Page 48 of Traitor Son

“I’m awake.”

“Lies,” he said, pulling her bodily out of bed. He had seen her do that trick before, her eyes would slam shut again just as quickly. “Get dressed.”

A few minutes later, the realization that there was nothing like a privy in the cottage and the Duchess of Andelin could hardly go in the bushes thoroughly woke them both up, and Remin once again regretted the lack of a maid.

It was time to consider more fixed sanitation facilities anyway.

“Don’t be sorry, it’s not your fault,” he said gruffly, closing the door of the cottage behind them. He genuinely didn’t mean to keep embarrassing her this way.

His decision to bring her to the valley had not been entirely spiteful. Even a man like Miche didn’t know all the things that were needful for a woman’s comfort, and Remin had thought the Emperor’s daughter should face a little deprivation. He had expected her to tell him—often, loudly, and at length—exactly what was lacking. Never in his wildest dreams had he imagined the daughter of Emperor Bastin Agnephus would look at a woolly bed in a crofter’s cottage and tell him she could curl up smaller.

In every other way, though, she perfectly suited his purposes. She looked like a shepherdess from a pretty pastoral painting in her green wool gown, even if she was a little red in the face, and the men outside were falling all over themselves to doff their caps and bow.

“Good morning, Your Grace.”

“Morning, m’lady.”

“Good morning,” she said, looking a little startled, but nodded graciously and left them staring, with very foolish expressions.

This was the other reason he had brought her here, over the objections of the Duke of Ereguil. After years of war and questionable female companionship, his men badly needed civilizing. He wanted to give them the first opportunity to settle his lands. He wanted the veterans of the Vallethi War to send for their wives, their children, their sweethearts and their extended families, and spread out across the valley for which they had bled. They had earned it. But right now, Tresingale was a rough and dangerous place, and someone had to be the first.

If the Duke of Andelin was willing to bring the Emperor’s sacred daughter to the valley, then surely it was safe to bring their own families.

It was going to be a little rough for the princess, though.

“Get out of me kitchen and stop nibblin’ at me cheese before I take a cleaver to ye!” Wen the cook shouted as Remin entered the kitchen. Where Genon was massive, Wen was just fat. Enormously fat. The fact that he could fit in tiny camp kitchens seemed to defy all natural laws of space and physics, and Remin’s personal theory was that Wen’s bulk was just more fungible than the average person’s. He didn’t squeeze into tight spaces so much as ooze. “Shiftless bastard, ye’ll do without bread today and see whether ye go filching my fine aged cheddar, ye skiving arse—”

At the far end of the galley-style kitchen, a boy vanished out the door, accompanied by the cook’s curses.

“Wen. Wen. Wen!” Remin raised his voice and fought the urge to cover the princess’s ears. Taming Wen was going to be her version of crossing the Brede. “Watch your tongue.”

The cook drew a breath as if he were about to treat His Grace to a similar diatribe, but then he spotted the princess. His eyes narrowed.

“So,” he said, inflating like a frog. “It begins.”

“My wife,” Remin warned. “This is Princess Ophele, who is now your duchess.”

“I don’t care if she’s now me bloomin’ Empress. I told ye, I won’t have women in me kitchen. I’ll quit.” Wen slapped a grubby wet towel onto the counter as if to punctuate the point. “I will quit. Next thing she’ll be asking for pudding and saying where’s the coriander and I won’t have it, I tell ye, I won’t have it. I do good plain cooking meownway.”

“She’s not here to cook,” Remin growled. “I told you yesterday I would be bringing her by so you could pay your respects.”

“Oh aye, an honor,” said the cook, glaring. “Then what’s Her Highness got to do with me, eh?”

“Princess, sometimes you’ll come here to fetch lunch for the men.” Though Remin was reconsidering the wisdom of this course. “Wen will have it packed up in a basket.”

“Will I get lunch, too?” she asked anxiously, so soft he wasn’t entirely sure he had heard her right.

“Of course you will,” he said, insulted. Did she think he planned to starve her? “Wen will have something fit for a lady, as thanks for saving him a walk.”

“In a pig’s—” The cook began, but cut himself off at Remin’s warning glare. The duke was willing to tolerate certain liberties from his men, as long as they did their work well, but his tolerance only went so far.

“The princess doesn’t need to hear your filth, Wen.”

“Then why’d ye bring her to me, then,” the cook grumbled, but finally, grudgingly, bowed. “Pleased to make your acquaintance, m’lady. Name’s Wen. Just Wen. Consider me hands your own, unless you ask for bleeding pudding.”

“Pleased to meet you,” the princess said a little faintly, looking at him as if he were a bomb that might go off. But she was trying; she had taken Remin’s advice about offering a few personal words to each person she met to heart. “Thank you for supper. Last night, I mean. The bread was good.”

“Aye, aye, glad to hear it. Ye’re not to come in me kitchen.” Wen jabbed an enormous finger at her. “Ye want something, ye stand in the doorway and wait ’til I stop chopping. Princess or no princess, never talk to me when I’ve a knife in me hand, understand?”

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