XI. Twilight
WHILE MYKKAEL STOOD, HALF STRIPPED, WITH HANDS BRACED ON THE RAIL, COMMANDER TASKIN TOOK HIS LEISURELY TIME. HE SHOUTED downstairs for his sergeant to fetch up a lit torch. Through the interval while the huge man climbed the stairs, he unbagged the whip, a braided lash on a wooden stock, the tip end bearing no saving silk tassel to soften the bite of its punishment.
When the breathless sergeant arrived with the firebrand, the commander cut short the man’s staring interest. ‘Socket that torch and return to your post. No loose talk, and no changes. My first orders stand as I gave them.’
No movement, from Mykkael, as the seconds spun out, though his skin wore a sheen of light sweat. He stared rigidly forward, the mute bells looming over him. Taskin went on to pry one of the flat, bronze studs from his scabbard. He then drew his dagger, and shaved the soft metal to a razor-keen edge. His eyes stayed on Mykkael, all the while knowing how trapped nerves would rasp at a man, forced to wait. He crimped the sheared fragment of metal to the whip end; watched like a snake as the desert-bred noticed the unpleasant fact that the stilled bells above caught and amplified sound. Faithfully cast, they magnified clarity, returning the clamped tension required to force each breath into even rhythm.
Put to the test of such cruel anticipation, most men would succumb to their crawling anxiety: the coward worn down to a plea for reprieve, and the courageous, snapped to a temperamental demand to get on and finish the unpleasantness.
Mykkael said nothing. Only the sweat that dripped down his flanks belied the appearance, that he had been born without nerves.
Taskin unreeled the whip without warning, brought the first stroke whistling down. The end of the lash cracked into the railing, and slapped tight, wrapped by whistling impetus. The dangling end with its ugly, sharp tip scribed shining arcs in the torchlight.
Mykkael did not break. His hands gripped the rail, pressed taut, but now faintly trembling. Still, the scrape of forced breathing adhered to the discipline of his imposed calm.
Taskin stepped close. He unwound the bound lash from the wood. Still inside reach, deliberately taunting for the volatile flaw that might crack the captain’s temperament, he said, ‘That one was mine, the stroke I promised for last night’s act of insubordination. The next must draw blood, for raising your hand against the crown guardsman you dropped on the garrison keep stair. The rest must redress Devall’s slighted honour. I won’t know how many of twenty you’ve earned, unless you would care to speak?’
‘For the drawn sword?’ Mykkael asked, teeth locked as the lash fell again, this time striping him clean. The sliver of metal sliced a stinging line from left shoulder down to right hip.
Taskin gave cool assent as he coiled the whip. ‘The high prince’s stiff-necked advocate filed protest like a circling shark. If you knew the man was a hidebound, proud fool, why did you leave me no option? What did you think, when you drew your brash steel on his Highness of Devall’s accredited spokesman?’
Mykkael answered, fists clamped to the railing. ‘To force him to stop reading my private papers, and prying into the garrison’s business.’ When the lash did not fall, he sucked in a sped breath and held braced.
‘No pride?’ Taskin pressed. ‘Only tactics?’
‘Yes, there was pride, but not for the reason you think.’ Mykkael shut his eyes, flinched but a hairsbreadth as the whip struck, another weal laid crosswise over the first. ‘Remember, I don’t have to stand for this.’
‘I am not a fool, prideful, or otherwise.’ Taskin readied the whip, the frost in his question confrontational. ‘Were you justified?’
‘Perhaps.’ Mykkael fought his tone neutral. His bad knee was shaking, locked rigid by stress. ‘Afterwards, I found that an entry was altered. I don’t know by whose hand. The changed notation was yours, concerning the number of Devall’s servants who passed through the Highgate last night. By my watch’s count, a name was deleted.’
‘Three stripes will do, then.’ The last, expert stroke fell alongside the first, a considered decision which left the uncut, smooth shoulder a right-handed swordsman required to fight unimpaired.
‘Hold fast, soldier! Your sentence is finished, but I have not given you leave, yet.’ Taskin crossed the platform, bent, and hooked up Mykkael’s discarded shirt. ‘Don’t move, now.’ The commander shook out the garment, and with brisk, steady pressure, blotted the running blood into the cloth. Then he waited. The fresh welts still welled and dripped scarlet. Though the captain had finally started to shiver, Taskin repeated the process thrice more.
