But now this. This.
And Miennes had arranged for Taudde to walk into this room blindly. Taudde fought to set a mask of grave apology over the storm of anger and grief that shook him—it felt like trying to hold back striking lightning with a silken veil—and walked forward to make his bow to the company. He ended, however, by dropping to one knee and bowing his head to the prince. “Forgive me, eminence,” he said, in his best court tone, layered with bland respect and apology, “I see I am behind-hand in my arrival. I am, as Lord Miennes has said, a foreigner, and I regret I did not realize Lord Miennes meant to specify so precisely the hour in the invitation he did me the honor to extend. I am devastated to have put so noble an assembly to any difficulty.”
“My fault entirely!” Miennes exclaimed, smiling. “I should have taken greater pains to be clear, knowing I spoke to a foreigner. Especially given the distinction of my guests. I fear I did not warn Lord Chontas Taudde ser Omientes of the company to which he would be made known this evening.”
“What can I be but grateful of the honor Lord Miennes affords me?” Taudde said at once.
The prince glanced at Miennes and then back at Taudde. An eyebrow lifted, and then his disapproving expression eased toward a smile, so that he looked suddenly both younger and far more welcoming. He said, “Of course, Lord Chontas. We have not been discomposed by any such small error. We are glad of your company. Please, sit.” His voice was a rather light tenor, but with a barely discernible harsh edge behind it, whether temper or simply tension Taudde could not tell.
Taudde rose to his feet, bowed, and took the open place at the end of the left-hand curve of the table. A boy in a brown robe brought him a bowl of clear broth scattered with pink pepperberries. Taudde tasted it, pretending absorption in the broth while he studied the assembly. There was something… something about the way everyone present oriented toward the prince…
Ah. In fact… in fact, this prince was, Taudde guessed at last, not merely just one of the princes. He must be Tepres Nemedde ken Soriantes, the only legitimate son remaining to the King of Lirionne. The heir of the Dragon of Lirionne was Miennes’s target. Taudde much doubted Miennes had ever made so fraught a demand of any of his other blackmail victims, though they were no doubt many.
Taudde shut his eyes for a moment, trying not to let anything of the storm within show on his face. At least any oddity in his expression or manner would surely be put down to shock at finding himself in such exalted company.
He had intended to find some way to evade whatever trap Miennes and Mage Ankennes had laid for him. He’d meant to find a way to punish the arrogance of both lord and mage if he could, or simply to slip quietly out of Lonne if they proved too clever and well-guarded. Now… well… well, perhaps Taudde might bring himself to perform this one little service for them after all. He drew a slow, steadying breath and opened his eyes, re-orienting himself to the company he had found himself so unexpectedly keeping.
The three younger men were, Taudde guessed, companions of the heir. To the prince’s right there was an older man in the black of the King’s Own, but with deep purple embroidery across the shoulders of his overrobe: a personal guard of the prince, of high family himself, Taudde guessed. Taudde suspected that the other older man was the prince’s tutor. He had heard the man’s name, though he could not at once recall it, and he was almost certain he had heard that the prince was much inclined toward his tutor’s company. Opposite Taudde was Ankennes, in the black underrobe and long white overrobe of a Lonne mage. Taudde gave him a wary nod.
“You are from Miskiannes, we understand, Lord Chontas,” one of the young men near Taudde commented. “So, tell us, what does Miskiannes think of the coming spring? Does Miskiannes await the solstice with eagerness or with dismay? And whom does Miskiannes support in the conflict?” The young man asked this question with a raised-eyebrow look directed not at Taudde but toward another of the young men. Clearly it was a continuation of the earlier argument.
“Ah…” Taudde did not dare declare that he favored Kalches, but he could not bring himself to pretend support for Lirionne. “Miskiannes awaits the spring with trepidation, I believe, my lord, and with relief that we are widely separated from any possible field of battle and thus need not declare partiality.” There: That was both true and unobjectionable.
“Why trepidation? If you’re so far removed from battle, why should you care at all?” the other young man demanded.
“Why, whoever might win or lose, war disrupts trade,” Taudde pointed out as though surprised, borrowing for a moment his favorite uncle’s opinions and manner.