Page 68 of The Traitor's Curse
Mattia’s eyes narrowed. “Oh, dear,” he muttered, clearly already busily going down the same path I’d mentally trodden, and went to pull the latest draft from the files on the opposite wall. “Here it is, Your Grace. Yes. For red wines…”
The tariffs on wines, and in some cases lack thereof, had been a particular sticking point for me, but the Surbini ambassador had been incredibly stubborn, almost nonchalant in his dismissal of my concerns. And now I thought I knew why: he’d been privately assured of Lord Zettine’s support in making sure that Surbino’s white wines would command the best possible prices at the greatest possible volume, while sacrificing the interests of other vintners on both sides of the border to compensate for it.
“That’s enough,” I said, cutting Mattia off as he began to fight his way through a subparagraph about barrels. “Thank you. I think that’s what I wanted to know.”
My voice had gone grim—nearly as much as my mood.
Zettine had been Calatria’s Lord Chancellor for more than thirty years, since well before either Tavius or I had been conceived. He’d been here, in this palace, when my father carried on his affair with Tavius’s married mother, and I had no doubt he’d been as canny and ambitious and well-supplied with spies nearly three decades ago as he was now.
Fabian had known. Zettine had almost certainly known. Tavius would’ve come to the same conclusion, I felt sure. And if Zettine had known all this time, and never said a word…well, Tavius would never have trusted him. Zettine would’ve been out on his ass at best, and far more likely his head would’ve adorned one of those spikes Benedict knew damn well I’d never actually use. But Tavius wouldn’t have had the same qualms.
Even if Zettine and his family survived Tavius’s ascent topower, they’d have ended up bankrupt, either through Tavius’s persecution of them or through a war. Tavius had hated Surbino, something about effete southerners who hadn’t come to our aid a hundred years ago during a war we’d had with the Elaquin Archipelago. He’d had similar attitudes regarding every other kingdom I could think of. And then, of course, there was whatever he’d been plotting with a Surbini captive. He’d have had Calatria embroiled in some stupid, wasteful conflict within months of taking the throne.
No, Zettine would’ve been highly motivated to see to it that Tavius never made a claim on the throne, let alone succeeded.
And now, he’d be highly motivated to avoid drawing attention to himself—and to his part in what had happened. If he came charging to my study demanding answers, I might expect the same from him.
I stood, straightened my tunic, and said, “If Lord Benedict comes looking for me, tell him I have a meeting. And don’t specify with whom.”
“It’s very difficult to lie to Lord Benedict,” Mattia said dubiously. “With the best will in the world, Your Grace.”
“You won’t need to lie. I won’t tell you where I’m going.”
Mattia raised his eyebrows. “Not that I can’t guess, Your Grace. But I’ll do my best to pretend I don’t know. Although—speaking of poison? Not that I’m accusing anyone of anything. But don’t take any refreshment, if you’re going to have the confrontation I think you are.”
“Good advice,” I said, and set out for Lord Zettine’s offices. Particularly good and also quite pertinent, if only Mattia had known it.
Zettine had an administrative suite in the same wing as mine, in a small annex overlooking a private courtyard. I knew him well enough to be fairly sure he’d be there, even thoughhe wanted to avoid me. He spent even more time buried in paperwork than I did. Nothing short of an apocalypse would keep him from his desk.
That said, I also knew he’d have no compunction about fleeing through the side door into the courtyard and having his secretary, a humorless, ageless stick of a man who’d terrified me since I was old enough to walk, lie to me that Zettine had never been there in the first place.
And so I went around and in through the courtyard rather than along the busy corridor and through Zettine’s anteroom, where he’d have notice of my arrival.
When my men pushed the protesting guard on duty out of the way and opened the door from the courtyard into Zettine’s private study, the look of shock and dismay on my Lord Chancellor’s face was one of the most satisfying sights of my life.
It gave me the courage to shoot my coldest ducal glare at that horrible secretary and say, without any apology, “Leave us, and don’t allow anyone to interrupt us until you’re summoned.”
To my gratified surprise, and to Zettine’s sputtering indignation, he did just that, bowing and stepping out of the room with no more than a muttered, “Yes, Your Grace.”
I turned to my guards. “Wait in the courtyard.” They hesitated, I frowned, and they left.
Zettine had risen and now stood behind his desk, drawing himself up to his full height, beard bristling over his high embroidered collar.
“I must protest, Your Grace,” he said. I raised my eyebrows and stared him down. “Of course my duke is always entitled to my time,” he went on, a bit less confidently. I kept staring, and this time I curled my lip at him. Benedict had mentioned the effectiveness of my lip curling, and why not. “But out of respect for my position, you could at least present yourself at the door, or knock!”
“I have the greatest respect for your position,” I said. “And, in fact, for you, though we’ve had our differences, and you haven’t always reciprocated.” I overrode his protests with, “It’s that respect that brings me here. If I didn’t value your decades of service to me and my father before me, I’d simply have you arrested for murder and have done with it. Or for treason, if I really wanted to be vindictive. It was the duke’s wine, after all. Only you and I know for certain that you meant it for Fabian and not for me.”
Not even Zettine’s practiced court mask could remain in place when struck such a blow as that. I watched in fascination as his age-reddened cheeks went ashen. He wobbled, caught himself on the edge of his desk, and remained stubbornly upright.
Well, good for him. Anyway, if he dropped dead of an apoplexy, I wouldn’t have the satisfaction of watching him squirm. Not to mention, I had a few questions. There were holes in what I knew, and if I didn’t get them filled in I’d never rest.
“You’re going to answer my questions, Lord Zettine, and it may take some little time,” I said, and dropped into one of the comfortable chairs in front of the fireplace across from his desk. “Why don’t you join me.”
When he came around and sat in the other chair, lips pressed in a flat line and hands clenched in his lap, I knew I’d won—and more importantly, so did he.
“Thank you for not insulting my intelligence and injuring your own dignity by pretending not to understand me.” Zettine nodded stiffly, his teeth gritting together. “Have you known about Lord Tavius’s true paternity the entire time?” Another nod. “And so did Fabian.”
“Yes,” he said, after a pause. “We both knew. Neither of us ever spoke of it to anyone. Not even my wife knew the truth.”
