Page 4 of Garden of Poisoned Delights

“We could add fishing to our exports. We’d have more use for fishing boats than naval warships, wouldn’t we?”

Even Adrien must have known that was a bit too far when the entire council fell quiet.

“Thank you, Prince Adrien, for reminding us that we should be mindful of our capacity to increase our exports to new and different avenues of revenue,” Isiodore said, dominance threaded so strongly in his voice that every submissive in the council lowered their gaze—including Adrien, though he lasted longer than most.

“Yes,” Emile said, voice clipped. “Perhaps opening talks with Thalassa would be beneficial. I am certain we could find a captain who might be interested in serving as an ambassador. Their king has implied they are open to a formal treaty. King Sior, I believe is his name.”

It was, because it was always King Sior. The Thalassans hated the idea of government on principle, so every year they elevated some fisherman to the title and named him Sior, a variation on the old Morrey work for shark, and mostly all he did was sign documents with the same seal they’d been using since before Staria even existed.

“De Mazet would be a good choice for that,” Sabre said. “I’ll speak to him. He’s due back within the month.”

That was smart—both the suggestion, and the subtle reminder that the prince’s bratty behavior aside, his left hand knew where the Starian navy and her captains were at any given moment. De Mazet was a popular captain and would, Isiodore didn’t doubt, make admiral before he was fifty.

“Good thinking,” Isiodore said, his approval evident, and he knew what that did to Sabre. Just because he was putting a stop to tomfoolery in the council didn’t mean he wasn’t above a little bit of revenge. “Thank you for your forethought and attention, Duke de Valois.”

Sabre looked both pleased and a bit like he wanted to sink into the floor, which was very much like his father used to look at Isiodore, though for entirely different reasons. “You’re, ah. You’re welcome, your grace.”

“Yes, Sabre, very clever,” Adrien drawled, and there was a bite in his voice as he shot Isiodore a glare, practically shoving Isiodore’s signet ring on his finger.

“Adrien,” Emile said, and this time, there wasn’t that thread of encouragement, which was welcome, but a bit too late.

“Yes, father?”

“I think perhaps that’s enough for the day,” Isiodore said.

“If your highness could deal with your domestic issues before council,” Lady Montagne said, sweetly, “that might facilitate a smoother transition.”

Emile’s eyes went cold, Adrien’s expression turned dangerous, and Isiodore felt a headache behind his temples flare unpleasantly to life, thanks to the lack of sleep, lack of sex, the de Guillory family, and the inability to punish his brat of a submissive like he was so clearly begging for.

“Thank you for the suggestion, Lady Montagne,” Isiodore interrupted, rising to his feet. “You may take your leave.”

She smirked, but left on Lord Chant’s arm, and that was unusual enough that Isiodore glanced at Sabre and gave him a pointed look that meant, see that you investigate that. Sabre didn’t do anything as amateurish as nod, but his thumb deliberately rubbed over the de Valois crest on his own signet ring, and Isiodore knew he understood.

When the last of the council had taken their leave, Isiodore was surprised to find Sabre turning to Adrien, eyes narrowed, a touch of red on his cheeks.

“I didn’t swear my service to you so that you could try and get yourself assassinated, Asa! I can’t believe I’m agreeing with a woman who thinks her domestic staff should still come running at the sound of a bell, but keep it in the bedchambers, will you?”

“Oh, believe me, Sab, I’d love to,” Adrien said, mulish, looking so much like his father that Isiodore would have laughed, if he wasn’t surprised.

“Come, Sabre, let’s go have tea,” Emile said, for once in his life choosing not to be an instigator. He, at least, must have known that the angriest person in this room wasn’t Sabre or his brat of a son, but his own left hand.

He patted Adrien’s shoulder on the way out, in a there, there, sort of way, and his gaze briefly met Isiodore’s. “Don’t be too hard on him. Make him grovel, first.” Emile swept out of the room with Sabre at his back, still looking angry.

There was a tense silence in the room when it was only the two of them, and it might have been all right, Isiodore might have kept a leash on his temper…but Adrien, instead of apologizing, tilted his chin so that Isiodore couldn’t but stare at the place where his collar should be and drawled, “I look forward to a discussion about this in our rooms, later. If you remember where those are, of course. I’ll be happy to send a page with a map. I hear memory loss happens, in a man of your advanced age.”

Isiodore had spent his entire life dealing with Emile, who could out-brat Adrien any day of the week with half the effort. But Emile was a dominant, and that meant it was only annoying, not infuriating, as it was when Adrien tried it. He’d never once been this angry at Emile—no, that wasn’t right, was it? He had been, the morning he’d watched his lover’s son standing trembling on the gallows, not entirely sure if Emile wasn’t going to hang him anyway. Isiodore didn’t like to think about all the failures that had led to that morning, but he’d knew his own intimately well.

“Everything I have done,” Isiodore said, pushing all his emotions down, speaking in clipped, precise words, “has been for you. Your family, this country. I have said it before, have I not, that my duty is to the crown before anything? I am sorry you find it a failing, but when I allow my personal feelings to overshadow that duty, it goes very badly for Staria. You have the luxury of a temper tantrum. I do not.”

“Your point is made,” he said. “I spent the last few weeks ensuring you do not have to worry about an uprising and taking care of it in a way that would not harm you or the reputation you will enjoy when you take the crown. These are the vows I have taken in your father’s name, and the vows Sabre has taken in yours. I'd appreciate it if you did not disparage them, but I suppose I can’t stop you. I remain, as ever, in your service.”

With that, Isiodore bowed politely, perfectly, and turned to leave.

* * *

Adrien stood there, watching Isiodore stride toward the door with all the dignity of his station, and tossed the last of his self control to the winds.

“Duke de Mortain, I did not give you my leave to go.”

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