Page 6 of The Traitor's Curse
Turning the corner into the narrow hallway outside the council chamber, I forced all those thoughts aside. Surviving to thirty would be enough of a challenge, prudish prune or no. And surviving meant keeping my council on this side of banding together to assassinate me, which would require at least my partial attention.
The guards on the polished double doors to the council chamber—at least the maids in the palace continued to do their jobs loyally—pulled the handles in unison and bowed perfunctorily as I strode through, my chin lifted, projecting as much ducal confidence as I could manage. The almost-trusted bodyguard who trailed me everywhere peeled off and took up a similar position by the door, nodding to his fellows, leaving me to enter the room alone.
My council comprised nine lords and ladies, including Benedict, Clothurn, and Chancellor Zettine. All of them were seated already, of course, due to Zettine’s childish games.
Only one of them rose when I entered.
Benedict.
Of course he’d take this opportunity to both mock me and shame the other councilors, wrong-footing us all simultaneously. Unfolding himself from his chair to his full, commanding height, shaking out his glossy black hair and making that hideous earring swing, and bowing a fraction more deeply than the bloody door guards had, enough to make a point to them, too, if they’d still had the doors open.
Out of the corner of my eye, I caught the flush that cameand went around the edges of Zettine’s steel-gray beard.
Belatedly, he shoved to his feet too, the other councilors pushing up out of their chairs for a moment a beat behind him.
“Your Grace,” he said, his tone almost halfway to polite. The old hypocrite. “How charming of you to honor us with your presence. We have awaited you with the greatest respect, despite all being busy day and night attending to the welfare of your duchy.”
And there went Zettine’s attempt at courtesy. Benedict smirked and took his seat again, his expression conveying a satisfied dusting of hands. What an asshole.
Well, he wasn’t the only one who could piss off more than one other person at the same time. In fact, that could be considered one of my greatest skills, right next to staying awake while reading about tariffs.
“That must account for your oversight in appearing here before the time the meeting had been set,” I said gently. He didn’t have a sole claim to condescension, thank you. “But I’m sure these busy lords and ladies will forgive you for inadvertently wasting all of our valuable time.”
Everyone at the table stirred and muttered, and Zettine’s mouth opened. No, I still had the floor. I might pay for it later, but I couldn’t resist.
“A man of your age, with your heavy responsibilities, deserves our gratitude and support. In future, I will be the one to set the council meetings.” I glanced around the table, taking in everyone’s expressions. My eyes went to Benedict first, damn it all, and found him lounging back in his chair, gleaming eyes fixed on me. Mine caught and snagged as if he’d used more of his miserable magic to hold me.
When I tore them away, I found several of the older councilmembers, and also Clothurn, looking like they’d sucked on lemons, although Lady Bethenna had the faintest hint of asmirk. I made a note of that; she might be an unexpected ally in this infighting of mine, even though she’d known Zettine for a hundred years.
Maybebecauseshe’d known Zettine for a hundred years, the old bastard.
Zettine, though, had gone a shade of purple that would’ve made an eggplant proud. Good.
I smiled at him with regal graciousness. “I hope relieving you of this small burden demonstrates some of my appreciation for your diligence, Lord Zettine.”
With everyone in the room watching him like vultures, he had no choice but to bow and mutter something that almost sounded appropriate. But his eyes flashed hatred.
Taking my seat at the head of the table, opposite where he sat at the other end, I favored everyone with a smile and nod.
“No need to stand on formality,” I said dryly. Perhaps next time they’d remember to stand unprompted, period. Although I wouldn’t be holding my breath. “Let’s get right to business. Lord Clothurn, what is the state of our treasury?”
Clothurn answered me with a minimum of sneering, which I accounted a win, and the meeting went on—smoothly, to all appearances.
But Zettine remained silent throughout unless someone dared to address him with a direct question, and the cold, calculating fury in his deep-set dark eyes never faded.
Oh, I’d pay for this.
But asserting my authority gave me a gleeful, giddy fizzing in my veins that made me feel ready for anything.
Hopefully I’d survive long enough to enjoy it to the fullest.
Chapter Three
The rest of the day passed in a flurry of meetings with foreign ambassadors, a review of weary troops rotating home from garrison duty at our northern forts—and I had the pleasure of standing next to Benedict for that, pretending the soldiers weren’t directing their tired cheers and salutes at him instead of me—and the signing of countless decrees adjusting the taxation rates for various types of fishing.
It had to have been my imagination, but I could have sworn the papers carried a fishy odor with them. Fish had its place, preferably in someone else’s stomach, and I wanted nothing to do with it. The moment I reached my private rooms at the end of the evening, I instructed Fabian to draw me a deep bath and to use the fragrant oils with a heavy hand.
If he muttered, “Deep enough to drown in, Your Grace,” under his breath, I chose not to notice.