Then he draped the marked shirt over the railing. ‘Put that back on.’
Mykkael took up the stained cloth in scalding distaste; pulled it over his head, not missing the artful subtlety. The commander’s deft ploy lent the credible appearance that he had received a full dozen lashes in punishment.
‘Make sure the blood shows when you leave here,’ Taskin insisted, relentless, as he stripped the metal from the end of the lash, and restored the whip to its bag. ‘Nor are you to remove that shirt, soldier, or touch the fresh wounds underneath. You’ll keep the badge of your shame in plain sight. Sessalie’s crown honour depends on it.’
‘You feel Devall’s retinue has unwarranted, sharp eyes?’ Mykkael grimaced, and gave up his attempt to ease the chafe of the cloth on raw flesh. ‘I urge you to treat that lot with extreme caution. They have certainly earned my suspicion.’
Taskin sighed. ‘No proof, soldier?’
Mykkael shook his head. ‘Not yet.’ Still constrained by the thread-slender technicality, that he had not received dispensation to bear weapons, he held, against the grain of his nature.
Taskin said, ‘Well, at least we can rely on the fact you’ll be watched. The evidence must assure his Highness of Devall beyond doubt my professional word carries weight.’ The commander regarded Mykkael’s sweat-damp face. Unafraid to look into the eyes of the man he had just served a humiliating penalty, he closed with professional respect. ‘I’ll send Jussoud down to your quarters in three hours. He will dress your back properly. Afterwards, you are under my orders to wear your king’s falcon surcoat. That should stop the complaints I’ve received that you meet your duties by skulking.’
Released to recover his weapons at last, Mykkael strapped on his sword, his jaw set as the burden pressed into the sting of his shoulder. He eased the sheath flat. Then, without rancour, he asked the commander’s indulgence, and slipped off the bag containing the rest of the copper disc talismans.
‘Take these,’ he instructed. ‘Give one to the king. Distribute the others at your discretion, with my stringent suggestion that none goes to the Prince of Devall or his retinue. Test every candidate with cedar smoke first, and be prepared to kill failures by ambush. They will be the made tools of a sorcerer, and unmasked, they’ll become deadly dangerous. Tell your chosen who pass, keep the discs out of sight! Also, don’t trust anyone who’s drunk, or acting the slightest bit changed from the ordinary’
Taskin hefted the sack, realized there could not be more than six pieces left inside. ‘How many of these have you given to your garrison men?’
Mykkael looked at him. ‘None. I can’t secure the gate against sorcery, nor shield a walled town with only six men! Yet six, chosen well, might stand guard for the king.’
‘But not Crown Prince Kailen?’
The two men locked eyes, with only Mykkael’s bitter black with the doubts inflicted by harsh experience.
‘I can’t make that call,’ admitted the desert-bred. ‘His Highness’s habit of drink could be harmless. Safest of all, to hold back and not pose the first question.’
Taskin received that assessment, thoughtfully deadpan. Then he said, ‘You’re not excused, soldier. Not before you have shared the ongoing evidence that suggests where her Grace may have fled.’
‘No.’ Mykkael stepped back, pushed at last to snapped patience. ‘I’ve said all I intend to. Impasse? How trying. At least, earlier, I could have been thrown to your archers without bleeding for the stuffed head of Devall’s spying lackey’
Taskin lost grip on his fury, as well. ‘You madman! Are you trying to press me until I’ve no choice but to kill you?’
‘Security’ Mykkael argued. His fleeting glance sideways assayed the distance from railing to dangling bell rope. ‘Don’t waste precious time! Once I find out why your princess has bolted, then, only then will I know if I have the skills to protect her!’
‘Jump, soldier, go on,’ goaded Taskin. ‘You’ll find the rope’s cut. Not to mention the toll of that bell will roust all of Sessalie against you.’ Aware the deterrent was not going to stay the captain’s decision to leap, he spoke quickly. ‘You would hold your ground against me, and for the sake of your towering arrogance, defy Sessalie’s king?’
Mykkael never hesitated. ‘I would stand against anyone. Commander, you gamble with risks you cannot possibly imagine!’
