Page 16 of Traitor Son

“Why are there so many people?” she asked, squinting at the crowds lining the road ahead, and the duke cursed under his breath.

“Miche,” he said, like an oath, and quickly rearranged her in his lap. “Turn this way,” he ordered, before she could protest. “Both legs over my right thigh. Good.”

With a flick of his hands, his heavy cloak fell over her, concealing everything but her face. One massive arm slid around her waist to press her firmly against his chest as he spurred his horse to the front of the column, managing the reins with one hand. It was just like the final bookplate in a romance she had once read, except his only reason for doing it was to conceal his bride’s house slippers and ragged dress. Her long hair, unbound and unwashed, flapped loose to whip around them romantically and made the duke’s horse very uncomfortable.

For all the evil tales about Remin Grimjaw, the Duke of Andelin was of higher nobility than most people would see in a lifetime, and a war hero to boot. His knights were a glorious sight with their shining armor and fluttering banners, and there were actual showers of petals as they approached the gates of the city. Flocks of children scampered ahead of them and formed a shouting mob behind, and Ophele was stunned by the sea of faces, more people than she had imagined there could be in the whole world, clustered ten deep by the side of the road.

A blond knight was waiting for them at the gates of the city, mounted and armored and bearing the duke’s black banner.

“Your Grace!” He shouted, flinging out his arms in welcome. His voice boomed even over the noise of the crowd. “All of Celderline is waiting to greet you!”

The gates yawned ahead of them, the spikes of the portcullis bared like fangs, and Ophele prepared herself to be brave.

* * *

Miche had outdone himself, arranging all this with barely a day’s head start.

It wasn’t the first time Remin had received such a welcome. The triumphal progress through the capital of Segoile had lasted three hours, and for the first few months after Valleth surrendered, it seemed like all the roads before him were strewn with flowers. It had been strange and humbling, and almost made him feel like an imposter, even though he knew he had really done all the things they said he had done.

He accepted the shouts of the people of Celderline with the same stern, expressionless face with which he had received the war cries of the army of Valleth, holding his warhorse back to a dignified walk. Before and behind him, his knights paused to accept flowers from ladies, nudged their horses into a dancing trot, or lifted their banners and sang along with the crowd, each according to his own inclinations. They, too, had faced far more hostile crowds than this.

Belatedly, he remembered that the girl in his lap had not. The Exile Princess had never seen a crowd of any description, and she was pressed so tightly against him, he could feel her heart knocking against his ribs like it was trying to climb in and hide.

“Don’t be afraid,” he said, bending his head so his mouth was beside her ear. “They don’t mean any harm.”

She looked up at him, her eyes enormous. She had a small scar at the outer edge of one delicate eyebrow. Under his cloak, her hand was clutching the hem of his jerkin, and his arm tightened around her automatically, even as his back prickled at the remembered stab of a knife.

Fortunately, it wasn’t far to the inn. Fifteen minutes was a satisfactory progress for everyone; it gave the townspeople a bit of excitement on anotherwise ordinary day, without disrupting the business of the city too badly. Following Miche, they wound through a large market square and then up a narrower avenue to a hilltop in the middle of town, passing through wide gates into the stable yard of a palatial inn. The innkeeper was already waiting, bowing low and declaring himself ecstatic to have the opportunity to serve so renowned a hero.

“Tell your lads to be careful of the horses,” Remin replied, acknowledging the courtesy with a jerk of his chin. Swinging out of his saddle, he landed with a thud, doing his best to keep the princess concealed under his cloak. “They’re trained for war. Feed and water them but leave the grooming to my men. You have a room for the princess?”

“The Prin—Your Highness!” the innkeeper exclaimed, prostrating himself on the cobblestones when he spotted the girl in Remin’s arms. “Sacred Daughter of the Stars! Yes, of course, we are deeply…deeplyhonored!”

“Rise,” Remin said, gesturing. “She needs maids. And a bath. And whatever else ladies require.”

“I will ask my wife to personally attend her,” the man replied, presenting a sturdy woman with an astonishing white bonnet. She too prostrated herself.

“Delaide Goel, if it please Your Grace. Blessed Highness, I will consider myself honored the rest of my days.”

“Thank you.” Setting the princess down, Remin transferred his cloak to her shoulders, tugging the hood over her tangled curls. “Stay with Mistress Goel, Princess. You’ll be fine. Auber.”

Auber nodded and trailed after the women into the inn. He was an unobtrusive sort with light brown hair and unremarkable features, and he had made an art of being overlooked.

With the girl off his hands, Remin went about the rest of his work with good will. His company occupied the entire third floor of the inn, luxurious accommodation in a part of the city renowned for their mineral baths. His own room was as opulent as anything he had seen in Segoile, with stained glass windows and a deep balcony that overlooked the river and the market on the other side. It would have been an outrageous expense under any other circumstances, but sometimes spending money was as good as flexing muscle.

Before supper, he and Edemir were ensconced at a worktable to deal with piles of correspondence, everything from invitations to balls that had already happened to reports of troop movements on the border with Valleth.

Remin did not fear another war. Yet. The wounds of the last were too recent, and he had harrowed every last Eagle Knight out of his valley, inflicting staggering losses that would take Valleth a generation to recover. With Hara Vos pressing from their east and certain other measures from Remin to compel their obedience, it would be decades before they needed another lesson. But Remin was hardly going to leave his borders undefended, and he planned to break the remaining units of his army into small local militias, lightly armed and mounted to respond quickly to reports of banditry and the like.

There were many other reports, less dire but all urgent in their own way. Some of it was good news; while he was in the capital, Remin had made the acquaintance of an earl from Leinbruke and persuaded him to part with a few head of his prized breeding rams, renowned for the quality of their wool. A dozen of them had arrived and were being duly coddled on some good grazing east of Tresingale.

All reports of Tresingale were of absorbing interest. It might be a few dozen huts on a muddy lane right now, but one day it would be a beautiful city, the seat of his duchy. It had everything: access to the Brede on two sides, rolling hillsides to the east for grazing, and acres of flat, rich farmland to the north, left fallow for nearly a century. In spring, work would begin on the network of roads that would connect Tresingale to the rest of the Empire.

He could have happily spent whole days planning his new city, if Miche hadn’t insisted on interrupting every half hour with some question about the wedding. The ceremony had taken on undreamed levels of complexity, and Remin seriously doubted fifty sovereigns had stretched so far as a choir, but long experience with Miche had taught him sometimes it was better not to look too close.

“Your Grace, the tailor is here,” said the irrepressible man, sticking his head through the door.

“What for?”

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