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“Nothing of the kind,” the duke replied.
Now Armand glanced up, his gaze sharp. The resemblance to his grandfather struck Khandarr even stronger than before. With Baerne, especially in his younger years, before the madness took hold, such a glance presaged a cold, deliberate rage.
But all Armand said was, “What then?”
“A trial,” Duke Kosenmark said. “Display your evidence. Let the accused speak for himself.”
“And if his words prove him guilty?”
“Then execute him. Do it openly, with everyone to witness his fate.”
He spoke bluntly—the famed Kosenmark candor. It masked deceit, Khandarr thought. Can’t you see it? He chewed his lips, his weak and fumbling lips, knowing he could not say anything to Armand in front of the duke.
Armand glanced toward Khandarr and smiled faintly, as if to reassure him. “A fair request,” he said. “At least on the surface. However, the court knows my wishes. They will interpret any concession as a weakness. After all, why should I grant a trial if I know the man is guilty?”
“Then you will have your war, but not the one you desired.”
King and duke regarded each other in silence. Khandarr held his breath. For so long, none had dared to challenge the king. Nor had the king dared to insist on absolute authority. Was this the moment where Armand let go all memories of his grandfather? He would become king in truth, then.
“You cannot save your son this way,” Armand said.
Kosenmark never wavered. “Perhaps not, but I would try to save the kingdom.”
Another long pause followed. It took all of Khandarr’s self-control to remain standing, silent and impassive. He was grateful for the cane’s sturdiness, hated that he must depend upon it to keep upright.
“Very well,” Armand said at last. “You shall have your trial, Duke Kosenmark. May you have joy in its outcome.”
“And you as well, your Majesty.”
Kosenmark rose stiffly. White and gray streaked his hair, which was drawn back in a severe queue, the fashion from many decades past, and when he tilted his face upward, the lamplight emphasized the lines etched in his face. An old man, past seventy, Khandarr remembered. He had married late, fathering seven children quickly. Two had died in childhood. His heir had gambled with Baerne’s decree, had accepted a gelding, only to lose all influence on the old king’s death. The second son had proved dependable and dull. The daughters were yet untried.
“Your Majesty,” Kosenmark said, bowing to Armand. “My lord.” He nodded at Markus Khandarr.
Khandarr waited until the man had exited the room, and a longer interval after that, before he spoke.
“Your Majesty—”
“Be quiet, Markus.”
Khandarr choked back his arguments. Armand watched him with a veiled amusement. “You dislike my decision. No matter. Duke Kosenmark is right in one thing, though not for the reason he believes. We cannot have any secret executions. No unexpected illness. No accidents. Not for Lord Kosenmark, nor his people. Do you understand?”
Khandarr considered the two dead guards, their faces bloody and broken. He had lost his temper, a thing that happened too easily these days. Benedikt Ault and the others might survive with proper care. He would have to see to that before the night ended.
“Yes, your Majesty. I understand.”
* * *
NO CHAIR WAITED for him outside the king’s offices, and no guards within view. (He did not make the mistake of thinking they were not present, however.) Only a single runner, a very junior one, stood at attention. So. One runner for one message. The king had left him his own choice what that message ought to be.
“Lord Raul Kosenmark’s guards,” he said. “Fetch a doctor. The king’s physician. Tell him, do not let them die.”
Anger lent him fluency. He spoke with all the harshness he had contained the past few hours and had the satisfaction of seeing the runner flinch. But terrifying children for no cause was a petty thing after all. With a flick of his hand, he sent the boy off at a gallop.
Khandarr let his breath trickle out and considered the two flights of stairs between himself and the end of the day. He was alone, but not unwatched. No doubt Armand had left orders for the guards to keep away. He drew a rattling breath and launched himself into motion. Stump, stump, crack, thump. Up one flight. Along the
next corridor. Up another flight, around the next turning, then the hundred and two more steps to his own door.
A man, dressed in dark blue robes and trousers cut in the latest court fashion, paced the corridor outside Khandarr’s rooms. Jewels glinted from the hem. Metallic threads woven through the cloth glittered with every step. At the thump of Khandarr’s cane, he swung around, causing the lamplight to fall over his dark strong features.