And again, came that sawn note of grief, as though a man turned at bay faced the bittermost end of wrecked hope.
Stymied by that obstructive precedent, Taskin wrestled to recover his ranking authority. ‘You do realize,’ he warned, ‘that you might force my hand. On crown directive I could be commanded to make your arrest.’
‘Powers forefend, and deliver the ignorant from all manner of hideous destruction!’ Mykkael broke at last, desperation driving a commitment as firm as a death sentence. ‘Commander, hear this clearly! You hold my trust. But with one reservation: if you order my person set under restraint now, or at any time before this crisis is over, I will have no choice but to kill any man who lays hands on me. This includes yourself. I’ll not be set in irons while your princess is threatened. I take my oath to King Isendon seriously, and that means my freedom to act for Sessalie’s safety must come before everything else.’
‘Bright powers show mercy!’ Taskin cried in anguish. ‘You’re asking me to trust you to guard Anja’s life when nothing you say can be verified!’
Mykkael shook his head, helpless. ‘I can’t ease that choice from your shoulders, except to urge you to question Jussoud. If anyone can, he might speak for me.’
A whiplash of mockery, the righteous demand of Sessalie’s loyal crown officer: ‘How?’
Again Mykkael looked down, the gesture now recognized as a tormented need to guard privacy. ‘I did not ask your nomad the name of his tribe. But if he is Sanouk, he will have a relative who served under me against Rathtet.’
‘Dead?’ Taskin snapped.
Mykkael swallowed, and again shook his head. ‘No. Alive, at least the last time I saw her.’
Torch-lit against the thick darkness, the desertman seemed almost harmlessly diminished, a limping figure in a soiled white shirt, with eyes scored by lines of exhaustion. Yet the unvanquished quality to his silence somehow still demanded respect.
‘Stalemate,’ stated Taskin. The admission rang bitter. No man, before this one, had shaken his seasoned experience, or undermined the ferocious pride of his competence. ‘You are granted a stay, upon Jussoud’s word, and my honour now rides on your freedom.’ The commander stepped sideways, opening the way towards the door. ‘To appease my archers, we’ll descend together.’ He shouldered the bag with the whip, then raked Mykkael head to foot with a last, savage glance of assessment. ‘Just have the damned grace to look chastened, will you?’
By the preference of his deceased queen, Anjoulie, the king’s private chambers had wide casement windows overlooking the snowcapped peaks of the Great Divide. On clear nights, under starlight, the flares where the kerries breathed fire streaked like comet tails over the summits. When the gusts off the glaciers rattled the glass, a log fire always burned in the grate.
In late spring twilight, with the casements cracked open, and the mild air wafting the fragrance of jasmine from the stone terrace outside, a pageboy still tended the coals for the warming pan that comforted Isendon’s chilled feet. Installed at the royal bedside, the Duchess of Phail shared a tray of light supper for the purpose of pleasant company, and the pursuit of refined conversation.
When his Majesty suffered maundering wits, she coaxed him to eat. If he sat, blankly staring, she spoonfed him like a child. She adjusted his blankets and managed the warming pan to ease his poor circulation. Her eagle-eyed vigilance and tireless, kind manners had earned the undying respect of the servants. Most evenings, except for the guard at the door, she attended the aged king in private.
Tonight, the upset caused by Anja’s disappearance had broken that gentle routine. The page had been reassigned to the armoury, to forestall the excessive gossip. Two muscular guardsmen flanked the inside entry, with four more stationed in fully armed vigilance along the corridor outside.
King Isendon sat wakeful, propped up in his favourite oak chair. No tactful diversion had enticed him to eat. The folder of poetry in Lady Phail’s lap had failed to lull him to sleep. Conversation did nothing to quiet the palsied fingers that traced fretful patterns on the coverlet. The clouded eyes held a febrile spark, struck off the tinder of fiercely kept hope and the flint of numbing despair.
‘She is the light of Queen Anjoulie’s virtue, still shining,’ the king said, repeating the same words of five minutes ago. ‘Powers stand guard for her. She often hares off on impulse. But even her boldest pranks are well planned…’ The quavering voice trailed, then resurged with a fire many years younger. ‘I must believe that my daughter’s alive! Without her, the heart of this kingdom will be cast into darkness.’
