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“Nothing, I said. I just— I am going to observe the future, my love. A matter of the kingdom, if you must know.”
Lies. The entire family was built upon the tradition of lies and secrets. And yet Heloïse was not entirely like her father and elder brother. It was for this reason that Nadine slid from the bed and wrapped her arms around Heloïse in a loose embrace. “I shall keep you company.”
Heloïse did not object, which was answer enough, and so Nadine dressed with the speed and ease she had learned as a courtesan, in her best gown of silk, the embroidered outer robe styled in the finest of Duenne’s fashions, and a heavy sash. She needed only her slippers, and they were on their way.
Their destination was a tiny row of benches, tucked underneath the ceiling itself, that overlooked the grand council chamber of Veraene’s Congress. This was where Armand of Angersee had tried Lord Kosenmark for treason, where Ilse Zhalina had given her testimony, where the Regency tried Theodr Galt. Since then, the chamber had remained unused, but as Nadine settled herself next to Heloïse, she saw an enormous crowd gathered below. Courtiers. Attendants. The councillors themselves stood in smaller knots or took their places around a series of benches, ranged according to rank, that circled the dais and its empty throne.
A matter of state, Heloïse had called it.
A matter of kings, Nadine thought.
She half rose, thinking she did not wish to observe today’s spectacle, when Heloïse twisted about. “We must have coffee,” she murmured, “if we are to endure the session. Oh, thank the gods.” She gestured energetically to a young man in servant’s livery, who carried a tray with small squat mugs. Money exchanged hands, and soon Nadine sipped from a cup of hot chocolate, while Heloïse savored her spiced coffee, making small satisfied noises, like a cat.
She was an extraordinary woman, Nadine thought. She had the grace of Lord Kosenmark, and his height, but on a far leaner scale. Golden eyes, black hair, the cheeks drawn in swift, uncompromising angles, and her wide mouth alight with humor, or the promise of it.
“You are staring,” Heloïse said.
“And so I should,” Nadine returned lightly. “You are a spectacle.”
Heloïse’s laugh was low and rough, like water rushing over stones. “I am not, but I could arrange for one.”
Nadine dropped her gaze. “Naughty child.”
“Hardly a child,” Heloïse replied. “But look. Lord Ytel has made his appearance. Now we ought to see something interesting.”
Nadine drained off her cup of chocolate and leaned against the railing. The swarm of dots parted. A tall bent figure proceeded slowly along the path cleared before him. Lord Alberich de Ytel. She had spoken with him only a few moments that mad night. Her impression of the man was that little could overset him, even when dressed in his nightclothes. Today, he wore layers of stiff robes, with the chains of his office around his neck, and his gray hair drawn into a tight, old-fashioned queue. He took his place among the councillors and lifted a hand.
All conversation ebbed to near silence. Ytel began a long speech, delivered in a low, sonorous voice, about the kingdom and its future and how the council would endeavor to sift through the many names proposed …
Names for the next king, she realized.
“I hate this,” she said suddenly.
“So do I,” Heloïse said. “That is why I never came to Duenne before. Never once wrote to my beloved older brother during his exile. I am ashamed of my cowardice. No matter how stupid Baron Quint and his like might be, it doesn’t excuse me.”
“Do you blame—”
“I blame no one. I only speak for myself.”
Heloïse turned her bright gaze to the council floor. Lord Ytel had retired. Lord Thonis took his place and bellowed out a speech. Others bellowed back. Yatter, yatter, yatter. From Heloïse’s recent comments, Nadine understood that the council wished to settle the question of kingship properly, but to Nadine, these debates all seemed pointless. The rich nobles would do as they pleased. Armand, that poor toad, might be dead, and Khandarr, too, but politics would proceed as usual. She leaned back and closed her eyes, abruptly unable to bear the spectacle. Perhaps she could persuade Heloïse to return to their rooms. From what little she had glimpsed through the windows during their swift progress to the audience chamber, it promised to be a splendid winter’s day. They might obtain horses and ride through the hills above Duenne, or simply wander through the various districts of the city …
A sudden silence washed over the hall.
Nadine’s skin rippled in sudden apprehension. It was nothing, she told herself. A pause in the idiocy, nothing more. But then she heard the tread of slow and heavy footsteps. Her eyes still closed, she tried to guess the newcomer’s identity. An old man, she thought, given to self-indulgence. No doubt someone with more rank than sense.
Next to her Heloïse hissed. “He has come. I knew he would.”
Nadine opened her eyes reluctantly. Heloïse was pressed against the railing, tense and alert, her gaze fixed on the floor below. Silently, Nadine came to her side.
Raul Kosenmark emerged from the silent crowd. For a moment, he scanned the audience, but the act was clearly perfunctory, because he merely shrugged before he took his place among the other councillors.
This was not the Lord Kosenmark that Nadine knew from her years in Tiralien. He was dressed in an almost plain costume of dark blue trousers and shirt, over which he wore a sleeveless robe that swept the floor. His only concession to fashion were the dark blue gems he wore around his throat and hanging from one ear. But it was his manner that struck hardest—slow and ponderous, as if each gesture came at a cost.
And so it does.
“I thought he had forsworn the general council,” she murmured.
She knew Raul had begun to attend council the previous few weeks. He had entered into sharp debates about certain matters—trade negotiations with neighboring kingdoms, aid to the poor, improvements to the kingdom’s universities. On all the larger matters of state, however, especially those concerning Károví, he was silent.
