“Your Excellency.” He touched his forehead and strained his back in a deep bow.
“Welcome, War Hammer.” The king used the traditional greeting and Mirwell was pleased. “Won’t you be seated? It will be easier for us to speak eye to eye.”
“As you wish.” It wasn’t true, of course. Mirwell would have to crane his neck to look at the king up on his dais, but it was better than having his knee suddenly buckle beneath him and send him sprawling on the floor. He suspected Zachary was well aware of his infirmity, whether he learned it from that mind-reading woman Mapstone, or deduced it from his own keen observations was another question, but the king’s craftiness impressed Mirwell. The excuse allowed him to rest while retaining his dignity.
The two exchanged the usual civilities: weather, travel, health, the state of the province. Zachary’s dog jumped from his lap and sniffed the hem of Mirwell’s bear pelt. It wheezed, then rejoined its master. It was beyond Mirwell how these little terriers had been such a menace to the groundmites during the Long War. He doubted they could even tree a bear, or retrieve a duck from a pond, but they probably had their uses.
“My aide, Major Spencer,” Mirwell said in introduction. He could almost feel the heat of her presence through the back of his chair. “She is new since last we met. Old Haryo at long last met his soldier’s final rest.” A good solid friend, Haryo. And more loyal than a dog. Mirwell had seen to it that his friend had received a most impressive funeral.
The king barely flicked an eyelash at Beryl. “I trust you will join us for the annual ball and hunt?” the king said.
“I wouldn’t think to miss it. About the only time I see Sacor City is at the King’s Spring Hunt, Excellency.” He would not miss it, indeed. After the hunt—or was massacre a better term?—Amilton would take the throne as king. Did Zachary suspect? His demeanor was as cool and distant as ever, and Mirwell’s own court spy had informed him that, though the message had gotten through, it said nothing about the assassination plans, and in fact, nothing to implicate Mirwell or Amilton, and no one was paying attention to the Greenie who had carried the message. A waste of time and effort, the pursuit of that Greenie, but better to be on the safe side.
But who knew what went on behind the king’s closed features? He had a card player’s face, even better than his father’s, and loads better than his brother’s. Amilton was as subtle as a herd of horses, but he would be all the easier to control. Mirwell bent over and picked up the game piece of the green king from the floor. Other pieces still stood in formation on the Intrigue board.
“Are you an Intrigue player?” the king asked.
Mirwell chuckled. “You see my interest! Well, yes, I admit the competitive streak runs through me. When the long winter runs dull, a game of Intrigue is in order. I see you soundly defeated your opponent in this game.”
Zachary bent down and scratched the dog behind its ear. “An unskilled opponent . . . No, rather, an uncommitted player.”
Mirwell grunted. “When you aren’t committed to the outcome of the game, there is no way you can win. It must have been a very disappointing match.”
“In some ways it was, but in other ways it was quite rewarding.”
Mirwell wondered at the king’s expression, for suddenly the card player’s facade fell away, and he saw a man who seemed amused and preoccupied about something. Whoever his opponent had been, he had caught the king’s interest. He set the green king on the board, on its side in the dead position, the way it should be.
“Tomorrow,” the king said, “I’m calling a council of governors. All but Adolind are here, the governor still mourns his daughter.”
“Ah, yes. Killed in the groundmite massacre with those other schoolchildren.” Mirwell shook his head as if he had not been the one who engineered it. “A pity. I am thankful to the gods my Timas was not among them.”
“A great loss,” Zachary said grimly. “Those children were part of Sacoridia’s future. Despite the loss among your other counterparts, they deemed themselves able to attend. We’ve a visitor in the city the likes of whom we have not seen for hundreds of years.”
“Truly?”
“Yes. I should like you to meet him, and judge him as you may. In the meantime, your suites in the east wing have been readied for you and your staff. I hope you will be comfortable.”
Mirwell stood up to bow, thinking that he would like Zachary well enough if he wouldn’t impede his acquisition of power and lands. “It is always comfortable, Excellency.”
With the formalities concluded, he hastened out of the throne room at a rate at which he surprised himself. But once he was through the doors, he clamped his hands around Beryl’s arm.
“We shall go to our suites, my dear,” he said. “You will have a much different perspective of the place than when you were with the regular militia.”
“I already have,” she said.
Mirwell scrunched his brows together. “Already?” Ah, well. He would experience every moment with her. He wouldn’t let her out of his sight.
KARIGAN ATTENDS THE KING’S BALL
Karigan approached the grand entrance to the ballroom from a walkway that wound through the rose gardens of the east courtyard. The cloying scent of red and pink blossoms almost overpowered the still night. Luminiers flickered along the walkway with a festive radiance that might have put her in a celebratory mood if not for the choking collar of her Green Rider uniform. Once again, Captain Mapstone had seen her into the formal uniform, this time with the addition of a gold sash about her waist.