In his prime, spurred by anguish, King Isendon would have paced. Now shrunken with grief, he tugged uselessly at his blankets.
‘The guard will find her.’ Lady Phail laid aside the loose sheaves of verse. Her firm fingers captured the king’s paper-dry hand. ‘No man has sired a more beautiful daughter, or one as intelligent and resourceful. Whatever has happened will come right, in time. Lord Taskin won’t rest without answers.’
The king jerked up his nodding chin. ‘Who comes?’
Lady Phail cast a pert glance towards the guards, to see whether they had heard footsteps. None had. The taller redhead returned a negative jerk of his helm.
‘Nobody’s there, sire. Do rest easy,’ Lady Phail soothed him.
‘Someone comes!’ King Isendon shoved bolt upright, scattering his blankets and tumbling his silk-covered pillows on to the carpet.
‘All right, sire, we’ll see.’ Lady Phail gestured for one of the guardsmen to oblige by checking the corridor. Then she bent with her usual sweet patience, and gathered the dropped bedding from the floor.
The click of the latch as the guardsman returned rang too loud in the mournful quiet. ‘No one,’ he stated softly. ‘The guards outside say the same.’
King Isendon permitted the duchess to cosset him, though his frown remained welded in place. ‘Taskin’s expected shortly with news. I can’t be asleep when he gets here.’
‘We’ll waken you, sire, never fear.’ With genteel grace, the old lady fluffed the last pillow, but refused the indignity of smoothing her sovereign’s hair. As though his Majesty still retained all his faculties, she honoured his rank with a curtsey, then swept back to reclaim her stuffed chair. ‘Do you favour a team for the horse wickets yet? Kailen has picked Farrety’s to wear his badge. That’s raised some heat between Muenice and Lord Tavertin. Each of them hopes you’ll bestow royal favour.’
For a moment, the king brightened. ‘Anja thought Tavertin’s team would wash out. His master of horse trains the animals too hard. Wears the high fettle right out of them.’ Isendon turned his drawn face towards the window, where stars, but no kerrie fires, burned. ‘Would that Anja were here. Her young eyes would judge which team’s fittest.’
‘Well, you managed to better the team she liked last year.’ Lady Phail’s smile turned wistful. ‘Such a close match.’
But King Isendon’s mind had wandered again. His staring eyes scanned the richly appointed chamber. Whether fogged vision showed him shadows or shapes, no one knew. His seeking inspection quartered the carved scrolls that crowned the pilasters, then the lavender silk adorning the chair seats, and the marquetry table with its tracing of mussel-shell inlay. He squinted at the clothes chests with their tapestry coverings, examining each tassel with razor-sharp inquiry. His gaze stalled at last in the nook by the armoire. ‘Someone comes, I tell you!’
‘Very well, sire. We shall see.’ Lady Phail arose, caught up her cane, then moved with a whispered rustle of skirts to check the outside doorway herself. Sometimes the king would subside at her word. Other times, his unpredictable perception captured subtleties missed by the guardsmen. The wits that had scattered with his infirmity were wont to present them with vexing puzzles. If the seneschal found his Majesty’s idiosyncrasies a constant irritation, the men Taskin posted to watch the royal chamber were faultlessly staunch and supportive.
The tall redhead lent the duchess his courteous assistance and unlatched the door once again. Yet this time, as the bronze-studded panel swung open, the tap of rapid footsteps approached, rolling echoes down the vaulted corridor.
‘That will be Taskin.’ King Isendon pushed at his blankets, tumbling pillows helter-skelter once more.
‘His Majesty’s right,’ said the blond guard, relieved.
The crown commander and two immaculate officers shortly breasted the stair that led from the anteroom. They reached the king’s door at a cracking fast clip, with Taskin more than usually brisk, and an edge like a sword on his temper.
‘Lady Phail.’ Formally crisp, he touched the old woman’s palm to his lips, then tucked her wrist over his elbow and bowed his white head to the king. ‘Your Majesty, have I leave?’
King Isendon’s demeanour perked up to recapture the semblance of regal presence. ‘As your duty commands you.’
