Page 73 of Traitor Son

“I would,” she said, her shoulders hunching under his regard and red to the tips of her ears. Remin politely yanked his eyes away.

“I hadn’t realized how cramped that is,” he said abruptly. “I’ll find a proper tub.”

“I need something deep enough for laundry.”

“You’ve been washing your own laundry?” he snapped, and then could have kicked himself; who else would do it? The squires were responsible for tending their masters’ clothing and armor, but the Duchess of Andelin could hardly send her underclothes to a bunch of teenage boys for washing.

She nodded, looking as if she wished she would drown in her bathwater.

“I’ll think of something,” was all Remin could say, and left her to get on with her pitiful bath. All this time, he had never thought of such a basic chore. When had she found the time? Or the energy? He haddone his share of laundry when he was a squire, and it was hard work that demanded a great deal of strength. There was a reason washerwomen had hands like blacksmiths.

Once, it would have given him pleasure to put the Emperor’s daughter to such work. Now he couldn’t imagine how the prospect had ever pleased him. Well, he would have to do it himself, whether she protested or not.

At least she seemed happy to be going to see where the manor would be built. The next morning, she woke up on only the third try and was already dressed when he returned to pick her up, soft and pretty in a modest violet gown, and doing her best to be invisible.

The planned site of the ducal estate was on the southwest hill overlooking the river. Two smaller hills hugged its side, flattish on the top and gently sloping toward the back, perfect locations for outbuildings. The front of the hill was a bit of a climb through tall grass and there wasn’t much to see at the moment; the old forest was still thick here, and an immense oak stood at the summit, hoary and ancient.

Sousten Didion was already on the crest, equipped with a worktable and disdaining a tent, which he claimed would ruin the atmosphere of the entire hill.

“Ah, you must be His Grace’s lady wife!” He exclaimed, hurrying over to kiss the princess’s hand. “I am charmed and delighted, blessed lady, charmed and delighted! What an honor to build a home to shelter the daughter of the stars! I beg you to speak freely if our plans are not perfect in the slightest particular.”

He had the habit of simultaneously over-pronouncing and swallowing his words, like an actor’s parody of an aristocrat. But even if he was a little flamboyant for Remin’s taste, he couldn’t argue with Sousten’s work. The man was a genius.

“Thank you,” said the princess, bobbing her head.

“It may be difficult to imagine now, but the finished house will have a tremendous view,” said the architect, flinging out his arms to embrace both the town and the river. “Imagine the great city that will lie at our feet, bustling by day and lit with lamps of an evening, nestled beside the river. Decorative trees will line the streets, and there will be the temple, with its gleaming crystal spires. And in the distance, far white walls and green hills. That is what you will see from the front doors of your home.”

He snapped his fingers, and two assistants produced an enormous canvas depicting this vision, a watercolor that was like a dream of the town to come. The princess drew a breath, her large eyes absorbing every detail.

“And we promise a view every bit as spectacular from the opposite side,” Sousten went on, smug with this success. “A natural view of the river, the fores, and eventually the new bridge. As such, there will be no back of the house…”

Another picture. Tounot, Juste, and Miche had accompanied Remin to the site; they had been with him longest and deserved to see the rewards of their hard work. Remin drew the princess in front of him as they crowded around the picture, to make sure she got a look. As Sousten said, this would be her home, too.

“There will be extensive terracing on the grounds,” said the architect, beckoning them onward. Every time he stopped, his assistants unrolled another picture or diagram depicting the things he was describing. “Imagine, my lady, that here you see gardens and follies and manicured lawns descending, with a manmade pond over there…”

There were places that would be raised and others that would be flattened, connected with paths and bridges and stairs. High walkways would look down on lower gardens, with arches and cascading flowers and connecting tunnels that made the gardens spectacular and multidimensional, a fanciful construct like nothing Remin could have imagined.

“I have designed it for all weathers, you see,” Sousten explained. “The whole estate is meant to beexperienced:walked, ridden, circumnavigated by carriage and in the winter, by sleigh. One must consider all seasons, how it will look under snow, where the cool places will be in the summer.”

It was a masterpiece. No, it was dozens of individual masterpieces flowing together in elegant harmony. It would be the wonder of the Empire.

“But you took out all the trees,” the princess said timidly.

“Yes, Your Grace?” The architect said, pausing mid-sentence.

“All these trees,” she said, gesturing at the forest surrounding them. She looked nervous with so many eyes suddenly upon her, and her hands pressed together, her fingers knotting. “They’re all gone. Trees take a long time to grow.”

“There will be many new trees, Your Grace,” Sousten said reassuringly, snapping his fingers again. His assistants rifled rapidly through the parchments to produce the one he desired. “Ornamental trees from all over the Empire. Here, plum and cherry, very beautiful in the spring, with maples for color in autumn…”

She nodded and said nothing more, her hand resting lightly on Remin’s arm as they moved through the rest of the grounds. But he could see the busy mind working away behind her great eyes, solemnly absorbing it all, and he wondered irritably why she never justsaidthem, all those thousands of thoughts. He had never met anyone who thought so much and said so little.

At the crest of the hill, they came to another stop. Sousten Didion had saved the best for last.

The house.

They had already discussed it endlessly, wrangling over it in person and through messages for over a year. They had shouted. Sousten had quit twice. He had designed a dozen different manors, each more beautiful than the last, and Remin had rejected them all. The last time, Sousten had thrown a tantrum and tore up the design, then disappeared for a week-long bender through the taverns of Segoile.

When he sobered up, he reappeared and began barraging Remin with questions, even consulting Tounot and Juste at various points. Materials, colors, even the shape of the shingles, he had worked for months to extract even the dimmest and foggiest memories.

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