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He had the reward of seeing her smile at last. She was a pretty girl, in spite of her stiffness, with bright black eyes canted in an angular face. Duszranjen, he thought, or maybe from the northern provinces. If he were a roving sort of baron, like others he knew …
But he was not. His father had taught him better. So, too, the old duke.
He pressed two silver koruný into the young woman’s palm. Another two went to her companion. “Thank you for the news and your kindness. You have saved me at least one unnecessary diversion.”
Onward he went, his favorite black boots whispering over the old stones. It was a grand household, built from marble and slate mined from Taboresk’s mountains. He loved it for certain memories, hated it for others. He remembered his first visits as a child, when he and Miro had explored the grounds together. Then came a summons from his uncle. He’d been not quite six years of age, and could not understand why his mother wept at the news, nor why his father had hugged him so close before the duke’s emissaries carried him away. Five strange years had followed, with infrequent visits from his true parents, and a phalanx of servants who treated him as the heir of Taboresk. He told the servants they were wrong. He was no heir. It was his cousin Miro who would be duke. They all smiled at his outbursts.
He’d hated them at first. Later, he’d made friends, loved them as well as his position allowed. He understood they were constrained as much as he and his true parents were. It was all a question of politics, and of the necessity for the old duke to appear untouched by any scandal involving his former wife and the son she had abducted.
Years later, his cousin had returned, mud-soaked and bruised and refusing to speak of his time in Duszranjo, or anything else that concerned his mother.
Old and new memories alike flitted through his consciousness as he prowled through the household. The tea had taken hold. He was awake and, thanks to Jirí’s ministrations, feeling steadier than he had expected. He exchanged greetings with the senior housekeeper on the stairs, the undercook Matìj in the kitchens, where he snagged a sweet bun, and finally with the senior hostler, Luba, in the stables. From these old friends he learned his cousin had risen before dawn, met with various members of the household guards, then retreated with his secretary to his private office.
Stranger and stranger, he thought as he now sped directly to the wing that housed those offices. It was almost midmorning, the village bells ringing nine long bells, but the air was still and quiet, more quiet than one might expect for a busy
duke newly returned after a long absence.
At the sight of an armed sentry outside the wing, he stopped, uncertain. Another pair waited farther along the hallway. Ryba knew them—both were Miro’s first recruits after his father died. “Is my cousin within?” he asked. “I would like a moment’s conversation with him, if possible.”
The two guards exchanged glances. Something was up. But evidently Miro had left word to admit his cousin, because the guard closest to the door bowed. “Of course, my lord.”
A complicated knock, answered by a voice within. With another bow, the guard opened the door and stood to one side. It was so unlike all the casual visits with his cousin in previous years that he almost thought he should withdraw.
Feeling anxious and contrary, he crossed the threshold.
Miro—the man, the duke, the cousin—sat behind the desk, one hand resting on a thick packet wrapped in oilskin. He had evidently just finished off one last paper, because he still held a brush in one hand. He glanced toward Ryba and acknowledged him with the briefest nod. Miro’s secretary, Vasche Capek, occupied a wooden chair by the fireplace. He carried no pens, nor any of his usual equipment. Instead, he sat with his hands gripped together, his back a rigid line. His cheeks were flushed with obvious emotion, a thing Ryba had never believed possible.
“Cousin,” Ryba said.
Capek scowled—a general scowl, not directed at Ryba particularly, but unusual for the man. Miro gestured toward a second chair, without meeting Ryba’s eyes.
Feh. You both invited me to this quarrel, Ryba thought.
It was unlike them both. But then, these past few weeks had been nothing like the usual. He shrugged, and sank with an exaggerated sigh into the chair Miro had indicated.
“I need tea,” he declared. “Strong tea. Brewed with herbs to counteract our strenuous evening. And,” he added, “a dish to make up for such an uncomfortable morning.”
He had the reward of seeing Miro’s mouth twitch into a smile. Capek merely frowned. “Your Grace,” he said to Miro. “You have heard my objections. That is all I ask.”
“Hardly all,” Miro murmured. “However, I do understand your concerns, Vasche. In return, I ask only that you indulge me this one time.”
Ryba felt a trickle of apprehension at his cousin’s tone. He trained his glance upon the tiled floor, to the square depicting Miro’s ancestor leading troops against the Veraenen invaders. It was for that brave act that King Leos granted Fedor Karasek these lands and the title of duke. Four hundred years had passed since those wars, two hundred since the artisan had created these tiles. Scuff marks obscured the ancestor’s face, but otherwise the scene was vividly laid out, soldiers charging with weapons raised, soldiers hacking at each other with swords and axes, soldiers dying and weeping for little more cause than a noble’s pride.
Meanwhile, Miro had affixed a wax seal to the wrapping. He pressed his thumb onto the soft wax and spoke an invocation to the gods. The air stirred, and Ryba could almost hear the magic current whispering the names Lir and Toc in response. Then Miro inserted the paper into the packet and handed the whole over to Capek. “Remember,” he said. “Hold that in safekeeping until you are required to hand it over.”
“Yes, your Grace.” Capek accepted the papers, but he was clearly unhappy about the orders. He exited the room with his head bowed.
Once the door closed, Miro rested his head upon his hands.
Ryba let a few moments pass before he spoke.
He had meant to tax his cousin with keeping late hours, but that would strike too close to the truth. Miro’s eyes were red-rimmed and dull, as though he had not slept at all since he and Ryba had parted in the family wing. And there was an air of restlessness about him. Ryba had observed his cousin in all manner of moods—from those first skittish days after his return from Duszranjo, to those of intimacy as they worked their way past the expectations imposed by others, to these past few years of easy camaraderie. To honesty itself.
This. This was a new Miro, and one that frightened Ryba with its strangeness.
“Miro,” he said softly. “What is wrong?”
Miro’s head snapped up. His eyes were wide, as if Ryba had suddenly turned into one of Taboresk’s ghosts.