Taskin signalled to the blond guard, then one of the officers beside him. Both men stepped out at his low-voiced instruction to post a sharp watch at the stairhead. ‘If anyone comes here, delay them. Make plenty of noise. I want no one approaching his Majesty’s chamber without warning.’ Next, the commander called one of the guards in the corridor by name. ‘Step inside, please.’
The appointed man replaced the one just dispatched with the seamless poise of the elite. A nod from their commander placed the remaining officer in armed readiness at their backs, a stark oddity. But the men entrusted with the king’s person knew better than to serve such a change with remarks. Taskin himself ushered Lady Phail to her seat.
Glittering in his surcoat and gold braid, the Commander of the Guard bowed again to his king, this time with rigid correctness. ‘Your Majesty, I ask your indulgence with a precaution.’
‘Trouble, Taskin?’ the aged sovereign asked, his fingers settled with laced dignity into his blanketed lap.
‘Perhaps, sire. Kindly bear with me.’ Given the regal nod to proceed, the commander knelt by the hearth. He used the fire iron to shut the flue damper, then reached under his surcoat and withdrew a sprig of evergreen, which he tossed on to the flames.
Fragrant smoke billowed, clouding the room. Back on his feet, Taskin stood his ground before his two guards, his chiselled regard trained upon Lady Phail, and the invalid form of his sovereign. No one moved. No face showed a flicker of trapped fury; only puzzlement and restrained anxiety, as the cedar smoke wafted a spreading pall on the draught let in through the casement.
The commander released a slow breath, while the officer by the doorway eased his tense shoulders, and relaxed the taut grip on his sword hilt.
‘Lock the door,’ Taskin said. ‘I would have our discussion kept private between those of us here in the room.’
The king raised a weak forearm and fanned at the fumes. His fragile cough spurred Taskin to attend the necessity of releasing the closed-off flue. Smoke swirled at his movement. Tendrils combed into the gloom by the armoire, and there, something embedded unseen in clear air met and tangled.
Like the hissed shriek of flame doused in ice, a whirlwind of sparks shot upwards. The eruption scored across startled eyesight, there and gone in an eyeblink.
‘What was that!’ Shocked, Lady Phail dropped her cane.
The thud as it landed upon the thick carpet jarred the guardsmen’s cranked nerves. The officer by the door yanked his blade from his scabbard, while the others surged on to their toes. Yet their readiness encountered no visible target. The king sat with his knuckles clenched on his knees, with Taskin like cast ice before him.
The smoke billowed up and licked the groined ceiling, then dispersed to a pall that misted the shine of the candles, and dimmed the surrounding furnishings.
‘Glory preserve us!’ King Isendon grated, distraught. The sharp scare appeared to have focused his wits. ‘That I should have lived to see Sessalie befouled by a sorcerer.’ His faded glance encompassed his commander. ‘We are in grave danger, indeed. I trust we are reasonably safe at this moment? That the smoke has effected a banishing?’
Shaken to pallor, Taskin knelt. ‘Your Majesty, what little I know may not be enough to stave off a threat to your life.’
Isendon’s gesture suggested impatience. ‘Rise. You are trusted to handle what must be done. Carry on. Have you news, or fresh hope for my daughter?’
‘Very little, sire.’ Taskin stood erect, his lifetime habit of unflinching nerve maintained by relentless courage. ‘I have no direct facts concerning the princess, or any clue to her whereabouts. Only the report from your garrison captain, who maintains the emphatic belief she’s alive. Mysh kael’s battle experience against warring sorcerers suggests he has knowledge to support this.’
Isendon nodded, his sunken chest wracked again by a feeble cough. ‘You knew he fought against Rathtet?’ At the commander’s stark surprise, the aged sovereign showed the ironic humour that had once been famous for scalding unwary courtiers. ‘Oh, yes. He saved the Efandi princess, it’s said, though her survival is a close-guarded secret.’
‘You knew this?’ Satisfied that the smoke had penetrated every last remaining cranny in the room, Taskin directed his officer to release the damper blocking the flue.
‘A king has his own ways to acquire information,’ Isendon said. ‘Ambassadors trade in state secrets to buy favours.’ Forced by shortened breath to speak in clipped sentences, the king battled his weakness and qualified, ‘The man won the summer tourney with formidable skills. Now he guards my keep gates. I had better know whether to trust him.’
