Lord Golden leaned back, tapping his forefinger on his lips as if it were a guessing game. He rolled his gaze about the table, then chortled sagely and pointed at Civil. “Then it was you, young man. For I heard it was you who carried the cat up to Prince Dutiful to present him.”
The boy's eyes flickered once to his mother's before he gravely shook his head. “Not I, Lord Golden,” he demurred. And again, that unusual silence of information withheld followed his words. A united front, I decided. The question would not be answered.
Lord Golden lolled his head back against his chair, and took a long noisy breath and sighed it out. “Damned fine gift,” he observed liberally. “Love to have one myself, from all I've heard. But hearing's no substitute for seeing. B'lieve I will ask Prince Dutiful to allow me to 'company him some night.” He sighed again and let his head wag to one side. “If he ever comes back from his meditation retreat. Not natural, if you ask me, for a boy that age to spend so much time alone. Not natural a'tall.” Lord Golden's enunciation was giving way rapidly.
Lady Bresinga's diction was quite clear as she asked, “So our Prince has retired again from the public eye, to follow his own thoughts for a time?”
“Yes, indeed,” Lord Golden affirmed. “And been a long time gone this time. 'Course, he has a good deal to think about these days. Betrothal coming up and all, Outislander delegation coming. A lot for a young man to handle. I mean, how would you take to it, young sir?” He wagged a finger in Civil's general direction. “How'd you like to be betrothed to a woman you've never met . . . well, she isn't even a woman yet, if rumor runs true. More like a girl on the cusp. She's what, eleven? So young. Terribly young, don't you think? And I don't understand the advantages of the match. That I do not.”
His words were indiscreet, verging on direct criticism of the Queen's decision. Looks were exchanged around the table. Plainly Lord Golden had taken more brandy than he handled well, and yet he was pouring more. His words hung unchallenged in the air. Perhaps Avoin thought he was turning conversation into a safer channel when he asked, “The Prince often retreats to meditate, then?”
“It's the Mountain way,” Lord Golden confirmed. “Or so I am told. Wha' do I know? Only that it's not the Jamaillian way. The young nobles of my fair home are more worldlyminded. And that is encouraged, mind you, for where better will a young nobleman learn the manners and ways of the world than t'be out in the midst of it? Your Prince Dutiful might do better t'mingle more with his court. Yes, and to look closer to home for a suitable consort.” A Jamaillian accent had begun to flavor Lord Golden's softening words, as if intoxication took him back to the speech habits of his erstwhile home. He sipped from his glass and then set it back upon the table so awkwardly that a tiny amber wave leapt over the edge. He rubbed his mouth and chin as if to massage away the brandy's numbing effect. I suspected that he had done little more than hold the brimming glass against his lip.
No one had replied to his comments, but Lord Golden appeared not to notice.
“And this time has marked his longest absence of all!” he enlarged. “That's all we hear at the Court these days. 'Where is Prince Dutiful? What, still in seclusion? When will he return? What, no one can say?' Very dampening t'spirits at the Court for our young ruler t'be absent so long. Wager that his cat hates it, too. What d'you think, Avoin? Does a hunting cat pine when his master's away for long?”
Avoin appeared to consider it. “One devoted to his cat would not leave it long alone. A cat's loyalty is not a thing to be taken for granted, but courted day by day.”
Avoin drew breath to continue but Lady Bresinga smoothly interrupted. “Well, our cats hunt best while dawn is still on the land. So if we are to show Lord Golden our beauties at their prime, we had all best retire so we may arise early.” At a small sign from her, a servant moved forward to draw back her chair. Everyone else came to his or her feet, though Lord Golden did so with a small lurch. I thought I heard a small titter of amusement from the Graylings' daughter, but Sydel was none too steady herself. Knowing my role, moved forward to offer Lord Golden a firm arm. He loftily disdained it, waving me aside and scowling at my impertinence. I stood stolidly by as the nobility offered goodnights to one another, and then followed Lord Golden to his chambers.
I opened the door for him and saw him through it. Following him, I perceived that the household servants had been at work in our chambers. The bath things were tidied away, fresh candles filled the holders, and the window was shut. A tray of cold meats, fruit, and pastries rested on the table. My first act after closing the door was to open the window. It simply felt wrong to have a solid barrier between Nighteyes and me. glanced out, but saw no sign of the wolf. Doubtless he was doing his own prowl of the premises, and I would not risk questing out toward him. I made a swift circuit of our rooms, checking for any signs of a search, and then looking under beds and within wardrobes for possible spies. The Bresinga household and its guests had been wary tonight. Either they knew why we had come, or they were expecting someone like us to come seeking the Prince. But I found no spies in the bedclothes, nor any sign that my carelessly hung garments had been disturbed. I never left a room in perfect order. It is easy to return a searched room to perfect order, more difficult to recall exactly how both sleeves of the garment flung across the chair touched the floor.
