her composure, but worried that she was not entirely succeeding.

  “His Majesty sent me here to offer our friendship in these troubled times. We are all one beneath the eyes of the saints. We would hope to put any past unpleasantness behind us.”

  “It is a commendable gesture,” Muriele said.

  “My lord offers more than gesture, milady,” Aradal said. He snapped his fingers, and one of his servants placed a box of polished rosewood in his hands. He bowed, and handed it toward Muriele.

  “Surely that is meant for my son, archgreft,” Muriele said.

  “Present?” Charles mumbled.

  “No, milady. It is for you. A token of affection.”

  “From King Marcomir?” she said. “A married man? Not too affectionate, I should hope.”

  Aradal smiled. “No, milady. It is from his son, Prince Berimund.”

  “Berimund?” She had last seen Berimund when he was five, and it didn’t seem that long ago. “Little Berimund?”

  “The prince is now twenty and three, Queen Mother.”

  “Yes, and so I could easily be his mother,” Muriele said.

  A chuckle went around the court at that. Aradal’s face reddened.

  “Milady—”

  “Dear Aradal, I am only joking,” she said. “Let us see what the prince has sent us.”

  The servant opened the box, revealing an exquisite chatelaine of formed gold set with emeralds. Muriel widened her smile, allowing her teeth to show a bit. “It is exquisite,” she said. “But how can I accept it? I already wear the chatelaine of the house Dare. I cannot wear two.”

  Aradal’s face finally colored a bit. “Your Majesty, let me be frank. The friendship my lord Berimund offers is of the most affectionate sort. He would make you his bride, and one day Queen of Hansa.”

  “Oh, dear,” Muriele said. “More and more generous. When did the prince conceive this great love for me? I am flattered beyond all words. That a woman of my years can excite such passions—” She broke off, knowing that she was only seconds away from saying the words that might start a war. She stopped, and breathed deeply before continuing.

  “The gift is exquisite,” she said. “Yet I fear that my grief is too fresh for me to accept it. If the prince is honest in his intentions, I beg that he give me time to recover before pressing his suit.”

  Aradal bowed, then stepped nearer, lowering his voice. “Majesty,” he whispered, “do not be unwise. You may not believe me, but I not only respected your husband, I liked him. I am only a messenger—I do not set in motion the affairs of state in Hansa. But I know something of your situation here, and it is a tenuous one. In these times, you must look to your security. It is what William would have wanted.”

  Muriele dropped her voice low to match the archgreft’s. “Do not presume to speak for my husband’s ghost,” she said. “He has not been cold for very long. This offer, at this time, is inappropriate. You know that, Aradal. I have told you I will consider it, and I will. That is the best I can do, for the moment.”

  Aradal’s voice dropped still lower, as everyone in the chamber strained to perceive the faint conversation. Muriele felt five hundred gazes needling at her, looking to see what new advantage they might find in this.

  “I agree, lady, that the timing is inopportune,” Aradal admitted. “It is not how I would have chosen to do things. But time is against us all. The world brims with war and treachery. If you will not think of your security, think of your people. With everything that has happened, does Crotheny need a war?”

  Muriele frowned. “Is that a threat, archgreft?”

  “I would never threaten you, lady. I feel nothing but compassion for your situation. But it is not a threat to look at dark clouds and guess that a storm is coming. It is not a threat to council a friend to seek shelter.”

  “You are a friend,” Muriele lied. “I see that. I will consider your council most sincerely, but I cannot, will not give you an answer today.”

  Aradal looked grim, but he nodded. “As you wish, Majesty. But if I were you, Your Highness, I would not delay for long.”

  “You will not delay another second,” Sir Fail de Liery roared, his face so red with fury that his hair might have been a plume of white smoke drifting up from it. “You will tell that puffed-up oyster from Hansa that you utterly reject any overture from his thimble-headed prince.”

  Muriele watched her uncle pace like a chained birsirk for a moment. The court was over, and they were in her private solar, a room as airy and open as the court was cold and hard.

  “I must appear to consider all offers,” she said.

  “No,” he replied, pointing a finger, “that is certainly not true. You cannot contemplate delivering—or even appear to consider delivering—the Kingdom and Empire of Crotheny to Marcomir’s heir.”

  Muriele rolled her eyes. “What heir? Even if I were to marry him, I would still have to produce one. Even if I had a mind to—and I do not—do you honestly think I could, at my age?”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Sir Fail snapped. “There are wheels within wheels turning here. Marrying you gives them the throne in all but name.” He pounded the casement of the window with the heel of his hand. “You must marry Lord Selqui,” he snapped.

  Muriele raised an eyebrow. “Must I?” she said coldly.

  “Yes, you must. It is entirely the best course of action, and I should think you would see that.”

  She rose, her fists balling so tightly that h
er nails cut into her palms. “I have listened now to five marriage proposals, with William’s breath still warm on the wind. I have been as patient and gracious as I can be. But you are more than a foreign envoy, Fail de Liery. You are my uncle. My blood. You put me on your knee when I was five and told me it was the waterhorse, and I laughed like any child and loved you. Now you have become just one of them, another man coming into my house, telling me what I must do. I will not have this from you, Uncle. I am no longer a little girl, and you will not impose upon my affection.”

  Fail’s eyes widened, and then his features softened a bit. “Muriele,” he said, “I’m sorry. But as you say, we are blood. You are a de Liery. The rift between Crotheny and Liery is growing. It isn’t your fault—something William was up to. Did you know he lent ships to Saltmark in their battles against the Sorrow Isles?”

  “That is a rumor,” Muriele said. “It is also rumored that Lierish archers killed my husband.”

  “You cannot believe that. The evidence for that was obviously contrived.”

  “At this point, you cannot imagine what I would believe,” Muriele said.

  Fail seemed to bite back a retort, then sighed. He suddenly looked ancient, and for a moment she wanted nothing more than to hug him, feel that rough old cheek against hers.

  “Whatever the cause,” Fail said, “the problem remains. You can heal this wound, Muriele. You can bring our nations back together.”

  “And you think Liery and Crotheny together can stand against Hansa?”

  “I know that alone, neither of us can.”

  “That isn’t what I asked.”

  He puffed his cheeks out and nodded.

  “I am a de Liery,” she said. “I am also a Dare. I have two children left, and both are heirs to this throne. I must protect it for them.”

  Fail’s voice gentled further. “It is well known that Charles cannot get a child.”

  “Thank the saints, or I should be dealing with proposals for his hand.”

  “Then when you speak of heirs, you mean Anne. Muriele, William’s legitimization of his daughters has little precedent. The Church is against it—Praifec Hespero has already begun a campaign to annul the law. Even if it stands, what if Anne . . .” He stumbled, his lips thinning. “What if Anne is also dead?”