Page 10 of Traitor Son

“The title of the book,” he snarled, shoving his face into hers so they were nearly nose to nose.

“A Survey of the Nations of the Sea of Eskai!”the princess squealed, giving up all pretense and struggling to escape. “Please put me down, Your Grace!”

“Are you going to run if I do?”

“No!”

“You swear it?”

“I promise!” The cry burst from her lips, and Remin set her down and snagged her wrist before she could take to her heels. It was the first good look at her he’d gotten, without her face hidden in a hood. Small. On level ground, the top of her head barely reached the bottom of his breastbone, and the bones of the wrist in his hand felt as fragile as a bird’s. Would she even be able to work? She didn’t look like much in a dress that even he could tell was old, simultaneously too large and too short, with masses of untidy brown hair. She looked more hair than girl.

“This is the daughter of an Emperor?” he asked scornfully. “I guess I should be used to such gifts by now.”

It had occurred to him that her shameful appearance might be intentional. She had already disgraced him once; was this some protest, a further humiliation? Her father loved such subtle insults. Gripping her chin with iron fingers, he forced it upward, catching a glimpse of those eyes hidden behind her hair. They were large and clear, flashing almost golden in the sunlight. There was nothing dull in those eyes.

Maybe this whole charade had been an attempt to get him to relinquish his claim. Remin was furious, because it had very nearly worked.

“Nine times nine.”

“Eighty-one.” She was quivering like a rabbit. Another trick.

“Sixteen times sixteen.”

She paused. Blinked. He could see the calculation running behind her eyes.

“Don’tdareto lie to me,” he rumbled ominously, and she flinched, her head ducking.

“Two hundred fifty-six,” she whispered.

“How many copper sens to a sovereign?”

“Twelve hundred.”

“Spellballistae.”

She spelled it down to the trickye.

“Good enough,” said Remin Grimjaw, shifting his grip to her upper arm and thrusting her toward the library doors. He had a wedding to plan.

Chapter 2 – A Wedding

When he finally decided to move, the duke was like a tidal wave.

Ophele barely had time to jam her feet into a pair of shoes before she found herself swept into the manor courtyard with a thousand questions on her lips and a dozen things she was trying to do at once. He was barking orders so fast, she couldn’t tell which were for her, and suddenly the area was boiling with men and servants and assembled baggage, two lines of blanket rolls and saddle bags forming as if by magic. There was another growing pile of foodstuffs requisitioned from the kitchen, and even as she watched, one of the squires trundled by covered in so many waterskins, he looked like a lumpy bipedal mole.

“But Your Grace,” Lord Hurrell kept saying, hurrying after them, distinctly rumpled after the servants had had to haul him out of bed. The lord of the house preferred to sleep late. “The girl needs clothing! A lady-in-waiting! She has barely risen from her sickbed—”

The duke flashed him a glance like steel.

“She managed to rise into the rafters of the library. She’s fine,” he said curtly. But he did yield to protests about the weather and took a cloak from a nearby maid, jamming the hood onto Ophele’s head with a jerk that hid her face to the tip of her nose. He had assumed command of the house as if it were a poorly trained army and a dozen maids were falling all over themselves to assemble some form of trousseau.

“Ophele? Ophele!” Lisabe appeared at the manor doors, panting, her blonde hair tumbling loose over her shoulders. Her hands clasped together. “Oh, please, Your Grace, we have barely had a chance to say good-bye!”

“They’re still saddling the horses,” the duke pointed out, striding toward the baggage line. “Say it.”

Bewildered though she was, Ophele was not about to suffer a tearful farewell from Lisabe, who had once stolen her favorite doll and burned its hair off, who had always taken the last cookie rather than let Ophele have one, and who had never failed to offer Ophele up as a scapegoat for her own misdeeds. The list of grievances was long, a lifetime of petty torments and injustices, but it was the sight of those crocodile tears that made Ophele retreat in revulsion.

“Don’t,” she said, her hands held out as if warding the other girl off. “Good-bye, Lisabe.”

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