Still rocked by discovery that the old fox had outflanked him, Taskin blurted, ‘And do you, sire?’
‘Within careful limits.’ King Isendon’s smile was given to Lady Phail, who quietly straightened his blankets. She tucked a pillow to prop his frail shoulders in response to the reed-thin exhaustion that frayed through his phrases. ‘One can never trust any foreigner, fully. His nation of birth is not Sessalie. Yet Mykkael has sworn my oath of crown loyalty. I pay him for fair service. Which, so far as I’ve managed to trace, he has delivered to all his employers.’
Taskin released an explosive sigh. ‘I found no evidence on him of oath-breaking, either. That doesn’t mean he wasn’t hired beforehand to assay an outsider’s plot against Sessalie.’
Isendon tapped his fingers on the arm of his chair, the tremors now sorrowfully pronounced. ‘Do you think so, Taskin?’
The commander stood, struck to stillness, the platinum shine of his hair hazed under the tarnish of fug in the air. ‘No,’ he said at strained length. ‘Blinding glory, I’ve pushed him! Yet by the pernicious fact that he won’t crack, I cannot be wholly certain.’
This time, the play of irony over Isendon’s features came shaded by relentless grief. ‘Then, my old friend, you understand very well how to shore up the burden of Sessalie’s crown. I can’t, for much longer. The fates of my heir and my daughter must reside in your hands, meanwhile.’
Remanded to address that harsh duty, Taskin inclined his head. ‘Very well.’ He slipped the coarse leather bag from his belt, which contained Mykkael’s gifted talismans. ‘These artefacts were brought by the garrison captain from his service against Rathtet. He claims they will offer protection from sorcery. Sire, will you consent to wear one?’
Lady Phail’s gentle voice broke the widening pause. ‘His Majesty’s awareness has slipped again, Taskin. I’m sorry.’ She patted the king’s knee, but aroused no stir in response. ‘If my opinion matters, I believe our liege would have done as you asked.’
Taskin nodded, struck grim as he shouldered a decision he found abhorrent. He passed two of the copper discs into Lady Phail’s keeping. ‘One for the king, Duchess, and, if you’re willing to share the same risk, the other for you. I trust you to stay by his Majesty’s side and stand guard for his wandering wits.’
‘A sharp ear on the court gossip can’t hurt,’ Lady Phail agreed with stout courage.
Taskin’s smile of gratitude was heartfelt. ‘I would never have asked that much, Duchess, but yes.’ He added instructions to keep the talisman hidden, and to wear it always next to the skin. While the elderly granddame donned the vizier’s talisman, then gently attended the king, the crown commander distributed the last two discs to the best of his men, appointed to stand guard at the door.
‘You will wear these, soldiers, and not disclose them to anyone! Here forward, you don’t leave your king’s bedside, ever! You’ll eat in his chamber, and sleep in his presence by turns. You’ll flank his litter as he goes to hear audience. Only those in this room are protected. That means, you keep impeccable secrecy! Speak to no one outside of the five of us, am I clear? I will have the servants bring wood, and you will see that a log fire burns in this chamber at all times!’
‘Sorcerers can’t stand such?’ the red-haired guard asked.
‘Some of them. Their minions are said to avoid chance exposure to wood smoke.’ Taskin nodded to the taciturn captain who stood as his second in command. ‘Bennent, you can unbar the door.’
‘What of our crown prince?’ inquired the fair guard. ‘For the security of Sessalie’s succession, should his Highness not wear a talisman before one of us?’
Worn to hag-ridden tension, the commander met that inquiry squarely. ‘I’m sorry to say that Prince Kailen can’t be trusted to keep his shirt on for the whores.’ He matched eyes with the guardsman, whose gaze flicked aside, unable to refute that sad truth.
‘I know our prince. Beneath inexperience, there is no man better. Under happier circumstances, his Highness could be forgiven the feckless adventures of youth.’ Taskin stifled his deep grief, and delivered his iron-clad conclusion. ‘But this sorcerer who stalks Sessalie is utterly ruthless. If King Isendon falls to his spellcraft, such an enemy could prey upon every subject in this realm through his sovereign rights to the throne. I grieve for the necessity. But the protection of Sessalie’s people must come first. I will guard Prince Kailen as I can, but against this danger, the weak game piece wearing the crown must be the most stoutly defended.’
