Bloodleaf (Bloodleaf #1)(41)
“Who is that?” I asked.
“The fiancé I told you about? That’s him. Dedrick Corvalis.”
On the high platform, the king was in place upon the heavy velvet chair that had been dragged out to serve as his throne. Far behind him I could make out the shining waterfall of golden hair that could be nobody but Lisette. Beside her sat Conrad, looking every bit a prince. He was wearing a trim white coat with gold buttons meant to look like medals. His back was straight, his hands folded tightly in his lap. I could tell he was trying desperately to keep from squirming. I felt a pang; he needed a toy to fiddle with, like the ones I used to give him to help him stay calm and alleviate his distress.
Toris loomed over them both, dressed like a Renaltan lieutenant. There was a bitter taste on my tongue; it was Kellan’s spare uniform he wore, missing only the cloak. I wondered if he’d stolen Kellan’s name as well. Hearing him referred to as Lieutenant Greythorne might be more than I could take.
To Kate, I asked, “And which one is Prince Valentin?”
She shot me a sidelong glance. “None of them. He doesn’t come to these things. He’s never liked being in front of a crowd.”
It seemed a common trait among princes, I mused. But at least Conrad was out here trying to do his duty.
The king rose. “Good people,” he began, his teeth stark white against his ruddy skin. “It is written in our laws and traditions that the king must regularly hold audience with his people so that you may bring your grievances and lay them before him to mediate and so that he may hear the charges against imprisoned accused and grant fair judgment upon them. Today is that day. Come, petitioners. Speak, and your beloved king will hear you.”
Kate snorted and said under her breath, “He thinks if he tells everyone enough times that they love him, it must be true. I’m surprised he hasn’t issued a decree about it yet. Stars above, he is the worst kind of idiot.”
“What kind of idiot is the worst kind?” I asked.
“The kind whose wholehearted, foundational belief is that he’s a genius.” She tipped her head toward a nearby wall where Domhnall’s notices were tacked one on top of another, several layers deep. I squinted to read the most recent of them:
It is hereby decreed that the third day of the third week of each month, the Castle de Achlev will be opened to Lords and Citizens wishing to express their love and thanks to King Domhnall de Achlev, whose tireless efforts on Achleva’s behalf have led to increased prosperity, wealth, and happiness among all inhabitants . . .
“The worst part is,” Kate continued, “that he’s too stupid to know when he’s being manipulated. The lords fawn over him, reinforcing his delusions of grandeur, and he signs any law they put in front of him. Like this, see?” She pointed to the stand, where a young man’s case was being heard. “That’s a lord’s nephew. He was caught doing something unspeakable, but his family is wealthy. Watch.”
As the vile details of his charges were being read, the young man remained unperturbed. When it was finished, a woman stepped forward. “I am Sahlma Salazar, a royally sanctioned healer here in Achleva. On request of this man’s family, I have done a full review of his health and have found it to be woefully compromised.” She gave a hard, racking cough; it seemed her own health was also woefully compromised. “I regret to inform the king that the subject is too ill to stand trial at this time and recommend that he be committed to the care of his family until his health has returned.”
“Which will be never, of course,” Kate said under her breath. “A year or two ago, a real petition went before the king, asking that he grant sick, imprisoned criminals access to healers. It was meant to save the lives of the poor, who were dying before they could come to trial for trivial crimes—?stealing bread, inability to pay a landlord, that sort of thing. Domhnall issued one of his glorious decrees just as he was asked, but with the addendum that the prisoner must provide payment for the healer. And so this is what we ended up with: the poor still can’t afford to be treated for their illnesses and they still die, but now the wealthy can buy their way out of crimes. All they have to do is pay a healer to give false testimony and then pay Domhnall to accept it.”
We moved on through the crowd while the king agreed to Sahlma’s recommendation, and two more cases were pleaded and dismissed before we got halfway across the square. A third defendant was on the stage now, shuffling forward with irons on his wrists and ankles.
“I know that man,” I said, surprised. “He was the one who brought Zan to me in the traveler’s camps.”
“Raymond Thackery,” said the king, “you have been accused of forging royal documents and using them to smuggle the uninvited across the wall, thus sullying our great city with the worst of the undesirable: vagrants, beggars, whores—?”
Thackery scoffed. “Since when did you have a problem with whores, Majesty?”
The king’s face turned from red to purple. “Do you deny these charges, Mr. Thackery?”
“I do indeed,” Thackery said. “If they was not born here or invited by royalty, they would not have got in, simple as that. Thus”—?he grinned at borrowing the king’s own word—?“it ain’t smugglin’.”
“Then please, Mr. Thackery, tell us which person of royal lineage is unlawfully providing you with these invitations.”