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“I go first,” Raul said softly.
Ault’s only protest was a twitch of his mouth, before he fell back with the others. Raul eased his horse forward a few paces and dismounted. It was another calculated risk, yielding the advantages of height the horse gave him, but he judged the
se guards wanted a confrontation as little as he did.
He held the reins loosely with one hand. With the other, he indicated that he held no weapon. The guards did not relax their attention, but their hands drifted away from their sword hilts. Good enough.
“My name is Lord Raul Kosenmark,” Raul said. “These are my personal guards. May I enter the city?”
By now, all the foot traffic around them had stopped. Raul heard the swell of whispers that died away almost at once, but he kept his gaze on the guards themselves. One or two had started at his voice, light and high as a woman’s. The rest were blank-faced. He knew that kind of studied blankness. He was recognized, then.
“Where are you bound in the city, my lord?” one asked.
“To the palace. To speak with the king.”
“And you pledge your word for your guards?”
“For the men and women who serve me, yes.”
The guard hesitated—his eyes narrowed, as though suspicious of how Raul reworded that guarantee—but only for a moment. He stood aside and indicated the open gates with a sweeping bow. “My lord. Welcome back to Duenne.”
Raul remounted. Ault appeared at once by his side—he must have started forward the moment the guard spoke. The other five crowded behind.
Raul glanced around. Those who had paused to watch the spectacle had not moved away. Well, he ought not to disappoint them. “Stay back,” he said to Ault. “Follow me, one by one. We’ll regroup at the first square.” He offered his audience a flashing smile, a wave of his hand, then rode through the gates into Duenne.
* * *
HIS SPINE ITCHED. The guards had recognized his name. They must have sent word at once to Armand. What if he had waited another week? Met his father outside Duenne? But his instincts had yammered at him the entire journey from Tiralien. Armand would learn of Dzavek’s death from his own spies. Raul could picture what came next. Armand speaking passionately to the council. Armand insisting they launch a war, at once. A few might argue back. Very few, given the fate of those who had argued before. And so the council would reluctantly agree. Soldiers would gather at the border. And thousands would die, all because a young king wanted glory.
He might not listen to me. But if I speak to him openly, others will hear. I cannot keep silent in the shadows any longer.
A string of young girls and boys ran alongside his train. All of them were barefooted, dressed in patched clothes and too skinny for comfort. One of them stopped long enough to gesture toward his sword. She was no more than twelve, all bones and swift angles, and a ruddy complexion that spoke of her plains heritage. Her hair tumbled over her eyes. She thrust it back with a fist. Fierce. No doubt she would bite if provoked. Raul liked that. He grinned. The girl grinned back and ran ahead, thumping a companion on his back.
At the promised square, Raul and his guards closed into a circle.
“Where to first, my lord?” Ault asked.
Raul had turned over that same question in his mind as they approached Duenne. He was tempted to delay the confrontation. He could ride to his father’s house, ask his advice. They had not spoken for almost ten years.
He shook his head. No more delays. “We go to the palace.”
They watered the horses and set off at a slow walk.
Humorists said the politics in Duenne were so convoluted the council had outlawed any direct route within the city. That was not entirely true. There were many direct routes. They were, however, not the shortest. Raul and his company had entered Duenne at its easternmost point, north of the river. An hour passed as they followed the main avenue west to the grand central plaza of Duenne. From here, an even grander avenue, lined with statutes of kings and queens, arrowed southeast across the river and to the palace. Very little had changed in this oldest quarter. He recognized, almost as one might recall the imprint of scent and color and texture from long-ago days, the golden walls, the roofs the color of rubies, the towers, a panoply of silver and gold breaking free …
“Benedikt.”
“My lord?”
Raul shook his head. “Nothing.” Then, “Thank you.”
Ault bowed in his saddle. “You have my heart and my service, my lord. I would give more if I could.”
They set off for the bridge across the Gallenz. As they crossed the river and gained the smaller square on the opposite side, Raul heard a shout from the crowd. Was that his name? He listened. The shout came again, closer now. Yes. He could pick out more words. Kosenmark. Valentain. Impossible, he thought. No one except the guards at the gate knew of his arrival. Such a display of enthusiasm felt … wrong.
He leaned toward Ault. “What do you think?”
“Hired troublemakers,” Ault said. “Khandarr would accuse you of inciting discontent.”
