Page 7 of Traitor Son

A few towns had survived. Remin had undertaken a hasty survey after his victory that turned up a half dozen hamlets and a little less than two thousand people, clinging stubbornly to their land in spite of armies galloping about and ghouls creeping hungrily in the dark.

“It’s no place for a wife,” Duke Ereguil had told him when Remin explained what he meant to do. Laud Ereguil had always seemed as solid as a boulder to Remin, but he was a tired man after the long war in the Andelin and wanted nothing more than the peace and quiet of his own comfortable estate. But still, he found time to concern himself with Remin, honoring the oath he had made to Remin’s mother. “You would be kinder to leave her where she is until you can put a roof over her head, boy.”

Age twenty-four, more than six and a half feet tall, and Remin was stillboy.

“I’m not giving that old snake time to wiggle out of his oath,” Remin had replied flatly. “I will have a noble wife. The daughter of an Emperor.”

“Be patient,” Duke Ereguil cautioned for the thousandth time. “All men grow old. And die.”

It was a warning, and a promise. No one was immortal. The Emperor would not be Emperor forever. And Duke Ereguil, Remin’s only defender, was growing old.

This was a different sort of problem than the ones he had faced in Andelin, but Remin knew he had to learn to unravel the twisted social puzzles of nobility, and this was his first test. He would not fail it.

“I am afraid the lady has been taken ill,” Lady Hurrell said apologetically at dinner, sliding into her seat. “She has always had a delicate constitution; it makes it all the more frustrating when she slips away before nightfall.”

For some reason, this news did not surprise him. It was certainly plausible. Remin nodded slowly.

“Should I send one of my men to fetch a doctor?”

“No, we are accustomed to nursing our own, being so far away from town,” the lady said, putting on a brave face. “My Lisabe will look in on her after supper. She is used to tending her, poor lamb.”

Of course, he would be a brute if he removed a sick girl from her home. It would be an unpardonable insult if he demanded to see her andverify that she was really ill. Remin shoved roast pork into his mouth and masticated thoughtfully. Maybe he was too suspicious. House Hurrell was no friend of the Emperor. But meeting Auber’s eyes, he saw a reflection of his own skepticism.

In war, there were times that called for a reckless charge, brute force, shattering strength. But other times called for patience and finesse, a slow and probing attack to find the enemy’s weak points.

“That is good of her,” Remin remarked, mentally settling in for a siege. “Loyalty is a rare thing.”

His black eyes focused on Lisabe, and the girl smiled until the dimples deepened in her cheeks.

* * *

For the next few days, Ophele was a mouse.

It wasn’t so different from how she usually moved through the vast manor, unseen and unwanted. The servants knew very well who the master was, and Ophele had never tried to contest it. To be sure, on paper, Aldeburke and everything in it belonged to her, but it was only right that she give it to the Hurrells to make up for what her mother had done.

“You are a fool if you let them do this,” said Azelma in the kitchen, slapping Ophele’s hands away from the sausage rolls she had just pulled out of the oven. The day’s baking was done early in the morning, hours before dawn, and it was also the time Ophele felt safest to emerge from her hiding places and scavenge something to eat.

“I want a fig roll, too.” Ophele dragged a wooden stool over to wait while the rolls cooled. They smelled so good.

“You aren’t likely to get a better offer than His Grace, missy,” the old lady said bluntly. Azelma had no awe of Ophele, and she was very willing to offer advice whether Ophele wanted it or not. “Why are you doing this? No, answer me and then you can have a fig roll.”

In the absence of the Hurrells, the fig rolls were really hers already. The figs were hers. The flour was hers. Ophele met Azelma’s steely blue eyes and wondered what would happen if she snatched a fig roll and ran out of the kitchen. Azelma was an old lady. Her reflexes were slow.

“It’s for Lisabe,” she said, looking down at her toes. “Or Lady Hurrell said she would tell him what my mother did.”

Ophele had no idea what this was. She had been too young to receive an explanation when her mother died, but she knew Lady Pavot had struck the decisive blow against Remin’s old House. And it wasn’t just because Lady Hurrell said so, either. From earliest memory, Ophele’s mother had warned her to be careful what she said, because there were some words that could never be called back. And she had always sighed and said,that poor boy,afterward. Treasonous words, filled with regret.

“Lady Hurrell wouldn’t tell the truth if she was strapped to a Catherine wheel and set alight,” Azelma said tartly. But she still turned away, because these were matters well beyond both of them. Ophele hadn’t been born at the time of the Conspiracy, and Azelma was just an old lady who knew how to cook.

“Will you make cheese pastries tomorrow?”

“Your Highness’s wish is my command.” Flour puffed under Azelma’s hands, stout and strong as a sawyer’s from decades of kneading dough. She was rolling out more sausage rolls and set the pan to rise by the oven.

“It is not,” Ophele objected. “You put prunes in the sweetbread again yesterday. You know I hate prunes.”

“Good for my lady’s bowels.”

“The etiquette books say you should never talk to a lady about her bowels,” Ophele said primly.

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