Under the wax-bright flare of the candles, Taskin regarded each guardsman in turn, and measured their commitment and courage. ‘Stand your post with due vigilance, soldiers. The king’s safety relies on your hands.’
He signalled his officer, prepared to depart, when an outburst of arguing voices arose in the corridor outside. Taskin surged forward and jerked open the panel, all but bowled aside by the breathless arrival of Sessalie’s seneschal.
The irate official ploughed straight in, determined to demand royal audience.
‘Lord Shaillon!’ Lady Phail sprang up with cane in hand to enforce the king’s violated privacy. ‘How thoughtless of you to barge in with no consideration for the hour! Your liege is asleep, and needs his rest sorely! I will not see you task him with burdens, my lord. If you should press his Majesty’s health, he may not be lucid to sign the documents the council requires in the morning!’
Stalled on his course, the seneschal spun and bristled at Taskin. ‘You let that slinking desert-bred go free! How dare you flout this kingdom’s incurred debt. You’ve let Devall’s slighted honour be slapped aside for a pittance!’
‘I’d scarcely call any lashing a pittance,’ Taskin stated in acid correction. ‘Have you had occasion to see a man whipped? Your accusation does nothing but expose your cosseted mind and rank ignorance.’
‘Only twelve strokes!’ The seneschal sniffed. ‘The last guard with the effrontery to brawl with a foreign royal’s servant received twenty. Or don’t you recall how to count?’
‘You will not bring your childish bluster in here,’ Lady Phail snapped with stout righteousness. ‘Out! Now!’ She gave Taskin a jab in the small of the back, then hooked the seneschal’s arm in steel fingers and urged him back towards the doorway.
‘Duchess, would you obstruct the king’s greater interests?’ The seneschal planted his feet. ‘I implore you to use better sense. The heir apparent of Devall is not pleased by the commander’s cavalier treatment.’ After a rancorous glower towards Taskin, Lord Shaillon plunged on in appeal.
‘His Highness of Devall could stand on his rights and take offence. Should he annul his suit, Anja’s heart would be broken. Would you risk seeing her Grace jilted?’ Harried backwards another step by the indomitable granddame, the seneschal snarled, ‘Is this scruffy dog of a desert-bred captain worth casting our rights to the sea trade into jeopardy?’
Lady Phail tapped her foot. When her staunch manner threatened to enlist the royal guardsmen for help to clear the king’s chamber, the seneschal accosted Lord Taskin, who stood obstructively next to the moulded door jamb.
‘That foreign captain is a liability to this kingdom’s prosperity!’ the seneschal ranted. ‘I insist, he should be clapped into irons.’
An astute tactician, Taskin saw the withering, cold fire that sparked Lady’s Phail’s narrowed eyes. Wise man, he bowed and stepped clear, the image of the genteel courtier in his impeccable falcon surcoat.
Yet the seneschal was sunk too far into his tirade to keep pace with his rival’s acuity. His impudence was caught short: the old lady rapped her ivory cane on his wrist, the same treatment she allotted to importunate boys caught stealing jam in the scullery.
‘For shame, Lord Shaillon!’ said Lady Phail. ‘Your behaviour lies beneath well-born dignity, to raise such a row against a common man who is innocent. King Isendon has already given the matter the swift disposition it deserved.’
‘What? His Majesty was lucid?’ Lord Shaillon’s beaky face jerked sideways, once more brought to bear on the commander’s upright serenity. ‘What has the king said? You were present?’
Cool as the sheathed sword, Taskin answered. ‘You won’t lack for witnesses. We were all here. His Majesty pointed out that the garrison captain has never mishandled his oath. Since Mysh kael’s past record bears no charge of treachery, he is held by the crown to be trustworthy’
Defeated, the seneschal stalked to the door. ‘This will not end here, I promise!’ Faced straight ahead, unwilling to spare a disdainful glance for the other armed captain, who paced like a predator at his heels, Lord Shaillon pronounced, ‘That desert-bred cur is a liability to the realm and I will not stop until I hold proof to expose his deceitful nature.’